Changing Lanes - 16. Surfer Strip Show

Wilhelm checked his watch, ever mindful of Felecia’s orders that his team lose, but he considered it a moot point; he was yet to win the offensive roll in this exercise. Walking up to stand at General Bradson’s side, Wilhelm asked, “So, what’s the plan, Herr General?”

General Bradson, with an almost disinterested air, replied, “All we have to do is get that pennant and run it up the flagpole before sundown, right? No matter how we do it?”

Realizing that the General was up to something, but having no idea what, Wilhelm replied, “No real firearms; paintball rules only.”

After a few moments’ pause, General Bradson said, “Follow me,” and walked towards the now-empty storage shed. Puzzled, Wilhelm followed and his platoon trailed behind, unsure of what was going on.

General Bradson walked to a football-sized rock a few yards past the shed. Flipping the rock over, he snatched up the pennant, holding it high over his head as he turned to face Wilhelm and the platoon. A few of the soldiers began to laugh, and Wilhelm joined them, even though he knew that Felecia wouldn’t be particularly pleased with this development.

Walking towards the flagpole, pennant in hand, General Bradson began to smile. “This here means we’ve won. When I went to get my notebook, I stopped by the shed, grabbed the pennant, and hid it. Going by the stated rules, this counts as a clear win, and I’m certain that it’s in record time. This also means that we won’t be the ones running today.”

Wilhelm allowed himself a chuckle as the General clipped the pennant to the pole’s riser and hoisted his prize. “Yes, this is certainly in record time. Shall we send one of my men to inform Felecia that she’s defeated, or would you prefer to convey the news in person?” Wilhelm asked.

Shaking his head, grinning like a Cheshire cat, General Bradson replied, “What’s the hurry? We’ll let them sit out there, wondering what we’re up to. Mess with their heads a little before they get to go running.” Some of the assembled platoon began to cheer, and the General knew they had accepted him, which had been his true objective of the day.

* * *

Strolling into the Oak Leaf – the vacant nightclub he’d rented for rehearsals – Eric was eager to see Jansen and Keith again. Eric's very public life meant that he had few chances to seriously interact with others and he enjoyed the rare opportunity to get to know some new people. The fact that they weren’t part of Instinct’s organization helped, giving Eric a sense of independence he’d not previously known.

Spotting the dancers taking a break at the side of the stage, Eric grinned and headed in their direction and hollered, “Hey guys, what’s up? Things going okay?”

It wasn’t hard for Keith to smile: Eric’s innate enthusiasm and joy was contagious. “Hi Eric. Yeah, we’ve got the act down. It’s going great,” Keith said, a little surprised that Eric was half an hour early.

Leaping up onto the stage, Eric looked unabashedly at Jansen and Keith, who were sitting in folding chairs. Slick with sweat, stripped down to Speedos; they’d obviously been rehearsing for a while. Eric pulled up a chair and spun it to face away from the dancers, straddled it, and sat down in it backwards, leaning his forearms on the chair back. “I’ve found a fucking perfect place for the party. It’s got a dance floor, a bar, everything. You guys will love it. It’s at a kick-ass resort, right on the beach.”

Jansen grinned, thinking of the resort and the sun. He’d never traveled further than Mexico, so the idea of flying off to an exotic place and getting paid for it was like a dream come true for him. “Sounds like it’s all working out. I can’t wait to see it,” Jansen said.

Keith decided to address the details. “How big is the dance floor, and how big is the room? If it’s too big, the boom-box we’ve got won’t be enough,” Keith asked.

“The dance floor is hardwood, about twenty feet across, and it’s round. There’s a built-in sound system so you won’t need a boom box. The place is great, kinda half-open, with a patio and a big pool. And there’s a bar,” Eric said, with a lick of his lips.

Keith laughed, and surprised himself by feeling comfortable enough with Eric to say, “Yeah, you mentioned the bar already. Guess we know what you’ll be doing.” Keith’s smile was joined by Jansen’s.

“There’s just one thing,” Eric said, doubting that Jansen or Keith would mind, “I had to tell Brandon and Chase where the party is. If we have you guys on the plane, they’ll figure out what we’re up to.”

Keith arched a questioning eyebrow. “I thought we’d be pretending to be crew, or bartenders, or something?”

