Chapter 22
The tour has been moving right along, show after wonderful show. This past week has flown by, Ray thinks.
On their second day in New York, when Carol was at her modeling gig, the Dusty Brooms escorted Maurice to none other than Andy Warhol’s house.
Apparently Warhol was already a fan of the Brooms, and was delighted when Dennis found a way to reach out.
It was quite the sight when they arrived there, watching Maurice meet his idol.
Especially how nervous he was, giggling up a storm, his shaky hands fidgeting with his camera.
But it was a wonderful opportunity for not only Maurice, but the Brooms as well, having a fantastic joint photo session with Warhol pulling out one of his own cameras.
Though, Maurice and Warhol haven’t been the only photographers shooting the Brooms. There’ve been too many candids taken to count, with so many other photographers popping in during their shows, catching them backstage, during soundchecks, and at their hotels—and that’s not even mentioning the videographers.
While Maurice has sold many of his own photos to different presses and magazines to feature with articles they’ve planned to write, plenty of other photographers have had the same idea, snapping photos when they can.
It feels so strange—to be this famous already.
Ray has seen his face in so many local papers, so many small-press magazines, posters, photos taken by people he doesn’t even know.
Ray’s face has been featured the most, being the frontman of the band, but there’s been a fair amount featuring the other members, too.
At least I have yet to see a photo that truly makes me look bad.
While the Dusty Brooms were in Philadelphia, recuperating after another great show, they were stopped by a journalist from New Musical Express.
The biggest music magazine from across the Atlantic—NME, for Christ’s sake!
Ray could hardly believe that someone from England wanted to interview them for an article.
It meant their music must’ve made it there, exported to England by travelers, or perhaps RCA had sent records there to spread the word?
Either way, he wasn’t sure how it all worked internationally, but was thrilled nonetheless.
On their next tour stop in Baltimore, before the show, the Brooms held their first official press conference.
It was needed, especially if these journalists wanted to continue writing about them with factual input from the band members themselves and not simply reporting observations.
Yes, they managed to get an interview one-on-one with the NME journalist, but with the publicity this tour has been getting, it’ll be difficult to constantly do interviews like that for every single magazine moving forward.
Dennis plans to schedule another press conference when they arrive in California later on in the tour, too, along with more radio interviews.
Presently, they’re on the road from Baltimore to Louisville, Kentucky—a drive almost ten hours long.
Their longest drive so far, but it won’t be the longest overall, needing still yet to travel to Texas, Arizona, California, and Nevada.
While Ray enjoys the peacefulness of the long bus rides, he wonders if on later tours they’ll be flying, instead.
He’s holding a New York weekly music newsletter at the moment, one he’d snagged while they were still there.
It was advertising their show, and features a photo of Ray and Gene singing into the same microphone from one of their shows on the previous tour.
Maurice is sitting next to him here on the bus; Carol is sleeping on one of the bunk beds in the back.
Ray thinks the rest of their crew might be asleep, too, but he can see in his peripheral view that Gene’s still awake, chatting with Santiago a couple seats in front of them.
A few small lamps are lit around, along with Christmas lights hung from the edges of the ceiling to give them light during the long night drive.
The gorgeous Appalachian mountains stand tall in the distance.
“Did you take this pic?” Ray asks Maurice, showing him the newsletter.
“No, I took one really similar, but it was at a different angle.” Maurice rubs his chin.
“It’s crazy how these photos get spread like this.
I know some of the ones I’ve sold have made it to newspapers in LA and Las Vegas already, for our tour advertising.
I’ve also sold photos to be used for posters inside magazines, like the one for Creem.
It’s like I’m becoming famous too alongside you guys, albeit kinda indirectly. ”
“Yeah, I get that, they’re seeing my face and not yours,” Ray chuckles.
“True, but my name is still in the credits. That’s pretty neat.”
“For sure. That is neat.”
Ray shuffles the newsletter into the back pocket of the seat in front of him. He’s about to reach for another one, but stops when he notices Gene standing in the aisle, setting his hand on the back of Ray’s chair.
“Oh, hey Gene. What’s up?” Ray asks.
Gene smiles. “I’ve got a tune in my head. I was thinking, what if we worked on it further and made it into a song?”
“Yeah, sure.” Ray smiles back, but then, as he notices Gene not saying anything else, he looks over to Maurice, then back to Gene. “Wait, you mean right here?”
“Yeah, we could do it,” Gene says nonchalantly.
“I thought you didn’t want to write songs unless we were completely alone?”
“Well…” Gene rubs his elbow, wrinkling the sleeve of his blouse. “I figured we could probably do it alright on the bus, if no one else was really around or bothering us. Like, I mean, how most everyone is asleep.”
Ray raises his brows. “You mean how Carol is asleep?”
“Y-yeah.” Gene pouts. “But also how it’s just quiet in general, and us being up here and them being back there asleep gives us some privacy, y’know.”
Ray appreciates how Gene is honest, but is also glad that Gene seems to be trying to reach out, to not lock himself away when inspiration strikes. “Yeah, I get it.”
“Did you guys want me to move?” Maurice asks.
“I’m totally okay moving to give you guys some space.
