I was never good at sleeping on a moving bus, especially when Arnie is driving. Arnie spent a great deal of his early twenties rally car driving and he seems to think the I-5 is a race track. I much prefer our normal driver who is the opposite of Arnie in every way. George is the calmest person I have ever met, and the bus seems to float along the highway when he’s driving. But ol’ Arnie is flying along, yelling at cars as he passes them, his accent deepening with his road rage.

Get off the road, ya Wanker!

Learn how to drive, plonker!

The drive from Portland to San Francisco is ten hours, and Arnie splits the driving with George for the long trips so we don’t have to stop anywhere. We couldn’t keep up this schedule otherwise.

But I can’t blame my insomnia entirely on Arnie’s driving—I have a hard time winding down after any show. My adrenaline doesn’t switch off when I step off the stage. Instead, it lingers like an idling race car engine, maybe like the cars Arnie used to race. It rumbles along in my chest as I lie in my bunk and watch the dark Oregon forest fly by.

Switch snores. If he wasn’t such a great guy to be in a band with, it would be a deal breaker. I take his snoring like he’s showing off, boasting at how easily he can sleep on this bus. I go through an internal emotional journey until I can’t take it anymore and consider hitting him right in his rumbling nose. Then the tone of his snoring changes and I feel like he’s making an effort even though he doesn’t know it.

Calvi is showing off too, that bastard. This one actually smiles like a weirdo while he sleeps. We could have had the worst day of our lives and the bus could be on fire and this smug bastard would still smile away in his slumber. Sometimes he even giggles in his sleep, though he always says he doesn’t remember what he dreams about. I think he’s just laughing at me and my insomnia.

I’ve been trying not to stare at Lael ever since she joined our bus. She’s created a happy home within the confines of the tiny space of her bunk. Right now she’s wrapped up perfectly in a blanket that she brought with her, her phone lying next to her like a loyal companion. Her purse is tucked in the corner by her feet and a notebook and some magazines are under her pillow.

I have to admit, she’s hard not to stare at. She has my full attention more and more these days. I trace the lines of her lips, the curve of her nose, her eyebrows, her chin—I barely blink as I take her in.

The race car in my chest turns off its engine.

I hold her in my gaze and I feel…calm.

She slowly opens her eyes and looks over at me as if she knows I have been watching her.

I don’t look away.

We share a moment, our heads resting on our pillows as we look at one another.

She smiles.

I sleep.

I feel like I merely blinked but somehow it’s morning, and judging by the colorful buildings I can see from my window of the parked bus, I know we have arrived at our destination.

I sit up and rub my eyes. Lael’s bed is made up and one of her duffle bags is in the corner. The other two vacant bunks are left in a twisted mess.

I’ve always liked San Francisco. The sky, when you can see it, is a slightly different shade of blue, and the ocean air always feels clean. Today it’s sunny, and considering it’s mid-December, the sun feels warm. I don’t mind the bus sometimes, but a hotel room with a hot shower is in order at this point.

“Morning, young man,” Arnie says as he climbs up the narrow steps into the bus. He offers me a very large coffee and a familiar piece of paper—our itinerary for the day.

“You’re a good man, Arnie,” I respond as I take the coffee and sheet of paper, glancing at it.

9am - Interview at 865 Battery Street, Live 105 radio show

11am - Hotel check-in, 181 3rd St., W Hotel

12pm - Lunch with App designer at 27 Hotaling Pl., Villa Taverna

1:30pm - Band meeting and rehearsal at venue, Warfield Theater, 982 Market St.

2:30pm - Interview with full band, Rolling Stone magazine

3pm - Meet and greet with VIP ticket holders

3:30pm - Sound check

6pm - Dinner at Boulevard Restaurant, 1 Mission St.

7pm - Wardrobe

7:30 - Group video message for And Then Fan club website stream

8pm - Meet and greet with VIP Elite plus members

9pm - Showtime!

After party: Kirk Hammett’s house

I look over my morning orders, rolling my eyes and shaking my head at each item.

“Lunch with an app designer?” I question.

“Don’t you remember? The Brad Snyder App. They’ll get a notification every time you take a piss,” Arnie answers.

“Is there really an after party at Kirk Hammett’s house? I mean, the Kirk Hammet. Guitarist for Metallica?” I ask.

“Yeah, mate. I guess he’s a fan. He invited you and the boys over. You know he’s a collector of horror memorabilia and his house is like a museum full of the shit.”

“Really?”

“Really. Now, let’s try to stick to the schedule today. No flaking off, especially for the interviews. The other turkeys have already started their days. Time for you to get on with it. There’s a driver waiting outside to shuttle you around. I’ll leave you to it and meet you at the Warfield after lunch.”

Arnie leaves the bus like he’s late for something. I know it can’t be easy for him, keeping all of this going. It would all fall apart in a minute if it weren’t for him herding us like cats.

