The 20foot U-haul punctuated the gray and silver cavalcade of mid-sized luxury cars and SUVs with a burst of orange and a hookah puff of smoke from the exhaust pipe. Inside the cab, a front seat argument was taking place regarding the merits of the present adventure. It struck one agitated protagonist that U-haul could probably provide a cheat sheet for such occasions - given the number of times their cabs played host to contests of logic regarding whether to move or not, and wouldn’t it be easier to sell the contents or better yet to throw them away; or why not hire a moving company instead of soliciting the help of family and friends? This road trip, though, was unique in the annals of U-haulage, as the back of the 30 foot moving van was empty, and would remain empty unless one counted the packing blankets and ratchet straps her boyfriend’s friend insisted on bringing.

“Okay run this past me one more time. We’re sitting in traffic, heading toward a storage facility?”

“A licensed self-storage container unit is the proper terminology,” Chad said, adjusting the mirror to better judge the space between the side panel of the mud-splattered, too-wide truck and a shiny, too-wide Humvee.

“And what are we picking up?”

“Nicky’s guitars, his amp, lighting gear – his whole rig.”

“Rig? Nicky doesn’t even play guitar.”

“Tell that to the Alameda County Air Guitar Champion.”

“Oh my gaawd! This is absurd. And you had the nerve to tell Nicky you were worried I couldn’t handle the weight?”

“Listen,” Chad set the emergency brake at a red light and looked at Jenny, a Goth girl, dressed in a black ankle length crinoline skirt, pretty but dressed inappropriately for lifting musical equipment. “This isn’t a joke anymore Jenny. We’re his talismans, his lucky charms. He plays the, well, the air-guitar, but we create the vibe. To bust it up would bring bad luck and a crappy performance.” He shook the hair out of eyes and popped the clutch before nudging the truck into the traffic. “Since Nicky won that tournament last month, he’s been challenged by every top air-guitarist from here to the Olympic peninsula. You can make up to a grand for winning one of these contests, get sponsorship – one guy even got a spot on Conan O’Brien. Every little bit that he can do to capture the rock star experience gives him that much more of an edge.”

“Ha. What does the sponsor give him – an invisible Stratocastor? Look at him there on his cell phone. Talking to, hmmph, his agent, sandwiched between Megan and that slut Tanya.” She looked derisively through the back window of the car in front of them to Nicky, who was smoking a cigarette, flicking back his brown, Frampton-esque mane of hair. The break light on the rear of the rented Lexus accentuated the gold highlights on the ringlets of his perm. He leaned over and pretended to do a line of coke off Megan’s silicon breasts.

After several traffic jams and some rock and roll antics by Okie, the lead-footed, donut-swerving chauffer of Nicky’s entourage, they arrived at Lockyer Own Storage and pulled up to a large container.  The guitarist and his mates stumbled out the car in a meteor shower of sequins and cigarette smoke clutching alcopops and each other in a scene lifted straight out of a day in the life of the Libertines.

“Chester! My Maaaay-aaan! Yee-aaa-yuuh! 10 four good buddy, pull that big ole rig up here yee-ay-uh!” Nicky hand signaled the van into position from the storage locker entrance, dressed in a white spandex top that was open to his navel and tight white pants that poured themselves into a pair of shiny gold lame encrusted boots. The erstwhile groupies howled with laughter and groped one another as they stumbled back in a heap against the hood of the Lexus, parked adjacent to the moving van.

“Are those REAL alcopops, Nicky? Or just a figment of your imagination?” Jenny sneered as she hung out the passenger window.

“Ah yes, well if it isn’t the daughter of doom herself,” he thought before turning his pal. “Hang on princess – Okie – grab Jenny a Smirnov’s Ice and let her be the judge of that.” He swung his hair round and placed his hands contentedly on his hips, admiring the assembled road crew. Chad jumped from the cab of the U-haul with a boom box, which he set on the hood, and cranked up a song by The Darkness, eliciting an arpeggio of impromptu air-guitar from the delighted performer.

