That's the closest thing to a compliment I've ever heard from Justin Timberlake. It's one of the only times he's ever acknowledged my existence; probably the nicest thing he, Mr. Pop Star, has ever said to me, Mr. Regular Guy.
We were driving from Tallahassee to Miami, taking the main interstate until around Fort Lauderdale, where I turned off onto a smaller, less traveled highway. Justin appeared suddenly at the front, startling me. He wore sunglasses and a content-looking smirk like he was happy as shit to be in Florida. I held my breath. "It's faster if you stay on the highway," he said.
"Yeah, but there's less traffic this way," I mumbled, waving half-heartedly at the road. "We'll get there in half the time."
"I think we should stay on the main road."
I hit the blinker, ready to turn off and turn around and go the way he wanted. But he shrugged lightly and edged through the curtain toward the back of the bus again. "Never mind," he called behind him. "You must know what you're doing."
It was about 60 seconds after he disappeared, 60 seconds of his muffled voice talking to Chris and JC and the distant sound of someone laughing, that I realized I was still holding my breath.
I didn't always plan on driving a bus for a living. I wanted to be a musician. I learned guitar and in high school formed a band I believed in called Sexual Chocolate. We played parties and a few local bars, and people actually wanted to hear our originals more than our covers. Usually it's the other way around, especially when people are drunk. But our singer got married at age 19, our bassist went to college and our drummer got drunk and wandered out on the road long enough to get hit by a car. Without our drummer I couldn't find it in me to form another band, so my dad told me I had to either go to school or join the family business. And I hate homework.
My father's business is split into two neat divisions, both centered around bus driving. The first involves taking charter busses full of senior citizens up and down the Florida coast on their vacations. The second involves renting out big busses with padded seats and mini kitchens to whatever organization needs them and can afford them - pro wrestlers, traveling corporations, music acts. We got the *NSYNC deal when the group was still with Trans Continental, and for six months my dad drove them everywhere, so happy to have a potentially lucrative deal that he thought anyone else who drove would fuck it up. Trans Con and the group had a loud, messy falling out but the contract carried on to the next label, and my father was comfortable enough to send me out on the road. They were skeptical at first. I wasn't old and fat like the other drivers. But my father assured them that I had all the necessary training and licenses, including some mechanical skills, and next thing you know I was with the band.
Girls flock to me because they figure I can hook them up with the other members. I've even encouraged this belief, especially if they're drunk enough. But of all the entourage - stylists, make up artists, management, public relations people - they have the least reason to talk to me. So they don't. They take it for granted that I'll take the right road, drive carefully enough not to run into a tree, get them where they need to go. About the best thing I get out of it is a room in a nice hotel at every stop and a numb ass from driving for six hours a day. I also get a little insight into what happens in their lives, because when you're invisible to someone, they'll say or do anything in front of you.
For example, that JC guy is as gay as they come. He prefers big Chippendales types, the kind who pump iron for fun and show off their muscles by ripping the sleeves out of their shirts. I like Joey the least. I mean, he seems okay for a guy who thinks every girl wants him, but I've had to hide the scowl since he dyed his hair pink. My hair was pink in tenth grade, and I've always thought if you want pink hair, you have to earn it. But he's about as radical as a high school keg party. And that Lance guy whines like a six year old when someone touches his stuff - "did you take my socks?" or "someone moved my CDs." He even asked me once if I took one of his CDs. I stood there like an idiot until I realized he was talking to me and not someone behind me. Like I'd ever have the balls to cross the curtain that separates the big people from the little people without being invited.
But something about Justin fascinates me. Maybe it's because he's built like a thoroughbred - all long lines and lean muscle. Maybe it's the way that his eyes turn as blue as chlorinated water when he's in the right mood. Maybe it's because he's so good looking that you know every guy in his class either hated him or wanted to hang out with him. He's always trying to be something he's not, but not in an annoying way. One day he'll be all hip hop and use words like "dope" and say "hold up" and "this ain't crunk." The next day he'll decide he wants to be professional and he'll use corporate words like "dialogue" and "interfacing" - words you know he overheard his management say, or that he picked out of some book he was reading on how to make friends and influence people. I think if I were to meet him at a party I would think he was a prick. But I think the real reason I like him is that he takes absolutely no shit from anyone.
Example:
We arrived in Buffalo, New York, in the midst of a freezing white snow storm so thick that I had to go 30 all the way into town. We pulled up at the hotel where a car was supposed to pick them up to take them to an interview at a TV station. Except I pulled in, sliding to a stop behind the building, and the car wasn't there. The limo company had fucked up the time, and the manager came from the other bus and told them the limo company had fucked up.
"What's their number?" Justin yelled out the door, his voice getting lost in the wind.
"Justin, leave it," the manager yelled back.
"What's the fucking number?"