Eric shrugged. “Yeah, but they’d figure it out. Think about it: they’re on their way to their stag party and the only people on the plane they don’t know are two really hot-looking blond guys. They’d know, trust me. But… there’s an easy way out. I’m going back to the island early so I can finish making arrangements and stuff. I’m working my ass off laying down bass tracks at the studio, so I’ll be able to jet out four days before the party, which means leaving a week from today. You guys can come with me. All it means for you is you’ll get an extra week’s stay at the resort, on me. I might draft one or both of you to help set up for the party, but that’ll be for only a few hours. This way you can rehearse on the dance floor you’ll be performing on, too,” Eric said, thinking that Jansen and Keith would jump at the idea.

Keith fought to keep a smile on his face, and thought for a moment, trying to find the most tactful way to decline. Eric’s wealth often caused a blind spot; it hadn’t occurred to him that when the dancers missed time at work, they lost money. It wasn’t easy; Keith was afraid that if he phrased it wrong, Eric would think he was being hit up for money, something Keith had no intention of doing. In Keith’s opinion, Eric had been exceptionally generous so far, and Keith was savvy enough to know that Eric likely had many people eager to take advantage of him and would not react well if he thought that was occurring. Taking a breath, Keith said, “Any way we could go on the later flight? Or, we can pretend to be stewards. We’ve both worked as waiters before so we can serve food.”

Eric immediately picked up on the concealed tension. He was getting to know Jansen and Keith, and with that familiarity came an ability to read them, somewhat. He knew that Keith was leaving something unsaid, something big. Nodding sagely, Eric replied, “Something’s up. Just tell me, okay?”

Keith was about to give Eric a less than fully truthful answer when he felt Jansen’s hand on his arm. Keith turned to look, and Jansen said, in a quiet but earnest voice, “Keither, just tell him. Ask about this club, because that would solve all our problems.”

Nodding, Keith told Eric, “Okay, on the level. The reason is money. We’ve got tuition payments coming up, and going with you would cost us almost a week’s income. We didn’t want to say anything because it would sound like we’re sticking you up for more money, and we aren’t.”

Keith felt an elbow in his ribs as Jansen’s insistent voice said, “The club, man, tell him what we were talking about yesterday.”

Nodding, Keith said, “We had an idea that, but first I gotta ask; how much would it cost to extend your lease on this place for a few more days, until this weekend?”

A confused look clouded Eric’s handsome face. “I’ve already got it for another couple of weeks. They wanted to lease it for the month, so that’s what I took.”

His eyes brightening, Keith said, “Then like Janse said, we might have an idea. I think it can work. We were thinking of putting on a show, for customers, this weekend. We’d hire a couple of guys from college to hand out flyers. Advertise the act, describe it, but keep our names out of it. We can get a couple of the guys from the club we work at to round it out with their own act, but keep it classy, like what we’ve rehearsed for your party. It’s different from what G-Strings and the other male strip clubs in the area offer, and I think there’s a market for an event like this. We’d split the gross receipts with you, which should cover at least some of the rental on this place. We’ll handle the insurance too; we can get a two-day policy for about a grand a day, assuming no alcohol. I want to keep it dry anyway; the other clubs don’t admit anyone under twenty-one on most nights because they are considered bars and are subject to liquor laws, so this way we can pitch to the college crowd, eighteen and up. Our share of the take should easily be enough to let us miss work and fly out with you and make us some extra, plus this way you’ll recoup at least some of the cost of the lease on this place.”

Swamped by the flood of information, Eric held up his hands in mock surrender. “Whoa, slow down. Sounds like you’ve thought this through pretty well. The only problem is that my manager would likely go psycho if she found out I was mixed up in anything like this.”

A little crestfallen, Keith sighed. “Damn. I guess that kills that idea–”

Shaking his head, Eric chuckled. “No dude, you don’t get it. I said: if she finds out. I kinda operate under the rule of: what she doesn’t know won’t hurt me. So keep my name out of it and don’t mention it when you meet her, and you guys have got a deal. So, how do we start?”

Jansen and Keith exchanged a thrilled look. “You don’t have to do much of anything; just check with the leasing agency to make sure you can use this place for business purposes. I’ve checked on the zoning, the city regs, everything. Janse and me will take care of the insurance, and I’ll have both you and the building’s owner named on the policy so it’ll be all legal. Technically you’ll be subletting to us, so between that and the insurance you should be liability-free.”

