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Winter, 1979
Sooner or later, everyone came to the Blue Boar.
It wasn't so much a destination as it was an inevitability. Located near midway between Birmingham and London on the M1, the Watford Gap service station — known simply as the Blue Boar to most for reasons not many could remember — saw all kinds pass through its doors at all times of the day and night. Rich or poor, famous names or nobodies, they came seeking fuel for the road: be it for their car, their bellies, or sometimes for something a little less tangible than either.
"Will you have a look at this?" Andy said in dismay, gingerly holding up his tea cup. By all appearances, the guitarist was none too happy.
"It's a cup of tea. And?" Stewart was tired — too tired for Andy's bantering games, and edgy after the evening's performance. They'd been doing this long enough that the venues had grown from angry crowds in shitty bars to halls full of screaming girls. Sometimes, though, the hostilities within his not-so-little-anymore band more than made up the difference.
"It is a cup of tea — or so they claim," Andy finished with a conspiratorial tone. Then he leaned in closer to the offending beverage, taking a whiff and making a sour face. "I'd say it smells rather more like greasy dishwater. What do you think?"
He held out the tea for Stewart to smell but the drummer waved him off. "Everything in here smells like that. Mostly tastes like it, too." Stewart picked at his soggy pile of chips. Nothing served at the Blue Boar exactly qualified as gourmet dining, but grease and caffeine usually made for a good combination at four in the morning when you just needed something to tie you over until daybreak, or to sober you up. Along with the debatable food, after midnight the clientele at the motorway rest stop took on a decidedly disreputable appearance, often consisting largely of punks, rockers, and roadies on their way home from a gig. You never knew who you might run into here, for good or bad.
"You know, Zoot and I ran into the Floyd here one night. You can imagine how we left it." Andy paused and frowned. "I have to simply imagine it myself as I was tripping out pretty badly at the time and don't remember much beyond Syd serenading his fry-up and Roger ending up in Zoot's knickers."
"Figuratively or literally?"
"I can't precisely recall. Think we're all better off that way."
Stewart scanned the dreary room for any familiar faces but came up with nothing. Maybe it was a rare quiet night. Maybe they would have been better staying at a hotel, one of those swanky places they could actually afford every now and then, these days, where they'd bring you room service at all hours of the night. He liked those kinds of places. They were certainly a nicer alternative to this scenario, but no, tonight it was the long haul back on the road to London before a few more pre-Christmas gigs.
He yawned and propped his head on one hand.
Yo, ho, ho.
"Watford Gap, Watford Gap, a plate of grease and a load of crap," Andy sing-songed, before inquiring, "So where did our golden child disappear to? Thought he said he was famished."
"Maybe he found something outside that looked more appealing then what's on the menu in here."
"Wouldn't take much."
"Mm."
Stewart pushed his egg around for a while longer, watching it leave shiny trails of grease around the plate like the sludge marks left by a snail on a sidewalk. He realized that his appetite was calling for something else as well.
"Suppose I'll go see what Sting's up to, make sure he didn't get into a fight with some kid he insulted from the stage again." Stewart pushed his chair away from the table and got up, fumbling in his jacket pocket for his pack of cigarettes.
Not watching where he was going, Stewart plowed right into a large mass of leather and hair.
"Oi, watch it!" it grumbled at him.
"Sorry, man," Stewart excused himself, making a quick exit. Definitely time for a change of scenery and companionship.
*
"Fucking plonker," Sav grumbled after the skinny blond dashing out the door.
"Leave 'im be, Sav." Joe put a hand on his bandmate's shoulder. "No trouble tonight, okay? I just want to get home in one piece."
"Punks." Pete scowled and shook his head, pushing ahead of the others to grab a tray and heading toward the cafeteria line. "Don't want to deal with that lot tonight."
"Where's Rick?" Joe asked.
Steve shrugged. "Said he didn't feel like comin' in, not hungry. Just wanted some air, he said."
"Out in the cold?"
"That's what he said." Steve didn't seem interested in any food either, instead heading toward the tables and slouching into a chair, a brown-bagged bottle in hand.
"You want anythin'?" Joe asked him.
Steve just shrugged again — a very helpful answer. Joe sighed and joined Pete and Sav in the line for something to eat, though he wondered if he should go check on Rick.
