The Sound of Us
Authors: Ashley Poston
For my parents.
Thank you for falling in love.
John Birmingham
The Juice
, June Issue #327
Even if you haven’t heard of Roman Holiday, you have. Multi-platinum and award-winning, the trio of young bright things—Roman Montgomery, Holly Hudson, and Boaz Alexander—have made a name for themselves with breakout hits like MTV's Video Music Award winner “My Heart War” and the Billboard-crushing “Crush On You.” At their last concert in San Antonio over a year ago, fans stood in line for three hours to snag exclusive tickets to the venue, and their Madison Square Garden gig sold out in twenty minutes flat after fans stood in line for two days in the sweltering New York City summer heat.
There seemed to be no stopping Roman Holiday.
Then, tragedy struck the former pop rock sensation when one dark June evening last summer, Holly Hudson was found dead in her LA apartment.
“[Holly's] death took us all by surprise,” says musician friend and punk heartthrob Jason Dallas at a recent show in Albuquerque. “We lost the best of us that day. There was no justice in it. It should've been Roman, and where is he now?”
Lead guitarist and back-up vocalist, Roman Montgomery had been living with Hudson in the modest West Hollywood apartment where he discovered her body, and what pursued was an avalanche of speculation that it was not suicide at all, but murder. In court, Roman Montgomery refused to state where he had been the night of her death, and without any witnesses to attest to his whereabouts, an LA judge ruled her death accidental.
Hudson had allegedly been taking prescription pain medications for a sprained ankle and a coroner reported alcohol in her system at the time of her death as well.
After Hudson's funeral in her small hometown of Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, both Montgomery and Alexander disappeared without a trace. The award shows were very quiet last year without Roman Holiday, and while they were nominated for both Best Music Video and Best Pop Song of the Year, they went to Jason Dallas.
A year later, Roman Montgomery and his wingman are yet to be found. Muse Records has issued a last offer for the duo to return to their contracts before they become void in August. The fans of Roman Holiday—
Holidayers
—have pitched tents in front of Muse Records, pleading for an extension. They haven’t given up on this star-crossed band, but perhaps it's finally time.
The last shot for Roman Holiday was their pre-scheduled event at Madison Square Garden this July 27th. According to the band’s manager, this was Holly Hudson's dream gig. Now, Holidayers around the world hold onto the last vestiges of hope that Montgomery and Alexander might reemerge to claim their rightful place.
Will Roman Holiday reunite for one last gig in the name of America's late sweetheart?
Or will the gig—and Roman Holiday—be left for dead?
The only thing I hate more than Saturday night shifts at the bar are dentist appointments, and you have to be a sadist to like those. When I’m working them without the manager, my mom, it’s worse, but she’s been MIA every weekend since the wedding.
I squat down behind the speakers onstage, gathering up the plethora of beer bottles tonight’s band stashed there, and dump them into the trashcan beside the stage. The sound guy whistles Queen’s “Killer Queen” as he cheerfully flicks off the soundboard and drains the last of his strawberry mojito. I wish he’d choke on an ice cube.
“Mike three was hot again tonight, Danny,” I tell him, wiping my hands on my jeans. One of the bottles was sticky.
Gross
. “Rock Your Mouth ruined another Slipknot cover.”
“I can only do so much with this equipment, sweetie,” Danny retorts. “And they just sucked.”
“It’s Junie, and they would’ve sucked
less
if you did your job instead of texting.” I hop off the stage and begin collecting the empty bottles scattered across the bar, and tossing them into the trashcan. “I mean, they made
me
want to slipknot a noose and hang them from the rafters with it. And I usually never have a problem with Slipknot.”
Danny spits through the gap in his front teeth. I inwardly cringe. He says it’s a nervous habit, but I think he does it to get on my nerves. “Hey, sweetie, leave it to the professionals. Danny’s got the big-boy sound stuff under control.”
“Because you can text and push a slider at the same time, obviously.”
“I’ve been doin’ sound a lot longer than you’ve been alive, sweetie.”
Sweetie, sweetie
. I’m not sure what gets on my nerves more, his condescending tone, or the fact that he thinks he calls me by a pet name. Danny is twenty years older than me, so it’s probably the pet name.
Tossing a half-empty Coors Light bottle into the trash can with more force than necessary, the neck pops off as it rings the lip of the steel can, before finally teetering inside. “I’m just trying to help.”
“Sweetie, maybe you should start worryin’ about your own life, and not this shithole.”
For a moment, all I can do is stare. Then something inside of me snaps. In two quick strides, I pick up his backpack and shove it into his chest, knocking him back in surprise. “Get out of my
shithole.
”
“That’s cute, sweetie.”
“No, if you think this place is a
shithole
then I want you to fucking leave!”
“Jesus, calm down.”
“
Leave
. And don’t worry about coming back.”
“You firin’ me?” He sounds genuinely incredulous. “Who else are you gonna hire? I’m sorry sweetie, but
you
can’t do it.”
