Author's note: There's some French in this chapter. I've been to the cities described in this chapter and the one which will follow, but I don't speak any French. I've used Google to do the translation, so don't arc up at me if the algorithm didn't get it quite right. And as always, please let me know what you think about the story!
Months passed. Pete and Ace were still together. They were happy, but it wasn't an easy relationship, because they rarely saw each other. They still lived in different cities -- Pete in Atlanta, and Ace in Miami -- but their love of heavy metal and the mutual ambitions of their bands fused them together. They often called and texted each other, they occasionally had mutual online jerkoff sessions, and once, Ace mailed Pete a pair of his boxers that had soaked up his load one night. Pete put them in his underwear drawer, pulling them out now and again for a sniff while he jacked off, dreaming about his distant boyfriend as he inhaled his scent.
Carlos gradually pulled himself out of the deep depression he'd felt at Gorilla's shocking death, and as time slowly passed, he rediscovered the joy of being alive. After saving up his salary from Eternal and living like Gandhi for a couple of months, he'd accumulated enough cash to buy himself a new guitar. He purchased a Jackson DK2, with a lurid lime green and black finish. As soon as he started playing it in the store, he fell in love with it. The body was slightly smaller and lighter than the precious Ibanez he left at Gorilla's grave. The action was super-low, the whammy bar was hyper-sensitive to his touch, power chords required almost no effort at all, and the sustain he got from bending notes, even at a low volume, was out of this world. Even his mistakes sounded good, almost as if the guitar was playing itself. He looked at the price tag and winced a little, but there was no denying it -- this was the axe for him. He had to have it, and he couldn't wait to crank it up loud. It was the beginning of a fresh, new start.
Ass To Mouth got back into the rehearsal room and honed their set. Carlos brought three brand-new tunes to the band, all of which were works of dark art.
One of the benefits from working at Eternal was the freedom it gave Carlos to take time off when he needed to. He wasn't working in a vertically-integrated multidisciplinary agile team that operated a challenging corporate environment intent on breaking down internal silos in an everchanging and multidimensional market landscape, he was just doing a fuckin' job. And it was a pretty fuckin' cool job, too. He didn't have to think about corporate goals, cultural plans, sales targets, maintaining spreadsheets or filing reports; his focus was on booking bands, pouring beers, and rocking out.
He spent a lot of time with Pete during these months. They grew closer and got to know each other on a deeper level. For most of the time they'd known each other, Carlos had seen Pete as a kickass drummer with a hungry, wet mouth, but not much more than that. He didn't know him very well as a person, and he didn't particularly want to either, but the compassion and support Pete gave to Carlos when Gorilla died spoke to his soul. These days, they regularly met up for long, deep conversations, usually accompanied by coffee or beers. They talked about music, creativity and life, and when Carlos learned the dates for Pete's law school spring break, they began to plan a short tour of Canada. They hired two local roadies -- friends of friends with strong muscles -- to help with logistics, transport and everything else. The roadies knew they wouldn't be paid well, but they were aspiring musicians too, and they hoped to build some connections while on tour.
A2M and their small yet muscly roadcrew stowed their gear, packed their passports, and flew from Atlanta to Montréal. They'd booked four dates across Quebec and Ontario, flying back home via Toronto, where their short northern tour would end. None of them had ever been to Canada, and Pete had never been outside the States before. He applied for his very first passport to make this trip. Carlos had travelled to Mexico a few times to see family, but the rest of the band had very little international travel experience.
They touched down at Montréal International in the short daylight hours of early spring. As the plane's wheels skidded and gripped, Carlos looked out the window. It looked cold outside. Skies were heavy and grey. They disembarked and headed into the airport.
Pete gingerly approached the Canadian immigration officials and presented his documentation. One of the officials focused on the screen in front of him, then stared suspiciously at Pete, as if there was a blotch on his record. Pete didn't know, but the long stare was because the immigration official thought he was cute. He noticed Pete's sexy freckles. "Parlez-vouz français?"
Pete remembered some basic high-school French. "Excuse-moi?"
The immigration official shook his head with disdain before speaking in English. "Do you speak French?"
"No," Pete declared. "Not since high school. I can ask a policeman for directions in French, and I know the difference between left and right, but that's about all I've got." He felt a little nervous. "Is this going to be a problem?"
"No, of course not," the official smiled. "But let me give you some phrases you might find useful."
Pete nodded, still unsure whether he was going to be allowed into Canada. Was this an official language test? He knew some Canadians spoke French, and that in Montréal, most people did, but he didn't know if his inability to speak the language would bar him from entering the country. He hadn't read anything about this in his Lonely Planet guidebook.
Poor, innocent Pete.
"Repeat after me," said the official. "Tu es mignon."
Pete tried and got close. "What does that mean in English?"
"It means 'you're cute'. Try and say it again."
"Tu es mignon," Pete tried again. He thought 'mignon' was something to do with a steak. He wondered if the cows were cuter in Canada than back home.
"Now try this one," said the official. "Veux-tu venir à la maison avec moi?"
Pete tried, but he was tongue-tied. "What does that mean?"
The official smiled. "It means 'do you want to come home with me?'."
"OK," replied a flustered Pete. He just wanted to get his passport stamped so he could move on. "I'll try to remember that."
"Here's another phrase you might find useful," said the official. "Listen carefully. S'il te plait laisse moi te baiser."
Pete did his best. "What does that one mean?"
The official smiled. "It means 'please let me fuck you'."
Pete blushed. This wasn't the immigration experience he'd expected.
Carlos stepped forward, ignoring all border protocols. He didn't speak any French either, but he wanted to find out why Pete was being grilled. "Is there a problem with my friend's documentation?" He knew this was Pete's first use of his passport, and he was worried that something might be genuinely wrong with it.
The official was taken aback. He looked Carlos up and down. Fuck, he was sexier than the dude with the freckles. "No, there's no problem," he replied. "All good." He stamped Pete's passport and returned it to him. "Bienvenue au Canada, sexy," he said, watching Pete's ass nervously move through the gate.
Carlos was next in line, but following his recent intervention, he was already standing at the immigration official's desk. "You gonna let me in too?" he pouted. "I'm a Canada virgin. I need someone to take my Canada cherry. I need it so fucking bad. You gonna stamp my passport for me, or ... do you want to take me out back for a thorough examination? I promise there are no drugs hidden up my ass, but I won't be offended if you need to check. Also, I should declare here and now that I don't know how to speak any French, but my slutty Mexican mouth is eager to learn." He licked his lips.
