Not Another Danger Boy: The Prequel

By Dan Combs

Book four in a series of autobiographical short stories based on life-changing events: working a movie shoot, being thrown out on the streets of New York, surviving numerous parties. You know; the dramatic stuff!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dan Combs
• Release date: Apr 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463233337

Dan Combs

Dan Combs was born in Pontiac, adopted by a loving couple, and moved to Lansing. He spent eighteen years there before following his inner wanderer across the U.S. and - so far - Europe. Musician, Composer, Screenwriter, Playwright; currently living in Manhattan and loving every opportunity the city of New York offers.

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Not Another

D A N G E R

B O Y

The Prequel

Copyright 2017 Dan Combs

Published by Dan Combs at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

acknowledgements

AnotherRockShow

YouLiveWhere?

BoatWave

TheMoreTheMerrier

CrewUp

Evicted

TwoTooMany

Audition

TreasureIsland

SongsOfLossAndLonging

Superbowl

TheShowMustGoOn

Parties

TheOneThatAlmostGotAway

AfterTheFall

WhateverHappensHappens

About The Author

Connect with Dan Combs

Acknowledgements

Lis, Pamela, Chester, BookPeople, Julie, Jen, Cora, Lansing Readers and Writers, Kathy, Xerxes, Deb, Brooklyn Writers, Devyn, Alexis, New York Writers Circle, Mark, Old Town General Store, Katrina, and anyone else who found it in their hearts to support my passion for filling a blank page with words.

ANOTHER ROCK SHOW

"O - pen the fuck - ing doors!"

We wait a few seconds. None of the security people inside K Wings stadium even look in our direction.

"O - pen the fuck - ing doors!"

This time one guy turns his head, stares at us for a moment, and shrugs his shoulders.

Jan says, You have got to be kidding me.

Is there any of that coffee left? I ask Fan Number One.

He takes a swig from the thermos bottle he’s been cradling all day. Not much coffee, but more than enough booze.

Which shouldn’t come as a surprise since we’ve been adding flavored vodka on and off for several hours. He hands me the thermos. I sip on the semi sweet tasting liquor, trying to think of a way to get the patrons behind us to move back so whoever decided it isn’t safe to let us in will see that we’ve taken their wishes seriously.

Hey, I say to the woman directly behind me. They say they aren’t going to open the doors until we move back. Pass it on.

She turns around and tells the person behind her the same thing. And that person passes the message back down the ten foot wide line of what could be three hundred or more people. It’s too dark to see the end but it seems to have snaked its way to the parking lot. And this is only one entrance. I wonder what’s happening at the other four.

Jan looks at me. I think that might be working.

The pressure of all those bodies squeezing us against the glass doors seems to have lightened a bit. Then it rebounds.

Shit! My face is being pushed into the door. What part of move back is so hard for you idiots to understand!

I turn so my back is against the glass and do my best to push the people nearest me into the folks who must have heard the telephone game version of move back as move up or possibly even think the doors have opened. This is ridiculous.

All because every one of us seems to want to get a spot in front of the stage.

Jan and I have been Queen fans for a few years. It all started for me with Keep Yourself Alive, the one song from their first album which made the American charts and was played enough to become familiar. I heard Liar about the same time. That song had a much harder edge. Maybe the radio DJs only played that one late at night.

Bohemian Rhapsody had even become a bit of a theme song for the McDonalds gang. We would catch a buzz over at Tom’s and each choose an air instrument. For some reason I like playing air drums even though I don’t know how to play real drums. When Wayne’s World came along, I saw myself sitting in the Gremlin, air playing to that soaring, operatic masterpiece. I’m pretty sure I’d picked up both Queen I and Queen II to add to my collection by then. I don’t know about Sheer Heart Attack. Maybe.

Anyway, they were coming to the minor league hockey venue outside Kalamazoo. Jan and I bought tickets way in advance, so we were covered there. But getting out to the arena was going to be a challenge. No buses even got close. No problem. We were both in great shape, so we’d walk. I got out the map, because I always had local maps lying around, plotted out a route, and we were off.

Of course, it had snowed a couple of days before. Not an odd occurrence around K Town in January. Being in the wake of almost every lake effect blizzard blowing in off Lake Michigan made cold, wintery days, augmented with frozen precipitation, the norm. There must have been a couple feet of the white stuff in some places.

How far is it, Jan asks.

I didn’t look.

We walk in silence, through the streets of a city we’ve lived in for more than a year, by Gilmore’s Department Store where I once worked as a maintenance man, out a main drag past the Coral Gables tavern, then toward the frontage road beside I94. Great, no sidewalk. No big. Slogging through a couple of spots without consideration for pedestrians isn’t going to kill us. The sun is blazing and all is right with the world.

