Rootin' Down The Highway - 1. Perth

“Mmm, I could get used to this. G’day, mate.” As I stretched my arms above my head, to help clear the sleep haze I was still trapped in, I rolled over in the large bed to look at my sleeping companion.

“G’day, Brett. All you have to do is say yes, mate. Say yes, and I promise you’ll wake up next to me every morning. Come on! Come fly with me. This could be our big break; it could give us the chance to go anywhere we want.” How the hell did Buck do it? The man had more alcohol the previous evening than I did; he expended as many calories as I did, and he went to sleep just as late. Yet here he was, clearheaded, with a smile as bright as the summer sunshine streaming through the flat’s windows.

“You gonna fly me to the moon, mate?”

“Nah… but I’ll fly you to Florida. We can watch the moon over Miami together.”

“Buck, are you suggesting we become a couple? Monogamy? You and I only having sex with each other?” The man next to me was considered one of the most eligible bachelors in Western Australia. Men and women had been trying to tie him down for a while; none had even come close to succeeding.

“Hell no! Who do ya think I am? I’m not a saint; I’m just a singer in a rock and roll band. Of course I’m going to sleep around with other men. And who the fuck are you trying to fool? You know very well you’ll jump in the sack with a hot jackaroo given half a chance. But I can promise during the trip, I’ll go to sleep with you every night and wake up with you every morning.”

“Tell me again about this proposition? We had a few too many glasses of wine last night, not sure I remember it all.”

Buck Skynne, lead singer and guitar player for Buck & The Furballs, and I had been besties for a long time. We’d met in year eight in school, and spent more time with each other than anyone else until the end of our secondary education. At that point I went off to uni, to study business, while my mate moved to Sydney in search of chance to play music. Each time he returned home, no matter how short the visit, he’d make time to see me. He always said after his immediate family, I was the closest person to him in the entire world.

This time the visit was longer than usual. The band was booked to play for an entire week at one of the large local pubs, starting Friday. They’d decided to turn it into a holiday, each one heading their own way in the middle of December. They’d agreed to reunite in Perth, the day before their run at the pub was to begin. I’m sure I’d be seeing plenty of them. The plan was for the band to remain in town through the middle of January; flying off then for a series of performances up and down the Gold Coast.

Buck and I had not spent much time together in the days leading up to Christmas, both of us busy with our own families. During that time, he had the added responsibility of looking for a place in which to settle the band for the coming weeks. When he called and invited me to the beach on Boxing Day, a Wednesday, I happily said yes.

After a day in the sun, we’d gone for dinner the previous evening. Leaving the restaurant we stopped at a bottle shop, before heading to the place he’d let, for a nightcap. It turned into a bottle of wine or two, accompanied by an intense make out session on the couch. Somehow we made it to his bedroom. A drawn out, hard pounding into the mattress came next, ending with Buck exploding inside me while I soaked the sheets underneath us. This was followed by a seemingly never-ending shower, culminating in a second spunking for both of us. On his knees, Buck had been fed a load of jizz, and instructed to swallow, or else. His own stuff had whitewashed the tile floor for a few seconds before it flowed down the drain. Exhausted, we threw a towel over the wet spot on the bed and fell asleep, our arms and legs entwined.

“Okay, mate, here’s the deal. John Paul Smith, who’s the Press Attaché at the Australian Embassy in Washington, saw one of our videos on YouTube. He liked it, tracked me down, and we’ve been trading emails for a couple of months now. The Embassy is helping organize a bit trade exposition in Washington next spring. That would be their autumn, by the way.”

“I know that!”

“Of course you do, uni boy. All sorts of Australian companies will be there trying to sell their stuff, and he wants to provide entertainment by Aussie performers each of the five days this thing goes on. We’d be playing for two hours around lunchtime. They always have decent weather that time of year, and we’d have a stage in the plaza outside the exhibition hall.”

“How does that translate into a flight to Miami and a road trip up the coast to New York?”

“Like I told you before, we’ve been trading emails, working out the details. The Embassy will pay for our round trip airfare and ship our equipment. They’ll provide us with a generous allowance, to cover the cost of meals and lodging, while we’re in Washington. JP, that’s the guy’s nickname, suggested we might want to sightsee a bit and maybe play a few other gigs. He can arrange for us to rent a motorhome in Miami and return it in New York. A friend of his, some Cuban guy, can get us a date or two at a club in Fort Lauderdale owned by someone he knows. The guy who owns that club has connections. He can get us bookings in Orlando and Atlanta. Once in Washington we play the Embassy dates, and at a place called Rogo’s, on Saturday night. It’s owned by another one of JP’s friends. Finally, we can play New York City, at a place called Prime. The owner there is a mate of a doctor who lives in Washington, but who spends lots of time in New York. The doctor is part of JP’s entourage.”

While Buck talked, Brett had been lazily tracing some of the intricate designs, tattooed above his friend’s groin, with his finger. He was leaving a trail of goose bumps, making the heavily inked man shiver more than once. Brett looked up from his ministrations when he felt a hand start to play with his blonde curls.

“And I would be the band manager during this tour?”

“Yeah.”

“And I won’t have to spend any of my own money, during the six weeks while we’re rootin’ down the highway?”

“That’s right.”

“And we get to play tourist in each of those cities?”

“Correct.”

“Too easy! Road trip! I can take my annual holiday then; I always end up with too much time on my hands, especially if I just stay in Perth, zero-tasking the entire six weeks. I accept the offer. Bloody hell, I’m going to Disney World!”