Frans and I were crossing the street behind the Gardens Centre when a scruffy young guy with long, lank, light brown hair, baggy sweatshirt and baggier trousers hailed us in a voice that hovered on the borderline between petulant and ingratiating.
“Hi, guys, I'm the drummer for Fast Lane. Can you help me with R7,50 for a taxi? Our transport broke down and we need to get to a gig,” he said.
There was a joke there about a band called Fast Lane being stuck without transport. Neither Frans nor I had ever heard of such a band and we were not impressed by the plea. The dude looked like a Muizenberg surf bum chancing his luck.
“Yeah, right,” I said as we strode off. “I'm the drummer for Fuck-all Sympathy.”
“And I'm the trumpet player for God Almighty,” Frans added.
Well, WE thought our repartee was witty and lightning fast. History does not record whether the alleged drummer was amused or if Fast Lane ever got to to that gig. One can only hope it wasn't a record company show case.
Important life lesson: never send the drummer. He'll always get burned. Send the hot girlfriend and promise backstage passes.
And for god's sake get decent, reliable wheels if you want to be in the Fast Lane.
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