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“Do you want anything, Vince?” Priya asks out of habit.
I wave her off. “I’m good. I’m gonna get a run-in before I have to get ready.”
Back on the bus, I change into red track shorts and running shoes before heading into the parking lot behind the venue. Thankfully, there’s a field with a trail behind the arena. I feel relief as soon as my feet hit the dirt. I stretch my calves, take a deep breath, and ease into a light jog.
Exercise is one of the only things that keeps me sane while touring. The venue may change, but if I can get half an hour to work up a good runner’s high, I’ll be alright. I wind past trees and pick up the pace as I reach the crest of a hill. My life is surrounded by sound, so I like to run in silence. I zone in on the sound of my heartbeat ringing in my ears and let the world fall away.
According to the app on my phone, I’ve run an oval-shaped blob that encompasses three miles by the time I reach the bus. I’m soaked in sweat; my heart is pounding. I walk onto the bus, which is thankfully empty. I know Apollo has his “Zoom Date” with his wife. I figure Henry’s scrounging through whatever bookstore he can find within a ten-mile radius of the venue.
I take a long, cold shower and gleefully realize that no one will chastise me for using our limited hot water supply. I wash the sweat from my hair, then I towel off and wrap a towel around my waist. I grab some curl cream and run it through my hair. I scrunch it in my palms to give the curls some definition.
Then, I dig through my wardrobe to find my adversaries for the night. I don’t remember why or when I started wearing leather pants.
Priya found my first pair for me at a charity shop when we were still dating, buried deep in a cardboard box of cast-offs. They were soft to the touch and stained with bleach. I was always the quiet kid growing up, but something changed when I hefted them onto my body. I felt something electric course through my veins, the undeniable, raw energy of sex appeal.
My days of thrifting secondhand leather goods are long gone. Tonight, I’m wearing a wine-red pair with snake-print along the seams, an original gifted to me by a young designer who started working with Vivienne Westwood.
When I have the budget to do so, I prefer to support up-and-coming designers rather than the established fashion greats. Gucci doesn’t need my money. But Eve Sweeney from Belfast paid off her student loans when I bought out her sample sale.
I lay the pants flat on the bed and take a deep breath. It feels like we’re sizing each other up. I apply a liberal amount of “anti-chaffing” gel between my thighs and along the back of my legs. It comes in a roll-on tube-like deodorant and smells like vanilla. I believe it’s designed to prevent thigh chafing for women wearing dresses in the summer, but clothing casualties know no gender.
I gingerly grasp the waistband, laying the pants flat on the floor, and carefully slide one foot in. I point my toes until my foot appears out the end, then insert the next. Slowly, millimeter by millimeter, I inch the pants up my body. I feel like I’m donning a wet suit for a leather daddy—the leather squelches when it meets my skin. I grunt again.
Priya once told me that when I do this, it looks like a birth in reverse.
Then, using all my strength, I grab the waistband and hop upward, wrenching the pants over my ass and praying Vince Exter Jr. won’t get caught in the fly.
The pants refuse to budge past my thighs. It’s visceral. I jump again, this time with a grunt. They’ve moved a quarter inch. I try again, but nothing. Twenty minutes of sweating, grunting, and lurching later, the pants are firmly on my body. I walk out of the room to find Lyndsey looking shell-shocked.
“What were you …” she mumbles, then I blush, realizing it must have sounded like I was having energetic sex. I did try to jump off the bed and let gravity do its thing at one point. There’s no doubt the mattress groaned.
“I was getting ready,” I admit sheepishly.
Lyndsey searches my face for any signs of a lie. “You know what? I don’t want to know.” She shrugs and walks away. I start to follow her, but she stops me. “Hey, Vince?”
“Yeah?” My breath catches in my throat as I realize this might be the first time we have an honest conversation without me making an ass of myself.
“You’ve got something …” she trails off. Her thumb brushes along my cheek, removing a crusted hunk of hair gel. Her touch is electric.
“Thanks,” I mumble, suddenly shy. For the first time, Lyndsey smiles in my direction. I feel like I can redeem myself after making a fool of myself almost daily for the past three weeks.
Los Angeles, CA.
Three Weeks Ago.
Since this tour celebrated the 30th anniversary of our debut album, ‘Glass Eyes’, our A&R guy suggested we re-record some tracks that didn’t originally make the cut.
The band and I entered the studio at 7 a.m. sharp. My house in Laurel Canyon was just a short drive away.
We were all wearing comfortable clothes when we walked in. Priya wore a linen romper, while the guys opted for shorts and tank tops. Studio days were hard work, and though we’d been working with our friend and producer, Al Vanzandt, for thirty years, he never sprung for central air.
The sound booth was hot and claustrophobic, but as I slipped the massive headphones over my ears and strummed a few scales so I could focus. Today we’re recording “Mal-Haze,” a fan-favorite that’s never had a proper release.
Priya wrote it about her struggles with depression in her twenties. It described the sense of urgency that occurred when someone snapped out of a depressive episode—the sudden need to clear weeks of rotting food and dirty clothes from one’s bedroom. Like most things Priya wrote, it was naturally frenetic, thanks to the bassline I wrote when I was first getting into a funk.
We went through one take, then another, and then a third. Eventually, we were all hot and frustrated. We broke for lunch.Al provided smoothies. I grabbed a mango one and took a hearty sip. Priya’s phone buzzed, and she grinned as she fished it out of her pocket.
“Lyndsey’s on her way!” she exclaimed.
