As the relief driver, you had to accept being called upon at any moment to take the wheel. It didn’t happen often. The notification usually came around three or four o’clock in the morning with, “Hey, wake up! Can you drive for a while?” This became my favorite time to drive—watching the sky change colors in the quiet dawn, something my sleeping bandmates never seemed to appreciate, no matter how often I would point it out to them.
Driving to New Orleans was always more of a festive event—often starting before we got in the van—so when I was called upon to drive, the question was more like, “Hey, are you sure you can drive?” I don’t recall exactly how I responded, but it must have been something resembling “yes,” and I got my mind around taking over driving duties when we stopped for gas at the next exit.
Ralph, driver for life, needed a break after driving for five hours following a full day working at a print shop. Armed with a cup of coffee and a pack of smokes, he was capable of delivering us to our gig most anywhere in the country. In a pinch, gas-station coffee would work, but a high-end brew was much more desirable. Although a lot has been said about the influence of drugs and alcohol on music culture, you can’t deny the contribution coffee has made to further it down the road. In the front of the van, we would often plot a route through towns where we knew we could find a decent cup, which resulted in a near-mutiny once from the other band members in the back, led by a wild-eyed drummer screaming, “That’s the second McDonald’s we’ve passed without stopping!”
After years of traveling, we acquired a reputation for arriving to the gig late. We learned to do the fastest soundcheck ever to appease the sound engineer, and later that night, we’d deliver a solid performance, where even the club owner would forgive us. We learned to keep our pit-stop times to a minimum—get in and get out fast.
This night, we had plenty of time to get to our destination as I jumped in the driver’s seat to begin my turn at the wheel. After a quick head count of band members, I drove away and was met with the most awful metallic sound that words cannot begin to describe. Like one of those old radio shows where they play a sound and people call in to try guess what it is. It would have taken hours before someone identified this sound, but when you are 10 feet from a gas pump, you know it immediately.
I sat frozen at the wheel looking in the side-view mirror at the nozzle still in the side of the van as the hose dangled, dripping gas on the ground. I imagined that the woman who rang up customers inside would soon be calling the cops. The others must have had this thought too, and as the laughter died down, they began to prepare themselves for a possible police visit.
I looked into the gas-station window to see the woman happily ringing up customers, unaware of what had happened at the pump. Ralph got out of the passenger seat and tiptoed around the van, doing a sneaky walk that you learned from cartoons would make you invisible. He nonchalantly hung the broken nozzle back on the pump. Tiptoeing back around the van, he jumped in the seat and yelled, “Drive!” We sped away in the night, vowing to never stop at this exit ever again.
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