The aforementioned bruisers were of no further help later that evening.
"Hey, have you seen John?"
"Mistah Mayers inniz quarters."
"Quarters? Really?"
"Ya."
"Alright. Thanks."
My second step led me into a shoulder-to-shoulder collision, which may have done some permanent damage.
"Mayerz ain't available."
"Just goin’ to ask him about my capo."
Bruiser looked confused.
"I left a thing on the mic stand and he might have it."
"Mayer aint no theif."
"Right. Right. I'm sure he's not. It still might be in a case or--"
"Nope."
"Really?"
"Nope."
"Nice chatting with you."
Deviousness came next. Dana, our road manager at the time, had beautiful eyes, hands, legs, uh, everything she had two of were rather fantastic. Dana went to make friends with Bruiser.
Her approach, as seen from behind, was dramatic in itself. Her hips shifted like liquid. She walked a line, dead straight, ending where her nose about touched Bruiser’s chest, and then she put three fingers on his man mammary.
I could tell she was playing the sex card. Her fingers were drawing squiggles on his black shirt and her hips never had stopped that back-and-forth. Dana was and is a true fan of what we do musically. Clearly. We didn't pay her enough for this.
Perhaps if we had, she'd have broken through the Bruiser Wall. No such luck. Turns out Bruiser One and Two were paid better than Dana.
I could imagine my capo, clutched tightly to the neck of a Gibson, brand new strings cutting at its belly. Poor little guy. Stay strong. I'm coming for you.
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