The manager trudged back, ankle deep in snow, passing along the front of the bus. You could tell his eyes were watering from the cold and he was desperately trying to fit his hands in the pockets of his little leather jacket, like he wasn't used to winter. I reached between the seats and flipped through my CD's, finding a new one to pop in my portable CD player. I picked The Perfect Circle, which is great waiting music. Then I put my headphones on but left the music off.
I heard Justin's voice making these staccato sounds, saying words like "fuck" and "think." The sound got closer, then more distant, then closer again, and I realized he was pacing. He neared the curtain where I could really hear what he was saying and I realized he had phoned the limo company.
"We paid you a shitload of money to be here at two, and it's 2:20," he said. Pause. "Well, sorry doesn't get us a ride to the fucking TV station."
I bit my lip and smiled at the dashboard in spite of myself.
I heard Justin's cell phone flip closed and there was silence in the back, like everyone was sitting there looking at Justin and pondering how he'd gone on another one of his rants. I know to some people, it would seem like he's a spoiled little diva who's had everything handed to him. But I've seen him sit with his head in his hands, his body so tense that you can almost see the stress eating away at him. I think he's just tired as fuck with everything, like he wants to go home and go to bed but his life forces him to stay in perpetual motion. Everything in his life requires vehicles and hard hotel beds and screaming. It's not hard to see how you'd just lose it on people once in awhile. It's weird to think about how I used to want that life.
So I don't blame him for flipping out. I don't even blame him for not saying anything nicer than "You must know what you're doing." Some day I'd love to tell him that, but it's not exactly something you can just slip into a conversation, especially with someone you don't talk to anyway.
But it was enough to make me nervous on the day we broke down in New York State. We were cruising down the highway that goes from one end of the state to the other. We'd left the city about an hour and a half before and now we were on this long stretch that goes along the lake where all you can see is snow and fog. I was listening to The Perfect Circle again, in the middle of "Three Libras," tapping the steering wheel hard enough to release a little energy but not so hard that the people in the back could hear it.
Suddenly the left side lowered, the bus leaning into a perpetual tilt. I flipped off my headphones and listened, catching the thump-thump-thump sound. Shit.
I slowed down enough to pull onto the side of the road, bringing the bus to a stop and throwing it in park. I killed the engine but left the keys in the ignition and climbed out of the seat.
"Of course," I heard Justin call from the back, not to me but to God or whoever was listening. I knew it was his birthday from the snippets of conversation I overheard and from the bio I read in their tour program. It must not have been the greatest day for him.
I poked my head through the curtain. Justin was lying on the mini couch, one leg on the back and the other dropped down so his foot was resting on the floor. Chris poked his head out of the bathroom to see what was up. JC must have been sleeping.
"I think it's just a flat tire," I said. "I'll get it fixed in a second."
Justin just looked back at me blankly, no acknowledgment. Chris waved his hand a little and said "Okay, man."
It wasn't as cold out as it could have been. The wind was chilly and bit into my skin, but the air itself was actually pretty warm. I walked around to the left side and saw the front tire sagging, the rim pretty close to the ground. I ran my hand over it and found the hole immediately, big enough that I could stick the tip of my pinkie finger into it. We must have hit something, but at least I hadn't lost control of the bus.
I found the spare tire in the back, hoisting it out and rolling it up to the front. I had enough power tools to change a tire fairly quickly, as long as the guys in the bus could be patient for five minutes.
I had the jack in place and the screws off when I heard someone come up behind me. I stood up and came face to face with Justin. It startled me so much that I said "fuck" and did a little dance.
"Everything okay?" he asked. His voice was flat, like it could turn into something friendly or it could turn into one of his rants. My stomach tightened and suddenly I couldn't do anything with my hands without fumbling.
"Yeah. I'll just be, like, two seconds."
I felt him stand there and watch me, seeing out of the corner of my eye that he was hugging his jacket closer. I wanted him to get the fuck back on the bus. Everything I did seemed to take twice as long with him watching, and it was making me nervous and jittery.
I hoisted the new tire on, grabbing the screws from the slush-covered ground and putting them loosely in place. Justin didn't move. He didn't offer to help, but I didn't expect him to. He just watched, like I was a talk show or a vaguely interesting movie trailer. He watched until the tire was secured and I lowered the jack and the bus was resting on the ground again.
"This job must suck," he finally said.
I shrugged, trying to pretend my heart wasn't beating a million miles an hour. "Nah, it's okay." My hands were trembling a little as I put the drill back in the tool box.
"You do a good job," he said matter-of-factly.
"Do I?" I chuckled nervously, inching past him as I wheeled the old tire to the back of the bus.
"Well, you haven't hit anything yet."
"Thank you," I said, for lack of something better to say. I shoved the old tire in as quickly as possible and closed the latch, just wanting to get back to the safety of my seat and my music.
"You're welcome." And then he laughed. Maybe it was the absurd dialogue, or maybe it was just because he felt like it, but he actually laughed. At me. At our conversation.
And I never thought someone could make me feel like a million bucks just by talking to me, but I drove the rest of the way smiling like a fool.