Don't be a wanker, he scolded himself. Kid can take care of himself, always does. At the moment he had more pressing matters to attend to, namely: sausage roll or a Scotch egg? Neither looked like they'd do his stomach any real good but he was hungry enough now to pay for the indigestion later...
*
It wasn't so much raining as a heavy mist hung in the air, leaving everything and everyone outside in it a little damp and chilled. Rick leaned back against the side of the van and closed his eyes, head tilted back just a bit so that the mist touched his face, cool and oddly pleasant. Not cold enough for snow yet, but getting close. The club they'd played that night hadn't had a shower so even after a change of clothes, he felt sweaty and in bad need of a cool down after the gig. A few minutes in the misty rain while the others filled their bellies had seemed like an acceptable substitute, at least until they got home.
A few minutes of peace and quiet, too — an enjoyable break from the van full of them grumbling, cursing and chattering loudly all the way home. Not that he didn't love his bandmates dearly (maybe some of them even more than he should), but still...there were some times when he felt very thankful for a moment's peace without them, especially after the noise and thunder of the stage.
Out here, alone in the night, he could hear himself think. Think about how he'd played, that evening: what went right, what could go better next time. He could dream a little bit about the future, the kind of shows he imagined them pulling off once they really hit it big — the kind of hotels they could stay in then, too, instead of spending every night slugging it home or toward the next gig somewhere on the road. He had lots of dreams for the future, no doubt like anyone his age. His mum sometimes worried about him rushing too fast ahead to make them happen, but Rick had never seen much point in waiting around — certainly not in Sheffield.
Besides, wasn't rushing always the drummer's curse?
He smiled to himself and tapped out a run of triplets against the side of the van. The metal felt cool and just slightly damp against his fingers. Yeah, a few minutes to himself to ponder life beyond this motorway. Even a noisy drummer could appreciate the importance of a little bit of quiet, now and again.
At least it was quiet, until...
"Arsehole!"
The curse was punctuated by the sound of breaking glass — not a window but a bottle, sharp and sudden. Startled, Rick glanced about, but when he saw nothing, he moved around to the other side of the van so he could see the rest of the carpark, figure out what was going on.
That was when he spotted the two of them — two blonds, roughing about a short distance away by another van. They were fighting, but the one was laughing at the same time as they struggled, until the second shoved him off with another curse. The first just bounced it off, running his hands through his hair, which was longer than the other's shorter cut. He kicked away the remnants of the broken bottle scattered on the inky ground as he moved about, acting casual as if it had been nothing more than a game.
A pair of punks, Rick surmised from what he could make out of their looks and entire. Probably another band passing through in the middle of the night. He thought they seemed vaguely familiar, but it was hard to say through the mist and just the sparse lighting overhead. He never really followed that whole punk thing, anyway, so he doubted he'd recognize them even with a better look.
Rick kept watching, intrigued by the drama even if it had interrupted his peaceful contemplation. The two were talking, now, voices too soft to make out through the distance as their breaths puffed out in ghostly trails in the cool, damp air. Or at least, one of the two was talking, the one with the longer hair. He gesticulated frequently to punctuate his words while the other mostly stayed silent and unmoving, hands deep in the pockets of his pants. They stood together closely — even as the animated one moved about, he always seemed drawn back in close to the other, like a planet in orbit around the sun.
Eventually he stopped fluttering about and, in a move quite sudden and unexpected given what had earlier been observed — kissed the other man. And kept kissing him, as the other responded with apparent eagerness, hands reaching out to clutch and caress, bodies now entwining in a very different kind of exchange than the one Rick had been witness to before.
Rick swallowed. Guiltily, he knew he should move on; he wasn't meant to be witness to this, any of it. But tearing his eyes away proved to be a rather difficult proposition.
He was...well, curious. He'd seen a lot — and done a lot — already in his time around the Leppards (and before then to be perfectly honest; joining a rock band at fifteen wasn't the only way he'd been "rushing" ahead of himself), but this was something different.
And, fuck it, more than a little stimulating, but not that that took much at his age, either. Rick certainly knew some men did this sort of thing, and what they did past the groping and kissing too, and he couldn't say, in all honestly, that he found the idea repulsive in the way he'd gathered men who weren't queer were supposed to. Not that he'd had the chance to do much more than think about it before.
And maybe whack off on some — all right, more than a few — occasions while thinking about it.
