Kevin has wanted to start a revolution his entire life but has been distracted. He majored in photography at the University of Houston. He grew up in a very unknown part of Texas called, Marian Town. People in the neighboring towns know more about it than the people in the town. Kevin received a direct scholarship to UH by writing three essays in a contest. The first essay was about overlooked women in history. He wrote about some women in his neighborhood. One worked in a Laundromat and the other was addicted to crack. The second essay had to be about an alternative to the police force. He wrote about an art-force, which was also the idea written about by a girl in Houston named Shelly Scarlet. The third essay had to be about what he might major in and why it might be insignificant. When Kevin received the surprise new essay question, having gotten that far, he got mad at the stupidity of it.
“Maybe I should lie,” he said, “and say that I want to major in law.” But he was honest and wrote about the insignificance of photography.
“I wonder what that Shelly girls’ planned major is.”
“Call her,” said his brother Zack, who was one year older, and played the trumpet.
“I don’t have her number.”
Will you never see her again?” They met at a conference after the second essay.
“Oh, I can look her up on the internet.”
“She’s not famous Kevin.”
“Ordinary people could be on the internet.”
“That’s if we could get on this year,” he said. “I signed on an hour ago and it’s still dialing.
Of course the year was 1997.
Now Kevin is thirty years old and just got out of jail. He has been living at his brother Zack’s house for one week.
At six pm Zack walks into the house and finds Kevin playing with the dog on the kitchen floor.
“That’s exactly how I left you this morning,” Zack says. “Have you two taken a break?”
We almost had sex, it was so intimate,” Kevin says.
“Do you want to get a beer?”
“I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t relapse.”
You weren’t in rehab. Did you drink too much in college?”
“I was so high I don’t remember.”
“Well I’m going to take my jacket off…” He tosses it and sits on a stool at the counter. “Now it’s off. Have you been on Craig’s List?”
“No. I don’t like it.”
“How about Monster or something?”
“Yea, they’re sending me stuff.”
“Anything good?”
“Zack. I don’t believe in this computer culture.”
“You were in prison for nine years Kevin. Are computers actually oppressive to you?”
“Not personally; not consciously. You’ve been socialized, Zack- I mean, sensitized or whatever. My senses tell me not to trust it- to not get caught up in that trap.”
“Let’s get a beer Kevin.”
“Only if I could drive the beer.”
“You’re weird man.”
“I know where you could work,” says an Asian girl with a red line across both eyes and hair like a mushroom next to Kevin at the bar.
“Oh yea?” says Zack.
“Yea. You could work with our tour. My band is going on tour with some other bands and we need roadies.”
Kevin makes a very uncertain face.
“Hey.” Says Zack. “It sounds good.”
“Wouldn’t you miss me?” Kevin says.
“At least I’ll know you’re having fun. And I want you to have fun.”
Finally, Kevin turns to the girl. “Sing me a song.”
“What?”
“Give me a sample of the music.”
“I’m a bassist.”
“So sing bass to me.”
“Okay.” She smiles. “Boo dodo boo do, boo bdo bdo do doo. The music playing is distracting.”
“That rocked.” He gives her a high five.
Zack drinks his beer and nods.
Part 1. The Revolution…
The bus is purple and flies down a bright desert-mountain road. Inside a man with big curly hair, the Asian girl, and another Asian girl play ukuleles and xylophones, while Kevin writes in a book next to the window. “Shouldn’t I be in the roadie van?” he asks. There are some idle people in the front.
“There is no roadie van. All three other bands are in the other band exceeding the fire limit,” says the other Asian girl.
“They’ve got too many bonfires burning?”
They laugh and play their song. The man playing the wooden xylophone says, “There is no construct man. You just are where you are man.”
“It’s like the little man in your sentences. How did he get there in all those sentences? Was it destiny? Why each one?”
“Come on, man. Don’t make fun of me.”
“Man.”
They pull over at a roadside I-Hop. The tour manager, an older 30s man in a leather coat, Paul, puts his hand on Kevin’s shoulder and says, “Don’t worry about funds. Just order whatever you want.”
“Cool. Thanks for telling me Paul.”
As they eat waffles and pancakes, a skinny man in a bright, yellow tank top and a white head band pushing his blonde hair back says across the table to Kevin, “Kevin right?”
“Yes. Rock musician, right?”
“Names Blondo.”
“Blondo.”
“That’s right. Are you also a musician?”
“No. I’m a photographer.”
“Oh yea. And,” he shakily points his fork at the bassist like a magic wand, “Suzie recruited you right?”
“Oh yes. She has good ears.”
“Photo-worthy?”
“Ha. No I mean she heard I needed a job.”
“Oh. Anything good before this?”
Prison. But I shouldn’t say that. God, I’m a roadie that went to prison. You know I won an essay contest once and I had to write why photography is insignificant and won.”
