January 1, 1983
Interstate 95, Southern Maine
Jake woke up slowly, his head throbbing, his mouth dry and tasting of rum, his stomach knotted with hunger. He felt the familiar rocking of the bus and heard the familiar rumble of its diesel engine as it pulled up a hill, but he was not in his usual fold-down bunk near the back.
He opened his eyes, wincing at the sunlight streaming through the windshield. He found himself sitting at one of the tables next to the bar, still wearing the jeans and T-shirt from the night before. He still felt a little drunk too.
"Christ," he muttered. "What time is it?"
Lifting his head, he looked around. The inside of the tour bus looked like the hotel room scene from the cover of their album. Empty bottles, beer cans, glasses, and overflowing ashtrays littered every surface. All that was missing was the naked woman. Matt lay on the floor, snoring drunkenly with his mouth open. Coop and Darren sprawled on the couches. Only Bill had actually made it to his bunk, though his arms dangled limply over the side.
Across from Jake sat Greg Gahn, the National Records Artist Development rep assigned as The Saints' tour manager. Greg was a short man with a perpetual grin and the personality of a car salesman. His hair was always neatly styled and he wore a suit even here, a copy of the Book of Mormon never far from reach.
"I don't drink, I don't smoke, I don't engage in fornication," he'd proudly told them four days ago when they left Los Angeles for the opening date of the Losing Proposition Tour in Bangor, Maine. "That's why they send me out with you boys. I keep things moving without succumbing to the pleasures of the flesh or gross intoxication."
Apparently, the Principles of Mormonism didn't mention cocaine, or Greg just pretended they didn't. In four days, he had sniffed his way through an endless supply of high-grade blow, and he was more than happy to share with the five band members he was babysitting.
He was laying out a few lines right now, working with the same precise care he brought to everything. A bottle of expensive mineral water with a slice of lemon sat beside him.
"Morning, Jake," he said cheerfully. "How you feeling?"
"Pretty shitty," Jake replied, rubbing his face and feeling a two-day growth of stubble. "Where are we?"
"Within sight of our destination. We crossed the Maine state line about twenty minutes ago. We should be in Bangor by noon."
"Bitchin," Jake said. "It'll be nice to get off this bus for a while."
"I agree, although it seems you boys have been enjoying yourselves plenty on this little trip from one corner of the country to the other. We had to stop twice already to restock your liquor supply."
Jake shrugged. They had partied hard since leaving Los Angeles, booze, cocaine, high-grade weed at their fingertips, and not much else to do. Parts of the trip were already a blur. He figured they were off to a good start at living up to the band's name. What grated on him, though, was having to listen to this grinning hypocrite's self-righteous little sermons whenever they were sober enough to understand them.
"Well," Jake said, "you gotta keep the talent happy, don't you?"
Greg laughed as though it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. "Yes indeed. That is my job after all."
He leaned down and made the two lines disappear, sniffing neatly before tapping the sides of his nose and looking back at Jake.
"Care for a little wake-up?" he offered. "It'll probably get rid of your hangover."
He was right, a few lines would erase the headache, the sour stomach, and the fog. But Jake shook his head. After four days of steady use, he figured it was time to give his nose a break.
"That's okay," he said. "I'll just grab some aspirin and drink a quart or two of water."
"Suit yourself," Greg replied, still grinning. "But don't hesitate to ask if you change your mind."
Jake nodded and stood up slowly, careful to keep the spins and nausea to a minimum. He made his way to the front of the bus toward the little bathroom. His eyes had adjusted to the light now, and he glanced out the window.
They were rolling down a four-lane Interstate cut through thick forest. The sky was a brilliant blue — a kind of blue he hadn't seen in Los Angeles or even Heritage — but the land below was buried in snow. Drifts piled nearly six feet high on either side of the road. It looked cold out there. Frighteningly cold. The kind of cold that could kill you if you stepped outside without full arctic gear.
"Wassup, Ken?" Jake said as he reached the bathroom door.
Ken Adopolis, one of the two bus drivers assigned to The Saints' tour, gave him a quick glance before turning back to the road. Robert Cranston, the other driver, was passed out in his tiny bunk nearby.
"Jake, my man," Ken greeted. "How you doing this morning? Little hung over?"
"I've been worse," Jake admitted, eyeing the clutter around Ken's seat, empty soda cans, crumpled fast-food wrappers, and of course an ashtray full of butts and weed ashes. Ken swore he couldn't drive straight.
Ken picked up the little marijuana pipe he kept loaded and held it out. "Care for a hit?"
"Maybe later," Jake replied.
Ken nodded and put the pipe back. "I heard your song three more times on the radio since I got on shift," he said. "They're playing it on every rock station I can pick up."
Jake allowed himself a small smile. "That's what I like to hear."
Though by now, the novelty of hearing himself on the radio was starting to wear off, especially since, during waking hours, the drivers made sure to blast Descent Into Nothing at full volume whenever it came on. When it did, the bus would erupt into a drunken, coked-up singalong, air guitars flailing, everyone shouting the lyrics.
It happened pretty often, too, because Descent was fast becoming one of the most-played hard rock songs in the country. The single had gone out to radio stations on November 20, two weeks before it was even available to the public. Thanks to National Records' promotion department, which had ties to nearly every major rock station in the United States and Canada, DJs had started spinning it the very next day, first as a "new track" segment and soon as part of their regular rotations.