Maybe even while thinking about one or two of his own mates in the band, but he damned well wasn't going to admit to that to any of them any time soon.
So, this, then...well. If he stayed nice and quiet here under the shadow of the van, maybe he'd get to enjoy himself a damned good show. An educational one, too.
The one with the shorter hair had the other pinned against their van, now, their bodies grinding together through their clothes. The chill of the winter air was soon forgotten by Rick under the growing warmth of arousal. Rick's eyes lingered on the movement of the one man's ass, the other's hands groping and squeezing for it. He could imagine their dicks hard and pressing together now through the fabric of their clothes, and fuck...he realized he was rubbing his own hand against his groin as he was watching, and he was already hard as a rock. If this kept up and he wasn't careful, he might end up needing a quick change in the back of the van before the others got back — or else he'd have some good explaining to do come the morning.
Still, pleasure outweighed his worries for the moment as this erotic scene continued to play out before his eyes. Hands, hair, bodies, tongues...what he couldn't make out clearly he could imagine well enough, could imagine how it would feel to be one of them in that moment and fuck if he didn't want to know what that really felt like.
But then, just as suddenly as the mood had shifted from tussling to fondling before, it shifted again as the one with longer hair did or said something and laughed loudly. The other suddenly disentangled himself and pushed off the van with a curse, stalking off as the longer-haired one started yelling after him.
"All right, fuck off and see what that will get you, then! Go on, Mister Fucking Superstar! Fucking cock tease is all you are, you cunt."
The other said nothing as he stalked off toward the cafeteria entrance, just straightening his clothes out as he went. The one remaining pounded angrily on the side of the van and kicked at a remaining piece of broken glass, sending it skittering across the pavement in Rick's direction.
And Rick knew that he needed to make himself scare, and quick. While the shadow of the vehicle provided him some coverage, he'd also been using the others' distraction to his advantage and no longer had that working for him. Arousal fading fast under the need of self-preservation, he tried to slip away back to the cover of the other side of the van.
But he didn't move fast enough. The remaining man happened to catch his movement as he made to escape.
"Enjoy the show, did you?" he shouted to Rick. "Well, you can fuck off, too, if you're waiting for more."
For whatever reason, Rick didn't run but stopped instead. Fleeing would have made sense to most anyone else, but the rush of embarrassment at being caught watching — and then maybe something else — made him halt and stand his ground.
"I've seen better," he challenged, slipping his hands into his jeans pockets and feigning disinterest, even as his heart was pounding out sloppy paradiddles in his chest.
That seemed to do the trick, catching the other man off-guard. He actually laughed a little at that, and then started walking toward where Rick stood.
Panic, again for a moment as Rick wasn't sure if he was approaching for a fight or...well, whatever else. Rick stepped back under the shadow of the van, even as the other man stood now just a few feet from him. Closer up, Rick could make out his features more clearly — angular but not unattractive, just harsh under his accusatory glare. He stood some inches taller than Rick and smirked as he asked, "So, what is it, you lurk about carparks in the middle of the night to get your rocks off?"
He talked a little funny — sounded American, only not quite. "Was just tryin' to enjoy some quiet until you two started mucking about. Hard to ignore the racket."
The man reached in his pocket, and for a moment Rick braced himself for a blow or something worse until he saw him pull out a pack of cigarettes instead. He actually offered one to Rick, who shook his head no. "Suit yourself." The man lit up, then walked over to lean against the van to Rick's right side. "So what's your name?"
"Rick."
"Rick. You look kind of young to be hanging out at the Blue Boar in the middle of the night, Rick. Shouldn't you be tucked in bed by mum and dad, ready to go to school tomorrow morning?"
"I'm in a band. Done with school years ago." Not really a lie — though he'd only quit school a short time ago, he'd known since he'd first sat behind a kit that music was his only calling. "I'm not that young."
"Could have fooled me. So what do you play, guitar?"
"Drums."
The other snorted. "Now that figures."
"Why?"
"Nevermind."
Silence settled for a moment as the blond sucked on his cigarette. Before he quite knew what he was doing, Rick blurted out, "I could finish off what that other bloke started."
"What's that?"
Rick shrugged, even as his heart kept pounding out those paradiddles, now at an even quicker tempo. "Lend a hand, you know...seemed like he stormed off before getting the job done."
The blond eyed him suspiciously. "I'm not paying for it, if that's your game."
