Unchained | Hiatus

Chapter 1: Midnight Train to Nowhere

West Hollywood, California

Fall, 1986

The bus was crowded with strange people at that time of night. A woman sat beside her caged bird, and man missing an eye slept across a bench, two little kids ran around the aisle while their shabby mother bounced a baby in her arms. The driver, a portly man with a large walrus mustache, had nearly fallen asleep at the wheel twice and Brandi found herself gripping the seat before her so tightly that when she did eventually pry her fingers away, it was hard to set them back to a comfortable position. Her heart was constantly racing, her thoughts jumbled, and a cold sweat had broke on her upper lip. 

What if Mom and Dad wake up and find my note before I get to LA? she pondered with immense worry, scratching her ear lobe. What if they send the police?

She had left in the dead of the night with a single bag of records, money, and clothes. Her parents wouldn't understand how important music was to her, wouldn't understand the urgency at which Los Angeles beckoned her. She had left a note explaining to her parents where she was going and told them not to bother calling anyone; there was no way she was coming back. They would argue that she was just sixteen, and that nothing would come of her destined singing career anyway. She couldn't stand it. Brandi had uncovered a strong urge within her to prove herself to her parents, that she could break away from the regular jobs that her ancestors had toiled with and be the world's best female rocker.

The bus stopped abruptly and Brandi slid forward in her seat. The driver announced that they were in Inglewood and the woman with the bird cage collected her things and hurried out. The man then announced that their next stop would be central LA, then the Roxy on the Strip. Brandi settled back in her seat, resting her head on the window and watching the streetlights pass by. The bus itself was so loud that, as she sang Elton John's Tiny Dancer softly to herself out of pure boredom, it was undetectable by the other passengers. "Hold me closer tiny dancer/ Count the headlights on the highway/ Lay me down in sheets of linen/ You had a busy day today."

What will life be like in LA? She stopped singing and reverted to her thoughts. How hard could life possibly be in the City of Fame, really? She smiled to herself. She would get a band together, sign a deal, produce millions of records, become famous and rich; the men would throw themselves at her, the drugs would come cheap, and the look on her parents' faces-- Oh! it was too good to be true! People would be walking down the street in the New Madonna-- or, what they'll call it, the Brandi Emery. It wasn't that catchy, but poppy black plastic bracelets were out and leather-on-metal was in. The girls would snub Madonna's BoyToy belt buckle for Brandi's "[Tr]eat Your Girl Right" shirt, throw away their fingerless gloves for Velcro leggings, and dye their blonde-on-black hair to a platinum blonde. The guys would respect her as a fellow rocker, not some pop-star, and life would be rewarding.

The bus screeched to a stop again and she lurched forward, ending her reverie. "Central LA," the walrus announced. A person boarded the bus and fell into a seat drunkenly. "Last call, headed to deh Roxy on deh Strip." He glanced back before pulling a lever, slamming the door. The bus took off and Brandi slid back into her seat.

They reached the Strip nearly a minute and a half later and she flew forward for the last time. She rubbed the chunky cross necklace on her chest for luck, not out of religion, but it comforted her like any necklace did, and she needed comfort. She exited the bus and waited until it drove away before she took a step in any direction. A large crowd had formed outside the ever glowing Roxy, mostly girls, and she turned away. The Troubadour, Whisky, and Rainbow had no lines, but numerous drunkards stumbled out with girls under their arms and Gin in their hand, falling into the street as they hailed a taxi.

With several reservations, Brandi trotted into the Troubadour, luggage in hand. She approached the bar, avoiding groping bodies and handy by-passers. A stage in the very back was adorned by a band called Spütnic. As she got to the bar, she paused for a moment to watch the band. A black man with unruly, quirky hair was draped over the microphone as if he were falling, belting out the lyrics to the Beatles' Helter Skelter with a terribly raspy voice. A sexy blonde man with a red bandanna around his forehead ripped on guitar so well she was surprised she'd never heard of them. Three other men joined them, hidden partially in the shadows of the stage.

"Can I help you?" the bartender's belligerent tone wafted across the bar counter, drawing her back to her purpose. He leaned toward her. "Margarita, wine, a 'Temple?"

"What? No, thank you," she responded loudly over the din. "Sir, is there any cheap place I can be put up for around here? I'm new in town."

The bartender laughed and shouted so as to draw attention toward them, which he did, "Hey! Anyone wanna take her home?" A baker's dozen of men cheered in agreement and a few strutted up to her.

Aggravatingly, she pushed through the sea of men toward the stage where Spütnic were ending their set and mc-ing that The David Lee Roth Band were to follow. The people cheered. As the dark, hairy man belted out one more lyric, then bid the crowd good-morning-- to which Brandi checked her watch, finding out that it was a quarter to three-- Bandanna took his guitar off and bounced off the stage excitedly. Everyone in the club gave them a warm round of applause. He shook hands with every member of the band merrily before noticing Brandi behind him.

"Hey, 'jah see us up there?" Bandanna asked. "We any good? We've only done covers so far."

"You're fantastic," Brandi replied honestly, smiling as she pulled her hair behind her ear. "Say, can I--"

"No, you're fantastic. Let me buy you a drink. How old are you? Just kidding, come with me, sweetheart." He threw an arm around her shoulder roughly and led her and the others to the bar, though she tried to explain to him her purpose.

"Brandi," she corrected, eyeing him frustratedly. "Brandi Emery."

"Michael," Bandanna introduced. He looked over at her and caught her eyes. "Alexander." He released her at the bar and ordered a bottle of Jack Daniels. She ordered the same. "Wow, a girl drinkin' Jack... ain't that cool. Whatcha got in the case? Smack? You selling?"

"No and no," she snapped as the bartender dropped off two whiskeys. The two hopped onto the bar stools and she took a large swig of Daniels. "I just got to LA. Ran away from home to be a rock legend. I'm just looking for a person to put me up for the night. Know anyone?"

"I do," he sputtered as he swallowed the alcohol. He took a finger and traced a squiggly line through the air, pointing at everyone around him until his finger settled on his chest. "Me. Yeah, I got a place over the bar down the street. You can stay with me and Black Joe."

"Black Joe?" She looked behind him toward his mingling band members.

"The singer. How's about it? I don't got food, but I got a couch."

"I'm not going to have sex with either of you. I'm serious. I don't know if I should trust two guys while I'm asleep."

Michael raised his bottle of Jack in a toast. "You have my word, Brandi Emery, rock legend."

She grinned with relief and hit her square bottle to his, taking a celebratory chug. No, life wouldn't be hard in Los Angeles at all. If she just stuck around this little band for awhile, there was no doubt in her mind that should would later be induced in the greats, right up with Lita Ford, Blondie, Stevie Nicks, and Ann and Nancy Wilson.