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The journalist was late. Alan had a personal philosophy that any time a journalist was late, he reserved the right to be surly and/or close-mouthed during the interview without it reflecting poorly on him in the media. Maybe that wasn't fair in a place like Los Angeles, where apparently it took 45 minutes just to cross the fucking street during rush-hour traffic, but the journalist lived here – she should know better.
He sighed and checked his watch again – 10 bloody minutes she was late – and blinked when a set of keys jangled in front of his face. Alan looked up through his sunglasses at Fletch, who grinned and shook the keys again.
"Here, take 'em," Fletch said.
"Why?"
Fletch dropped the keys in Alan's lap. "They're for the convertible."
"You're giving me a convertible?"
"Yeah," Fletch said. "Well, it's a rental, I mean. Mart and I got it yesterday, remember? To drive up the coast?"
Alan frowned at him. He did not remember. "You and Mart drove up the coast?"
"Well, no," Fletch said. "We only made it to, what's it, Santa Mona?"
"Santa Monica."
"That's it. Yeah, Mart got fed up with the traffic so we stopped there."
Alan picked up the keys. "And now you're giving it to me so I can return it for you? Isn't that what Daryl's for?"
"I'm giving it to you to drive, idiot." Fletch sighed dramatically, and bent over to whisper. "Get him out of town, all right? Just a little road trip. It's been a rough few weeks."
Alan didn't have to ask who he was talking about, but he lifted his eyes to look over Fletch's shoulder. Dave was standing on the other side of the hotel lobby with Daryl, who was talking and gesticulating wildly. Dave had his sunglasses on too, and he was nodding in a vague, rhythmic way that made it obvious he wasn't listening. Well, obvious to anyone other than Daryl, apparently.
Alan folded the keys in his hand and looked at Fletch again. "Yeah. All right."
+++
They'd been touring nonstop for more than three months – first all around England and the UK, then over to Europe, and finally the states. They were all exhausted, but Dave was taking the brunt of it. He'd been using his steroids almost every night, and every morning his voice was scratchy and raw for a few hours, and he'd be uncharacteristically quiet. Any time they got on the bus to head for the next stop Dave went immediately to the back and curled up and fell asleep. Within minutes. It had been something of a joke at first among the rest of the band, but it wasn't really funny anymore. You'd never know it to watch Dave on stage – he was explosive and full of life in front of an audience, any audience – but Dave was pushing up against the edge of his limits, Alan thought.
Alan wasn't feeling up to par himself. He'd suffered a bad bout of food poisoning in Houston two weeks before, and he'd spent 24 miserable hours on the bus to Denver throwing up every 15 minutes and feeling, quite literally, like he was going to die. He'd taken a week to fully recover, although he hadn't missed a single gig, and he was still feeling run down and beat up.
And the worst of it was that they still had more than a month of touring left, starting in Japan in a week. It was a sad state of affairs when he was looking forward to the long overseas flight to get a little rest. At least they wouldn't have to stop for petrol or toilet breaks on an airplane, and there was always the slim chance they'd get bumped up to first class.
Alan looked at the keys in his hand and wondered if he really should grab Dave and go for a long drive. Mart and Fletch were leaving for Japan later this afternoon, but Alan and Dave were staying behind in Los Angeles another day, to do a few interviews. The journalists really wanted Dave, who was starting to become the real star of Depeche Mode, but Dave had asked Alan to stay too, and he couldn't think of a good reason not to. Other than having to deal with journalists, but they all hated that job and it wasn't fair stick it all on Dave.
The journalist was now 20 minutes late, Alan realized, and with a groan he stood up from the chair where he'd been waiting in the hotel lobby. Daryl was still talking Dave's ear off.
Alan walked up to the concierge and asked if there was somewhere they could go, just to get out of the urban sprawl for a few hours. The concierge recommended the coast, naturally, and Alan waved him off – he'd seen the California beaches, and they were beautiful, but they were packed with crowds even on the grayest of days, and Alan was tired of people.
"You do realize you're in Southern California, sir," the concierge said. "We kind of have a lot of people around here."
Alan rubbed at his eyes, which felt gritty and dry. "Never mind. How do I get to the coast?"
But when he looked up, the concierge was staring off into space, a thoughtful look on his face. He finally scribbled a few lines on a sheet of hotel stationery and handed it to Alan.
"Actually, I think this should do the trick," he said.