As Nicky performed for his entourage, the ogre-like Chad, dressed in the Hell’s Angel chic favored by Role Playing Game enthusiasts, strode to the back of the truck and opened the heavy rollup door. He unhooked the sliding ramp from under the truck’s floorboards and flung it clattering at an angle to the entrance of the container. He hopped into the back of the truck to prep it for the largest pieces of equipment, which he preferred to pack toward the front wall panel, “for balance purposes”. Meanwhile, manic Okie opened the door to the storage unit for the remaining crew to step into, each admiring the impressive array of air-amplifiers, air-synthesizers, air-dry-ice machines, and Nicky’s second to none rack of vintage air-guitars. The friends walked around the empty container, careful not to trip over an imaginary cord or speaker cabinet. The last time they visited the unit, Butterfly, an ex-groupie, made the mistake of stepping on one of Nicky’s cherished invisible harmonicas, a relic from his short-pants days as an air-banjoist in the campy, ironic pranksters known as the “Not Ready for the Grand Ole Opry Players”.

As the roadies took measurements and discussed strategies for lifting the formidable stack of Marshall Amps, Jenny hovered at the rear, her arms folded across her black t-shirt. When Tanya, the younger of the two groupies coquettishly pretended to need Nicky’s help with lifting a microphone stand that couldn’t have weighed more than, well, it was make believe, Jenny couldn’t contain her sarcasm any longer. “Oooooh Nicky, help me lift this will you, you’re soooo strong...”

“Back off Jenny. Nobody asked you to help with this anyway,” the guitarist snarled.

“Take it easy Nicky, I just don’t want you to break a finger-nail and spoil your vibrato.”

“OK that’s enough,” Chad dropped his end of a pretend lighting rack, sprawling Okie beneath it’s full weight, and walked quickly to Jenny, grabbing her and leaving a very real red mark where his fingers gripped her arm. He pulled her out of sight behind the truck so he could reprimand her while Nicky retreated to the rear of the garage and stewed. Commotions such as these upset Nicky’s Chi or his Karma or some other imaginary source of strength he drew upon to fuel his performances, but before he could slip into a funk, Tanya offered him a pretend shot of Southern Comfort to bring him around.

Jenny was unrepentant though, as Megan observed when she dropped to her knees to spy on the couple from below the truck chassis as they argued. Jenny paced back and forth ranting, swinging her arms and tugging at her pewter, Wicca inspired jewelry. “How dare you pull me away like that. Did you see that little tart back there? Doesn’t that make you sick? What the hell is Nicky’s deal and why do you guys follow him around like he’s some sort of monster of rock or something?”

“Dammit, Jenny. I’m sick of your rude bullshit. We’re trying to have a little fun before tonight’s gig. Don’t you realize how hard he’s worked at this? I know it isn’t real, he knows it isn’t real, but we’re having a laugh, hanging out, and tonight, if he wins we all go out and party with the proceeds. What the hell’s wrong with that? And what’s your beef with Nicky anyhow? Is there something you need to tell me?”

“Oh my GAAAAWD! Now you’re really imagining things. That I would have any interest in that poodle haired fake artist is an absolute insult. Take me home right now. You’ve taken your little imaginary world a bit too far this time.”

“I’ve got a job to do Jenny, so you can either ask Nicky for his cell-phone and call a cab, or drop the attitude and give us a hand. You’re acting like a spoiled brat and it’s really getting tired.” Chad stood his ground while Jenny circled, preparing to deliver one final deprecating blow.

“OK, Mr. Make Believe, Chad, or should I call you by your Dungeons and Dragons handle? All right, Elderoth, go and play with your imaginary friends, in their imaginary world and help your fake friend win his pathetic air-guitar contest.”

