"So you guys don't drive with the moving truck?" Dave sat in the back of the movers' pimped out van, complete with something that he hoped was not ancient shagged carpeting. It looked clean, but he avoided it as much as possible. It was also a very odd shade of green and it seemed to grow everywhere like a sentient Astroturf.
"As if," the frizzy haired brunette with the coke bottle glasses chuckled, "no cup holders. That's not gonna happen."
"No cup holders," the blonde dreadlocked guy echoed, "nowhere to hold coffee or a Vault or a Monster…what is this world coming to?"
"Although," the brunette added in, "you could travel with them if you want. That is, if you're tagging along."
The blonde shrugged. "We need someone to help unload when we get there and it's so hard to find other carnies these days that are worth the time."
"Or effort," the brunette finished his thought.
"Right, or effort. You show up, though, and things go like bam! And who are we to argue with results?"
"Yeah, but we know nothing about each other," Dave countered. "And I'm not sure I want to be a…carnie? Aren't carnies the weirdos that work at state fairs and get paid next to nothing?" Not as though I have anything else going for me.
"Ah, our brothers in the moving arts," the brunette waxed poetically. "No, me and Howe are the carnies of the theatre world. In demand for productions, this is our life. Free as the wind, nothing but our lovely van Gertrude between us and the open road and death by poverty!"
These guys are way too excited about their lives, Dave thought guiltily as he watched the blonde produce rolling papers from his pocket and begin to make a homemade cigarette. "Your van's name is Gertrude?"
The brunette nodded as he answered Dave's reflection in the mirror. "Yeah, named after our dear patron saint Gertrude Stein. An inspiration."
"Her dedication to the arts."
"Unparalleled. Unequaled."
"Self-sacrificing."
Dave was getting dizzy from the acrid cigarette smoke that had a burning raisin quality to it and of the movers' back and forth. He was doubting fate right at that moment. But then he waved off the cigarette when offered and instead of bullying him into it, the guy holding it actually rolled down his window to let out the smoke instead.
Dave coughed lightly, glad the window was rolled down. "So your van's name is Gertrude and she's a VW?"
The brunette nodded. "The super delightful VW Vanagon, to be precise. Engine in the back, extreme stick manuevering in the front, and shag carpeting as far as the eye can see. We're still trying to save up enough to get the side painted with the Death Star but we're not there yet."
"And your name is…Howe."
The blonde answered. "Call me Danny. My name is actually Daniel Howarth Mannheim the Third. The name my bourgeousie parents gave me."
"Call him Howe," the brunette offered, "we all do and it's more fun. Howe's just a bit of a stick in the mud."
"And you, my ever insufferable companion…what if I started calling you Charles again?"
The brunette snorted. "Charlie. But you can call me Charles if you want. I'll just turn up Jefferson Starship and ignore you for awhile."
Dave felt like it was a good time to finish the introductions. "And my name is Dave."
"Really? It would have been fantastic for your name to be Bob."
"Sorry to disappoint?"
"Don't be. Sometimes, that's the way life is," Charlie offered as he revved up the engine. "So, you coming with us Dave? We've got a schedule to keep so we can unload the stuff for this ballet and get to SD for Godspell."
"I…" Dave wanted to go, but he was afraid. What would he become while working with these guys? Should he stay in New Orleans, move on to wherever SD was? What did he have to lose? What did he have to gain? "I don't know. What's SD?"
"San Diego…well, technically the La Jolla Playhouse, but close enough to Balboa Park, I suppose."
"Yeah, they've got a killer streetcar system and great bars and we know guys like everywhere."
Dave thought a moment. San Diego. In California. The ocean, the surf. And then he saw his hands, pale and dirty nails. The twenty bucks he had made was the first honest twenty bucks he could ever remember making. And Charlie and Howe weren't bad guys, just odd. They'd be okay with him writing to Kurt, maybe they'd be okay with him being gay. He'd just steer clear of anything about his past for now and hope for the best. "I've never seen San Diego."
Howe nodded. "You'll love it man. Best pizza on the coast."
Charlie butted in. "After Santa Cruz."
"Shut up," Howe rejoined, "we only go to Santa Cruz for the aquarium and Bubba Gump's."
"Speaking of food," Charlie said, "how about some dinner? Our treat, new guy."
Dave shook his head. "No, I couldn't take your money. I could just get some tacos on the cheap or something."
Howe chuckled. "That's cute. New guy that's not Bob thinks he has a choice."
"Dave."
"Not Bob."
"Dave."
"Don't make me come back there," Charlie gave off a fake warning voice.
"So…are we having some authentic New Orleans dinner or something?"
Charlie smiled. "Better. You think what I'm thinking?"
"I think so Brain," Howe quipped, "but how are we going to get baloney in all those rubber pants?"
Charlie ignored the reference. "We're stopping for Luthers."
"Luthers?" Dave quirked his head. "What's a Luther?"
Charlie's eyes lit up as he answered. "Only the best invention since the French toast sandwich, my friend! Imagine if you will, a hamburger. But not just any hamburger. A hamburger with donuts for a bun."
"That sounds…" Dave paused for a moment, then heard his stomach growl, "amazing."
"Duuuuuuude," Howe chuckled, "let's truck it as close as we can get to Yellow Round and make us some Luthers! Next stop, Houston!"
I'll send a postcard to Kurt from there. Let him know I'm alright, Dave thought. Maybe things are lookin' up for good.
