Rootin' Down The Highway - 6. Washington, D.C.

Dave had relinquished his position in front of the motorhome. He was sprawled out on the bed, on his stomach, sleeping off the beers he’d had after the concert last night. After the time with Edgard, he had played the entire concert standing up, fidgeting, unwilling to sit down. I don’t think he got much sleep Thursday night and was still be a bit sore from the foot-long he tangled with. After our performance last night he’d helped pack up the equipment while getting intimately acquainted with Mr. Jim Beam. Before crashing out on the bunk above the driver’s section―alone―he said he loved Southerners.

Buck was sitting on the couch, strumming his acoustic guitar, trying out the melody for a new song he was writing. Although we played plenty of covers during our shows, we wanted to have enough of our own material to carry us through three hours or so. I’d be working on some of those songs with him.

Wayne was at the table right behind Brett, typing an entry in his journal once again. He’d confessed he was planning on writing a story about our trip and posting it on a website which catered to gay writers.

“Hope you don’t mind being stuck with me, in the cab, Brett. Thanks for letting me have a try at driving this monster.” I’d asked for a shot at the wheel before we’d left Atlanta; now I was taking the second shift of the four we’d planned for today. Brett would take over again around Charlotte, North Carolina.

“Not a problem, Marcus. There’s no way I could drive the whole time anyway, mate. A bit different with the wheel on the left, but this baby’s not so hard to handle after you get used to it.” Built on the frame of a Ford van, the motorhome could sleep eight. It had a queen size bed in the back, the sofa opened up to a double, the table and benches reconfigured into a bed, and the space above the front section would also sleep two.

“I’m glad I get to practice on the highway before I have to drive on smaller roads. At least the weather’s nice; it’s dry and warming up.” The morning had been the coolest one we’d experienced since arriving in the country. As the altitude had increased, gone were the heat and humidity of Florida and the coasts of Georgia and South Carolina. We’d all kept our shirts on, although we still wore shorts. Now, as the sun climbed higher in the sky, the temperature had become downright comfortable.

“And it better stay dry; I would hate to drive this thing when visibility is down, and the roads are slippery.” Brett put his feet up on the dashboard, adjusted himself, and leaned back; he was obviously enjoying being my copilot.

That first day of travel we followed the large interstate highway from Atlanta, around Charlotte, through Greensboro, North Carolina. It was a great road, in excellent repair, fast, and safe—also boring as hell. We could have continued on it, veering east, until it connected with another similar expressway which would take us directly to Washington. But we weren’t in that much of a rush, and we wanted to explore, so we switched to a secondary road, US Route 29, which carried us through smaller towns, farm land, and forested hill country. Took us about eight hours to reach Waynesboro, Virginia.

At the time we reached the city, I was behind the wheel for my second stint as pilot, while Brett was once again in the front passenger seat, providing directions to a Walmart Supercenter. We’d been told the company welcomed motor home travelers, encouraging them to use their car park as an overnight stopping point. Nobody back home will probably believe us when we tell them we spent a Saturday night parked outside a giant American store. But we did, went to sleep early, and Sunday morning woke up not long after sunrise.

We stopped at several outlook spots, placed at the side of the road, to stretch our legs, admire the view and take pictures. We flooded Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter with shots of the band standing on the stone walls built as safety barriers. Our reception as musicians had been warm so far, playing tourist had been fun, and the news about being part of a DNA spread had us all feeling as if we were standing on top of the world.

With Brett in the driver’s seat, we were back on the road after a fast food meal. We entered the Shenandoah National Park and followed the Skyline Drive all the way to Front Royal, Virginia. The narrow, twisting road mostly followed the ridge of the Appalachian Mountains, providing incredible views of the valleys below and of the mountain range in the distance. The six hour ride was well worth the extra driving time; the views were outstanding.

Just after lunch time, we reached our destination―the Embassy of the Commonwealth of Australia in Washington, DC.

●

“G’day, mates, all rested up?” The man walking towards us, with a big smile on his face, was John Paul Smith. He was the Embassy’s Press Attaché, the guy who’d contacted Buck and who’d arranged for our trip to the United States. Good looking bloke, spiffy dresser, wearing what I recognized as an expensive Italian suit. We’d met him earlier in the day following our arrival.