The mention of having his name attached gave Eric pause, wondering if Helen might somehow find out. Deciding that any complications were unlikely, Eric said, “You’re the biz major. Okay, set it up, it’s a go from my side. I already know I can use this place for a business; the leasing agent asked what kind I’d be running here and she looked surprised when I said I only wanted it for some private dance rehearsals. I’ll check to be sure, but it should be okay. If I can get my studio stuff done, I’ll help you guys set up and I’ll help out behind the scenes during the shows too, but I’ll have to stay out of the guests’ sight. If word gets out I’m here, you’ll get swamped with paparazzi and groupies, and then Helen will find out and kill me.”

Keith grinned at the mention of Helen. “Your manager sounds like she’s Godzilla or something.”

“Godzilla on steroids, and she has a way of finding out what I’m up to, so be careful. She won’t be at the party, I hope, but she’ll be on the island so you’ll probably meet her at some point. Don’t worry; she usually doesn’t kill strangers without a reason.”

Jansen leaned back in his chair to laugh. “Usually, huh? Okay, we’ll be careful. Thanks for letting us do this. We’ll all come out ahead, if it works.”

Eric wasn’t interested in the money. As far as he was concerned, he’d paid for the place with no expectation of getting any of it back and that was that, but the dancer’s idea sounded like fun and it would help two guys he was coming to think of as friends. He just hoped he could get out of the studio long enough to be at the opening, at least for a few hours. He doubted he could spare more time than that, but he could try. “So, you’re opening the doors Friday and Saturday nights, right? That means you’ve got three days to get set up. Think you can get it ready in time?”

Keith nodded, fairly sure that he was telling the truth. “Yeah, we’ll print up the flyers today, using a description of the act and some of our photos with our faces obscured. Then tomorrow morning I’ll get the guys I mentioned to hand ‘em out at college Thursday and Friday. They’ll be our doormen and cashier too, so that’s handled. I’ll take care of the insurance tomorrow and get you a copy. We won’t be serving alcohol, but the guests will expect soft drinks so I’ll stock up on soda and plastic cups. We can get one of the gymnasts from college to play bartender; he has a super upper body and the guests will love him in just a tight pair of shorts. So, once all that’s done, all we need to do is get the place cleaned and set up. Friday afternoon us and the other act will rehearse, and then it’s opening time.”

Deciding, though with regret, that there was one thing he could do to help Jansen and Keith get started, Eric said, “I was going to ask to see your act today, but I’ll clear out and head back to the studio so you guys can do the flyers and the other stuff. I’ll see your act Friday if I can get some free time.” Eric stood up, turning to leave before Jansen or Keith could object, calling back over his shoulder, “You guys have my cell number; call me if you need anything.”

Eric fired up his motorcycle and raced back to the studio, intending to get to work laying down tracks and free up as much time as he could.

As soon as Eric was out the door, Jansen punched Keith lightly on the arm. “I’m sure glad he okayed it. This is going to be great, and we’re going to get that extra week at the resort.”

Letting the one remaining problem cloud his mood, Keith replied, “Yeah, but this means us and the other two dancers will all be calling in sick to work for the weekend. George will blow a fuse, I know he will.”

Jansen shrugged. He felt that George Tankardsly was an okay boss, but the man had a lowdown and sleazy air about him, which Jansen did not like. “Let him. We haven’t called in sick all year so he can’t bitch too much. As long as he doesn’t find out what we’re doing, we’ll be fine,” Jansen said.

Keith nodded in less than heartfelt agreement. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Come on, let’s get dressed, and get back to our apartment so we can work on the flyers and the other stuff.” Brightening a little, Keith added, “This weekend will be a success, I know it. We’ll pack this place, no doubt about it.”

* * *

On Aardvark Hill, Felecia checked the defensive deployments of Horst’s platoon. He’d guessed that the General would try an attack up the steeper, and thus less-obvious, south side of the hill, and Felecia concurred, allowing Horst a free hand to place an extra squad on that side. The hilltop was riddled with foxholes from prior exercises, so ‘digging in’ took them only a few minutes. Felecia set the ammo can on level ground beside her own foxhole as she told Horst, “All we have to do is hold ‘em off. That General may be a hotshot tactician but that’s in the air. Down here in the mud, he’s out of his element.”

