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After: Stories from Before


Nick

Brian and I tried to steal the bus once. Well not really steal, just we tried to drive it once. It was three o'clock in the morning and we were parked in the lot of a Wal-Mart somewhere near Dayton, Ohio. Brian and I were up playing Black Jack Backstreet Style (basically it was Go Fish but Black Jack Backstreet Style sounds more manly) and out of nowhere, Brian looked up and he was like, "Shit, doesn't a taco sound amazing right now?"

"Yes," I answered automatically. I was seventeen at the time, going through my I'll-Eat-Anything-Within-Arms-Length phase, and Brian had said the magic word taco. Taco was one of "the three T's" - Tacos, Twinkies, Trix - that I binge-ate on a regular basis. (Seriously, I once took a soft taco shell, stuffed it with taco meat, a smashed up Twinkie, and drizzled Trix cereal over the top of it...it was equal parts disgusting and amazing.)

Then we got up, snuck to the front of the bus, being careful not to wake the driver, who was asleep in one of the bunks we had to pass, and found the keys still hanging in the ingition. Brian - who back then, before the heart surgery, before Leighanne, before a lot of things, was a lot more daring - leaped into the driver's seat and turned the keys. The engine roared to life, and we both looked over our shoulders, expecting everyone to wake up. But none of the bunks opened, nobody's heads poked out, and silence - other than the engine - reigned over the bus.

"I can't believe we're doing this, man, oh my God, I can't believe we're doing this," I muttered, excited. I felt like that scene in Stand By Me when Gordy shoots the gun. It was equally dangerous and awesome. Kind of like my Twix-Twinkie-Taco.

It took us a whole three minutes just to figure out how to shift the thing. I was no help, I didn't even know how to drive a regular car yet, not to mention a standard-shift tour bus, but Brian finally found the stick up behind the wheel and shifted and the big wheels groaned to life and the tour bus crept forward.

"Aw shit man," Brian groaned, now that the wheel were turning and he was getting somewhere his balls were starting to shrivel. This was typical of Brian.

This was the moment when I came in. "Dude you got this," I said quietly. "You so got this."

"I got this," he muttered, repeating after me.

The bus had rolled about three feet so far.

"Holy shit we are so awesome," I gasped. "We're like hijacking the tour bus. Oh Christ." I grabbed Brian's shoulder.

"Don't grab me right now," he said, his voice squeaking with nerves, "If you haven't noticed, I'm driving a tour bus."

"Sorry, sorry." I crouched down beside him, my heart racing.

The bus was crawling along. A quick glance at the spedometer revealed Brian was going 5MPH. We'd moved about thirty feet so far. I bounced excitedly. "We're like going to get tacos, man," I said.

It took about an hour for Brian to get across the parking lot, onto the, thankfully, empty road, and down the street two blocks to the Taco Bell parking lot. It took us another five minutes to figure out how to park the beast while Brian sat there with his foot on the brake. Then we snuck off the bus and into the restaurant lobby and ordered a shit ton of tacos, which we ate, then headed off to bed.

I learned a few things that night: One, Taco Bell after midnight is not a good idea. I had the shits like incredible the next morning. And lesson two, just because nobody woke up and caught you in the act of stealing a tour bus doesn't mean nobody will notice that it's parked in a new place the next morning.

I swear we got chewed out to high heaven for stealing that bus.

But shit those tacos were good.

All this to tell you that other than that one night of delinquincy, I'd never driven a tour bus before. Whether it be a heavenly one or a real, actual, physical one. I sat behind the wheel of the tour bus, staring out the window, thinking about Brian, about that night, about how good those tacos were. I wondered what Brian's heaven was like, if it was anything at all like mine, and how come the other guys weren't on my stage in my heaven every night.

Then I pulled myself back together.

I had to get to Ashley somehow. I had to see her one last time. Whatever it took.

I looked at the steering wheel, and found the stick shift. Just like the one Brian and I had hijacked. I took a deep breath.

"Well," I said outloud to absolutely nobody, since I was alone and stuff, "It's not like I can get myself killed."

And I turned the key.




Ashley

The next morning, the kids were all quiet at the dining room table. Oliver was pushing his oatmeal around in the bowl, his feet up on the edge of his chair. Leslie was letting Steve Perry drink the last of her cereal milk. Zoey and Presley were both studying their meals like they were intricate puzzles or pieces of fine art.

I cleared my throat. Oliver looked up, the others stayed as they were.

"I know you guys have questions," I said slowly. Now they all looked up. "And I'm prepared to give you answers."

Oliver and Leslie shared a glance, then turned back to me. "Who shot Dad?" Oliver asked.

"Whoa, hey now, slow down cowboy," I said. He looked disgruntled. "This is a long story, and you're gonna have to hear it my way."

"How long?" asked Presley warily.

"As long as it needs to be," I said. I took a deep breath and pressed my finger tips together. Then I looked up at them. "Your father was shot in a grocery store..."