Page 1 of Under His Sheets
ONE
November 13,2019
10:53 PM Las Ramblas, Barcelona, Catalonia, Spain
All crowds were not created equal, nor did they evoke the same sensations.
Standing shoulder to shoulder with thousands of music fans at the rail on a rainy day in Nuremburg at Rock am Ring after playing a wild set with my band, MoonCraft, was one of my favorite experiences.
Standing back to front on Las Ramblas in Barcelona, with hundreds of protestors shouting in Catalan their desire for independence from Spain and justice for the separatists while police barricaded the side streets, not allowing anyone in or out of the protest, getting shoved and stepped on in the sweltering late-summer heat, wasn’t likely to rank in my top ten of anything other than terrifying.
“Por favor. Soy americano,” I shouted to one of the officers dressed in riot gear. “No quiero estar aqui.” I thought that was the right way to tell him I didn’t belong anywhere near this damn protest. I just wanted to get to a bar and lose my worries in abottle of something strong enough to wash away the stench of what my life had become in the last two weeks since we’d come to Catalonia.
The cop pushed me back into the crowd of protestors who were waving yellow flags with red stripes and a blue triangle with a white star and into…
A frowning Spaniard with short, curly hair, long sideburns, a hard body, and a deep chin dimple covered in dark stubble.
“Cuidado.”
“Lo siento,” I said before another wave in the crowd pushed me into him again. I lost my balance and was about to go down when he caught me under the arm.
“Ves amb compte.”
“I’m sorry.”
My English must have startled him because he pulled me back in close and his eyes widened in surprise.
“You’re the American.”
NotanAmerican, buttheAmerican? And he wasn’t asking. When I kept gaping like a fish out of water, he adjusted his grip and yanked me forward, somehow making the crowd part for us. I tripped more than once as he dragged me through the chanting crowd that was yelling “independencia,” and I ended up draped over his back as he dragged me toward the barricades on the far side of the corridor. He said something to the cop, who moved aside just enough for my savior to slip through with me in tow.
“Where are we…” I started to ask when he stopped to punch in a code in an alcove of a building a block or so off of Las Ramblas.
“You’ll be safe inside.”
“Thanks, but I was just trying to get to a bar?—”
“I have drinks upstairs.”
He led me up three flights and down a dark hallway to an apartment door. Another keypad dealt with and he opened the door, moving inside quietly and disappearing into the darkness.
Should I follow?The last time I’d followed a stranger into a dark, unfamiliar apartment… Okay I’d never done this before. You’d think as a musician who’d been touring the world with his band for the past four years, I’d have had wild, adventurous experiences like that. If you did, well, you’d be sorely disappointed.
“Ven aquí, guiri.”
“Excuse me?” I asked. “What did you call me?”
I walked down the entry hallway into the apartment and into the dimly lit living room with sparse furniture and no decor to speak of. Not even a wall calendar or a plant.
The man stood in front of a large window, which overlooked the chaos we were just in. The lights from police vehicles bounced off the bare walls, giving a red hue to the place.
“¿Hablas inglés?”
“Yes, I do, better than you speak Spanish.” His words were soft though, so I didn’t take offense.
“Thank you for getting me out of there,” I said, looking down into the crowd. It was much denser than I’d thought and went on as far as I could see. “I shouldn’t impose.”
“You’re Randall, right? From that band MoonCraft?”