Horst nodded, and let silence descend. They waited, listening carefully for the anticipated approach. And they waited, and waited….

By lunchtime, Felecia was growing irritated. Breaking the silence, she whispered to Horst, “What the fuck is taking them so long? Their only tactical option is a battle of attrition. They should at least be harassing us by now. Send a man out on recon.”

Horst selected his best tracker and sent him out, watching the man melt into the brush like a ghost. Half an uneasy hour later, the man returned, not bothering to keep to cover. Irked at the lack of proper combat procedure, Horst snarled, “Get down, this is an exercise, not a damn walk in the park.”

With a shrug, the mercenary replied, “Way I see it, the exercise is over once the flag is taken and hoisted up the flagpole, right? So it’s over. I found ‘em, they’re hanging around the compound and the pennant is on the flagpole, so we’re done, right?”

Felecia turned her startled eyes to Horst, and together they rushed to the ammo can. Opening it to find it empty, Felecia gave it a brutal kick as she yelled, “Goddamn fucking asshole… How the fucking hell did he… No way could they get a man into and out of this perimeter unseen. I was right here! Okay, saddle up guys; we’re moving out, double-time.”

On the march back to the compound, Felecia was in a vile mood. She thought she knew what General Bradson had done, and she was furious at herself for leaving herself open to such a ploy. Upon reaching the compound, she ignored Wilhelm and his platoon and stormed up to the storage shed. A quick glance at the padlock revealed nothing, but then her gaze fell on the screw heads, which held the securing loop to the doorframe. The rusty heads showed fresh scratches – which the General had made while using his Swiss Army knife – confirming her suspicions of foul play. “Notebook my ass,” she snarled under her breath when she realized when the General had most likely stolen the pennant.

Turning on her heel, she stormed across the compound, making a beeline to where General Bradson sat, scribbling in his notebook. “You thieving, sneaky asshole,” she snarled. “This was supposed to be a tactical training exercise, and you’ve made a mockery of it.”

With an obnoxious smile, the General replied, “The tactical exercise, per your own words, was to capture the flag and run it up the flagpole. In war, a wise commander does not engage in combat without need, only to accomplish a goal. You set the goal, and I met it by taking the least tactical risk. Therefore you lose, Fel. I do hope that you and your team enjoy your run.”

Angry with herself for having been outsmarted, Felecia kicked at the dirt in frustration. Forcing herself to reign in her temper, she said in an even, icy, tone, “We’ll just see how you do tomorrow, when you’re on the defensive.”

Still seething, Felecia led Horst and his platoon off for their five-mile run.

* * *

Eric checked the studio itinerary and smiled; the tracks he was scheduled to lay down could be moved forward and his rehearsals with the rest of the band were all in the mornings. He conferred with the studio crew and made the arrangements, and then headed for the recording booth. What it meant was that he’d have a little free time after all, and with that happy thought, he began plucking at his bass as he began recording his first track of the day.

By Friday morning, Eric had, at the cost of some lost sleep, largely completed the needed tracks. His rehearsal with the rest of the band, followed by a combined recording session, went well in a way that had nothing much to do with music; Eric could sense that the rift he’d caused in Telluride was largely gone. The old camaraderie was largely back, and the awkward silences a thing of the past. That change buoyed Eric’s spirits even more than the fact that he was done with the studio for the day. As he tore hell-for-leather across the mean streets of Los Angeles, Eric was unaware he was sporting a big goofy grin as he arrived at the Oak Leaf Nightclub, where he expected to find Jansen and Keith setting up for opening night.

Using his key to let himself in, Eric found Jansen, alone, hard at work mopping the floor. Jansen was facing away from the door, his bare back covered with a sheen of sweat, and thanks to the music playing softly on the club’s sound system, he hadn’t noticed Eric’s arrival. Eric crept closer, stopping just a few feet away to watch Jansen for a few seconds more, waiting for the right moment to make him jump. Given the fact that Jansen was working in just a pair of boxers, Eric figured he had a good chance of achieving his goal. In a booming voice, Eric said, “You missed a spot!”