“Yes we did, Mr. Smith. On behalf of all of us, I’d like to thank you once again for this opportunity.” Buck was smiling from ear to ear when he spoke for all of us. After meeting us when we showed up asking for him, Mr. Smith turned us over to his assistant, who took us inside, gave us a tour, and introduced us to more people I could ever remember. We were shown where to park our vehicle, told we had a couple of hours to relax, and asked to return for the opening reception. No shorts or thongs, but since we were musos, jeans and t-shirts would be fine.

“Come on, mates, I asked you all to call me JP. We’re going to be spending a lot of time together this week; we can do away with the formalities.” As we spoke, we were joined by three other men in the same age range as JP, who I guessed to be in his early thirties. A fourth lad, part of the group who approached us, looked a few years younger. One of the three older guys was taller than the rest by quite a few centimeters, had a face weathered by the sun, and reddish hair. He stood close enough to our host to indicate their relationship was definitely fairly intimate. “Hey, I want you to meet my husband Tom, our friends César and Brett, and their son CJ. How about you introduce the band to them.”

“Great! Nice to meet you all, and I hope you come listen to us at some point this week. I’m Marcus, I’m the drummer for the band.” Since our lead singer and our tour manager seemed busy, staring at the son, I decided to finish the introductions myself. The hot younger stud, with the brightest light green eyes I’d seen in ages, I guessed was just starting uni. He closely resembled the guy introduced as César, but appeared to have an easy and warm relationship with all the men. His other dad, Brett, had blonde hair cut extremely short on the sides. He was definitely military, if I had to venture a guess.

By the end of the night we knew we’d see the five of them a few times during the week, CJ gave us ideas of what to see in Washington, and loudly complained when his dads wouldn’t let him skip class to be our tour guide. He did get permission to come see our daytime performance one of those days, and then show us around the city a bit. Guess I had to revise my estimate of his age down by a year or two, he must have been finishing up year twelve.

We’d also filled up with prawns on the barbie, tiny lamb chops, cold smoked emu, bits of rare kangaroo, and all sorts of other good Aussie grub―the foodie in me was content. We’d patronized Hungry Jack’s and other fast food joints too much lately. They even had bottles of Victoria Bitter along with piss water, or as Americans call it, Foster’s Lager. We drank enough great Australian wine and beer to fill a tub. And of course we shook more hands than any of us ever thought we would―everyone wanted to meet the band, and the other Aussie entertainers in the house.

●

The trade exhibit ran from Monday morning through Friday afternoon. We played for two hours each day, between eleven and one, leaving a lot of time to sightsee in the afternoon. Evenings were for eating, drinking, and trying to get laid. Or working out for Buck, our resident fitness freak, and for Brett who’d suddenly developed an affinity for lots of exercise. Those two had something going on the rest of us weren’t being told about. Hell, I wonder if they even realized it themselves.

Aside from the opening reception, held at the Embassy, all activities would take place at the Washington Convention Center. Early Monday morning we drove the short distance to the venue, unloaded and set up our equipment, and drove the motorhome back to the Embassy where it would remain ‘til the end of the week.

Our routine became to wake up each day, shit, shower, shave, get dressed, and then stroll towards the venue. We’d stop along the way for a late breakfast, then wandered around the different exhibits, before getting settled in for our lunchtime performance. In the afternoons we became tourists.

There was a station for the Metro right next to the Convention Center which became our daily starting point. I got to pick where to go on Monday and decided I wanted to explore Georgetown. We had to switch train lines once and were dropped off in Virginia since there was no train stops where we were going. The Key Bridge soared high over the Potomac River and provided us with incredible views while we crossed it. We climbed The Exorcist stairs―made famous in the movie by that name―visited the campus of the university, strolled the cobblestone streets and wound our way to Georgetown Waterfront Park.

“Marcus, do you remember the name of the restaurant CJ suggested if we ended up in this area?” Of course Brett couldn’t remember; he’d been too busy staring at the handsome bloke.

“Farmers, Fishers, Bakers. I looked it up on line and it sounds great. Not cheap but manageable.” We were now getting a per diem amount for meals, something included in our contract with the Embassy. “I say we go for it; we can afford it.”

The guys kid me about being a foodie, but they knew I wouldn’t steer them wrong when I led them to a restaurant. The place was crowded and noisy, but the food was outstanding; definitely worth the price of admission.

