Jnauary 26th-27th, 2018:
My first Greyhound adventure in eight years (I usually tour by train, plane or friends' cars nowadays), Day 1:
I am already tired AF, but not losing sight of how lucky I am to get to do this work. How excited was I to get on my first bus for a tour, about 14 years ago? To go hundreds of miles and not even break even?! So freaking excited.
These days I do better than breaking even, but my body gets more and more used to its comforts. What was that I was trying to harness again? Ahh, yes: rookie excitement!
Tonight I'll sleep about 4 hours before I get on a bus again. On Sunday, I'll cheat and fly home. Two more hours 'til my dinner stop in Eugene where I can eat at a respectable senior citizen hour like the old curmudgeon that I'm swiftly becoming.
Four more hours until I hit Grants Pass, a foreign country to me. Missing my son already. But I get to sing tonight. That's what this is all for: sharing and connecting through art. Let's do this.
***
I was mistaken in thinking that my stop in Eugene would be long enough for me to venture away from the station and procure food. I am bad at remembering to pack snacks for myself; I always have been. I rushed to find my motel when I arrived in Grant's Pass, hurriedly applied my makeup and changed clothes in my room, and then set off in search of the venue so that I could order a pre-show dinner.
I found one meal on the menu that I could eat with my dietary restrictions, and that was only if I broke the rules. But keeping pescatarian is more important to me than avoidng the gluten that I am supposed to stay away from, so I chose the greasy basket of fried fish and chips. It was a heavier meal than I would normally eat before a performance, but I needed protein. I also had some time to let my stomach settle before I performed, as I had an opening act: Dawna Crocker, who was a real rocker. She tied a scarf to her mic stand during sound check, a la Steven Tyler. She played bluesy pop/rock numbers and got the audience singing and clapping. Her stellar performance, plus the review I had gotten in the local weekly paper, the Rogue Valley Messenger, had my stomach beginning to knot up, and prevented me from finishing the food I had been waiting for all day. This is what they wrote about me:
"Amy Bleu’s vocals, which range from a controlled scream to a mesmerizing lullaby, are hauntingly beautiful, and her lyrics poetically express anguish and joy with poignancy, depth, and pathos.”
I played my rowdiest blues and punk-influenced songs about sex, a jazzy ditty about burlesque dancing, some funny folk tunes about misplacing marijuana and drunk dialing an ex. I had much more to say, so much "anguish and joy" to share, but it would have to wait for a more amenable audience: the patrons of tonight's tavern needed sex and comedy in order for me to tear their interest away from the pool tables.
When my second set was over, I collected my pay for the show from the bartender on duty. After that, I hopped into an Uber to hurry back to my room as I knew I would have to get an early start the next day. The driver had SYML on his radio, who was crooning a haunting version of that old song, "Mr. Sandman", only in minor chords. Exhausted now, I silently prayed to this god of dream dust to turn on his magic beams as soon as I got into bed.
Day 2: I woke up at four AM and walked to the bus stop in the dark. Luckily it was only about a block and a half away from the motel I had stayed at. The bus was supposed to arrive at 4:40 AM.
I waited nervously as I stood on a side street about a half a mile away from the highway, in the cold dark, with a light rain falling on me. Minutes passed, as did the occasional car. I was sure they were all being driven by kidnappers - only they didn't kidnap kids: they were only after weird ladies nearing middle age.
Twenty-five minutes later, I called the greyhound customer service phone number. I explained the situation and why I was getting increasingly more nervous with every passing minute. The tracker wasn't working for the bus on the app, nor was it working on their website, and I had no idea how much longer I'd have to wait alone, in the dark.
The guy on the other end of the line asked me, "OK, ma'am, what is your departure date?"
"Um... Today??"
He found the bus and it was 25 more minutes away. I found a gas station that was open all night and I waited inside where it felt safer but I could still see traffic.
The bus finally arrived, fifty minutes late. I put my guitar between my legs and held my purse on my lap, the straps of both items tightly wrapped around my wrists, and fell asleep on the bus with one eye open.
I woke up again and I was in Northern California. It was as green as Southern Oregon, but now with the occasional palm tree sprucing up the landscape. I made it. No more riding buses!
I dreamed a couple of nights ago that a booking agent for a club cancelled everything she had booked for that venue, including my friend's and my show. Last night, I got a message from her, saying that she was no longer working at that club and didn't know if the shows were still on! (Fortunately I was able to confirm with the bar today that we were both still on.)
Last night, I dreamed that a photographer sent me a picture of another model, saying that he wanted me to meet her. Later, after I woke up for the second time today, the same photographer sent me a message which included a picture of model he wanted me to shoot with.
Now I'm sitting in a room at a motel where, 5 1/2 years ago, I ordered a pizza and had planned to eat half of it before my show, and to save the remainder for breakfast the following day. I had been feeling unusually tired, and I returned to the room right after the show and promptly scarfed down the rest of the pizza and then wondered what was wrong with me. I knew that something had changed in me. It turned out that I was pregnant with my son. And only by a few weeks!
Now I can't help but wonder: what will I dream about here in Sacramento this time, and which parts will come true?
