Daylight

Joe’s POV

After dinner, Peter took us to our bus. We hadn’t expected anything grand, but it seemed a bit run-down, especially when compared to the shiny new bus beside it.

“Bloody hell,” Bryan blurted, “whose is that, then?”
Peter squinted in the early-evening sun. “Oh, that’s for those birds—that band we saw a bit ago. The Daylights…whatever.”
“Oi, why can’t we have a bus like that?” our guitarist persisted.
“Because, we’re on a small label, and they don’t have the funds, that’s why,” Peter explained as if Bryan were daft.
“They can’t have more than one cd out, what makes them so special?” Glenn sputtered.

Peter looked round as if someone might actually be listenin’ to him. “Well, and this is all very hush-hush, lads,” he began, “rumour has it, that Warner Brothers is courting those young ladies. And they’re trying to prove their love with extravagant gifts, much like a poor fool man.”
Tom had finally had enough. “So, what you’re sayin’ is, they get a new bus because they’re birds? What the fuck is that?”
“Boys, boys,” our manager tried to calm us, “there’s no sense getting all worked up. It’s a common practise, something that the big labels here in the States can afford…but not the smaller ones where we come from.”
“Well, maybe you’d best be workin’ on that fer us, then,” Tom replied.
“I am, I am, lads! I’m working my fingers to the bone!” Peter protested.
I snorted; he looked well-fed enough to me.
“But just be patient,” he went on. “Good things come to those who wait.”

We looked round at each other; this theory was in serious doubt to us all. Except to Peter, of course. He clapped on us the back and said he’d see us later.

There was a few minutes of silence. We all looked round at each other.
“Fancy a visit to the local pub, then?” Bryan finally asked. “I’m dry as a bone, I am.”
We deposited our meager belongings on our bus, then found a taxi to take us away.

The pub, such as it was, turned out to be a bit of a disco bar. It was full of lovelies who’d just finished a year at university. There were all sorts of girls, in fact, and they let us buy them drinks on the strength of our British accents. Sometimes they come in handy, apparently.
As we mingled with the local ladies, in came one of the birds we’d seen over at Warped, followed by the rest of them—plus the lady writer and another woman we’d somehow missed. That must’ve brought the grand total of birds at Warped to maybe six.

Things were starting to look up.

Tom straightened himself up and looked about to walk over and do something really fucking stupid in front of that dark-haired bird he fancied. I removed the latest beer from his hand and counted the bottles he was staggerin’ away from.
“Brother,” I said into his ear, “I dunno if talkin’ to her in your state is gonna get you anywhere except kicked in the balls.”
He swayed a little. “You think?” he slurred. We had been drinking for quite a while before they’d shown up.
“Oh, I don’t think, Tom, I know,” I continued, steerin’ him to the mens’ so his unknowing ladylove wouldn’t have to watch him embarrassin’ himself.

Which he did in the mens’, in front of me instead. Not like I hadn’t seen it all before. Me little brother never could hold his liquor, as they say.

After I cleaned Tom up, I sent him with Glenn and Bryan back to our summer cottage, as it were, and looked round for those birds. Sadly, they were gone, and the place was startin’ to thin out, so I took one last drink for the road and headed out meself.

Once outside, I decided to walk back to our bus, as I’d given all my cash over to the lads. As I was walking, though, I heard a familiar sound: retching.
Great. Hadn’t the boys made it to a cab?

When I rounded the next corner, expectin’ to see Tom doubled over as usual, I got an eyeful of sicking-up girl instead. It was the tall blonde from that girl band openin’ on our stage. I went quiet, hopin’ they wouldn’t see me, but then I heard a distress call.
“Hey, can you help us over here? Hello?” a female voice called.
I turned round. It was the ginger.
“Sorry…what’s up?” I asked.
She looked embarrassed. “My friend, she’s, uh, sick, and we need some napkins or something to clean her up with.” She then looked round, very upset. “I can’t leave her…I wonder if you….”
I glanced over at the chemist she was indicating. “You want me to get you something to help yer friend?” I asked.
She nodded. “Yes, yes please…I just…” and she turned back to her friend, who was still bent over pukin’.
I hated to ask. “You got any quid? I’m fresh out,” I remarked.
“Yeah, of course,” she answered, digging in her pocket for a few dollars and handing them to me. “Please hurry, she’s really a mess.”
“I can see that, luv.” I ran across the street and got some toweling and some of those wipe things, bringing them back as quick as I could, plus a bottle of water.
She thanked me, then bent to her friend. “Sal, Sal…c’mon, hon, let’s clean you up a little, okay?” I heard her murmur. Her mate's answer was even fainter.
I stayed with the tall bird while the smaller one ran to dispose of the evidence. I looked them both over once the blonde was cleaned up.
“D’you need any help gettin’ her somewhere?” I wondered.
The sober girl sighed. “We’re heading back to the Warped site, you know, over at the fairgrounds. I have enough for a taxi. Are you going that way?”
I smiled in relief; I wouldn’t need to walk anyway. “Yes, I am, if you don’t mind me sharin’,” I answered. “Me mates had all me cash. We had a—sudden illness amongst us as well.”
“Yeah,” she said sarcastically, “I know, the beer flu, right?”

She cast an angry glance at her friend, now moanin’ on the pavement but otherwise whole.
“It happens,” I muttered. “Here, lemme help ya. I think both of us can lift her to her feet.”

We got the blonde—Sal—into the taxi and back to Warped without further incident. On the way, the ginger—I still didn’t know her name—sat scowling with her arms crossed over her chest.
“I take it you don’t drink,” I said at last.
She cut a look at me. “I don’t like it,” she said shortly.
“Don’t like alcohol?”
She nodded at her mate, still groanin’. “No, I hate puking.”
I thought by the sad look on her face that this mustn't have been the first time she'd had to rescue her friend.

The driver was good enough to drop us right by our buses. We helped the blonde up the steps and into the bus, where she was greeted with a shriek of “My God, Sal, you smell like the bottom of a fucking trash can!”
The ginger leant over from the top step. “Thanks so much, I’m forever in your debt,” she told me. “I’m sorry…what was your name?”
“It’s Joe, Joe McCullough,” I answered, holdin’ out me hand. “And you are…?”
“Petula Langley,” she said back, shaking me hand. “Maybe we’ll see each other around, huh?”
“Yeah, that could be,” I mused. “We’re right next door.”
She looked over at our bus. “Oh, my God…you guys are the Madmen! I should’ve known!”

I was pleased with her reaction…till she went on.
“My little sister is gonna freak when I tell her!”