Alan squinted at the paper. The directions seemed simple enough. "Thanks."
He glanced at his watch – 30 minutes late now. The journalist was out of luck. Alan walked over to Dave and Daryl, looped an arm over Dave's shoulders, and tugged him away.
"Just need to borrow Gahan for a few minutes," Alan said. "Be right back."
+++
Alan stopped a few blocks from the hotel to call and leave a message for Daryl explaining that they would not, in fact, be right back. The convertible – a cherry red two-door of some make and model that Alan couldn't be bothered to remember – had been easy to find, on the fourth floor of the hotel garage where Fletch had said it would be. Dave had protested at first, but Alan had told him in no uncertain terms to shut it, because Dave's voice was scratchy and painful-sounding, and besides, they were leaving town and Dave was just going along for the ride.
"I get to drive."
"No," Alan said. They all knew better than to let Dave drive. Ever. "I mean it. Stop talking."
Dave glared at him and crossed his arms over his chest. But Alan was nice, and he let Dave control the radio.
+++
It was terrible traffic getting out of town, and Alan almost stopped to pull over and lift the top back on the convertible, because the air tasted awful and it got hotter as they traveled farther east. His shirt was sticking to his back and even with the air conditioning cranked up his legs felt twitchy and unbearably hot in his jeans. He should've changed into shorts, but once the idea had been planted in his head, he'd been so damned eager to get out of town that he'd left with just the clothes on his back and Fletch's keys. Thank God he had his wallet and a fair amount of American cash.
Dave was conked out in the passenger seat already. He'd stayed awake for a while – longer than Alan had expected, actually – flipping through radio stations so fast that Alan only caught snatches of music, sometimes just a note or two. Dave was the same way when he watched television, and they'd had more than one wrestling match over the remote control when they'd shared a room and stumbled across a football match. Dave usually preferred game shows, much to Alan's horror and disgust.
Alan glanced in his rearview mirror and navigated a very tight lane change, and then gave Dave a good long look. He was curled up in the seat, his body pushed up against the door and his head tucked into his shoulder. His face was turned toward Alan, and even in sleep his mouth was tight and twisted into a small frown. Sweat dotted his hairline. He was sitting in a horribly cramped position and his neck was going to hurt when he woke up, but Alan let him be. He obviously needed the rest, and it wasn't like he was missing much scenery.
Alan blew out a sigh and checked his mirrors again. How was it possible that the lane he'd just switched from was now obviously moving faster? He gripped the steering wheel, resisting the urge to change lanes again, and turned his attention to the radio. Surely there must be something to listen to.
+++
Alan was just giving up hope on both the radio and the drive when he pulled off the main highway, under the concierge's directions, and followed the signs to Joshua Tree National Park. They'd been on the road for nearly two hours and Dave was still snoozing. The temperature had evened out at what the radio told him was a "pleasant" 90 degrees. Alan couldn't be bothered to do the math and figure out what that meant in proper Celsius, but it didn't matter – it was fucking hot.
The traffic had at least thinned out. They were on a two-lane highway now, and the smog was behind them. The cloudless sky was a pale, thin blue, like it had been diluted by the dirty Los Angeles air. In the distance he could see low-rising mountains dotting the smooth horizon like so many blemishes.
Dave stirred a little when Alan slowed to read a road sign. The park was just a few miles up ahead. He stopped at a booth at the entrance and paid the small fee, and drove into the park.
They bumped down a dusty road, and Alan turned a corner and slowed almost to a stop. It looked as though they'd suddenly landed on another planet. The landscape was barren and dry – but it wasn't desolate, even though that was the word that seemed caught on his tongue. Strange trees arched up toward the sky, some of them twisted and curled like the limbs of an old man, others stretched wide and languid like a dancer. In between the trees were low, thorny-looking bushes and a few bright-colored flowers that Alan imagined were the last leftovers from spring. And all over were these rocks, in dusty reds and golds, some stacked in odd formations that made him want to stop and climb them, or just rest his hands on the warm face of them.
Alan pulled over at a spot where the road widened out a bit, and he killed the engine and shook Dave awake.
+++
Dave groaned and tried to bat Alan's hand away, but eventually he sat up and blinked his eyes open behind the sunglasses. He groaned again, this time from his neck, Alan thought, as Dave slowly tipped his head from side to side and stretched his arms up over him.
"Where are we?" Dave's voice was barely a whisper.
