Carbondale

"This place is closed," William says. And he's right.

The double doors are chained and padlocked shut and sheets of plywood are nailed to the windows. The giant sign out front has been torn down and there are Fuck You's spray painted all over the walls telling us that we're not the first punk band to pull up to an empty house. We park the van and get out. I sit down on the pavement in a pile of broken glass. William walks around and surveys the whole building.

"This place has been closed for a pretty long time," he says.

"Fuck," I answer.

"Does anybody have any spray paint?" Dave asks.

"No, but I wish I did," I reply.

We sit in silence for a while. Then Dave says, "Hey man, when was the last time you talked to the promoter?"

"Last week," William replies.

"And what the fuck did he say?" asks Dave.

"He said that we had a confirmed booking to play this club tonight," William answers. "He even gave me directions."

Directions to an empty building.

"Fuck," I answer.

"What about a crow bar?" Dave asks. "We could still play this club if we could get a crow bar. We just open up the doors, plug in and jam until the cops come. Then we'd have to split."

"Good idea," William says. "Except I doubt the electricity is turned on inside."

"Fuck, you're right," I answer.

William walks across the street to a convenience store and calls the promoter up on a payphone. He looks so calm as he talks into the phone. I wish I could hear what he's saying. I wish I could scream threats and obscenities into the phone. When he's done, he walks back to us and says, "The promoter is on his way. He says he can explain everything."

"Did he say we were gonna play tonight?" I ask.

"No," William replies. "He said the show was cancelled."

"Fuck me!" I yell.

"How did you get him to agree to show up?" Dave asks.

It seems William can convince anone of anything.

So we sit in the parking lot and wait. Cars and trucks pass by us and Dave gives them all the finger. William goes back into the van to lie down. He's been driving all day. After a while, Dave gets tired of pissing off motorists and starts throwing rocks at Sean's face. Sean tries to catch them in his mouth. I just lie flat out on my back like Jesus on the cross and try to die from exposure. Over an hour or so later, the promoter pulls up in an old Toyota. He's just a skinny little high school kid and he looks scared as hell. And he should because we want to jump up and all start yelling and cursing at him. The poor thing looks like a dog that's been kicked as he keeps saying, "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. It's not my fault. The club owner cancelled all of the shows. I thought you'd understand. I'm really sorry. There's nothing I can do to help. I'm really really sorry."

The kid just looks wide-eyed and scared. And there is nothing he can do to help us. We're stuck in this town with no place to play, no money, and nowhere to sleep or bathe or eat. We're screwed. And yelling at this little kid isn't gonna help. So we give up. We sit down on the kid's car and start to get rational.

"Okay," William says. "We don't have a gig. We don't have any money. We have no chance of getting a shower or any food. What are we gonna do?"

"Well," Dave says. "We could try to scam our way into another show. There must be other clubs in this town."

"You are so fucking right," William says. So we walk across the street and buy a couple of local papers from the convenience store. We pull out the various Arts sections and start looking for club advertisements with weird band names.

"This club has a show tonight with 'Johnny Blur and the Wesstones.' I'm guessing that's a country western bar." "Okay, here's a place with two bands called 'Up Uranus' and 'Stick in the Pud.' That might be a possibility." "Cool." "Hey man, there's a club called the 'Purple Passion.' Says they have a shower every hour and topless girls." "Whatever." "Check it out, man. The Glenn Miller Orchestra is playing at some theater or something." "Isn't Glenn Miller dead? I mean, isn't Glenn Miller really, really like no bullshit dead?" "I hope so." "If not, we should kill him."

And so we hit the payphone and end up calling every number we can get. And nobody wants to help us out. Nobody gives a shit. So we start walking around town and stopping at the coffeehouses and bookstores. We cut into a local record store and start walking up to badly dressed kids and brazenly ask them for advice. "You could try Sam's Sub Shoppe," says one kid. "Sometimes they do hardcore bands. But I don't think they pay." So he leads us to the place and we ask for Sam. But Sam is the guy behind the counter and we're already talking to him. "Fuck yeah," he says in a pure Australian accent. "I'd love to have you boys play." And we have found our salvation. This guys offers us food and comfort and a show. No money. But we'll take what we can get. So we park the van in the alley next to his shop and set up the equipment. Sean runs off to Kinko's to make flyers and Sam starts feeding us free subs and sodas...and total bullshit. "Love to help you guys out," he keeps saying. And man, this guy is too much. He's sticking all kinds of free food on us plus he's helping us lift heavy equipment and telling us insane stories about Australia. "Yeah, I lived in 'stralia till I was seventeen. Lived in the outback. Never seen a woman 'cept my mother till I was eighteen. My daddy killed a fair number of American tourists you know. Almost legal where I come from. It's legal to kill anybody that disrupts the sheep after all. And Americans are always fucking with the sheep. Don't know why. So you pop'em with a rifle just like that. Then all you gotta do is fill out some paperwork when the park rangers stop by. No big problem." When Sean gets back from Kinkos, we sit the scared little promoter down - who we've literally been dragging around by the ear - and say, "Now watch us and learn. This is how you put on a punk rock show." And right away we are off and running to all of the record stores and coffee shops. We're all over this town with flyers - okay that isn't saying much. But by nightfall, a small crowd of kids has gathered at the sub shop and Sam is thrilled. "Great for business you guys are," he keeps saying.

From the first note, this show gets dedicated to the useless promoter. Okay, not really in a planned way - but the anger and frustration matter more than the music. And the kids in the audience are stunned. They were all raised on television bands and they expect their punk rock spoon fed to them from a video. They're all wearing the latest alternative fashions from the mall and they've never seen people dressed and smelling like us except face down in a puddle of puke at the bus station. They are seeing and we are taunting and insulting them. When some of them have had too much and leave the sub shop I grab the microphone and yell "Go home and watch TV you pussies! And tell your friends you saw a REAL live band here tonight." The little promoter tries to sneak out but gets a chorus of Fuck You's to help him on his way. After the show, William gets surrounded by a crowd of little kids telling him how great he is. And he's starting to believe them. So he reaches into our box of tapes and takes one out.

"I have only one tape left," he lies. "So you're gonna have to fight for it."

And they do. He's touched off a brawl to get the tape. I walk over and whisper in his ear, "You know we have a lot more tapes, don't you."

"Oh yeah," William says. "I know."

Then Sam comes over with some wrapped up sandwiches and slips us a few dollars. "You guys are great for business. Made my numbers for the whole week tonight. Don't tell anyone else I paid ya or every band'll want money and then I'll hafta kill ya." Big grin. He's not kidding.