That afternoon, the band travelled across five hundred and seventy-three kilometers of empty November prairie. A light snowfall overnight had left the ground a dull white-grey and made the horizon almost indistinguishable from the sky. A few final snowflakes drifted lazily downward, like the last stragglers to leave on the morning after a party, having woken up propped on a cushion against the living room wall, the host politely implying they had no breakfast to offer.

Jaymie drank three coffees and drove the whole way there, planning their next tour in his head and occasionally sharing non sequitur anecdotes. When they crossed the Saskatchewan border, he was coming up with a series of skill-testing questions for Aaron, to determine whether he was truly ready for tour.

"We played a show, and now we're getting a drink, and we realize we haven't seen Jo for fifteen minutes. A quick scan around the bar, and she's not there. Do you: A—freak the fuck out and call the police because she's probably been kidnapped by some very large kidnappers, B, have a panic attack and despair, C, send a text and check outside because she's probably just having a smoke, or D, relax and give it some time because Jo is a grown woman and very able to take care of herself, and she probably just needed a short break from us, as many people eventually seem to do."

Aaron thought for a moment. “Well, she doesn’t smoke cigarettes. Unless maybe you’re also outside smoking a cigarette, in which case maybe I’m outside smoking a cigarette too…”

"Not a trick question, Aar," said Jaymie, rotating the van's radio dial. There were two stations available and both were pop-country. He fished for CDs between the seats and settled on the new Daffodile album, which he'd obtained at a show the previous weekend.

“Ok, option C, but with a bit of the vibe of option B,” said Aaron, satisfied.

“Either C or D would have been acceptable, but I’ll give it to you,” said Jaymie.

Jo swapped her guitar magazine for a gardening magazine and blew a soft, grey cloud of smoke out the window into the soft, grey sky. Rex performed a final spell check on a 1500-word paper about Charles Manson they'd just written for AP English.

“Ok, here’s one! We’re being hosted by a friend’s friend’s parents who like supporting up-and-coming musicians. They tell us we have free reign over all the couches in the house but we mustn’t go in the basement. We should: freak the fuck out because A, our hosts probably lure bands into their house with promises of a soft couch and a granola breakfast and then keep them locked in the basement forever, B, they are murderous Nazi sympathizers who probably keep their Nazi paraphernalia down there and they don’t want anyone to find it, C, they are kinky 50-Shades types and they don’t want us coming across their sexy torture dungeon until they suss out if we’re into that stuff—also they didn’t realize we’re mostly siblings—or we relax because D, they’re boomers with a ton of useless shit they hoarded down there and they’re a little embarrassed about it.”

“Well,” said Aaron, “Most of those answers aren’t necessarily mutually exclusive, but I’m catching on to the pattern here and I feel like I’m not supposed to freak the fuck out…”

“Who wants to proofread my cult paper?” asked Rex.

“Rex!” Jaymie exclaimed. “Forget Manson. You should start your own cult! Teach your wisdom to the people! We’ll all join! Right?”

“Sure, I’ll join,” said Jo absently.

“Rexientology,” said Aaron.

“Rexistentialism!” said Jaymie.

Six and a half hours after leaving home, they arrived downtown. They pub was on a street full of shops and cafes and it took them four laps around the block to determine which unmarked back-alley door was the correct one to load into. A jovial bartender showed them where to set up.

The bar was packed with people who had no interest in watching a touring band. It was Friday evening and there was a football game on, and everyone was in a boozy Grey Cup haze, feverishly transfixed by the seven or eight large screens systematically placed so as to be viewable from any position in the room.

The Bukowskis played two sets of country music to the oblivious crowd. A table of six sat near the stage area—a cleared-out section of floor in front of the window—and alternated between conversing rambunctiously or staring, engrossed, at a TV slightly above and to the left of Jaymie's head, while he emoted the contents of his heart in an increasingly exaggerated drawl. By the end of the set he was practicing his improvisation by replacing numerous great classic lyrics with ad libbed phrases of his own.

“I’m so lonesome I could cry”… “If I only had one pie”… “I’m a lone gun in Shanghai”…

Afterwards, they were provided a meal and one drink each for free, and the bartender, who also hadn’t listened to a note they’d played, paid them their guarantee and told them it was a great set and they should come back any time they wanted. The Bukowskis had no way of knowing this early in their careers that this might be one of the best types of show they’d ever get to play.