Chad stopped cold and pursed his lips. If there was one thing he didn’t like, it was calling him by his avatar name outside of the context of his favorite role playing game. It “sapped life-force” from his avatar and caused it to “invoke an energy terminus”. Jenny knew this and prepared for the worst. Beneath his calm exterior he was boiling mad. “OK Jenny, if that’s the way you want it. You’re no longer a part of the crew. You can sit in the cab while we pack. I don’t want to see you anywhere near the equipment, the groupies and, most of all, stay away from Nicky. You’ve already cast a shadow over tonight’s performance. I think you’ve done enough to spoil the day.”

At that Jenny gave a frustrated, if a little bit sad look at Chad and climbed up through the open door of the truck into the passenger seat. He slammed the door and paused to gather his emotions, which in Jenny’s hands had taken a royal beating. Jenny watched him through the rear view mirror walk back to join his friends into the container unit. She gathered her feet up to her chest and turned the radio up loud to block it all out.

Without their critic, the friends continued packing the van full of virtual musical equipment and stage props. It didn’t take long for the crew to summon back the good vibes. Nicky continued with his rock star antics and the girls kept the roadies entertained with their over the top groupie impersonations. Okie and Chad hauled equipment into the back of the truck and Nicky polished the necks of his guitars. Megan simulated rolling a joint, which she passed to the crowd. It was all going to plan. The amps stacked up perfectly in the back of the truck and the lighting gear, while awkward, was loaded without breaking a bulb – a first to Chad’s recollection. When Jenny heard the footfalls of her boyfriend in the bed of the truck through the cab wall as he cautiously loaded an invisible synthesizer, her heart ached for the hurt feelings she’d caused him.

After a few alcopops and a pretend slug of whiskey, the gang broke into a chorus of “I Believe in a Thing Called Love” which echoed beyond the hollow container unit throughout the grounds of Lockyer Own Self Storage. Even Jenny had to smile at the racket they were making. The good feelings, and the glorious awfulness of the song made her rethink her position on the whole imaginary affair and she decided to give it another go. Nicky gave her a wink as she walked back into the container and the girls toasted her as they sang.

“You look like you could use a hand,” she said to Chad, who was lifting a mixing board.

Chad looked up, suspicious at first, but he melted as she smiled at him, and caressed his furry face with her sparkling gray eyes. “Um,” he paused. “Alright, but be careful where you lift it from. Last time Okie mangled a fader bar when we were lugging it into the venue.”

The work continued apace. With the extra helping hand the truck was being packed in record time. “The quicker we pack, the more time we got at the bar,” Okie reminded everyone.

Jenny made up for lost time and started on the menial yet essential task of winding up the imaginary electric chords and microphone chords. She helped the girls sort the plectrums and spare guitar strings, and was relieved when she noticed the briefest whisper of irony from Tanya while she pretended to deep throat an invisible microphone. “This was going to be all right,” she thought. “It’s all for a laugh, and as long as you go along with it, it’s actually quite funny.”

As the last box was packed away, the crew hugged and cheered as Nicky broke into a kick ass performance of Queen’s “We Are the Champions”. At the end of the guitar solo, Jenny grabbed Chad and they made out to the cheers of the entire crew.

 

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Later that night, the venue was swarming with air-guitarists, pretend roadies, and virtual groupies. They unpacked the equipment from the truck, careful not to mix it up with a competing guitarists’ gear. Chad and Okie traded beers and road stories with several of the rival roadies and the three girls stared down every made up, blown up, halter-topped tart who came within flirting distance of the crew. Nicky was clearly in his element air-autographing invisible guitars for a horde of young fans, strutting his stuff in front of the erstwhile Satrianis, Vais and Iommis who were his rivals.

