On the road to San Francisco
Last night we did an acoustic show in Grass Valley, California. At the end of the show we went backstage and opened a bottle of wine, found some folding chairs and started to talk about how the set went. It had only been a few minutes when this girl swerved her way in the backstage door. Dave looks at her and says, “Well hello, how did you get in here?”
Her eyes are not quite focused and she is wobbling in place as if she is experiencing her own personal
earthquake. She is surprised to find herself in a room with the band, and has clearly snuck her way in there, so
she is darting her eyes around the room.
“I wanna smoke you guys out,” she says.
At that moment a giant man who works for the concert hall walks in. It's obvious that he has been looking for this girl, that he saw her sneak past the curtains and was in pursuit.
“You need to leave now," he says.
Pete, Dave and I look at each other and wonder what she will do. She shrinks and tightens up like a trapped animal. I am thinking to myself, “just say okay and walk out the door” but it doesn't look like she's going to do it. It's all happening so fast, but somehow feels like slow motion.
Security and intruder face off and the band gets ready to move out of the way. I still have some hope that she'll realize what is going on here and how silly her reasons are for doing this. To smoke out the band? Seriously? This guy is two feet taller than her, outweighs her by easily 150 pounds, and is sober as a judge. She is frozen, too drunk to make a quick decision and clearly desperate.
He fans his arms out and starts to walk toward the door, thinking he'll sort of flush her out like a pheasant.
“Let's go,” he says. And that's when she bolts. Dodging left and right, trying to fake him out. He stands, arms spread and lets his size do the capturing for him.
She starts grabbing at his arms, grabs the door frame and locks her body rigid. “No! No! I'm gonna smoke out the band!” He is pushing her through the door forcibly and we're staring in shock. Paper cups of red wine are clutched in our hands. He shoves her out the door, slams it and locks it. He apologizes to us for the shake up and saunters out the stage door.
Pete, Dave and I look at each other and catch our breath. We look around later for that girl, but never see her. I'm left mystified by why she, or anyone, would need to smoke or hang out with any band that badly. Perhaps I just don't get it. Or she doesn't. Or both.
Photos from the acoustic show courtesy of Floater