As they finished their meals, the friendly bartender asked where they were headed next, and. Jaymie explained that they'd been hired for a house show the following night.

“Whereabouts?”

"It's on the edge of the city." Jaymie told him the address. "Some kind of co-op house? I'm not sure. But they're throwing a party, from what I understand."

The bartender, who'd been wiping down the counter, paused mid-motion. "Do you... have a connection there?" he asked.

"No, they just reached out to us!" said Jaymie. As he considered it, he realized that he didn't know how his contact had heard of the Bukowski Brothers. "There's a college station here that plays one of our EPs. They must have heard it," he concluded. "They sent me a message asking us to play there if we ever toured west. So, I decided to tour west!"

“Interesting.” The man’s boisterous manner had dissipated. “Interesting.”

Jaymie glanced behind him; Jo and Aaron were tearing down their gear just out of earshot. Rex appeared to be half listening while they finished their linguine, a book of poetry open on their lap, but Jaymie wasn’t worried about Rex.

“You know them?” he asked.

“Not really. Most people know of them, but they don’t leave that house much.” He went back to wiping down the counter. “I’m just surprised they’d hire a band. They usually take care of their own… entertainment.”

“Intriguing,” said Rex mildly.

Jaymie raised his eyebrows. “Religious fanatics!” He grinned. “Will they feed us delicious baking?”

“Maybe cut some of the swears out,” Rex suggested.

“I’ll replace the inappropriate lines with stories about my favourite desserts. Maybe they’ll get the hint.”

“Oh my god, just because you found that one pastry stand at that one farmer’s market once and now you think all religious groups are bakers.” Rex slurped their last noodle and slid a bookmark back into their anarchist verses.

“And speaking of censorship, we may need a new bass player. You know I’ll always accept you Rexy, but your appearance is offensive. You have twelve hours to die your hair back to a respectable colour and decide on a reasonable gender for yourself.”

“Go to hell,” said Rex pleasantly.

“I’m joking—don’t ever change! I’m just trying to get you warmed up for the type of people we could encounter. Tour, Rex! You never know what to expect!”

“Look,” the bartender broke in. “I’m sure you’ll be fine. Just… don’t stay there too long, ok? They get up to some weird shit.”

“What kind of stuff?” asked Rex.

“I don’t know. Ceremonies. They got some attention over the past few years—I guess there was a successful filmmaker or a writer or something living there. I’ve heard of a few people who went to see what they were all about. The ones who stayed ended up preaching some weird ideas or something, I don’t know.”

“Well, they must be selling something good if they have that successful a conversion rate,” said Jaymie. “Maybe we’ll join!”

“Like I said, I wouldn’t stay too long.” The man moved to the other end of the bar, where a guy in a green football jersey was urging his brain through a soup of alcohol and post-game disappointment to remember how his wallet worked.

“Gotcha. Don’t drink the Kool-Aid, as they say.” Jaymie winked and stood to go pack up his synthesizer. Rex followed him reluctantly, though they were obviously curious to hear more.

“We’ll find out tomorrow, Rex,” said Jaymie. “If they’ve got something to sell us, guaranteed we’ll hear all about it.”

“Don’t we seem like kind of a weird choice for a band, though, if that’s true? We’re basically unknown, and not commercial, or religious. In fact, we’re sort of offensive. And they didn’t bring us all the way here for our country covers.”

Jaymie hesitated. The show organizer had assured him that The Bukowskis would be paid, so they must have their reasons for hiring them, which could only be…

“It’s the music! Rex, have you forgotten we write excellent music? Have a little faith!”

“Check it out, our team won,” said Jo, passing them on her way out with her gear. She gestured around the bar, where the excitement of the game had morphed into an air of drunken melancholy.

“What! I didn’t even know who was playing who!” said Jaymie. He looked around. “These poor suckers. We’ll have to celebrate. We’ll get some wine on the way to… where are we going?”

They loaded out and found the address where they were staying without difficulty. Their hosts were in fact a friend’s friend’s parents, and they had left a key for them in the mailbox before going to sleep. There was a large spare bed, a mattress on the floor, and a couch, all prepared with fresh bedding, and granola and bread set out for their breakfasts. A note on the counter urged them to make themselves at home but please avoid any of the rooms down the hallway to the left on the second floor. Jaymie surreptitiously slipped this note into his pocket before Aaron could notice it, and they all slept soundly.