After a warm up comedian, and enthusiastic introductions from a local AOR Radio DJ, the competition got underway. Nicky and his entire party smirked through a late era Eric Clapton impersonator, and winced at a Strokes fan who faked guitar over obvious organ parts. They smiled at a slacker in ripped jeans who sprung a schizophrenic tradeoff from acoustic to electric guitar that evoked a Zeppelin Three-period Jimmy Page and stood and applauded a parolee whose “Ace of Spades” was clearly honed by the kind of repetition that only prison time allowed. They clapped politely for a girl who did a perfect Emmylou Harris, and giggled when she got disqualified for “insufficient application of tremolo and effects.” They stood in awe of sixty-year-old Walter Johnson and his astonishing note for note replication of Howling Wolf’s “Barnyard Blues.” But as the night wore on, with the back slaps, and handshakes, the hugs and autographs it became clear to all but the vainest performers: as reigning champ, it was Nicky that the crowd had come to see.

Finally, after a ten-minute pause to set the stage, it would be Nicky’s turn to go on. Frantically, Chad and Okie set up the amps, the stage monitors, the lighting rig and the imaginary keyboardist’s array of fancy equipment. They threaded invisible mic cable and electrical wires with the precision of seasoned professionals. Nicky went onstage before the lights went up moving several of his biggest fans to cheer spontaneously. It was during these breaks, before the performance that he liked to work the crowd, to get a sense of what they liked and disliked. Were they Sabbath fans or Jane’s Addiction? Or was it style they were after? Did they like it heavy on the effects pedals or were they whammy bar types? He knew it was a delicate balance, and while you could only please half a crowd with a particular artist or song, you had to hook the other half with style, technique and if need be, histrionics. “It didn’t hurt Hendrix,” he liked to say.

Meanwhile Jenny was back at the bar. The drinks were flowing for free and she would never have admitted it earlier, but she was clearly soaking up the good vibes (and jealous looks) from being part of Nicky’s entourage.

“Hey, Cruella DeVille,” asked a blonde girl in pigtails and a tight t-shirt. “You with Nicky?”

“Yeah that’s right, Daisy Duke. Who are you with? Your cousin?”

“You’re with Nicky’s crew?” a biker asked, from behind sunglasses and a ZZ-Top beard. “Have a Budweiser on me. Cheers.” He handed Jenny a drink to which they both clicked bottles. She winked at him before taking a long sip and looking to the stage.

Nicky paced the floor checking his gear, smiling, mincing and giving the heavy metal salute to his fans. But despite his exuberance, he knew something wasn’t quite right. He couldn’t place the object of his trepidation so, as he had done in times of crisis so many times before, he motioned his friends away from the bar and from their roadie duties, and gathered them at the edge of the stage.

“Ok guys talk to me. What’s up?” he looked from his friends to the stage. “Something aint right.”

“I don’t know Nicky, I think we’re doing well.” Chad said.

“The crowds digging it.” Megan said.

“Aw Nicky, you got ‘em wrapped around your finger, and you haven’t even played a note,” said Tanya, intoxicated from the beer, if not from the attention. But Jenny chugged her Budweiser to mute her fear: Nicky’s insecurity had insinuated itself into her like second-hand smoke.

Suddenly the lights went down and the DJ’s theme music started. A spotlight hit the stage like a comet, illuminating the emcee. “Alright everybody. Are you ready to RAAAAWK?” he barked. The crowd erupted in thunderous applause and a chorus of supporters began chanting Nicky’s name.

“Oh God,” Nicky panicked. “Are we set?”

“Yeah man,” Okie said. “You’re all ready to go.”

“What’s the song?”

“You know man,” Chad said. “I Believe in a Thing Called Love”. The Darkness,” he forked his fingers into devil’s horns, but Nicky was terrified – lost.

The emcee finished his introductions and the spotlight edged its way toward the crew, searching for Nicky. Just as the ball of light touched the outer edge of his foot, he panicked. “Hang on. Where’s my Dredge-Tone Overdrive effects pedal?” Jenny gasped and stuck her fingertips into her mouth. “Shit,” Nicky raged, “Who forgot to pack the effects pedal?” The roadies, the groupies, everyone in the crew froze as the spotlight landed on them like an interrogator’s lamp.

“JENNY?” the crew turned and looked at the reluctant roadie.

“Don’t everybody look at me,” said Jenny, combing her memory for whether she could have left it behind, pretending as if she cared.