I Hate Pink

I worked with a six-piece band in the early eighties, playing music and traveling the country in a fleet of gypsy vehicles that barely rolled from one town to the next. We had two cargo vans for the heavy gear, and a few old cars for the lightweight items, such as guitars and bags of strings. There were a few duffle bags of clothes in the mix, but not many.

One of our vans was a Scooby-Doo looking thing; lime green and gaudy. The aluminum ladder on the back door led to the roof of the van, so we could pile even more junk on top. At first glance, one would have a hard time believing the van could make it across town, much less across the country, but the hippy-haven managed to haul an upright piano and plenty of heavy coffins from town to town on a year-round basis.

Back then, unknown bands were lucky to get as much work as we did, clearly the result of our hard working bandleader. He’d landed us on the Holiday Inn Hotel circuit, and we traveled for several years—one Motel to the next, playing various hotel lounges for one week at a time. The routine was simple enough and it kept us working five nights a week, leaving just enough time to break down, load up, and travel to the next location; then set up to perform for another five evenings.

We often used the green van as our personal limousine once it was unloaded. Sure we turned some heads, but it was the only vehicle that could transport everyone at the same time.

We’d just finished a show in Marshall, Texas one night, when some bar patrons offered to buy breakfast for the entire band. We lived on the road and made very little money. Each of us had developed strange eating habits, to say the least. Speaking for myself, I ate chicken fingers most every night. They were easy to cook and fit perfectly on the hot plate of a coffee maker. Not that we filled the Scooby Van with groceries very often, but when we did, we’d stash our grub at the bottom of the ice machine in the hallway. 

Point being; a free meal at a sit-down restaurant was a gift from the saints.

 I surprised everyone by declining the offer, though. Not only did I say no, but I rudely stated they couldn’t pay me enough to eat in the grease-bucket they’d chosen. I was uncomfortable with the angry scowls for a few seconds, but I held my stance, even chuckled inside, because I had a plan.

As everyone piled in to the lime-green, hunk o’ tin, I was waiting in the shrubs. When the green bandit backed out of the parking space, I ran towards them and grabbed the aluminum ladder. I knew the ptomaine-tavern was just across the overpass, so I jumped on back door and held on tight, clinging to the flimsy bars with all my might as the van pulled away.

My plan was to jump from the ladder when the van pulled into the parking lot of the Diner. Easy enough. I could run inside the restaurant and grab a table before they’d even parked. When the gang came rolling in the restaurant, I’d shout from across the room and ask them to join me at my table. Not the biggest stunt in the world, but I knew the bunch of meatheads would never figure out what I’d done; and thus, I’d have one on them. In our world of never-ending pranks, this would score a few points.  

As the van pulled out the parking lot, I suddenly questioned my prank. The ladder didn’t seem all that sturdy. Then I saw the Diner, or at least the sign flashing as they passed it by. Obviously they had decided to go somewhere else. No problem; I’m tough and the next greasy spoon was just a few more blocks away. Boy… am I gonna’ get ‘em good. Suddenly, the van began moving in a circular motion; the driver was turning around.

Good call. I approve.

The winding went on a little long, though, and the force of the turning had me clinging on for dear life. Then the van straightened out, but it didn’t slow down. I realized the gang had taken the circular ramp to the highway. The van accelerated and two beats later the green monster was cruising seventy miles per hour. Before I could say road-kill, white lines were zipping by and the pavement was whooshing just under my butt.

Mother Hubbard. I was screwed.

 With each bump in the road, the flimsy ladder wiggled, and I somehow had a visual of every person I had mocked, especially those who had told me to repent. But it was too late to leap off the ladder.

After a few miles of choice language, I saw some lights appear. Holy Mama… I’d been spared the skin-ripping fate. I didn’t see a Diner, though, only flashing lights. Then I saw a shadow of my head on the van, blinking in sequence with the red, neon lights.

 I heard a siren just then—only a spit-second squeal, but enough to rattle my teeth. Double shit. The police were on our tail.

The brake lights on the van exploded in my face and burned my retinas. It was a devilish glare, adding to my torture. As the van slowed down, the police car crept close enough for me to let go and sit on the hood.

I chuckled a bit, thinking my prank may have worked out after all. At the very least I’d given the guys a good scare, because I knew the ‘pull-over’ routine quite well; spray Lysol and hide the spleaf in a tiny mayonnaise jar under the passenger seat.

I ran to the drivers’ door and approached my band mate, Teddy, hands at my stomach, snickering at the terror on his face. He was bug-eyed at first, then baffled by my presence. Man, was I hitting pay dirt with the pranks.

 The police stormed towards me with guns drawn. My scoffing came to a screeching halt and my hands hit the air like a scared little bitch. I’m certain my legs wobbled.

“On the ground—now!” the officers said. My face hit the pavement as though I’d tripped and fell.

I couldn’t see Teddy anymore, but I heard him roll his window down and ask if he could get out of the van. Seeing my plans had fizzled and died, I spoke, first confessing, then apologizing for my foolish actions.

Teddy walked right past me. It’s kind of hard to see anything when you’re handcuffed and lying face down on the highway, but I had a bird’s eye view underneath the vehicle. I could see Teddy’s feet facing the policeman on the other side of the van.

Knowing how angry Teddy must have been, I hid my sly little smirk. Heck, I even chuckled. This prank had taken a whole new twist. I couldn’t have planned it any better if I’d tried. The band would hate me for this one, but I had just scored points—big time.

When Teddy and the policeman came back towards me, I humbly accepted my defeat. One of the officers was kind enough to help me stand, then he ever-so-roughly escorted me to the back of the squad car.

“Wait… What the? I’m with the band.” I said. “Teddy! Tell ‘em!”

“This guy has been stalking us for days,” Teddy told the officer. “We had to pay his bar tab because he told a waitress the same thing; that he was with the band.”

“Okay—I get it. You got me, Teddy. Jokes on me. Now tell ‘em the truth.”

“What a creep,” Teddy said to the cop. “We’ve tried to shake this guy, but he keeps showing up. Maybe now he’ll leave us alone.”

My neck was pushed down and my body shoved on a plastic bench of a backseat. As the police car pulled away, I saw Teddy standing by the van with his arms crossed at his chest. I could have sworn he winked at me.

 As much as I tried to explain my stupid prank, nothing got me out of my predicament. I spent the night in jail—a pink jail, with pink bars and pink walls, even a pink bench of a bed. Evidently pink had been chosen as a psychological deterrent for people with a violent nature. The only thing not pink was the stainless steel crapper.

A few women appeared the next morning, faces I’d never seen before. Seems Teddy had sent a few groupies to the police station to spring me from jail. The women paid the ninety-dollar fine and I was released. I suppose if we didn’t have to perform that night, Teddy might have left me in there longer.

I was a little less eager to prank the band after that, but each time I see a ladder on the back of a passing van, I remember how much I hate the color pink.