I don’t wish to intrude on what you have.
” He smirks, and there’s a twinkle in his eyes.
The same sort of twinkle that Ray remembers seeing before, when Maurice took photos of them in the studio, as if he knows something…
Does he… think something’s going on between me and Gene?
“I guess so; I want to sit next to Ray,” Gene says.
“But I think we should move to a different seat so I have enough room for my guitar, like the couch over there.” He points to the unoccupied spot a few spaces behind them against the wall under the windows, next to the maroon curtain closing off the ‘bedroom’.
“Yeah, that works,” Ray agrees.
“Cool.” Gene smiles, so very handsome. “I’ll grab my guitar and meet you back there.”
And so, Ray stands up and walks over to the couch, waving at Maurice who goes up to sit by Santiago.
Gene snags his acoustic guitar from the front, then steps down the aisle to where Ray’s seated, plopping down on Ray’s left.
They sit so close to each other—as they always do—thighs lightly brushing against each other. It sends a flutter through Ray’s chest.
“Okay, so here’s what I got,” Gene says.
He plucks a gentle chord arpeggio for a few measures in a slow tempo, then another chord, humming along a sweet melody with no words.
Gene has always had a knack for crisp melodies, having some sort of genetic gift where he’s never out of tune.
It stuns Ray to no end. How in the world did he end up with such an incredibly talented musician as his best friend?
Perhaps it was fate that they’d met that day at the bus stop.
Once Gene is done humming, he stops plucking his guitar. “What do you think?”
“It sounds gorgeous, Gene,” Ray says with a smile. “I think maybe for the lyrics, it could be a love song.”
“You really think so?” Gene’s cheeks flush darker. “We already have quite a few love songs already…”
“Yeah, on Swept Away. I don’t think we have a love song yet for our next album.”
“Oh, that’s true.” Gene shrugs.
“Play it for me again. I’ll think of some lyrics.”
“Alright.”
Gene plucks the arpeggios and hums the tune again.
As Gene continues, Ray listens intently, trying to sound out the notes as words.
He asks Gene to repeat it one more time, solidifying what he thinks would work in his mind as the gentle music passes through his ears, trying not to focus too much on the lovely timbre of Gene’s voice—yet failing miserably.
“Okay, I think I’ve got something,” Ray says once Gene stops. He sings the next part in the same slow tune: “It’s you who has it all… All of me, always you. You’ll catch me when I fall… All of me, always you.”
Gene shifts in his seat, turning to face Ray more, and his smile shines bright, lighting up the dimly lit bus. “I love that. You always think up the best lyrics, I swear.”
“Thanks, Gene.” He smiles back. “Though, hear me out, I have an idea.”
“What is it?” Gene asks curiously.
“What if you sang lead? I think your higher tone would work better for this one. You sound wonderful humming it just now. I remember bringing up the idea quite a while ago, but we never did end up writing anything for you to sing, did we?”
If he thought Gene’s cheeks were flushed before, they sure as hell are now. “No, I guess not. You… you’d really want me to sing?”
“Only if you’re up for it. But yeah, if you ask me, your voice sounds beautiful with this.”
Gene’s grin never falters. “Thanks, baby.”
“Baby?” Ray chuckles.
“You said you liked it before.”
“I guess I did now, didn’t I? Yeah, I do still like it.”
He stares into Gene’s shimmering hazel eyes, almost looking brown in the dim lighting.
They’re so close, legs touching each other, facing one another, the only thing separating them is the guitar in Gene’s lap.
Ray’s mind can’t seem to help it—he’s reminded of the night Gene kissed him.
So intense, so amazing, so much more passionate than, he swears, anyone else who’s kissed him before.
With their proximity, gazing at Gene’s tantalizing lips, it would be so easy to just lean in and do it again…
He slaps the thought away. No, giving into his urges would be a terrible idea, especially here on the bus.
While Carol might be asleep, she technically could wake up at any moment, walking in on them through the curtain.
What would she think? What excuse would he have to explain such a thing, when at this moment both he and Gene are completely sober?
He has no excuse.
“Well, I suppose even if you sang, I could still write the lyrics,” Ray says instead. “If you wanted to do it that way.”
“Sure, that sounds great.” Gene’s smile warms his heart. “Then it would still be written by the two of us.”
“Awesome.” Unconsciously—or perhaps consciously—Ray moves his leg, rubbing it against Gene’s. “Wait, if we’re gonna write, I need my notebook. I think I left it up where I was sitting before; let me go grab it.”
“Alright.”
Ray stands up, walking up the aisle to his previous spot, grabbing his lyrics notebook from the pocket behind one of the seats.
Then he sits back down, right next to Gene, thighs brushing against each other just like before. He scribbles down the words he sang earlier in his notebook.
“Ah, what if after this in the chorus we add…” Ray says the next part aloud instead of singing: “‘You cause all my tears. You cause all my laughs.’ Something like that. So it follows the theme of ‘you’re everything, you have it all.’ Like, the good and the bad.”
“Fuck, I love that.” Gene chuckles. “Yeah, let’s go with that.”
And so, they keep on like that, singing, writing, humming, and merely enjoying the other’s company for the rest of the night.
“It was always you…”