"I'm not a bloody hustler, I'm just..."
"You're what?"
"...Curious," he answered truthfully.
And the truth earned him another smirk. "You do realize how that ended for the cat," the man said, then took another drag on his cigarette. He looked over and gave Rick a more serious glance through narrowed eyes, the scrutiny intense, enough to make Rick fidget. He reached out then and touched Rick's hair, toying for a moment with his curls. Rick caught his breath and wondered briefly what the fuck he was getting himself into.
Then the other dropped his hand and just shook his head. "Thanks for the offer, but you'd better find someone else to satisfy that curiosity. I'm not into pity fucks from twinks in carparks."
"Fuck you, then!"
"Maybe some other time — when you're legal and know what you're doing." The blond shrugged himself off the side of the van and started to walk off. Turning back, he called to Rick, "A few words of advice?"
Not that he was in the mood to listen, but, "Yeah?"
"Put away the sticks and get on the mic. Singing's where it at in this business. Put that mouth of yours to some better use than what you're all curious about." He tossed away the rest of his cigarette, grinding it out with his shoe. "And don't get fucked up on your bandmates. It rarely ends well." He headed off at that, disappearing into the mist and darkness.
It took Rick a few minutes to exhale the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Christ, he thought to himself, what the hell had I been thinking? What got into my head? He couldn't decide if he were more relieved or disappointed things didn't go...well, the way he'd offered. Nor could he quite figure out what had possessed him to offer it in the first place, beyond a bad case of raging hormones that were making him think with his dick instead of his brain more often than he cared to realize.
"Bloody hell, Rick!"
The shout startled him enough to make him nearly jump straight into the air — it certainly made his heart wedge solidly in his throat for a moment. He spun around and it turned out to be Joe, come up behind him.
"What're you doin' out here, anyway? I know the food is shite but why not come in for a cuppa with the rest of us."
"Nah, s'okay, Joe. I think...think I'll just catch a quick nap in the van while everyone else finishes up. The racket this lot makes, probably be the last sleep I get the rest of the night." He didn't exactly fancy going inside the cafeteria where the other two men probably were at now.
Joe frowned, but apparently could see Rick was not to be swayed. "Okay, just thought I'd best check on you, is all."
"I'm fine. Just tired," Rick insisted, moving around to the other side of the van to slide open the door to the back and climb inside. He didn't really think he'd get much of any sleep the rest of the night, not in the van nor whenever they made it back home. He had a little too much on his mind now for that. A little too much to think about for a long time yet to come...
*
Winter 1987
He was at a party at someone's house — Stewart couldn't tell you whose (house or party), nor what exactly the party was for, but it was Los Angeles in eighties, and generally you didn't need much more of a reason or excuse than that. And it was sometime between Thanksgiving and Christmas, so the very tasteful and expensive house was done up in very expensive and tasteful tinsel and lights (at least as tasteful as tinsel ever could be), though these holiday decorations never really seemed quite right to him in places where there was no snow on the ground nor even the slightest chill in the air.
But that was Los Angeles for you, anyway.
Beautiful people milled all around doing all their usual beautiful people things: sipping their white wines and laughing too loudly at stupid jokes, telling everyone how brilliant each other were. That was the problem with cocaine: everything and everyone seemed brilliant through blow-covered glasses. You only realized how much of an ass you all really were again once the high wore off.
Stewart had sworn off the white powder years before; never really cared for it to begin with except as rocket fuel when necessary to get through insane touring schedules. But a few years had passed since those times — a few years and new career. Hollywood was where his attentions were drawn now, and that meant schmoozing and networking, like it or not. At least that's what Miles kept saying, and as much as a pain in the ass as his brother was, generally he was right about such things.
Only Stewart didn't find himself much in the mood for it, not tonight. He couldn't even remember who exactly he was supposed to be here to schmooze — some director or other Miles had said might be interested in him scoring his next film? Probably, okay, whatever, only so far as Stewart could tell the guy hadn't shown yet and he was growing tired of even the more well-endowed starlets and starlets-in-hoping milling about asking him That question:
"So when are the Police going to do another album?"
"Fucking never, thank Stingo for that," was the answer he'd have loved to have given them, but thanks again to Miles he had to keep his mouth shut on that matter, and just smile and give some bullshit meaningless reply instead.
