Every Saturday, we’ll be posting a new illustration by David Lester. The Mecca Normal guitarist is visually documenting people, places and events from his band’s 26-year run, with text by vocalist Jean Smith.
They wait. Drink some more beer. Celia is the band’s manager. She booked the tour, rented the van, booked the flights. They’re three-quarters of the way through, and they’re losing money big time. Celia approaches the bartender again, asking about getting paid. The bartender glibly tells her that the promoter left, that they aren’t getting paid. He thinks this is pretty funny.
Celia sees a small cash register near the club entrance. Open and unplugged. Their gear is in the van. The van is right out front. Celia feels around in the pocket of her silver lamé jumpsuit for the key. The guys are standing together, near the entrance.
“Come on,” she says as she strides past them, picking up the cash register on her way. Celia grabs it by the cord, its tail, she thinks, and smashes it to smithereens against the exterior wall of the club. Chunks of sparkling metal fly through the air under the streetlights of Sunset Boulevard. A beefy bouncer grabs her and tries to pull her back inside. Celia is trying to get her hand in her pocket to get the key. “Can we deal with this tomorrow?” she asks the bouncer who is now shaking and pulling her.
Celia tosses the key to M, who catches it, gets in the driver’s side and opens the passenger door for P. Celia allows herself to be shaken until the side door slides open. She wriggles free and jumps in. As she’s sliding the door closed, someone from the band they came to play with, not the showcase band, blocks the door with one hand and shoves money at her with the other.
“Take it,” he says. Their eyes meet. Time stops. Celia doesn’t want their money, but they need it, and he wants them to have it. This is an independent-rock music moment, people, circa 1998.
They get on the freeway and head north. Celia is thinking “felony,” “grand theft”—TV-show words. It can’t be good to smash a cash register to bits outside a nightclub in the United States Of Capitalism. No, it cannot be too good.
The record-label boss finds out where they’re staying in Portland. He phones from NYC. Celia takes the phone from the hand of their host.
“I got a call from the club in L.A., Celia,” the boss says.
“Oh?” says Celia.
“The promoter said you smashed some stuff up the other night.”
“Oh ya?” says Celia.
“Did you?”
“Ya, some stuff got broken.”
“Cool,” the boss says.
