Under My Syns

The bus rocked and rolled down the highway, my mother screaming orders to the crew of technicians, managers, musicians, and other random people. Our bus, the one that I was on now, was full of the background people you only normally see at the beginning of a rock show, when your impatiently waiting to see and hear the music you love, the whole damned grand stage was being set up by us.

Okay, that's a little tough. I only had to help set up the stage until I was 17, but still. I am very considerate of the men and women that have to do the tedious chore. My name is Camille, hairdresser and make-up artist extraordinaire that tours with bands so they can look presentable to the fans. Me and my as-close-to-sister-as-you-can-get-without-coming-out-of-the-same-vagina is Micheala. Or Micheal, or more infamously known as Mickey.

My mom was in control of the sound board, the stage set up, where we went when we went there, and how. She was the tour manager and manager and kicked any other band manager's ass that decided to try to overrule her plans. Including the bands themselves.

"Hey, girls," My mom, Sylvia, greeted us, apparently taking a break from screaming. "You guys are being called to some sort of meeting once we get to the motel. Down in the lobby apparently."

"By who?" Mickey asked and looked up from her current distraction from the chaos, a rainbow slinky.

"One of the bands, Evangel something something something. They're the headliner." Mom answered.

"Well, you should know!" I said and laughed.

"Do you know?" my mom cocked an eyebrow at me.

"Nooo…" I said and trialed of.

"Just be there. Let the boys have their fun. They'll probably never see you again once this tour's over." Mom said and got up, back to business.

"Mom! You've never tried to throw us at musicians like this!" I said, trying to act abashed.

"Well," Mickey began. "She has thrown us at men like," And there she went down her list. "Conquistadors, skin heads, oil field guys,"

We tuned her out.

"Hmm." Mom grumped. "These boys were very good in the looks department."

"Construction workers, the UPS guy,"

"Like what? Tight jeans and cowboy boots? Gimme a hint momma."

"B52 pilot, pizza guy,"

"Their not really tight jeans…" mom trailed.

"Ugh! No cowboy boots, please! I can barely handle Mickey!"

"Mafia, The Hell's Angels, but, no. Never musicians. Camille's right, Mom. You've never thrown us at starving artists, minus that guy at the Paint Devian convention." Mickey finally stopped.

Mom blinked at her. "No, they don't wear boots." She finally said after a moment.

"But what about Kenney Chesney!" Mickey squealed. "He could wear nothing BUT the cowboy boots and I'd be fine."

I rolled my eyes.

"We're here!" the guy driving the bus yelled.

"Get up, and get out!" Mom yelled at everyone and we quickly followed suit.

"See you later at the room, Ma." I called at her. She nodded at me and continued doing her job, which as you can tell, mainly consisted of screaming at people.

"Not to mention bus drivers." Mickey muttered as we went down the steps.