As if to further taunt him in some twisted act of divine intervention, the stereo blasting through the spacious living room suddenly switched from the peppy inanity of Madonna's latest to Sting crooning "We'll Be Together."
Fuck it, Stewart thought. I'm finishing this beer and then I'm out of here.
"Nice party," a voice opined next to him.
Stewart bit back his first sarcastic response to that remark and turned to see who the voice belonged to. Average height, curly brown hair, rather cherubic face, looked like a kid save for eyes that looked considerably older; couldn't say on first look-over that he recognized him. Most instantly noticeable about his appearance was the way his boxy-cut jacket was pinned back on the left side where an arm should have been.
A physical imperfection in this town? Stewart mused for a moment. Perish the thought...
"I suppose it's all right, for what it is," he answered noncommittally, taking another sip of his beer, deciding to play nice for now. At least for as long as it merited the effort.
"Not one for the party scene, then?" the kid asked, his voice betraying an English accent that was oddly comforting to this American who'd spent most of his life living across the pond.
"Not this kind of party."
"I know what you mean. Sometimes it's all about going through the motions, isn't it?"
Something pinged him as vaguely familiar about the kid, but Stewart couldn't place it. So many people he'd met or been introduced to through the years, most of them all blurred together — though how many of them had one-arm, that should have been a little easier to place.
But that at least he was able to pinpoint after a longer moment's thought. "You're that drummer from..." he scavenged up the name, "...Def Leppard, aren't you?"
"I suppose the arm gives me away — or lack thereof." He said it with a small smile. Kid had at least had a sense of humor; Stewart liked that.
"I'm Stewart."
"I know, though I don't think we've ever met before...or have we?"
"I don't think so. Or if we did, I was probably too high to remember."
"Sounds about right. I'm Rick."
"Cheers, Rick. So you don't exactly look like you're having the time of your life tonight, either," Stewart surmised.
"No, I suppose not. How is it you can be at the top of it all, surrounded by more people than you can stand..."
"...and end up feeling completely alone?" Stewart finished the thought easily. Rick turned to look at him curiously. Stewart took another sip of his beer and glanced away, wishing for a cigarette. Fuck, he'd been trying to cut back for a while and left his pack back in his hotel room.
Bad idea on a night like this one.
"I suppose you would understand. I mean, having been in a really successful band and all," Rick replied, adding the second part after Stewart's raised eyebrow at the first.
"Hmm."
They stood silently for a bit, just watching the room buzz about around them. Then Rick observed, "Someone once gave me some very good advice that I wish I'd listened to, in retrospect."
"And what was that?"
"Don't get fucked up with your bandmates."
Stewart followed Rick's gaze as it now traveled across the room, where it seemed to land on two other men, dressed in the finest of rock and roll excess of the time and of course accessorized by several buxom young ladies. Even so, the men's attentions seemed more focused on each other than their eager admirers of the opposite sex, in a way that was quite familiar to Stewart.
"Now that actually sounds like something I might've said." Something I probably should have listened to myself...
"Can't recall who it was...or when...just in hindsight, you know..."
"...everything is twenty-twenty. One of the sad misfortunes of our existence." Stewart finished off his beer and shoved his hands into his pockets, still itching for that smoke. The night was still young but this party was growing very, very old. Casually, he suggested, "You feel like blowing this sorry soiree and getting a drink somewhere else? Or...something?"
Rick shrugged. "Something sounds good. Why not?"
Why not indeed. Stewart really didn't know yet what something he had in mind, but the prospect of finding out was certainly more appealing than lingering here.
*
It wasn't until much later in the night, in a hotel room lit only by the lights of Beverly Hills outside the window, that Rick began to piece long-forgotten memories together. Memories of a late night on the road home, back when he really had just been a kid, even if he'd been so sure of himself, so damned cocky that he knew it all — or at least was prepared to know it.
The arrogance of youth, wasn't that what they said? And fuck it — he was barely in his mid-twenties now. He could only imagine what a future self would have to say about his current reflections.
Stewart lay on the bed smoking a cigarette and saying nothing. Apparently a good fuck was the one thing that quieted him down. Maybe all drummers were like that. But the silence felt good, now, as had the activities leading up to it.
A time and a place for everything — another cliché perhaps, but one that surely had a basis in fact. A drummer, after all, should know the importance of good timing, of not rushing the beat and coming in too soon.
Maybe that was a lesson Rick was just beginning to learn.
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