The mop clattered to the floor as Jansen released it, jumping away and spinning around. He saw Eric and laughed. “You got me.” Glancing down at his boxers, Jansen added, “I thought I’d be working alone and didn’t want to get dirty water on my jeans, so I took ‘em off.”

Grinning, Eric replied, “Fine by me, but why are you alone? Where’s Keith?”

Jansen bent down to retrieve the mop, and got back to work as he said, “We had some trouble. One of the guys who was supposed to hand out flyers for us blew it off and we just found out this morning. Then our boss, George, blew a gasket when we called in sick. Anyway, Keith’s on campus, handing out flyers, plus he’s gotta find somebody to fill in tonight; that guy who blew us off was a third of our staff. So, I’ve got to get this place ready by myself.”

“What’s left to do,” Eric asked.

“The rest of the mopping, then hauling the tables and chairs out of the side rooms and setting them up, then cleaning the counters and main desk, and hanging a banner over the door,” Jansen said, not pausing from his task.

Eric glanced around, his eye falling on a tray full of cleaning supplies. Surprising both Jansen and himself, Eric said, “I’ll take the counters, then we can both move the furniture when you’re done mopping.”

Jansen looked up, a slightly incredulous look on his face, in time to see Eric walk over to the cleaning supplies, peel off his jacket and tank top, and gather up a roll of paper towels and a spray bottle. Watching the bare-chested bassist set to work on the countertop, Jansen mumbled a pro-forma objection, “You don’t have to do that.”

“Shut up and mop,” Eric said with a laugh, “Or I’ll use this damn spray cleaner on you.”

Twenty minutes later, the counters were clean enough and the floor was done. Eric followed Jansen into a side room, and the two guys, muscles flexing under tan, sweat-slickened skin, began hauling out the tables and chairs. Once that task was completed, Eric and Jansen plopped into chairs facing each other – tired but ahead of schedule. In the stifling heat, Eric wrinkled his nose in reaction to a sudden thought. “Hey, you guys did get the air conditioner working, didn’t you?” he asked.

Jansen’s suddenly shocked expression indicated otherwise, and he said in a strained tone, “Oh, shit. No, not yet. We didn’t want to run the thing with just us here, and I fucking forgot all about that. The fuse box for it was locked… and with all the guests and lights, it’s going to cook in here tonight.”

Nodding, Eric stood up and glanced around. Not finding anything that fit his needs, he jogged to the door, unlocked it, and went outside. A moment later, Jansen saw Eric return, lock the door, and send a wicked grin in Jansen’s direction, as Eric took care to conceal what was in his right hand.

Puzzled, Jansen watched Eric walk quickly to the back room. A few seconds after Eric was lost to his view, Jansen stood up to follow, only to hear a resounding clang, and then another, echo from the room. Breaking into a jog, Jansen entered the back room to find Eric opening the fuse-box door with one hand, while holding a chunk of concrete in the other. With a self-satisfied smile, Eric flicked on the air conditioning system’s heavy breakers, and then grinned at Jansen. “I remembered seeing the concrete when I parked my bike, and figured it would make a handy persuader to get the lock off.”

Chuckling, Jansen checked the thermostat, and heard the soft, heavy thrum from the roof as the AC’s compressor engaged. “I think you did it, something’s running anyway. I just hope it works. How the hell could Keith and I forget something so obvious? If this doesn’t work, we’re fucked.”

Setting down the concrete, Eric picked up the battered lock from where it had fallen. Admiring his handiwork, he said, “Don’t stress. If it doesn’t work, I’ll start making phone calls and get a tech out here and maybe they can get it working in time.”

Jansen felt the first hint of coolness from the draft caressing his bare shoulders, and stretched his arms upwards, towards the air conditioning vent a few feet above his head. “I can feel it, I think its working. Thanks… and I just hope we didn’t forget anything else.” Jansen said, holding the stretch and enjoying the cooling air, though with a worried look on his face; he was starting to realize just how much could go wrong.

After watching Jansen for a few moments, Eric glanced at a clock. “The banner still needs to go up outside… anything else we need to do, besides get ourselves cleaned up ready?”