I rummage through my storage space to find some clean clothes, quickly wash up, and step out of the bus with coffee in hand, squinting at the morning sun.

“Mr. Snyder.”

A rather short man with a middle-aged face and the body of a boy is standing next to a black Suburban. My driver.

“Hello,” I greet him with a smile and step into the vehicle. I can barely see him from my back seat so I’m concerned he can’t see over the dashboard. His small hand reaches up to adjust the rearview mirror, and I meet his eyes.

“Okay, Mr. Snyder. First stop is 865 Battery Street. Away we go.”

We pull away and I stare out the window, sipping my still hot coffee. This will be a fairly standard day, save the party at Kirk Hammett’s house, which sounds absolutely unreal. I’ve learned to take things one step at a time. I tend to be a good boy and do all that’s asked, but on occasion I put the itinerary in the waste basket and disappear for the day, only to show up when it’s time to play. I wish today was one of those days.

Especially when it comes to the first stop. I hate morning radio shows. There’s nothing worse than fake enthusiasm and sound effects. I guess the only good thing is there are never any curve balls—all the questions are standard, a couple call-in questions from listeners that have been screened, some fake laughter, and you’re done.

Our vehicle is at a stop due to heavy traffic, and we’re only a couple of blocks further down the street from where we started. My driver has his attention on his GPS, where he’s looking for a better route.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Snyder. We’ll be on time.”

I wasn’t worried. I try to worry as little as possible. I’m content just people watching out of the tinted window from the confines of this Suburban.

Then I see Lael walking back toward the bus, her hair tied up under a hat, large vintage sunglasses covering half her face. I roll down the window and shout to get her attention.

“Lael!”

She smiles when she sees me and walks over to the stopped Suburban.

“Good morning, Brad,” she says, polite as always. Even though I’ve slowly been getting to know her better, I still get the impression that she’s not letting her guard down around me. Not that I would blame her, being Ronald’s daughter and all.

“So what does your day look like?” I ask her, curious.

“Just going to take it easy, maybe use the gym at the hotel if I can stop being so lazy.”

“Take it easy?” I raise my itinerary. “You didn’t get one of these?”

“No. Arnie just told me to meet at one-thirty at the venue.”

“Well, it doesn’t seem fair that the new kid gets the day off while I’m running all over town alone. Care to join me? We can get through this together.”

I smile and she gives me a cautious smile back, mulling it over.

I open the door. “Come on.”

Lael slides in and I give her the itinerary to peruse.

She looks it over and her eyebrows raise.

“Kirk Hammett?” she asks.

I laugh, and before long we’re moving again.

We arrive at the radio station just in time. Everyone that works there is fake smiling and completely obnoxious in their excessive energy.

***

It was an easy interview in the end, but it wasn’t without some annoyances. When Lael and I first walked into the studio and put our headphones on, the DJ, Stuntman Jim, made a comment about my girlfriend being too young for me. I corrected him and introduced Lael as the new bass player but his opening remark lingered in my mind for the entire live broadcast.

When I’m asked at the end to do some sound bites for the radio station, I tell them that Lael will do it instead. There was a time I got a thrill out of doing these live interviews, but that enthusiasm has long since gone. But watching Lael’s excitement is refreshing and fun, like a parent seeing Christmas again through their child’s eyes.

She does more takes than anyone should, her nerves getting the best of her while the jackasses at the radio station increasingly lose patience. Even their fake smiling stops while our laughing increases until Lael and I have tears in our eyes. Finally, she nails it so we can move on.

This is Lael Ramsey, the new bassist for And Then and you are listening to Live 105.

We laugh at the ridiculousness of the moment, and just like that the tone is set for the day. We find amusement in just about everything on our way back to the hotel: the wide-smiling receptionist, our little Italian driver… It’s like we’re kids on a field trip, amused solely by our own laughter.

In the hotel lobby we sign a few autographs and run into Switch, dressed in a leather jacket with a fur collar and aviator sunglasses. Switch enjoys the attention and tries to goad the paparazzi into taking pictures of him every chance he gets.

“Hey, man, what are you up to?” I ask Hollywood Switch.

“I have an interview downtown,” he answers, turning his head so the fan taking a picture with their phone gets his good side.

“Right on. Who with?” I ask and motion to Lael who is walking by to wait for me.

“Costco,” he says.

I raise my brows. “Like the store where you can buy six packs of underwear?”

“Yeah, dude, they have their own magazine.”

“All right, man. I’ll see you later.”

Have fun with that.

I walk with Lael to the elevator and head up to the top floor. All I can think about is a warm shower and a little downtime.

And yet…

Lael’s room is directly across from mine, and as our backs are to each other, putting in our key cards, I say, “I hope you don’t think you’re done.” I pause until she turns around to look at me with an open expression. “What’s next on that silly list?”

