The bathroom reeked like a sewage plant, but I didn’t give a damn. Today it was AJ’s turn to clean it up anyway. He was furious of course because he hated chores the most out of all of us. At his home, Denise would do all the cleaning for him – until she got fed up and he hired a maid. During AJ’s childhood, Denise was a major part of his life, but he was still alone most of the time. The kids at his school thought he was a geek (how about that, same with me. We should both go on Sally for the “I Was A Geek, But Look At Me Now” show) so he hardly had any good friends. That’s also why he became such a skilled puppeteer. While his mom was gone and he was alone after school, he would lock himself up in his room and practice becoming a puppeteer with stuffed animals. I didn’t really have that problem; there were always some places for me to go or some auditions to do.
For three long weeks, the guys cooed and pampered over me. This stopped finally when I managed to listen to music loudly without bitching about my stupid head. My temples had calluses from the friction of my fingertips rubbing against them on an hourly basis. The guys were surprisingly good about it; even AJ, who was used to listening to the television on full blast, was lenient when I screamed at him to turn it down. I spent most of my time on the tour bus sleeping because it was wonderful for two things: Curing headaches and passing time. When I woke up, it was just headaches and boredom because Journey was too loud, the TV hurt my eyes and Nintendo was both of those things.
Denise made me chicken soup everyday like I was sick or something. I inquired about that and she said, “Well you’re not the same old Nick, so I’m going to keep on pumping chicken soup down your gills until you’re back to normal.” Apparently chicken soup is the answer for all of her problems, but it wasn’t the answer to mine. She watched me like a hawk, and every time I felt like upchucking the soup, I couldn’t because she was right at my bedside. Besides, bending down would make my head hurt and I didn’t want that to happen. I already was a walking talking Tylenol infomercial, chugging down the maximum amount of pills that I could daily. She also made sure I stayed in bed and didn’t move unless I had to go to bathroom. All the time I kept thinking, “How fattening is chicken soup? Am I going to waste into a butterball from just lying around all day?”
Three weeks later I weighed myself and I had remained basically the same. I lost one or two pounds, I can’t remember. All I can really remember is feeling fat and ugly all over again. One time, before the pot incident, I remember getting so pissed at a bloody scale that I hopped up and down on it hoping it would break. The plastic cover over the numbers cracked when I crushed it with my heel but that was about it. I could have down some serious damage if I wanted to, but I saw the problem with that idea after I cracked the plastic. “Look, Nicky’s so fat he broke the plastic,” they would say. Well, it was too late to fix it, and I couldn’t buy a new one because they would notice that for sure. I tried prying the plastic out with my fingernails, but I ended up bending the remainders of my thumbnail all the back and drawing blood. The guys didn’t really need to monitor their weight on the scale anyway, only I did.
Speaking of the guys, they were getting back to their old selves too. Cracking jokes, turning up the TV as loud as it would go and challenging me to a game of Nintendo. I still carried a bandage on my forehead, but the bleeding had stopped for the most part. Touching it was completely out of the question; I tried that and regretted it instantly. The new doctor we hired showed me how swollen it was and how lucky I had been that I didn’t pass out. Another hit would’ve surely killed me.
Oh, I forgot to mention that on the second day, the bleeding on my wound got so severe that my cut had to receive an extra twenty stitches on top of the twenty-two it already had. My nose, which was bleeding when I hit it against the door, stopped bleeding by the time I got to Kevin on the faithful day. On the second day, the doctors discovered why: there was a clot in there with the circumference of a regular HB pencil. They removed my adenoids along with it, because they were swollen and infected. I didn’t really care about my nose; sure it felt a bit numb, but I thought right away it was because I hit it so hard and the painkillers were just doing their job to numb it. If I was unlucky, the infection could have spread through my body, but not without my doctor noticing of course. He took so much blood from me that I was afraid I was run out. There are only four liters in my entire body you know.
I should have cared a bit more about my nose, but I didn’t because it was my bloody head that was hurting me. Lucky for me, there was no liquid collecting inside of my skull; otherwise they would have to operate to drain it out. The problem with that is they drug you up, but they keep you awake. I know it’s silly, but the thought of that really trips me out. Everyone is afraid of something I guess. Some people fear spiders more than their own death; I should be thankful I’m not that bad!
Once again, the police were utterly baffled by my attack. They were still on the case, but were on the verge of giving up the second they heard about it. Unless the danger can keep up to the bus, then we didn’t have a problem. We travelers, rich travelers, but travelers none the less, so it didn’t really matter to us if they continued or not. But the public was terrified and we wanted closure, so they kept on searching and still came up with nothing. We had our bloody kitchen dusted through and through. Sometimes we still stick our hands into a patch of dust that the police force left behind.
When Howie called the police all in a panic, you should have seen them. You have never seen so many people in uniform at one place. I don’t know how I survived the question period without cursing at a uniformed man, but I did. Kevin was very proud of me; he stood by my side and helped me along the way by saying, “He’s not fit to answer that question right now,” or “Can you answer that Nick?” Brian paced around me like a mother hen; he was more worried about my head than being attacked by the Asian burglar. They’re really supportive those guys, but they worry like old people. No that’s incorrect; they worry like brothers. I never really appreciated that, but now I really see how great they are.