"Joshua Tree," Alan said. "Come on. Let's take a look."
He got out of the car and Dave followed a moment later. He stretched again when he stood up, and pulled distastefully at his shirt where it clung to his chest.
"It's bloody hot."
"I know," Alan said. "This way. Follow me."
He had no idea where he was going, other than that he wanted to get a closer look at a rock formation up ahead. The sun was starting to go down and the trees and rocks were casting sharp, clean shadows across the desert floor. His fingers itched for a camera.
They walked right up to the rock, which was much taller up close than Alan had expected. The rocks towered over him, but they were stacked in just such a way that he couldn't resist climbing up on the lowest one, and then scrambling up to the next one. He was already quite a few feet up when he heard Dave call from below.
"Get the fuck down!"
Alan could hear the painful strain in his voice, and he winced to himself.
"Come on up and make me," he called back.
+++
They both reached the top breathless and red-faced, sweat dripping down the sides of their faces. Dave had a smudge of dirt on one cheek, and Alan had rubbed off some skin on both of his palms, so they stung now from his sweat. But he swore the air was cleaner up here, at the top of the rock, and he could see for miles. Clouds were gathering in the east, but in the west, the sun was slipping down the horizon and the sky was already blushed pink and orange and yellow. Alan sat cross-legged and waited for sunset. A moment later Dave sat beside him, dangling his feet over the edge of the rock.
"It's beautiful," Dave said softly. His voice was as dry as the desert air, and Alan bumped his shoulder.
"Stop talking, you idiot."
Dave nodded, and they watched in silence as the sun went down, until the sky was a thousand shades of red and orange and everything around them was a silhouette.
+++
They climbed down before it was completely dark, sliding careful down the rock sides. Dave went first, and when Alan jumped down the last low shelf, Dave reached out to steady him. Alan's arms and legs felt stiff and scratched up from the climb, but his mind was clear and he liked the way his muscles hummed from overuse. He hadn't done anything physical – not so much as gone for a long walk – in weeks. He knew he'd be sore the next day, and he found himself looking forward to it.
Alan glanced at Dave, who had taken off his sunglasses and was running a hand over his hair, damp with sweat. Dave's eyes were red-rimmed and smudged underneath with dark circles. But the lines of tension were gone, and when he looked at Alan and smiled, he looked totally at ease, for what seemed like the first time in months. Alan just smiled back at him.
When they got to the car Dave stopped and let out a low whistle, and Alan turned to him and followed his gaze up, into the sky. The sun was long gone and the sky was a deep, plummy purple, the kind of color that only existed in nature – in California deserts, apparently, in the middle of July. But what had caught Dave's attention, and what made Alan stop and stare with him, were the stars. Thousands of them, more even, blinking to life right before their eyes and stretching across the entire dome of the sky. Alan had never seen so many stars in his life – he could make out familiar constellations, some that he knew the name of, but many others that he didn't, and the luscious, thick trail of the Milky Way belt. To the far east was the moon, just a fat, orange sickle, hovering over the low mountains.
"It's bloody brilliant," Alan said faintly.
Dave, bless him, just nodded and stared at the sky.
+++
The first drops of rain hit Alan's face as he was climbing into the car. He was confused at first, because it was still so hot outside, even with the sun long gone down. He looked up, and the sky was dark and smoky now, with just a few of the brightest stars shining through. The clouds had moved in fast. A fat raindrop hit him right on the nose.
"Shit," Alan said, and scrambled to get out of the car even as the drops fell faster and harder. "It's raining. Help me get the top up."
But Dave ignored him – or rather, he looked straight at him, and his face split into a grin and he laughed. It was barely more than a cackle, and it hurt to hear it, but Dave kept on laughing, and he tilted his head to the sky and spun in a circle, arms spread wide. He spun like he was on a stage, twirling for a rabid crowd, but really it was nothing like that at all. He spun until he was dizzy with it, and he stumbled into the car, and when he caught himself and looked at Alan, his face was wet with rain. He was smiling, and breathing hard, and Alan didn't think he'd ever looked happier. More alive.
Alan laughed at him – with him – and he shook his head. Rain was dripping off his nose and his chin, down his forehead and into his eyes, and he pushed his wet hair out of his face.
"Get in the car," Alan said, as he slid behind the wheel, the top still down. "It's time to go."
Dave did, and they drove back the way they'd come, and it rained the whole way.