Fast Lane - Kristen Ashley Page 0,19

we’d been on the road with that name for a while. Pressed records under that name with Zenith on the sleeve. Tapes.

Sent our demos to LA and New York with that name.

Preacher said it was lunacy to change it.

Tom said if we didn’t change it then, we’d never be able to change it.

He pulled out Joan Jett and the Blackhearts to get Timmy.

He pulled out Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers and Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band to try to get Preach and me.

Dave didn’t care either way just as long as he got to play drums in whatever name the band was called.

Josh asked why Preacher.

“One, he’s got a kickass name. Two, he’s the lead singer. Three, he writes all the songs,” Tommy says.

“I write songs,” Josh says.

“He writes all the good songs,” Dave mumbles.

“Fuck you, Dave,” Josh says.

Now, seriously, again, all comes into focus doing this linear-like, yeah?

I do not know why we didn’t lose that guy earlier.

Jesus.

“It’s Jesse’s band,” Tim says. “And Jesse Simms and the Roadmasters sounds cool too.”

“Yeah, it does,” Preach says.

“Cooler than Preacher McCade and the Roadmasters?” Tom asks.

Really, can you argue that?

I mean, time has told, but seriously, even then, that sounded cooler than the Zeniths or Jesse Simms.

Even Preach is stymied with that one ’cause his parents are garbage, but they gave him a kickass, rock ’n roll name.

At this juncture, knowing it’s gonna go down, Josh asks, “Why the Roadmasters?”

I mean, as my daughters would say…

Duh.

We had fucking groupies.

Our name packed bars and clubs in seven, eight states.

All this we earned not with radio play, but on the road.

Fuck, the guy could argue about anything.

Preach didn’t find any pussy that night.

He was in our room when I was in it.

And I honest to God didn’t have anything on my mind but what a pain in the ass Josh was.

So, I was bitchin’ about that and Preacher was looking at me like I had a screw loose.

I think I said, “You’re Henley, I’m Frey and he’s fuckin’ Felder, man.”

He comes up to me and grabs me by both sides of my neck and he bends over, you know, to get eye to eye to me, and what came next, I’ll never forget it.

He says, “We’re not Henley and Frey. We’re not anything but Simms and McCade. We’re the band, brother.”

He squeezes me real hard and shakes me and repeats it.

“We’re the fuckin’ band.”

[Clears throat]

You know, I love Tim and I love Dave and I love DuShawn.

But Preach was right.

Flat-out right.

No one can really argue it.

And I’ll call it before he even jammed with us, when I was standing in that truck bed and he was standing beside it.

It didn’t matter what it was called, that’s what he was saying to me.

It was him and me.

We were the band.

Preacher called Lyla again the first gig we played in Washington DC.

DC was a big town, and after that, Tom had us booked at places in NYC.

I mean, it was happening.

Tom had a reputation.

We had a reputation.

Professional, packed house, rock that house.

We had girls that followed us gig to gig, if they could.

Some guys too.

Tom made a phone call and they’d heard of us, of him, and they found us a slot.

The buzz, man, damn.

Getting closer to it.

Closer and closer.

Fuck, it was sweet.

I know Preach wanted to share that with Lyla.

And now, Tom had some chick in Cleveland who would answer calls at night if she was home but didn’t mind taking messages off an answering machine and giving them to Tommy when he called in, which he did, every night.

So, we had a kinda secretary.

[Laughs]

We were big time.

[Laughs more]

[Shakes head]

[Stops laughing]

So, [clears throat] Preach had a number to give her to call when he left a message.

He gave her that number.

She didn’t call.

[Off tape]

It was just Lyla being Lyla that won you all over at one breakfast?

[Nods]

Partly.

But remember, Preach and me shared a room.

There’d be nights he wasn’t drowned in Jack and buried in pussy.

We’d talk.

And he told you what it was about her?

Yeah.

He told me.

[Lengthy pause]

You’re not going to tell me, are you?

That’s Lyla’s to share.

Jesse:

Lyla was eighteen and five months, all graduated, all legal, all good to go when we got back to Indy.

Instant our asses were in our room, Preacher goes right to the phone and calls her.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he says. “I’m in town. Tell her.”

He then slams down the phone and I was glad Tommy didn’t see that because he was