We get to the venue in the late afternoon, shoes soaking wet but happy.

People are entering the building, a hockey stadium that seats five thousand for a game. I have no idea how many concertgoers they can cram in using general admission seating. Or festival seating, as it’s sometimes called. The operative word being seating. A bit of an oxymoron, actually, as there would be no seats on the floor, only the permanent ones in the stands. We follow a man in a winter jacket into the lobby.

Unbelievable. Jan shakes her head.

There is a group of about ten die hard Queen fans sitting around the entrance to the arena next to the ticket window. They must be letting people in to buy tickets for upcoming events. So we sit with the others and wait. Which we are damn good at. Arriving early enough to get a decent view of a show is our specialty. Jan and I were among a group of friends who drove from Lansing out to Ypsilanti for a Yes concert a couple of years previous, leaving before dawn so we could pick our spot on the Eastern Michigan University football field.

I notice that one of the Fans is wearing black nail polish on the fingers of one hand. Nice. Like Freddie.

She looks over. He’s so amazing.

Do you think they’re over at the Holiday Inn? asks another of the Fans, a guy with long, stringy blonde hair.

Jan looks at him. You’d think so.

We’re in for a long haul. The show isn’t supposed to start until eight. They usually open the doors at seven or seven thirty. It’s only four. And more people have arrived, including a woman who thinks everyone wants to hear her a capella version of Bobby McGee. I’m not sure what it is about unaccompanied singing that bugs me so much but even if it’s a great singer, I’m not at all interested.

Around five o’clock one of the security staff comes over. He says, You’re going to have to wait outside. We’re closing the ticket office. Employees only from now on.

Great. We all get up and shuffle through the set of double glass doors, a blast of fresh air greeting us as we exit. It’s not that cold. Yet. There is no way anybody is going to sit on the cement sidewalk leading from the parking lot. So we stand.

Fan Number One, the guy with the stringy hair says, We’ll make it. He pulls a large silver thermos bottle from underneath his coat and unscrews the lid. The smell of strong coffee fills the air.

Fingernails says, And this is for later. She opens her coat to reveal a bottle of clear liquor. Prepared for the worst. Handing it to another woman in their group, she zips up her jacket. I have to see if they’re there. Fan Number Two takes the bottle as Fingernails runs to the motel on the other side of the parking lot.

And we stand there, watching as the sun gets lower in the sky, feeling the temperature drop.

Jan says, I think now’s a good time.

I think you’re right. I fish around in my coat pocket and come up with the only joint we rolled for the occasion. One thing about pot, even if a situation is not necessarily a good one, its hallucinogenic properties can make it all seem interesting. We light it and pass the weed around to the Fans.

Fan Number One says, Thanks.

Fan Number Two holds up the bottle of what I now see is orange flavored vodka and pours a good bit into the thermos. Fan Number One hands it to me. I nod my head and take a drink, then pass it to Jan. She shakes her head. I pass the now spiked coffee over to Fan Number Two.

And we wait.

Another half hour passes before Fingernails comes back waving a small piece of paper which turns out to be a Freddie Mercury autograph on a napkin.

She breathlessly says, I was walking the halls, but nobody was around. So I thought maybe I should look to see if they were getting dinner. And there they were, just sitting in the restaurant. No bodyguards, no nothing. So I went up and said, hi. I mean like they were some old friends.

You did not, says Fan Number Two.

Then how did I get this? She sticks the napkin in her friend’s face. I asked Freddie for an autograph and he said, Well, what shall I write it on? And I grabbed a napkin right off table. Then he frowned and said, I’ll need a writing instrument...

You are so full of it, says Fan Number Two.

Undeterred, Fingernails says, Then the waitress handed him her pencil and he put the napkin on the table and when he started to write, the pencil tip broke and he said, Poor thing. She stops to take a big breath.

And…? asks Fan Number One.

And then Brian opened his white suit coat jacket or whatever it was that looked like his costume and he’s got this pen in his pocket like he was completely ready or something.

Fan Number Two reaches out for the napkin. Let me see that. She holds the paper up to her left eye, scrutinizing the signature. Wow. It looks real.

Of course it looks real, you dope, says Fingernails. It is!

This energizes us until the sun goes down. As soon as it gets below the horizon, the temperature plummets. Everyone starts to get a bit antsy.

Now there’s a big crowd lining up behind us. The door is still open for employees, a few of which saunter in. Then two men and two women, all dressed in hippie clothing not anything one would vaguely consider winter wear push past everyone in line and wander into the building. One of the women, who is wearing faded jeans and a halter top, notices that the alcove in between the double set of doors has a heater built into the side wall. Without looking at anyone, she proceeds to rub her butt on this thing in a most alluring way, closing her eyes and swishing her hips back and forth while her cohorts discover they can indeed not get into the venue. They all leave, pushing back through the crowd to their car.