On the fourth week, I forgot how great Howie was. Because he acted like a shit-head and almost killed me. You’ll see, you won’t blame me for this one, I promise. Remember, it’s Howie, the guy who called up the police with his panties all in a bunch, so to speak. The guy who could hardly dial the numbers on his cell phone, let alone speak. Sure I’m the guy who plays all of the practical jokes, makes fun of everybody and complains when I have to do something that I don’t want to do. But come on, give me a break, I’m not near perfect.
On that particular day, the guys all left to go out wherever (I wasn’t really listening) and I was alone on the bus. I was very pleased with this fact, because Brian made up a new rule that I was not to be alone on the bus ever again. This was two weeks before, when he was still all worried. I managed to convince everyone that no burglar, in his right mind or not (I added that part in for Brian’s sake), would follow us three hundred kilometers. AJ agreed with me, and so did Howie and Kevin, because if they didn’t, someone would have to stay behind and baby-sit a very grouchy Nick Carter. I assured Brian that I would lock the windows and doors and I would be very quiet. “Maybe I’ll take a nap,” I suggested when he asked what activity I could possibly do quietly.
“You snore,” was his answer. But I had already won and the guys were putting on their jackets.
“Not anymore, I got my adenoids taken out, see?” I lifted the tip of my nose with my index finger and flared my nostrils.
“Come with us instead,” he said, grabbing my arm and my jacket.
“Brian, come on, I’m tired. Go on and have fun. You can check up on me if you really want to, but it’s not necessary because I’ll be sleeping.”
“All right, all right,” he agreed, grabbing his own coat this time. The other guys hadn’t stayed to listen to us bicker; they were already gone. “I will be checking up on you every half hour.”
“Brian.”
“Fine, every hour. And you’d better be here or I’m going to kick your ass.”
I gave a mock salute, then became serious. “Thanks man.”
“For what?”
“For caring so goddamn much.” He was going to say something, but I knew that if I didn’t shut the door soon this was going to go on forever. I peered out the window for a while at Brian’s retreating back, and then I went to my little cot to nap. Even so my feet dangled over the edge of the bed, it was still very comfy. I’m sure our management saw to it that it was, especially since the bed had to be so small because we were traveling in a bus. If I’d remake it, it wouldn’t be able to fit on the road. Ours was actually quite commodious; it was complete with furnishing and it was roomy. I was just outgrowing it or something.
While bending all the way down and trying to watch my head, I tried to stick my legs onto the cot. That didn’t work so well and I bumped my head on a piece of wood that was jutting out of the top bunk. Several curses and two Tylenol capsules later, I was back inside my bed. Just as I thought I was through with the pain and headache too.
By some miracle, I managed to fall asleep, pounding headache and all. I was having a good dream for once, about girls and a vacation in Hawaii for three weeks. Normally that was out of the question, but in my dreamland there are no rules. Except when Mandy turns into a boa constrictor and tries to eat me whole; in those cases I must prevail. Also, the persistent little Japanese guy that had been in my dreams for the past few weeks couldn’t be destroyed. He was a symbol for my headaches, a visual kind of thing. He had this huge bass drum and he was hitting it over and over with his drumstick. And that night, he was back again.
I was awakened from my deep slumber, I’m not sure at what point in time. When you’re dreaming, it could be any time at all. Someone was banging their fists on the tour bus door loud enough to wake the dead, and even me. It couldn’t have been Brian, because he had his keys. Or any of the guys for that matter.
I took my time dressing and shouting, “I’m coming!” loudly toward the general direction of the door. It was too dark to see out the window, so I grabbed a can of aerosol just to be safe. But if it were someone out to get me, they wouldn’t be polite enough to bang with their fists on the door. They would just barge in through the window like the other guy. Everything was locked, but I was still trembling in my booties.
All this time the noise was getting louder and I thought the door would break. A can of aerosol would not help in case of a gun. My pounding headache showed no sign of subsiding, either, and with every “boom” “bang” it got worse.
Finally my temper got the best of my fear. I pulled on the grouchiest face I could muster (I learned that one from Kevin) and shouted “What!” loud enough to disturb a bum across the street from his slumber. I saw him finger me out of the corner of my eye, but my full attention was concentrated on my visitor.
Howie stared back at me blankly, as though he had gone into shock at the sound of my voice. His fist was raised just before the door, because he was preparing to bore down on it again. He looked tired, I noticed, and his fly was halfway down. I was in a terrible mood, so I quickly decided against telling him.
He snapped out of his trance and made a move to step inside, but I blocked him. By his expression, I could tell that I must have looked terrible, but then again, so did he. The tour was beginning to get to us you see and Howie still tries to fit in his parties, no matter how tired they make him. On stage, we had make-up artists fussing over any slight imperfection on our faces. Disgusting as it may sound, by the time of the half way part during the show, most of our make-up is sweated off, or is rubbed off on our clothes and hands. But off stage we are no one but ourselves. We have to be careful then too, of the tourists with their cameras and such. The famous life is surely a hectic one. Howie rarely lets himself go that badly though. He likes to look good and it made me wonder what was eating him.
Chapter 44
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