Travel The Road

Put the pedal down, heading out of town, gotta make a getaway...

A loud erruption of screams pierced through Joe's ears. However protected by equipment they may be, he could still hear them perfectly. The lights were dimmed and everything was ready. Everything was how it should be. How it had always been. How it always would be.

Kevin laid a hand on Joe's left shoulder and though it was meant as comfort, Joe felt the complete opposite. But instead of dreading it, he didn't think about it. He didn't think about what he was about to do or what he was about to say. He didn't think about how his family may never forgive him and his fans would hate him. He didn't think.

It was time.

Kevin stepped first onto the stage, confident in a way Joe envied. Nick followed pursuit, a smile on his face. The crowd was getting louder. Sucking in a deep breath, Joe took his first steps onto the stage and made his way to the microphone.

[&&&]

Joe pushed his way through the entrance to a gas station just outside of California. He had narrowly escaped security and still wasn't positive if he had gotten rid of them after that whole incident. But he just needed to think.

A bell rang as he entered, but no heads turned. It was mostly empty besides an older couple who were obviously just passing through and an man behind the counter. Neon lights hung above coolers in the far right corner of the room, but shelves stood as obstacles in the way of a straight path there.

The only money Joe had thought to bring with him was a hundred dollar bill he had stuffed in his back pocket before the concert. And exactly thirty-eight dollars and sixty-seven cents was going towards the gas his motorcycle had just guzzled.

A television sat behind the counter and the man working the registers sat there, sitting on a chair and looking through papers while eating a cylinder of Pringles. He was paying no attention what-so-ever to the images on the screen which, Joe realized with a start, were of him.

He tried to tune out the well-rehearsed voice of a reporter, talking about what had happened at the concert. About how he had simply walked up to the microphone to declare he couldn't do it anymore, and walked off. Just like that.

Walking with a deliberate slow pace, he finally reached the counter. The man barely threw a glance in his direction before wiping his salty hands on his already greasy shirt and setting the papers down, somehow finding the energy within himself to stand up and approach the register.

"Pump four, I presume?" the man asked. His nametag read Al in simple black print, but Joe had a feeling that didn't matter. None of this mattered. He was leaving and wouldn't be back. At least, not for a while. So without saying anything out loud or doing anything that might make the man look up and realize who he was, he simply nodded as the clerk held out his hand for the money he owed.

Waiting for his change, Joe glanced out the window towards his motorcycle, propped up by a chrome kickstand. The lights overhead flickered on and off and flies swarmed around the streetlights spaced out widely down the highway.

Finally, the man ripped out a reciept before handing it to him along with his change. He muttered a, "have a nice day," but it didn't take a genius to know he was no where near meaning it. And in all reality, Joe couldn't blame him. Working in a gas station wasn't exactly ideal. Especially one as dingy as this one.

So instead of making a reply, he simply walked out of the gas station and hopped back on his motorcycle, kicking up the stand before revving up and taking off.

[&&&]

The steady hum of the motorcycle below him was Joe's only comfort on the long twisting road leading straight through Nevada. His thoughts were tangled, twisted. The fact that the only thing visible was the road cutting through the rural state wasn't of much help.

The road was narrow and rough. To either side of him was a spread of dirt. Precipitation seemed almost impossible beneath the nearly cloudless sky; only small and sparse puffs of white inhabited these Nevada skies. The dirt was cracked, rough. The highway, deserted, showed absolutely no sign of recent life. He was alone.

Joe had absolutely no idea where he was going. All he knew was that he was going and the road signs were the only clues as to what state he was in. He had no map, no compass. And it wasn't as if he knew exactly how to use a compass. The boy scout lessons had been skipped.

He knew exactly where his cell phone was; in the bag lying on the tour bus. Joe mentally slapped himself. He had been careless and he had been stupid. Not exactly for running away, but for not being prepared before hand. His mind had been made up only moments before he had gone on stage to make his announcement. And absolutely no one was prepared. Especially not himself.

From a distance, a building was coming into view. At first it was small, impossibly small, as if it were simply a mirage. Within moments, however, it grew. He was fast approaching and if he was lucky, it was somewhere with a phone or gas. He was running low on gas.

Sure enough, a sign boasting GAS in large bolded letters came into view, elevated high above the cracked ground. Joe sighed inwardly. Finally, there was some sign of civilization. Some sort of clue to how people strived in the Nevada desert. Something to prove to himself that he wasn't completely crazy.

He began to slow, preparing to make his turn, but all too late, he realized the building was long past having inhabitants. Still, he pulled into the lot, covered with dust and dirt to stop just for a moment of breath.

Idling the large motorcycle, he pushed down the kickstand before stepping away from the bike. Raising a hand to his brow, he surveyed the area. Absolutely nothing but mountains far in the distance. He hadn't passed a car for a little over an hour. This was as rural as it was going to get.

He had long since pulled off his leather jacket, sweating from the beating sun above. This heat was beyond what he was used to. His throat was dry and he felt as if that was a desert all it's own.

Turning, he inspected the building behind him. It was blue with a white stripe around the perimiter. Newspapers, yellow with age, were taped against every visible window. The tape in some spots, however, had ceased working.

Joe made his way over to one of those spots, peering through the dollar-sized hole.

Dust motes showered from the crumbling ceiling, appearing like a blizzard. Trash littered the floor, ranging anywhere from car parts to candy wrappers. Shelves still occupied most of the space, but only dust rested upon the shelves. A counter was visible to the far right of the room, a smashed register setting upon it.

Joe pulled away, turning back to his motorcycle. Why hadn't be bought water at his last stop, when he still had the chance? All he could do was hop back on the motorcycle and get back on the road, praying for civilization to come sooner rather than later. Dehydration would be the worst possible thing that could happen.

[&&&]

The first signs of civilization showed an hour later. The first thing on his priority list was to find water. Luckily, a gas station was the first stop in the town. Joe leaned casually against the pump as he filled his motorcycle with gas. Though this was civilization, it was sparse. He had only seen one person in the entire town, which oddly resembled a village in a Western with updated buildings.

A woman about thirty-five or so sat behind the counter of the grimy station with a bored expression on her face. Her elbow rested on the counter top, her chin in her hand. Her hair, curly, though red, reminded him of his mother. He wondered what his family was doing at this moment, whether they were worried about him or simply re-scheduling everything. You can't have the Jonas Brothers with just two brothers.

The handle of the gas pump made a clicking noise, indicating that his tank was full. Joe pushed himself up and walked over to return the pump to it's original position. Running a hand through his wavy hair, he began to make his way to the station, hoping there was enough money in his pocket for both gas and water.

Bells rang as he pushed open the glass door. He made his way over to one of the coolers, grabbing the cheapest bottle of water he saw, almost afraid of exactly how much his motorcycle had eaten in gas. As he sat the bottle on the counter, he was aware the woman was eyeing him suspiciously, but he completely ignored it, looking in a complete other direction to a display of multiple maps. Upon reading the names of most of them, he realized he must have been in Colorado.

Nervously, he glanced out the window. The sun was beginning to set, just as he had feared. He furrowed his eyebrows together, wondering what was best. Would he go on or try to find a hotel or somewhere to stay for the night? His question, however, was answered when the woman behind the counter spoke the amount he owed. "Fourty-two twenty."

That left him with less than twenty dollars. There was no way there would be a place for him to stay for twenty dollars. Onward it was, then. For how long, exactly, he wasn't sure.