CHAPTER THREE: Hotel "Gay-ety."
The ride back to the hotel is not one of my favorite memories. The smell alone would have gagged a sewer worker. Howie was still mad, and Kevin was mad that Howie was mad. Howie was mad that Kevin was mad that Howie was still mad. Kevin was mad that Howie was mad that Kevin was mad that Howie was still mad. Howie...and so, as the angry BSB bandmates depart from the FABulous photo shoot, we leave them to their natural habitat. And there it is now!
Thirty screaming fans had staked out the back entrance to the hotel. I could just see the National Inquirer headlines for this one. "Backstreet Pulls Drunk in Middle of the Day," or "Backstreet Covered in Critic’s Vomit, the Truth About their Music is Out!". Role-aid, anyone?
Actually, I was wishing for a Role-Aid, Pepto, anything that would stop my stomach from doing the twist. Apparently, my tummy felt Howie's gripping had a good beat, and you could dance to it. See how the older BSB fans have influenced my body parts?
The van kept right on going, past the trash receptacle, and just as I was beginning to wonder if Kevin had an alternative plan for me we backed up to a large, enclosed loading dock. As the doors opened, we backed in, out of sight of jubilant fans. Once again, Kevin saves the day. I'll bet he has tights under those pants.
As I stepped from the van my head decided that spinning would be an interesting accompaniment to the stomach twist. My knees buckled, and I would have been snorting cement if Kevin and the now not-so-mad Howie had not each grabbed an arm, thereby stopping my sudden decent, and in the process giving me a lovely case of whiplash.
"Nick?" Howie and those impersonations again. This time it was "concerned friend." Considering the head spin and stomach twist, I guess I should have been grateful he wasn’t doing Little Richard.
"Nicky?" Ahh, all worried. I would have answered him, but made a fast artistic decision that any more vomit would ruin the simplicity of my previous work.
"Come on, baby, let’s get you upstairs." Kevin guided me towards the service elevator. I noticed that he was using his hand at the small of my back to accomplish this feat. It’s the same way Kevin guides a date in a crowded room, or through a door. I wondered, did Kevin date women that cannot find their way though a door without help? Would they get lost in a crowded room without assistance? Did Kevin know he was guiding me like a girl? Had Kevin spent too much time with Frank? What did this say about Kevin? For that matter, what did this say about me?
Some people think I have a very short attention span. I disagree. It’s not that I can’t pay attention. It’s just that I am good at this "stream of consciousness" thing. Why stay with one thought too long? That’s boring, somewhat like any conversation with Howie that lasts over 15 minutes.
Kevin and I did our own impersonation in the elevator. Leaning against each other at 45-degree angles, we looked like a tent. Maybe "A" framed houses, which one of my Aunts use to live in. See? Move on to the next thought, and the last one can never grow stale.
In about the same time as it took to build the great pyramids we reached our floor, and finally my room. Kevin came in with me. I was greatly impressed, considering the sanitation department had yet to approve this room for Kevin consumption.
I wanted a shower, my bed and a warm blankie. I also wanted my Mom, but decided this was not the best time to voice the request. Funny, a 20-year-old guy wanting his Mom. On the other hand, if you were a 700-pound disco ax murderer, and you are sick, you just want your Mom.
Poking through my drawers, I didn’t find my Mom, just a pair of clean boxers and T-shirt. In a pinch, they would do. I weaved to the bathroom as walking a straight line was beyond me at this point. I felt hot, then cold. I was also alternating between dry mouth and that full-of-salty-spit mouth that usually meant a commode was soon to be required equipment. I shed clothes to my boxers, grabbed a fluffy towel and turned the hot water up just enough to fog the mirror. I hooked my thumbs in the waistband of my boxers and started to push them down, when who comes walking into the bathroom but Kevin? OK, we always say we are close, but even I didn’t believe this!
"Kev, what are you doing?" I couldn’t believe it. Mr. Mom actually parked himself on the toilet seat! Well, lid. No way was Kevin going to park his butt where anyone else’s bare butt had been. What do you bet he puts paper on his own before he sits?
"Nick, you can barely stand. I don’t think it would be safe for you to take a shower alone." Man, that stream of consciousness was acting up again, and the picture that went with it almost sent me into hyperventilation overdrive. "Don't get all spaced out about it. There’s enough steam that I can’t see, just take your shorts off in the shower and wrap up in the towel before you come out. Come on Nick, don’t pull one of your bashful routines."
I was too tired to point out that lacking Kevin's strip tendencies did not necessarily mean I was a prude. I stepped into the shower wishing there was a stall door to slam, but I had to make do with violently pulling the curtain. Somehow, it just didn’t have the impact I was wishing for. I removed my boxers and threw them over the top of the curtain. If there were any justice, they would have landed on Kevin's head.