Jansen glanced at the clock: only five hours remained until the scheduled opening, and much of that would be needed for prepping the acts. Hanging the banner would be easy, he hoped. Returning to the main room, Jansen grabbed a chair, and snatched up the folded banner from its place by the door. He unfurled it, checking the strings secured to grommets in its four corners. Noticing that Eric was watching intently, Jansen spread his arms to hold it up for Eric to see.

“Surfer Strip Show, this weekend only,” Eric said, reading the banner aloud.

Jansen nodded. “Yeah, could be better, but we’re counting on the flyers to bring people in. This is just to let ‘em know that this is the place,” Jansen said as he gathered up the banner, snatched up a chair, and headed for the door. “I’ll get this, you better stay inside, or you might get recognized.”

Snickering, surprised that Jansen hadn’t realized what he was about to do, Eric watched Jansen open the door before saying, “I doubt anyone would pay attention to me. They’d be more interested, one way or another, in a guy wearing just wet boxers and hanging a sign on a busy street. Ain’t it illegal to go out in public in your underwear?”

Jansen backpedaled into the club and slammed the door. “Oh fuck, that would not have been good. First the AC, now this. I’m really on a roll today, huh?”

Eric doubled over, wracked by uncontrollable laughter, while Jansen, whose tan hid most but not all of his blush, retrieved his Levis and tugged them on.

Jansen made quick work of the banner, and re-entered the club to find Eric still snickering. Shaking his head, Jansen said in a good-natured voice, “Okay, okay, I screwed up. I guess I should thank you for warning me, even if you did wait until I was on my way out the door.” Glancing around, seeing that the club was nearly ready, Jansen’s tone of voice became serious as he added, “Keither should be here by now. I sure as hell hope nothing else went wrong. Hey, how long can you stay for? Long enough to see our act?”

Eric made no attempt to hide the smile creeping across his face. “I’m free until the morning jam session at the studio, but I’ll have to watch from backstage.”

“I’ll call and see what’s taking Keith so long. He’s got the soda and stuff,” Jansen said while fishing in the pocket of his tight jeans for his cell phone.

Jansen’s call went straight to Keith’s voicemail, so Jansen left a message.

* * *

Across town, sitting on a bench on his college campus, Keith yelled into his phone, “Craig, you fucking promised. You can’t let me down like this, not now…” Biting his lip in anger, Keith listened to a few words of the mumbled excuses before breaking in to say in a cold voice, “Forget it, Craig. I’m done with you, in every way. Life’s too short for bullshit and losers, and you’re both.” Keith hung up, resisting the urge to hurl his cell into a nearby wall. He was about to slip the cell phone into his pocket when he noticed Jansen’s number on the caller ID. He flicked the phone open again, about to call back, but decided against it; the club was only a few minutes away, and he was already on his way there.

En route, pausing only to pick up some bags of ice, Keith tried the numbers of a few other friends, attempting to find someone who could fill in and serve soft drinks. At that point, he didn’t care who: anyone would do, even if they weren’t a hot looking gymnast. Having no luck, Keith made a call he’d been dreading, relieved when an answering machine picked up on the other end. “Hi George,” he said, doing his best impersonation of a person on death’s door, “Jansen and I have some kind of flu. I’m on my way to the pharmacy now, maybe the doctor’s later. There’s no way either of us can work tonight or tomorrow. Sorry.” Keith coughed a few times and ended the call.

Back on campus, the flyers were making the rounds through the sorority houses. The photos on the flyers were hot, the acts sounded great, and the age limit was under twenty-one, plus the price was right. As Keith had hoped, he’d hit on a recipe for success, and the flyers made the rounds, and many a computer logged onto the web page version he’d set up and linked to on the flyer, and the spreading increased geometrically, with copies and links spreading ever further afield. In one such case, Patricia gave a copy to Sally, and Sally told Judy and Ann. Judy then gave a copy to her just-turned-eighteen sister, who gave a copy to her friend Melanie. The photos on the flyer carefully obscured the two blond dancer’s faces with logos and clip-art, which Melanie thought was a shame, for she loved faces, especially those of hot guys. Having a father who was very open-minded about such things, she thought nothing of leaving the flyer, along with her school books, atop the kitchen counter. So far, all was well and good, except for one minor detail: the fact that Melanie happened to be George Tankardsly’s daughter…