A few people at that part of the table laugh. He continues, “Imagine you had to prove to someone important why rock n roll was insignificant?”
“I’d lose.”
“Sure. But what if you won?”
“Fuck. Well photography isn’t insignificant.”
“Yea. It was strange getting the award in the mail.”
In the flying purple bus the two Asian girls play chess on the floor. “Hey Kevin,” says the one wit the mushroom hair.”
“Yes darling,” he says from his book.
“You have no clue where we’re going.”
“That’s okay. I don’t even remember your names.”
“Brittany,” she says.
“And Panda,” the other one says.
“Oh right. Panda. Panda. What about roadying? Don’t know the techniques.”
“It’s okay. You’ll do.”
The first gig is a club in houston. The other roadie, Mitchel walks Kevin around the stage. “If you crank this knob up too high,” he says, “You’ll blow everything up.”
“No. I tend to absorb all catastrophe into my own body therefore saving breakable equipment and situations.”
“Well, we need you too. So Big Panda Band always opens and they have the most simple setup.”
“It’s just a banjo and a keyboard, right?”
“No, but they do have a laptop.”
“What? Really? That’s- what’s happened to music in ten years?”
“You’ll see. The audience likes seeing it on the stage. It’s a mystery of how it works anyway- how they use it.”
“I’m actually curious about it.”
“Just remember that Ali Gator always is behind, his laptop table here and his other electronics here and his xylophone here.”
Later, Kevin carries in some guitars and sets them on the stands. “Now what?” he says to Mitch.
“That’s it. Drink something. We hang out here for the transitions. Also if anything goes wrong. But you can get a drink and come back.”
Kevin sits at the bar as folks walk in. A woman sits next to him with very curly brown hair and thick eyeliner. “Are you in a band?” She says.
“I’m with the bands.”
“So you’re a roadie.”
“Yes. Are you in the audience.”
“I’m with the audience.”
“So you’re a homie.”
“Yes.”
“Do you like being a homie?”
“It has its good side. Such as there’s little commitment, little repetition.”
“You probably use a computer at home. You know, at home on the flat screen when you could be out inhaling fresh air.”
“I’ve been in prison for a decade. The air was not always them most fresh but I had this freedom of being able to appreciate fresh air.”
“I’d imagine there’s a freedom to having no responsibilities for such a long time.”
“Yes, I had plenty of time to plan the revolution.”
Before the could ask, Mitch taps him on the shoulder and says, “You ready?”
“Yes?”
“Cool.”
Mitch has a big, white beard although he is not old. He has a very coarse voice although he is very gentle.
Soon, Big Panda Band plays and the place is filled with their technologic, simple punk. The place isn’t a third filled. But it is dark and the music is very roomy as well.
Panda, the lead singer, stomps her foot as she sings and plays a guitar. Kevin watches in a trance. “Been to a concert in a while?” screams Blondo to Kevin who doesn’t react.
In the purple bus Kevin holds the newspaper high over his face. Brittany says above her pancakes, “Did you get to read any news in jail?”
“There was no news service.”
“So how did you know if anything, like, Hurricane Katrina happened?”
“When people started talking about it.”
“How did they find out?”
“Letters, visitors…”
“That’s good. I was afraid for a second.”
“I don’t think it makes a big difference. Do ou really need the news everyday unless you’re involved in the development of something. It could be jail. When people have freedom they fill the void with addictions and frivolities that wastes their time.”
“You’re cool man. Did you like our show last night?”
“You were the first band, right?”
“Yea, the ones with the laptop and the xylophone and the drum machine and the bike horn and the ukulele and the trash can covers and the little kid that we made cry.”
“I loved it but I was upset about that club letting the kid in there. His damn ears aren’t developed yet.”
“You were woman talking when we walked out.”
“Yea!” says Panda. “Brittany, don’t ask him if there were women in jail.”
“I can have a conversation,” Kevin says, “with an alien.”
“Okay.” Brittany looks at Panda and shrugs.
“He means,” says Paul, “He has conversations with whoever’s available whether male or female.”
“I’m sleepy,” says Brittany. “I want to go for a run! Can we pull over?”
Ali Gator, the percussionist/lap top artist says, “I say we ask the other bus.”
“Are these bands well known at all?” asks Kevin.
No one responds. Paul is on the phone. The other bus pulls over. Brittany puts her headband on and rus out of the bus into the desert.
“Pretty well know,” says Paul. “Have you ever been to Phoenix, Mr. Never Asks Questions?”
Kevin shakes his head.
Blondo sings notoriously with his arms astretch with blue lights all around him. “I’m in love with him!” Kevin screams to Brittany.
“You’re what with him?”
“I said look how dreamy Blondo is!”
“Yes! Blondie right? I’m going to getchya!”
“What?”
“Blondo?”
“Dreamy?”
“Oh yes! He’s very dreamy and blonde!”