●

We explored the presidential monuments and the war memorials one day. We toured the Smithsonian’s National Air and Space Museum another. We also stopped by the US Capitol, and called on the White House. On Friday, after our final performance, we packed our instruments away before crossing into Virginia to visit the Marine Corps War Memorial, a k a the Iwo Jima Memorial, and Arlington National Cemetery. That afternoon saw up walking up and down hills to pay our respects to the Kennedys and at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldiers. The Changing of the guard there was impressive. Afterwards, we drove the short distance to Alexandria, where JP and his husband owned a house. We would be spending the weekend with them.

● ● ●

“I understand congratulations are in order, mate.” The five of us had dinner on Friday night with JP and his husband, Tom, at their home. They graciously offered us real showers and beds and we quickly accepted. Saturday morning we’d been joined for a day sail aboard their boat by their friends César and Brett. Brett was passing out drinks as we motored off the dock into the Potomac River.

“Why’s that, Marcus?” Damn that fucking smile! These four men were abso-fucking-lutely gorgeous, but I’d pay good dollars to see this one in his uniform. I guess it’s true; good-looking people flock together. The roughest looking of the four was the cop, Tom; he was also the tallest and gentlest of them. He had been extremely attentive the previous night and today; always asking if there was anything we needed or wanted.

“JP told us you guys had a double wedding this past summer, and your son served as the best man for all four of you?” He’d also told us to look but not touch; both couples had been together for a long time and were entirely monogamous.

“Yeah, thanks. JP and I have been friends since college; we met César and Tom the same night, so it seemed appropriate we marry on the same day. It was a very small wedding, just some close friends, and CJ stood with us. How have you been enjoying your trip so far?”

“It’s been fantastic. JP sorted out our schedule in such a way it’s given us the chance to explore a bit of your country. Your husband was a big part of it; he hooked us up with his friend in South Florida. We played his club. Ended up meeting two really nice blokes and spent the remainder of the weekend with them.”

“And tonight you play at our favorite spot in Washington. Rogo’s is owned by our friend Danno; we spend more time there than anywhere else but home or work.”

“It’s a great spot. We had a meal there during the week, met your friend, and checked the set up for tonight. You guys joining us?”

“Yup, we’ll be there. CJ’s spending today with some friends from school, but he’ll be with us tonight, as will most of the other guys from our close group of friends. One’s up in Gotham for the weekend, another one’s in London, visiting family. The rest of us will be there.”

●

“I can’t believe he’s fifteen years old! I would have sworn he was a uni student. And boy was he pissed off when his dads told him he couldn’t join us for the after concert party!” Brett was expressing what we were all thinking. That would be our Brett. After an afternoon getting United States Marine Brett mixed up with Australian muso manager Brett, it was that damn fifteen year old we were talking about who solved the problem. He calls the American one Papa, so Papa he became to us. Kinda funny considering Papa’s a couple of years younger than I am.

“Believe it, guys, CJ doesn’t even have his driver’s license yet. So, let me get this right, Dave’s the designated bottom of the band? And he wanted CJ to join us so the kid could fuck him? How ‘bout you get in the sling, and I’ll take care of your cute, hairy butt, stud muffin? Let this Dragon light a fire inside you!” Devon, a tall, muscular, black man, was one of JP’s friends who’d come to watch us perform at Rogo’s. His nickname was derived from the large dragon tattoo covering his left shoulder and a portion of his chest. He’d joined us next door to the bar, at Danno’s place, for a little sexual performance after we’d completed our musical one. Well, not so little, in his case.

“Mate, that’s got to be one of the cheesiest lines ever. Light a fire inside our keyboard player?”

“Marcus, you’re just jealous, ‘cause I didn’t ask you to come swing on my ding! Don’t worry, buddy. Plenty of me to go ‘round. You’ll get your turn.” Okay, I admit it, I wouldn’t object to having that bad boy tap my butt.

“Not a problem, mate. Danno’s taking good care of my hairy ass.” Dave was getting in the sling while Dragon lubed himself up, ready to light that fire he’d mentioned. Wayne was in the shower with Trip, our host’s boyfriend, who we could hear asking the band’s drummer to fuck him harder. Danno had me bent over holding my calves; he was using his tongue to loosen me up―I knew what would follow. After Brett’s comment about CJ’s age, Buck had wandered off with him. I had no idea where those two disappeared to.