“I think I can manage. Hal!” I call over to the bouncer at the bar. “Escort him out, please?”
The bouncer, a burly guy with knuckles the size of pancakes, abandons his beer, and saunters up with the graceful ease of an ox to tower over Danny. Watching the sound guy squirm gives me a tiny, itty-bitty bit of satisfaction. Just enough to make Saturday night bearable.
“I’ll mail you your last check,” I tell him.
“You need me, sweetie—”
“And don’t” —I interrupt, flipping my pink hair over my shoulder— “call me sweetie,
asshole
.”
See, I’m a classic rock kind of girl. Born and raised on knee-buckling guitar solos and riffs that slice your soul in two. I’m the kind of girl who head bangs to Meat Loaf and air-guitars to “Bohemian Rhapsody.” I’m the kind of girl who knows every word to Elton John’s “Tiny Dancer” and can pinpoint The Eagle’s “Hotel California” on a map.
I’m
not
the kind of girl you call “sweetie.”
Danny can thank my dad for that.
In high school I didn’t wear Sublime or Halestorm t-shirts. I didn’t do road-trips to Warped Tour. Led Zeppelin and Jon Bon Jovi always weaseled into the crevices between dateless Saturday nights and late shifts working at The Silver Lining. The bar’s a dive of a place with cheap two-dollar beers, and halfway decent cover bands. It was Dad’s baby before he took the midnight train too early.
Mom was the first of us to rebound from his death. She remarried her high school sweetheart, an architect named Charles Conway, only three months after his funeral and became the black widow of Asheville. And I was known as the black widow’s daughter.
It didn’t bother me until the day before high school graduation when someone wrote in red lipstick on my locker, ‘YOUR MOM’S A SLUT.’
“Forget about those dickheads,” my almost-boyfriend, Cas, told me. “You’ll never see them again after graduation.”
“
You
won’t,” I argued with a sob. We were huddled in the back room at one of his friend’s house parties. Over the last semester, we’d make out in the back rooms because the beer tasted like piss and the music was shit, and neither of us wanted to be a part of the drunken karaoke in the living room, but we didn’t make out that night. Probably because I was crying so hard I could blow snot bubbles. “You’ll be gone to college.”
“What happened to you going to tech, baby?” He wiped a tear away with his thumb and tucked a strand of my dishwater blond hair behind my ear.
I laughed ruefully. “If I leave, the Lining will sink faster than the Titanic.”
“Your mom can’t take care of it?”
“Between going on her and Chuck’s monthly honeymoons to Charleston? That’s funny, Cas.”
He frowned. “You’ll get out, babe.”
No, I wouldn’t. I knew I wouldn’t. The Lining still stands because I give a damn. Mom doesn’t, and a part of me thinks that she’d rather have it burn down because it’s too much trouble, and it needs a lot of work, and sometimes the refrigerator door sticks and sometimes the air conditioning goes out. They’re things we can’t afford to fix because we’re already scraping rock bottom. But someone had to keep Dad’s soul alive, and since Mom’s too busy in her post-wedding bliss, that duty falls to me.
Illegally, of course, but what eighteen-year-old is lucky enough to run a
bar
? At first, I didn’t think I would mind...
Until a sudden moment of clarity while looking up the dirty nose hairs of Danny Burke.
Danny opens his mouth to retort, but Hal punches his fist into his other hand menacingly. Getting the hint, Danny pulls his backpack over his shoulder and stalks to the front door. When he throws it open, it ricochets off the wall and almost slams him back inside as he leaves.
“Dumbass,” I murmur and make my way over to the bar where Maggie, my best friend, is spinning herself around in one of the swivel chairs.
She stops when I come over, and puts up her fist. “Great job! You sack
acely
.”
“You have no idea how long I’ve dreamed of doing that.” I hop onto the stool beside her, and fist-bump her hanging fist.
“Your new hair must make you bold. It’s
totally
cute on you BTW. Who did it?” She winks.
I shrug casually, twirling my finger around a lock of neon pink. “Just some totally awesome best friend.”
“Aw, you flatter me!”
I grin before glancing back at the door. “You don’t think I was too harsh?”
“Too harsh? That sleaze-ball totes deserved it. He
always
looked at my tits. I know they’re perky and everything but
ugh
!” She shivers, pulling her phone out from between her breasts. “Totes gross.”
I chuckle. “Yeah, totes.”
Maggie and I met in second grade. She was the new kid. I was the weird kid. A match made in heaven, really. On the first day of school, Mrs. Eller teamed us up for an in-class writing assignment—
Who is the Most Influential Person In Your Life?
The idea was to help each other write our own responses, but I took one look at her paper and was appalled. To be honest, I had never heard another kid call Bruce Springsteen
the Boss
—or even know who the rock legend was to begin with. All they talked about was Britney Spears and Beyoncé.