Fan Number One asks, What time is it?

I check my watch. Seven fifteen.

Why aren’t they opening the doors? Fan Number Two’s teeth are chattering.

I can relate. My feet are freezing. They never did get completely dry. One of the security staff heads for the door.

Jan says, About time.

This guy looks at us and locks the door that had been open. You’re going to have to move back. We need to have a safe entry. He walks off.

What did he say? asks someone a bit farther behind us.

Spitting out the words as he jerks his head around to glare at the woman, Fan Number One says, We have to move back.

This concert is being held long before a disaster due to happen in Cincinnati, the infamous Who show where eleven people would be trampled to death in a similar situation, so this security squad’s wariness may have been fueled by personal experience. Regardless, it means more waiting. Bone chilling waiting.

A Capella Woman starts singing Love of My Life. Before I reach out to strangle her, my reason outweighs the liquor and I think, What the hell, it is a Queen song. So I add my voice when everyone else joins her. I’m rubbing my hands in rhythm, jumping up and down, trying anything to stay as warm as possible. We hit eight o’clock. This has never happened. They are actually holding the show. We’ve seen several acts at this venue, including Robin Trower - who played a blues tune at the slowest tempo I’ve ever heard - Rick Derringer - whose guitar work had improved so much over the years that I almost didn’t recognize it - even Carlos Santana - whose routine hadn’t yet morphed into the pop style he would adopt in the late ’90s - and each of them had started on time.

Around eight twenty, another one of the security staff comes out to tell us to move away from the doors, mouthing the words from the other side of the glass and pushing both hands toward us. He turns and walks away before we can say anything.

That’s when we come up with our chant. And once more. The crowd surges forward.

The security guy who shrugged looks over. His brow crinkles a bit.

We try one more time.

"O - pen the fuck - ing doors!"

I’m squished up against the glass again. I can see the look on the security guy’s face change. He taps what must be the supervisor on the arm. When this guy turns his head to look at us, his mouth drops open as he finally figures out that if they don’t open the doors, the sheer weight of people is going to smash them in, most likely resulting in the very calamity they’re trying to avoid. He rushes over with a set of keys and gets the doors open just as I swear I can feel the glass bow inward.

We rush in, through the alcove, through the next set of doors, past the ticket window, through yet another set of doors, and down to the floor of the arena. Jan and I are in a mad dash across the plywood-covered ice to the stage. There’s a small runway that’s been built onto the regular setup, right in the middle. We head straight for one of the corners where it joins the main stage.

All we want is to get some decent pictures, and that spot looks like the best place to at least give it a good shot. Pushing and shoving with a mass of others equally set on standing in the same location, we finally stake out enough territory to call our own. Relaxing, I turn around. Only to see that the majority of patrons are leisurely finding a seat in the stands while a handful of us Queen freaks are fighting it out on the floor.

I have to laugh.

Jan is casually leaning against the plywood barrier constructed in front of the stage so overly excited fans don’t give in to their impulses and climb up to join the show. I pull out our camera, checking to see that it indeed contains film, and try out different positions for getting what I hope will be the pics of a lifetime. When the band finally starts playing, we discover that in between us and them are a set of pyrotechnic tubes that shoot fireworks into the air mere feet from our faces.

Jan yells, Whoa! Feel that!

The heat of these things when they explode is like standing a bit too close to a huge bonfire while toasting marshmallows. Killer. I look up in time to see Brian May playing his Red Special guitar, his left foot on a monitor above my head. Camera. Click. Amazing.

The show also includes a bit of white stage smoke to enhance the festivities. As it rolls across the stage toward us, the girl in the halter who had been warming her tush in the alcove only a couple hours earlier, staggers out of the crowd and pushes forward. She manages to get over the barrier and is starting to climb onto the stage when the smoke hits her square in the face. She goes down in a heap, disappearing into the white cloud now leaking off the stage and onto the floor. A big guy next to me reaches down into the fog, grabs this woman by the hair, and lifts her up. A few of us help him pass her limp body over our heads to some people behind us. They pass her back, and so on. We don’t see her again until the end of the show, when she appears, topless, on some guy’s shoulders, swinging her halter over her head and grinning like an idiot.

Needless to say, the music is incredible. How four people can make all that noise is beyond me. And if there’s one thing I like to hear in a rock show, it’s musicianship. Queen is all that. Vocal harmonies, delay-effect guitar solos that go on forever, one of the tightest rhythm sections on the planet.

We do manage to hitch a ride back to our studio apartment in town. Exhausted nonetheless, we lay down on our sofa bed, and talk about the concert and how it compares with others we’ve seen.

After a brief discussion, we decide