***

Jaymie had decided that a tour must be treated at least a little bit like a holiday in order to avoid fatigue, and the next day they slept in, went thrifting, ate at a trendy café offering an entirely separate vegan menu, if that was your thing, and walked around a park in light jackets enjoying some unseasonably nice weather.

In the evening, they found the big blue house on the edge of the city and pulled the van into a driveway already packed with several vehicles. The property had spacious yards in both front and back, and from the driveway they could see a back deck, gazebo, and a small kids’ play area, all well-furnished with lawn chairs and swinging couches.

They were greeted by an affable woman in her early thirties who introduced herself as Miranda. She had a cropped pixie cut and round glasses that hugely magnified her eyes. She led them into a wide front hall and showed them the living room through an arch to their right. It was spacious and lined with couches and a few arm chairs, with cushions in front of the rug they were to set up on, for those who wanted to sit close to them. It was an ideal setup for a small show.

“We’ve told everyone the music will start around eight, but there’s no rush. Do you need anything to eat? The kitchen is through there. Would you like a tour? Perhaps after would be better. That’s Steve, sitting over there. And Juniper, who he’s talking to. Please tell me if there’s anything you need.”

Miranda clasped her hands expectantly. Steve, middle aged man with a thick beard, waved from the far corner of the room. Juniper, who wore a long skirt and looked to be in her early twenties, smiled and looked the other way. The living room was clean, the walls adorned with framed photos, the corners decorated by a few tall house plants. It was, by all appearances, quite normal.

“The others are in the kitchen and upstairs. They won’t bother you while you’re setting up. Put your bags here for now—” She showed them to a small room on the other side of the entrance. Soft conversation could be heard from down the hall.

“It’s so good to finally meet you, Mr. Bukowski,” she finished, a little breathlessly. “We’ve read all your poetry.”

His bandmates looked at him questioningly. Jaymie did not write poetry.

“Wonderful!” he said. He wrote lyrics, and that was pretty close. They went to collect their equipment.

***

“On March ninth of the year nineteen-ninety-four, at 1:40 in the morning, the greatest poet in America passed out of this life and into legend.” He left his usual one-beat pause.

“The greatest poet in America,” said the audience, as one voice.

“My name, uh…” Jaymie stuttered in surprise and lost his thread, which had only happened to him two other times in his life.

The first time he had been ten years old and playing Marco Polo in a swimming pool while recounting the plotline of an Aquaman comic that would form the basis for their next pool game, and he’d been kicked in the head mid-sentence and nearly drowned. He was eventually dragged to the surface by a frantic Aaron, who had been It, but broke the rules and opened his eyes when the Aquaman anecdote that had been drawing him toward his prey ended abruptly and forced him to start yelling Marco! again, without response. A lifeguard yanked Jaymie out onto dry land, and, after coughing up a few gallons of chlorine-water, he couldn’t remember where he’d left off and had to restart the story.

(Aaron was never given much credit for his part in the rescue, being the one who accidentally kicked him in the first place. When they added up the kick, plus the rescue, plus the short period of Aaron shaking Jaymie by the shoulders and screaming while the frustrated lifeguard attempted to do CPR, plus the tearful reunion when Jaymie came to, it was determined that Aaron was It again.)

The second time he was sixteen and playing his first show, and a girl from his drama class was watching from very close to the stage. They were covering a Sublime song, and she had her eyes closed and was singing along, and he started watching her sing.

Nobody had sung along with him before for their own pleasure, rather than because he was pressuring them to harmonize, and he and the girl bonded for a magical eternity that lasted three and a half bars, until she got the words wrong, and then he got the words wrong—he knew what they were, but he'd been watching her mouth and he second-guessed himself, and he didn't recover until the next chorus came around. By then, she and her friends had wandered away to get a snack.

You could never trust an audience member; they were fickle and had no true loyalty. You yourself would become fickle and flighty as soon as you were part of an audience, no matter how hard you vowed that you were going to support the artist and not wander off as soon as you heard they were selling cinnamon beavertails for five dollars at a stand across the field.

He quit drama class—and school altogether, for that matter—and swore that he would never slip up again.

“My name is Jaymie Bukowski, and I was born in the same instant that the great writer Charles Bukowski slipped away into the afterlife.”

“The great writer Charles Bukowski,” intoned the audience.

“Bukowski was not ready to die,” said Jaymie, leaving more space, already acclimatizing to the customs of this crowd, finding his rhythm.

“Not ready to die,” said the audience.

These people—these people really got him.