The Biker's Fate Chapter 480

"It was for Modern Drummer magazine," Rod said. "I'll get you a copy. You should like it. It has lots of pictures."

"Modern Drummer? Do they know how old you are?"

"You know, Vick. I've been playing with you for a while now and I still can't tell which is worse. Your pathetic attempts at humor or your playing."

"Don't get angry with me because your suit only comes in boys' sizes."

"You hang around a lot in the children's clothing section, do you?" Rod asked. "You do, don't you? You sick little fuck."

From biker clubhouses to band rehearsal spaces. The ancient art of busting balls was alive and well. Kinda like counting rings to find a tree's age. A person could tell how many miles two guys had logged by the amount of shit they were willing to dish out and take from each other.

"Rod, this is Train," Vick said, motioning to me.

"You better not let Melody see that white guitar," was all he said before taking his seat behind the drums. Before I could say a word, he began whacking away on the snare drum, stopping briefly to make tuning adjustments.

Andy Schultz came in next, and unlike Rod, greeted me warmly. We chatted about gear and the other usual bullshit guitarists talk about when getting to know one another. Andy's role in the band was what we call a utility player. His job was to float from instrument to instrument, depending on the requirements of each song. That meant sometimes we'd be playing guitar together, and sometimes I'd be on my own while he played keyboards, percussion, or whatever else he may be called upon to play.

Last, but certainly not least to show up, was Edgar 'Puddin'' Daily, and he came in hot.

"I was told to lose my third stack of bass cabinets and one road case to make space for essential gear, and one of you fookin' twats is hauling a bloody motorcycle?"

"Heya Pud'," Andy called out, seemingly unfazed by the bassist's outburst.

"Whose is it, then?" Puddin' continued. "It's yours, innit, Rod?"

Without saying a word, Rod pointed a drumstick in my direction.

"Who da fook's dat?" Puddin' demanded.

"New guy," Rod said, in a tone one notch above total disgust.

"Ahh, right. Rat bastard Gill's replacement," he growled. "Tell me somethin' new guy. Why the fook do I gotta leave my shit on the curb while your bloody bike rides first class, eh?"

I couldn't believe what was happening. Puddin' along with his band, Orange Salad were a huge inspiration to me when I was fourteen years old. Christ, I had a poster of him on my wall as a kid. Now he was two feet away from me, reading me the riot act.

"Sorry about that," I said. "I didn't mean to cause any issues. I was told—"

"I don't give a flyin' fook what you was told, mate. I'm tellin' ya to go and get your sodding bike off my truck."

"Hey, Puddin'," Vick said, trying to intervene.

"Stay the hell outta this, Vick. This is between me and easy fookin' rider here," he shot back.

The man was a hero of mine, but I wasn't in the habit of taking shit from anyone, so I set my guitar on its stand, faced him, and crossed my arms.

"Look, Mr. Daily, sir." I raised my hands in an effort to ward off his temper but stood a little taller so he could see I wasn't fuckin' around. "I think we got off on the wrong foot. We haven't met yet. I'm Train and I've been personally hired by Ms. Morgan to play guitar for the tour. I'm not sure why I was given space on the truck, and you weren't, but I can only guess it's because I asked nicely and I'm better looking than you. But if you need another reason, you can step a little closer and I'll give you one."

Puddin's jaw stiffened, his fists clenched at his side, and he stared at me in furious silence until finally bursting into maniacal laughter, joined then by the others.

"I think I just shit me pants," Puddin' roared. "You guys see the size of this guy's arms? I'd be uglier than Rod if he actually hit me. Christ almighty, new guy. You gotta lighten up, son," he said, shaking my hand. "I'm only takin' the piss outta ya, mate."

I smiled and breathed a sigh of relief, happy that I wasn't going to have to mangle the face of one of my heroes.

Once we'd finished setting up, Vick had us run through the first half of the set twice. Even though the songs were imprinted on my brain, I was working overtime to get them firmly underneath my fingers. The songs whizzed by at a break-neck pace, ending just as I felt like I was getting the hang of them. Meanwhile, the rest of the band looked like they could play this material in their sleep.

"You sound fuckin' great, man," Vick said during a break.

"Really?" I asked. "Because I feel like I'm hanging on by the skin of my balls."

Vick laughed. "That's the only time music sounds good. When it's on the razor's edge of beauty and disaster."

"I'm shooting for more of the former and none of the latter."

"No mistakes?" Vick asked. "There's no such thing as a gig with no mistakes."

"I sure as shit haven't heard any of you guys make one yet."

"Being a pro player doesn't mean you don't make mistakes. It means you get paid to cover them up skillfully."

Vick was an instantly likeable guy. No nonsense, but still warm. He couldn't have been more than five years older than me, but he spoke with wisdom and authority. Probably why Melody chose him to be her musical director.

Rod, on the other hand, looked at me like I was a neighboring gold prospector looking to jump his claim.