Lael holds the door open with her foot while she takes the itinerary out of her pocket.

“Let’s see,” she says, looking it over. “Ah, right, you have a lunch at noon to discuss the Brad Snyder app with an app designer.”

I bow my head, shaming the concept.

“I think that’s exactly what the world is missing,” she says with a playful tone. “A Brad Snyder app.”

“We’ll skip that one,” I tell her quickly. “I’ll tell Arnie it’s a no. Let’s just go to the wharf and get some chowder or something.”

“Are you sure? Playing hooky seems awfully rock star of you.”

“If the shoe fits. So are you in?”

“Hell yeah.”

We both smile, somewhat still giddy from earlier. I find myself not wanting to say goodbye to Lael. Her face has a glow from all the laughing and fresh air, and she looks beautiful. I wonder what would happen if I invited her into my room. For a moment we stand there holding open our doors, letting the possibility hang in the air, subtle but undeniable.

“Rest up, mister. I’ll knock on your door in an hour,” she says with a smile. Then she winks and disappears into her room. I stare at her closed door for a moment before I retreat into mine.

Luckily, it’s not long before I’ve had a shower and freshened up and the two of us are back out there. It’s high noon on a sunny San Francisco day, and we’re walking along the wharf looking for a place to have a bite.

It’s an odd moment for me. If it wasn’t for the occasional looks I get when people recognize me, I’d feel like I’m just a normal guy sharing a sunny afternoon with a pretty girl. I have to say, it’s interesting getting to know someone new, even though Lael isn’t exactly new. She just feels new. People will always surprise you if you let them. No one’s exactly as they seem, and Lael is no exception.

As we stroll along the busy walkway dodging strollers and tourists, Lael talks and talks, which is a nice change of pace. It takes the pressure off of me. Just when I think she’s run out of things to say, she keeps going. She’s refreshingly open, the opposite of me, and covers her entire life, every relationship she’s had, where she has been, where she wants to go. And her deep respect for Prince.

“I mean, look at Prince. He lived and breathed what he did. He nearly put out an album a year for his whole career,” she says, totally passionate. “His music is not what he did—it’s who he was. Anyway, about my roommate, Christy…”

It takes some focus to follow her and her wayward trains of thought, but it’s nice to see her so comfortable with me. I almost feel honored, though I have a feeling this is just the way she is.

She finally takes a deep breath when both of our attention goes to a very cinematic moment on a bench just in front of us. A very young girl is accepting an ice cream cone from her mother, her smile, and her star-shaped sunglasses catching the attention of everyone walking by.

“Aww.” Lael clutches her chest, looking in love with the scene. She looks at me with a big, silly smile. “Can I have an ice cream, too?”

“After!” I respond and point to the chowder joint to our right. “Real food first.”

“But ice cream is real food,” she protests. “It’s the only food.”

After we settle at a long table overlooking the small marina and the ferries heading out to Alcatraz and other islands in the bay, Lael takes a breath and for a moment becomes self-aware.

“Am I talking too much?” she asks.

“No,” I answer truthfully. I’m actually enjoying her blabber. She has an unusual approach that’s entertaining.

We sit side by side facing the water. Lael shows no sign of running out of things to talk about, so I make myself comfortable. I can’t be sure if she notices that our legs are touching beneath the table, and the way she is leaning into me is causing our arms to touch as well. I don’t pull my arm or leg away; rather I slightly lean into her, drink my tea, and enjoy this very genuine moment I’m sharing with my new bass player. There’s something about the perfect blue sky and the ocean air blowing her familiar scent toward me that makes me want to take a mental picture.

I’m definitely not one to pull out my phone and snap a photo, but once in a while I make an effort to not let a moment pass me by. I live in the now, taking everything in, and try to file it away wherever memories are kept. I’m doing that right now.

“What are you smiling at, Snyder?” Lael asks with amusement.

I don’t answer her right away. I raise my hands innocently while I try to come up with a response, but my mouth opens and the words fall out, skipping the filtration process.

“You.”

“Am I making you smile, Mr. Snyder?” she asks coyly.

I clear my throat and nudge the conversation in a different direction.

“I was just thinking about the pranks the fellas have in store for you,” I elaborate, hoping she buys it.

“What?!” she asks, her voice high pitched with worry. “What pranks?”

“I don’t know.”

“Brad!”

“Honestly, I don’t know, I just thought I would give you a heads up so you at least have a chance,” I say with a laugh.

Lael grabs me by the collar and playfully pulls me toward her. I play along and pretend she’s hurting me.

“What are they going to do, Snyder?”

It’s during this playful moment that I notice the sniper with the camera taking our photo. I have no doubt he’s been following us for some time.

