You Can’t Go, But I Can!
Bonnie and I quibbled all the way back to the Civic Arena, wondering how to get to Massachusetts without getting me thrown out of the house.
“We can’t not go!” Bonnie said. “Your parents’ll take you back.”
“They won’t,” I said. “And anyway I can’t just leave their car in Pittsburgh.”
“But it’s The Fucking Firm!” Bonnie countered.
“I can’t,” I said again as we pulled into the parking lot. The fans’ cars were mostly gone but the tour bus and tractor trailers were still where we’d left them an hour before.
We didn’t see Phil or the band so we explained our predicament to the first person we found. He happened to be smoking a cigarette out the window of a Mack truck.
The guy’s name was – really – Mack.
Mack pointed at the tour bus. “I’d check in there,” he said.
We slunk over to the tour bus to say our goodbyes but Phil and the band were nowhere to be found; it was just a bus full of strangers.
We went back to Mack and his truck for more ideas. He handed us two cold beers through the window. We had to reach way up to get them; Mack was very short, toothless, and about 105 years old.
“That’s the bus everybody rides,” he said. “Wanna do a line while you wait?”
Cocaine.
Suddenly we became eight-year-olds chasing puppies. We forgot The Firm, climbed into the cab, plopped ourselves down next to the old man, and obediently did lines. Then we did more lines. We drank our beers, still moaning about the Massachusetts dilemma.
“I’ll get you there,” Mack said, passing the mirror again. “Sleep the whole way if ya want!” He motioned to the bed behind the seat.
“That’s really cool,” I said. “But I can’t go.”
Suddenly Bonnie lit up. “Ohmygod!” she said. “You can’t go, but I can! And I’m fucking going!”
With that, Bonnie hopped out of the truck leaving me, Mack, and the cocaine. She ran directly onto the tour bus not even looking back.
Bonnie was going to Massachusetts without me.
Her parents weren’t stopping her from following her dreams.
My parents were so cruel.
Mack and I continued to do lines. We drank and talked about trucking, which convinced me to be a truck driver someday; it seemed like the perfect life. Do drugs, drive, sleep….
But I was sad. “I’m going to say goodbye to Bonnie,” I told Mack, and I walked over to the bus.
Climbing on board, I saw Bonnie in the third row. Immediately she leapt out of her seat screaming: “You’re going with us! I knew you’d go!”
“I just came to say goodbye.”
“I love you!” Bonnie said, hugging me hard. I started to cry and stepped off the bus. I waved to Mack, who held up the coke mirror. How could I refuse?
I drank and whined and did lines with Mack until the tour bus started its engine, lighting up the lot like Christmas.
But the bus didn’t move. Suddenly, Bonnie appeared in front of the bus’ headlights.
Arms outstretched, she ran straight for the Mack truck. “I can’t go without you!” she cried, climbing back into the tiny cab. “I thought I would be fine but when you came to say goodbye, I just couldn’t do it!”
The reunion was intensely emotional, the drama almost unbearable. We thought we’d nearly lost each other forever.
“This will help,” Mack said, and we both snorted a bit more cocaine.
We never saw Phil, The Firm, or even the roadies ever again.