them.
By four o’clock things began to kick into gear. We were performing at seven tonight, and now was the time for getting dressed in our show attire and doing vocal and finger warmups. The choir stopped by our bus to do a quick run through of the song again and then we were alone with our nerves. Dagger came to get us sometime after five o’clock and said security was ready to move us into our dressing room behind the stage. I think that was the moment we all felt the enormity of this gig. This was real as fuck and none of us said one word as we walked from our bus to the entrance of the building for the performers. It felt like we were heading to meet the executioner. I glanced around at my guys as we walked and was so proud of what we’d accomplished. Any professional would say that all shows were important, but this was our Super Bowl, and we had to come away from this victoriously.
Dagger remained in the corridor to talk to a few people he knew while we were directed into a small dressing room about halfway down the hall from the stage. The room had a table with water bottles and a few snacks arranged on top. Chairs were lined up along one wall while another had a beat-up couch pushed up against it that looked like it had seen better days.
My nerves were really amping up something fierce. My palms were sweating and so was just about every other part of my body. I tried to keep my breathing controlled with long, easy intakes of air and slow exhales, but I could feel the nausea rolling my stomach like a washing machine. Talking to Dallas always calmed me, but I had no idea where he was or if he’d make it here at all. I hadn’t heard from him today, and I wasn’t sure if I should be concerned about that or not. I had so much to think about here, but first and foremost, I knew I had to keep my focus on my band.
I found a chair and sat down and tried to clear my head of everything but the music; unfortunately, it wasn’t easy to do. Mike tapped out endless rhythms on any surface he could reach with his drumsticks, and Potter and Dixon were working through runs of notes on a couple of practice guitars left in the room that I wasn’t sure who owned. Was I the only one panicking right now? They all seemed to be holding it together to some extent as if we did huge shows like this all the fucking time.
“You’re looking green around the gills, Fletch. Are you okay?” Mike asked me.
“At the moment, I’m fine, but if you see me bolt toward the door, don’t delay me,” I replied.
“No barfing on your stage clothes,” Dixon teased. “If I get one whiff of your vomit while we’re performing, I’ll hurl on stage.”
“This is just another show. Not a big deal,” Potter said, but we all knew he was lying.
I looked around at all of their faces and saw how pale they were. They had butterflies tossing around in their stomachs just like I did. Except my butterflies felt like they were more the size of black crows. I could almost hear their caw-caw mocking me from inside my gut. Bastards.
“Maybe you should go make yourself puke just so you don’t do it on stage,” Mike mentioned.
The thought of his suggestion made my stomach start to cramp and churn, and I knew I needed to find a bathroom soon. Sadly, the room we were in didn’t have one, and the closest public bathroom was halfway down the damn hall. I stood up quickly and bolted for the door.
Dagger saw me emerge from the dressing room and yelled after me. “Fletcher, where are you going?” Then I heard him call to one of the security guards and asked him to follow me. The last thing I needed or wanted was an audience while I barfed in the bathroom.
I burst into the bathroom and was grateful the room and all three stalls were empty. I took the one at the end and leaned against the door. The cool metal against my back felt wonderful, and I closed my eyes to pay attention to my breathing again. Maybe I could talk myself out of being sick. I heard the whoosh of the door