hour of reckoning

Tour “excitement” has awoken me from sleep generally between the hours of 3 and 4 a.m. I shall call this the hour of reckoning....Red Barn show for example; Williston, North Dakota. A party has ensued near the barn, band members have been taken to dinner by the woman who put on the show, and the residents in surrouding trailers seem to have retired. After 3 a.m. in the morning....the strange sensation of rolling backwards. The bus “accidentally” backs down the hill and into what feels like.....a tour van. Air brake problems. Sleeping in Gethsemane's tour van has been hit. Window shattered and some body damage though NOT the body of Brandon who had just barely wished us goodnight and laid down in the seat next to the window. Visions of fists; Shane's fists swinging at all of us wildly, dance about in my mind after hearing his frantic reactions to our beast resting against their baby blue. But no one seriously injured. And no hard feelings. The benefits of running into a friend? Brandon removes small pieces of glass from himself and the van the next day, replaces the hole with cardboard and duct tape and an uncomfortable police report is filed. The cops lecture Mike and Shewall for any violation they may be guilty of. violations completely unrelated to the accident.
Last night in Mandan, North Dakota....party ensues after an incredibly rewarding show at the Eagles lodge. The mid-west and their tendency to spoil our asses! Around 3 a.m. Grandpa Dork decides after a short bar trip and some logical considerations that a 7 a.m. drive to Fargo will work out for all. Sends the memo via text. His decision to retire before the troops do and catch some rest is made. Shortly thereafter, when sleep has finally graced us, a small but influential voice enters the bus; Jeremey the bargaining chip. “We decided to head to Fargo tonight. Join our band. Everyone wants to do it.” A half-asleep Grandpa groans a no and Jeremy exits. Minutes later, a chanting arises in the dark night air. “Ra! cha cha cha-cha cha-cha cha—cha—cha! RA! Cha cha cha-cha CHA-cha CHA—CHA—CHA!” again and again, closer and closer. Hauntingly loud and threatening. The loom/ocean pirate army has come to rape and pillage our hopes of sleep. The marching and shouting comes from a block away and approaches within seconds. Heavily stomping feet mount the bus and proceed up and down the small isle. I picture Taylor and his plastic sword swinging. Visions of fists; my fists flying dance about in my mind. But really.....credit where due....how can such a drunken “army” keep such perfect rhythm? “Let's go to Fargo! Let's go to Fargo!” again and again. The troops are getting precise with their demands. Finally after minutes of ignoring their shouts Mr. Finnegan jumps into the captain's chair and we set sail. With Daisy as his final lasting co-pilot, we awake the next morning around ten. Only to find ourselves in Minnesota, thirty miles past Fargo where the landscape is so bleak, gas stations have no postcards for sale. Rather fishing bait: Crappies, Shiners, Fat Heads, and Medium Suckers. So! We had somehow missed seven or so exits leading to Fargo. I blame it on Daisy? The adorable dog who had tried to bulldoze her head into me hours previous to fit into our two-person on a twin sized bunk. The adorable dog who awoke to tuna puke in her dog bowl that morning. Problem solved....tonight I must stay awake past the hour of reckoning so as to avoid being awaken by “excitement.” Pipe dreams Kim.....pipe dreams. Start your period already.