14
Slater
“Fuck.” I rub the palm of my hand over my face, then up and across my buzzed head.
I shut off my phone’s alarm. The morning light streams into the bedroom, pissing me off. I keep meaning to grab a pair of those blackout curtains. If only I had some goddamn time to do anything other than rehearse, tour, or sit in meetings. Pulling off the blue sheet, I groan, dropping one foot then the other onto the cold wooden floor of my downtown Toronto condo. Carpet. Add it to the list.
“Jackasses,” I mumble, rushing to the washroom to shower.
Fucking snooze button. I chastise myself for hitting the stupid thing three times when I know I’ve gotta be downtown at Fallen Sound Records for nine sharp. “Can’t keep the prissy suits waiting, now can we?” I turn the lever, making sure the water is hot like I love it.
It barely feels like I’ve been home at all, and already the band is planning out our next tour, this one a summer series set to take off in June. It’s a huge gig where we invite local indie bands to join us for an eight-week stint we call the Consequence of Sound Tour.
This will be the third year in a row my band, Sicken Union—consisting of my two closest friends, Scott Billows and Zack Nolan, along with my younger brother Rain, and oldest brother Fife—have been the headliners. Each year, we audition and invite more bands to join us. It’s been a huge success so far, but it’s a lot of work.
This morning, we’re gonna listen to a bunch of band submissions that the suits and our manager, Tommy, think might be a good fit. If we agree, we’ll invite the bands to audition for us over at The Escape Room this Saturday and Sunday. Yeah, it’s last minute, but, hey, if they want the gig, they’ll be there, even with a few days notice. A tour like this takes months to plan and rehearse for, and the earlier we book the bands, the more time we have to cover our asses should something not work out along the way.
In my opinion, I couldn’t care less about what bands make it, as long as they’re legit, and not some side-hustle weekend band who aren’t interested in making music their full-time careers. I want to help bands that want this as bad as we did. Not the ones who want the notoriety of being on tour with us, not ridiculous pop bands who think landing a spot on our tour will catapult them into some stupid celebrity status, making the concerts a bloody fashion show rather than a rock concert. That happened once before, and I cannot and will not let that happen again.
There’s another sad truth, the sexual harassment we deal with at audition time. You wouldn’t believe how many girls tryout for the sole purpose of hopefully catching one of our eyes, when they can’t play for shit. Women who want to use us for their gain. Too many times, I’ve been offered a blow job if I’d just listen to a demo tape. This was a lesson we learned the hard way our first year when we had the members of a band called Nuisance actually offer us all sexual favours in exchange for a spot on the tour. Which was funny, because here I always thought that everybody wants to fuck rockstars, when it turns out, a whole lotta people just want to use rockstars, and are willing to waste our fucking time in the process.
That’s one of the things that pisses me off most about auditions. We take this tour seriously and want to give the bands that deserve a spot a proper chance. Which is why we now have Tommy deal with the initial meetings, and then hold formal auditions with the bands who’ve made the first cut once Tommy’s screened them for bullshit and they’ve gotten his approval. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m no fucking saint. Sure, I’ve fucked chicks in the bands we’ve had on tour with us, but I’m always careful, especially now after being burned in the past. I never hook up with a woman who gives me the “I want more from you” vibes, only the ones where our desire for each other has been mutual.
Being signed at eighteen, you learn this shit the hard way. You learn that trust doesn’t come cheap, and that people will go to insane lengths to get what they want. The last thing I want is some girl looking for a white-picket fence, a pooch named Fluffy, and some rug rats. I’m not that guy. None of us are. And I sure as hell ain’t a guy looking to quit my band and work some stuffy day job in the name of love or family or some shit. The last thing I need is a Yoko Ono. I almost made that mistake once, back when the band was first getting a lot of attention, starting to play more gigs, and meeting with record labels. And there I was, contemplating walking away, scared I’d lose her. Ariel Wright.
Luckily, I happened to walk backstage one night and caught Ariel fucking Brad, our former manager, up against a stack of old Marshall speakers. Apparently, Brad had been offering Ariel his “connections” in the modelling world; seemed to me he was offering up his cock, but whatever. The whole thing was bullshit. And I’ll never be stupid enough to risk my success over someone who’s willing to use me to get what they want in this life again.
So now I don’t set myself up for more than it being just a good time. I’m upfront and honest, always letting them know that I’m only ever looking to fuck. I’m Slater-Fucking-Jenkins, frontman of the rock band Sicken Union for Chrissakes. We’re up for a Grammy this year, and we’ve just come off a sold-out world tour, so the last thing I’m looking for right now is getting all tangled up with love, something I’m more than positive doesn’t exist anyway.
Standing under the spray, washing my face, I hear a deep laugh. I knew he’d be here early to make sure I was ready.
“You better be in there—and alone—Jenkins. We gotta bounce,” Scott says, pounding on the bathroom door.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fucking coming.”
“Really? All it took was my voice? Damn, I know I’m sexy, but—”
“Shut the fuck up,” I cut him off. “I’ll be down in five, ya prick.”
I chuckle, reaching for a towel after shutting the shower off.
“You walked into that one, dude,” he calls. “I shoulda done a Facebook Live. The fans would have loved hearing me making you come.” I can hear his laughter fading as he walks away.
Touché, asshole.