Lael turns her head to look at what’s grabbed my attention, and in an instant the mood has changed like someone flicked a switch.

We don’t say it out loud but we both know what those photos are going to look like. I place some money on the table.

“Come on. It’s about time to go anyway.”

We make our way back to where the Suburban is waiting. Our driver quickly folds up his newspaper and we drive away, leaving the sneaky photographer behind. By the time we get to the venue, our mood is light again. I always have an irrational fear that no one will show up to the shows, but I notice some pedestrians wearing And Then shirts which gives me some relief.

“The Warfield,” our driver announces.

The security guard at the back entrance notices us right away and we are shown to the rehearsal room beneath the stage. The whole gang is there as well as the usual unfamiliar faces. A small drum kit is in the corner and amps line the wall.

The mood is festive and the volume in the room is high with shouting conversations. Lael walks in first and the small gang breaks into applause.

Her face turns a pretty shade of pink and she tries to play along, waving like she’s a beauty queen. Little does she know, this is what the gang does every time you enter backstage.

I know this shtick, so I’m ready for it when I walk in behind Lael.

The weirdos go from loving applause to a resounding boo, pointing and hissing at me as I find my place in the room. Lael shakes her head, laughing at the bizarre welcomes.

“Hey, Lael,” Calvi says, walking over to her with a suspicious grin.

“Hey, Calvi,” she answers as she opens a beer.

“We were just playing a little game. Check it out. Hey, Switch. Show her how it’s done,” Calvi says. I know where this is going.

Switch springs into action. He rolls a magazine into a funnel and sticks it under his belt, then he puts a quarter on his forehead as he looks up. Tilting his head forward, he drops the quarter into the rolled up magazine tucked into the front of his pants and the room applauds.

“Looks easy enough,” Lael says warily.

“Let’s see you try it,” Calvi says.

“You first.”

Calvi watches her for a second and then tucks the magazine funnel into his pants and tilts his head way back, balancing the quarter on his forehead.

Lael then reaches over and pours most of her beer into the magazine funnel.

“Ahhhh!” Calvi screams as the crotch of his pants darkens. The room erupts into hysterics.

“Dude, seriously, that stupid prank is all over the internet,” Lael says as she shakes the last few drops at Calvi. “You’re going to have to try harder than that.”

“This ain’t over, newbie,” Calvi growls at her before he stalks off toward the restroom.

After the immature, but expected, hijinks we spend the rest of the time mostly goofing around rather than rehearsing new songs. The interview with Rolling Stone goes as expected. Mostly they want to talk about the line-up change and how that’s going to affect things. They also want some dirt on Nick and some soundbites on the chicken incident, but we play it as diplomatic as ever.

I have to say, I appreciate the tone the interviewer has with Lael. The world can sometimes feel like a boys’ club and he doesn’t make a note of her being an attractive young woman. Mostly, he and Lael speak about her unique sound. She really does have a unique aspect that’s making our band sound different.

Better, even.

The meet and greet is standard—some quick conversations, a few pictures, signing a few things. There’s slight tension between Calvi and Lael from the earlier incident, and I can tell Calvi has something up his sleeve for revenge. Lael is on guard when he’s close.

“Okay, gang. Time flies, doesn’t it? Let’s do a quick sound check so we can go relax and have dinner,” Arnie says, waving his arms as if to push us toward the stage.

The theater is empty save the crew, the Rolling Stone interviewer who is scribbling something, and a small group of VIP ticket holders. It’s a strange feeling looking to those empty seats, but I take the time to always visualize things going well as I walk around the stage, strumming my guitar, making sure I can hear myself.

While we’re making a racket tuning and adjusting, Lael is messing with the knobs on her teal pedal that I think will be the focal point of the Rolling Stone interview, the cause of her newly signature sound.

“Test one, two. Okay, let’s play something,” I say into the mic.

“Let’s do ‘FuzzFace,’” Calvi says.

I glance at my three bandmates and it looks like they’re ready to go.

Lael starts the song off ringing out long, deep, rattling notes on her bass. Her eyes are closed and she hits the bass with the side of her fist. I can tell it’s for the benefit of the Rolling Stone guy who is watching her closely.

Then, right on the beat where we all jump in, right at the moment when Lael theatrically throws her long hair forward and slams her foot down on her pedal, an extremely loud fart noise rumbles out of the main speakers.

My jaw drops open and I have to stifle a laugh. I did not see that coming.

Clearly, neither did Lael.

Calvi falls over with tears in his eyes, and Switch drops his sticks and hunches over laughing. Lael is in shock, frozen in a power stance with her foot on her fart pedal. The Rolling Stone guy is feverishly writing on his pad.

“You bastard,” Lael yells, pointing to Calvi.

“Okay, so we’re even now,” Calvi says with a shrug.

From behind the drum kit Switch shouts, “Welcome to And Then!”