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He ditched his jeans and t for black tailored pants and a white dress shirt, no tie, couple of buttons left undone and the sleeves rolled up. It was what he usually wore on stage. Taylor tousled his hair with gel and he donned his shades.
“The Voice is ready,” he announced to the room and got no reply. Bastards. The three of them were breathing, the least they could do was laugh.
Angus came in smacking his hands together. “Full house out there. Had to call Heather to come help in the kitchen.”
“You’ll be on the couch tonight,” said Jamie.
“Can’t be a shock,” said Taylor.
Angus grunted. “How the fuck am I supposed to get reliable staff? I hate having to call on her.” He was genuinely upset.
“What have I missed?”
“Ah crap, Damon. I promised she wouldn’t have to work nights anymore while she’s studying.”
“She got in. Man, why didn’t you tell me?” Damon stood and they hugged. Two years Heather had been trying to get into uni to study law as a mature age student. “Where is she? I need a hug.”
Angus pumped his shoulder. “I’ll take you to her in the break. She’s really feeling the pressure already and I don’t want to be the one who distracts her with this place.”
“You distracted her when you married her, bro,” said Jamie.
“We going on or not?” said Taylor.
They went on and the crowd was buzzed. Two birthday groups and a soccer team celebrating a loss. They opened with Beautiful Day. Damon sat on a stool at the side of the stage. Jamie and Angus out front of Sam’s kit, Taylor on a tambourine. He stood with the chorus and stayed there for the next three songs. Then they did the ball-playing ladies a solid with OneRepublic’s Something I Need. That got them on their feet with the marching band rhythm chorus and they clapped and sang along. Angus would do good business at the till tonight.
He took to his stool again when Taylor did Sober and Try and they closed the set together with Give Me A Reason, which went superbly till he nearly walked off the edge of the stage, one foot shooting out into empty space before Taylor grabbed his arm. Hopefully it played like he’d intended it. There were squeals. There was no way he was fit for a second set unless he stayed seated and there was no reason to kill himself over this. It was purely social, the band could play on without him, like they did most weeks.
In the green room he made for the old sofa and lay on his back like a felled tree. Eyes closed, he could sleep right here even with the noise from outside and the movement in the room. Until Angus sat on his feet. He moved, pulling free, sliding them to the floor; now he was a bent tree.
“The great Captain Zice Vox succumbs to—” Angus squeezed his kneecap. “What is it you’ve succumbed to?”
“My head’s on LA time and my body is,” he waved an arm above his face, “doing me no favours.”
“That’s all?” said Jamie. He’d be thinking about all that additional unnecessary cue chalking.
“Yeah, man. I’m done. Dumb idea to go to the gym today. I can hardly think straight. I need to sleep for a week.”
“Can you?” said Taylor. “You nearly walked off the stage.”
He laughed. “You don’t have to worry till I do.” But he knew he’d scared her. Scared himself. He’d never worried about falling, on or off stage, always managing to groove around their kit in the space without mishap.
He sat up properly, about the same time as Taylor knelt behind him to play with his hair. He knocked her arm, then pulled her into his lap. “Tomorrow, but I have a job on Monday.”
“Already? But you just finished a job.”
“Yeah, it’s a favour for Ben Pinetti. An interactive training video and a couple of ads. Two days work tops.”
Angus got up and his end of the couch lifted off the floor and both Damon and Taylor yelled, so Angus sat down again. He’d want to get back to the bar. “Ben’s the guy got you started in voiceovers, right?”
“Yeah. I couldn’t say no.”
Taylor undid a button on his shirt. “I’m not working till the afternoon Monday, you want a ride?”
He did the button up. He could talk to her about moving in when there was less sand and cement setting in his head. “Yeah, that’d be great.”
He got a taxi home, praying he wouldn’t suddenly get a second wind and not be able to sleep once he got to bed. The thought of lying awake half the night, staring unseeing at the ceiling, was enough to make him regret not hefting home the sixpack Angus tried to press on him. But he’d begun to think seriously this might be more than jet lag; felt like he might get a head cold, or the flu, a professional hazard best avoided.
He stood at the bathroom sink and dosed up on horseradish and garlic, vitamin C and echinacea, plus cold tablets, swallowing a great handful of the stuff with water before the idea that he maybe shouldn’t take them all together dawned. What the hell. He crashed into bed and made like a dead guy for ten hours straight.
