END OF THE BEGINNING
So the USA tour of WOW ended with me being a bit older and a bit tireder. Normal. Roman drove down to Santa Cruz to pick me up. Everybody was staying at a motel on the beach. When he pulled into the parking lot, I realized how much being on a tour bus for several weeks had screwed up my head. I almost didn't recognize him. He seemed too skinny. Roman marched across the parking lot and grabbed my head and kissed me on the lips. It was not a romantic "happy to see you" kiss. It was aggressive and angry.
He told me to never leave him for this long again. I knew that I had to leave again in mid April for a European tour of equal length. I knew I would leave him very soon. I chose not to mention this fact.
He knew the tour had been difficult on me. I had ended up in the emergency room in Phoenix early on and fought an infection for weeks. I have been stubborn about the idea that I was going to finish the 40th anniversary even it meant doing it in a wheelchair. So it goes.
Once Roman settled down he told me that his pet hen, Ginger, had died. The red one that he had rescued from the other chickens. Ginger was an old hen when Roman swooped her up from the pecking. The other hens were probably just following the rules of chicken-dom and eliminating the old and weak. Roman had made the leap from Ginger being old and dead to me being out on the road growing old and in poor health. Potentially the younger touring people would push me out into the snow because I was no longer a viral youth.
Roman was angry because I would die. Every tour had become symbolic of that inevitable day when he would wake up alone. I wanted to tell him I would never leave him again, but if there is a thing I don't do, it is lie to Roman.
He told me to never leave him for this long again. I knew that I had to leave again in mid April for a European tour of equal length. I knew I would leave him very soon. I chose not to mention this fact.
He knew the tour had been difficult on me. I had ended up in the emergency room in Phoenix early on and fought an infection for weeks. I have been stubborn about the idea that I was going to finish the 40th anniversary even it meant doing it in a wheelchair. So it goes.
Once Roman settled down he told me that his pet hen, Ginger, had died. The red one that he had rescued from the other chickens. Ginger was an old hen when Roman swooped her up from the pecking. The other hens were probably just following the rules of chicken-dom and eliminating the old and weak. Roman had made the leap from Ginger being old and dead to me being out on the road growing old and in poor health. Potentially the younger touring people would push me out into the snow because I was no longer a viral youth.
Roman was angry because I would die. Every tour had become symbolic of that inevitable day when he would wake up alone. I wanted to tell him I would never leave him again, but if there is a thing I don't do, it is lie to Roman.