The hot water felt wonderful but by that time I was so sleepy I could hardly keep my eyes open. I washed as quickly as I could, which, as I was using hotel soap, only took twice as long as normal. I flipped the tap and dried off. Tucking the towel around me I stepped out, only to find Kevin on his toilet perch wearing just his boxers. It is at times like these that I mentally replay "Things about BSB that Make You Wonder." Why is it every time I sing "Am I sexual, the other four guys go YEEEEAAAAAHHHHH!"? Hell, AJ even throws in a little pelvic thrust.
"I stank." Thanks for clearing that up, Kev old boy. Actually, he still stank. As I was the cause of his less than pleasant aroma, I decided to ignore my olfactory displeasure.
"I'll get dressed." Brilliant plan, Nick. At least it got Kevin moving. He picked-up his clothes, now wadded into one of those plastic bags the hotels leave for dirty laundry, and walked into the main room. Quickly, I pulled on clean boxers and a tee. I joined Kevin, who was standing by the door. Apparently, he was planning to make a break for it in his undies. As our rooms were only two doors apart, it shouldn't have been a major undertaking. Of course in BSB-land, there is no such thing as a minor undertaking.
"Crawl under the covers and I'll be back to check on you after I change." Kevin pointed to the bed, which I could see due to the earlier clean-up duty, but being he was so nice about the puke, I decided not to point this out.
"OK, um...thanks." I know he deserved more, but then again, I also knew I would be getting a massive lecture later, so why give him any more ground?
Kevin squeezed my shoulder with one hand as he opened the door. BINGO. I wish I were referring to the old childrens' song. I really wish. Unfortunately, I'm referring to the three fans that had gotten past security. The three fans that got an eye-full. An eye-full of Kevin and Nick, in the same room, in nothing but their undies. Did I mention that Kevin still had his hand on my shoulder? In some strange cosmic time sequence, the lower jaws of all three girls came unhinged at once.
Exactly how does one get out of such a situation? My first choice was panic, but I was too tired to come through with more than an eyebrow raise. Too bad Kevin didn't try that tactic. And eyebrow raise from him is so much more impressive. And frightening. Those caterpillars flying at ya can put off even the most die-hard fans.
Kevin, in debonair mode, simply smiled, held up his clothes, and announced for the entire known world to hear, "Nick puked." I thought I'd die. It seemed like a good idea at the time, as the humiliation I would receive for this would surely have no end. Let’s add it up.
Kevin would share this "simply hilarious" moment with the guys, that's four. The guys would pass it on to the band and dancers. The three fans would each pass it on to at least five other people. Then...well, you do the math. Even before the Internet chat rooms it was a staggering figure.
'Can I have your autograph?" Some fans make quick recoveries.
Mr. Suave smiled, and raised one eyebrow, a feat that takes as much strength as it takes the average person to raise two eyebrows while walking on a tightrope suspended twenty feet above a pit of snakes. "Of course, it's no problem." He reached for her hand, which contained a pen and pad. I pondered the fact that she could be a Boy Scout, or at least dating one, her being so prepared.
"Um...well, we really wanted Nick's autograph." Uh-oh. The dreaded "I made a fool out of myself because I thought they wanted mine but they really want the moron's signature" game. I felt for Kevin, as I have often played myself, and it is never a pleasant moment. The upside is that it has happened to all of us. The downside is the loser is usually pissed beyond reason, and I realized that Kevin's helpful attitude was most surely at an end.
"Nick's sick." Oh, really? I was so sure the fans thought that puke was just something I did for fun.
"Hey, it's OK, let's just do it fast." I received a winning smile, which tends to make any red-blooded male feel empowered. Of course at this point that meant I now had enough strength to arm-wrestle a six-month-old.
"I would love to do it fast with you!" Man, there goes my mind again. I really wish fans would not blurt like that. My brain took a serious walk while I wrote out the three short sentences with signatures. I just hope none of the messages was obscene. "Bye." I even waved, for God's sake. Lord, I needed a nap.
"Bye, hope you feel better!" And they were off ladies and gentlemen, to tattle the tale, to make sure Nick was immortalized in the annuls of fandom as the guy that puked on Kevin. Pinch me, I want to wake up.
"Get in bed." An order, not a suggestion. Yep, Kevin was definitely back in "Perfect Kevin" mode, which means I get to be "Stupid/Childish/Whiny/Blond Nick." Or one of those adjectives. It is sometimes difficult to determine the lines have blurred over time.
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