Under the Bridge
It had been a long night, indeed: beers, practice, argument, and a few more beers. The band agreed on nothing. Money was always the problem: where to get it, how to spend it. Our gigs around Windsor covered the PA and soundboard rentals, and some of the beer for the night—most bars didn't offer free beer to bands, so we either ran a tab, or smuggled in our own. Then, about three months ago, we started recording a CD—each bandmember kicking in whatever cash we could spare to cover the cost. The guys all had side–jobs, and rented a house together. The place was a four–walled wreck, but it had room enough for us to practice; and the neighbors didn't seem to mind. I was in my last year at the university, spinning my wheels through a degree in history. Had my own place across town, needing the room and quiet to study. No matter how we spent our days—working or studying—we spent our nights as the Celtic rock band, Auld Sod.
It was going on three A.M. as I drove down Sandwich Street, heading home, thinking, Nearly set to press the CDs and Sean wants to tour. Hardly enough money for more T–shirts, and he wants to go back to Boston.
"We're a live band," Sean had said, earlier. "They loved us in Boston last year."
"But St. Paddy's Day has come and gone," I had said. "And it took months to pay off that trip."
"We never got that kind of exposure, anywhere," Sean said.
"The CD will do that, too," Bruce, the band's accordion player, had said. "The band T–shirts all sold, and when CD's finished, it'll only cost a few of bucks more. And we can send it out to radio stations."
"Randy's bled us for six hundred bucks," Sean said. "Hasn't answered his phone in two weeks. Who cares if Bruce is right, and Randy's on vacation? We gotta cut our losses now."
Bruce knew a guy at the auto plant, who had a makeshift recording studio in his basement. The guy—Randy Kurzuk, a full–time auto worker, part–time music producer—charged plenty, but knew shit–all about recording. Whole sessions were wasted doing soundchecks, re–recording tracks he accidentally erased. It was a bad situation, but Randy was half as expensive as the single professional recording studio in town. Our mastertape was almost finished, only the mix lay ahead before sending the DAT to be pressed into CDs. The only trouble was contacting Randy.
"If we finish the mix," Sean had said, "pressing the CDs is gonna cost another couple thousand." He shook his head. "Randy's fucked us. We should sue the bastard, not give him more money."
The other guys had been silent. They were excited about the CD, I knew, but reluctant to argue with Sean.
I pushed the argument from my mind. I'd talk to Sean, alone, tomorrow.
A final twinge of exasperation twisted through me, as the traffic light at the intersection beneath the Ambassador Bridge turned red. I slowed, looking around. Considered running the light. But with my luck a cop might have been cruising by. I stopped.
As the lights facing the opposite way turned yellow, I eased off the brake. As I was about to stomp the accelerator something struck the pavement in front of my car with a tinny thunk.
"What the fuck?"
I got out, looked around the front of the car.
What the hell was that?
Looked up at the bridge. Glanced toward the curb. Nothing.
Bent down, and saw it under my car—a dented Vernor's can.
"Well, holy shit," I said; the can would have gouged the hell out of my car's hood. Some littering asshole. I reached under the car for the can, and was surprised by its weight. Seemed full, though it was open and nothing was leaking out.
I got into the car, looked over the can.
A piece of plastic protruded from the can's mouth hole. I tugged on it and a small plastic baggie came out—filled with white powder.
A car approached; its headlights came into the rear–view mirror.
I tossed the can and baggie onto the passenger seat, and put the car in gear. Hung a right at the corner—rather than heading through the intersection, and continuing home.
Headed back to the house.