"Hi mom! You won't believe this, but I was just about to call you! 'Had your number dialed and everything!"
Tim and Robby snickered at Larry, who was on the phone. His dear, sweet, overprotective, persistent mother managed to get the number to the hotel. It was four in the morning, eastern standard time, and because it was so early in Pennsylvania, that meant it was extra early in Pacific standard time where Mrs. DelGato was calling from. The band had gotten up so early to go out to eat a large enough breakfast to last them all day.
Larry nervously pulled open the curtains on the balcony's sliding glass door, checked outside, then just as quickly yanked them back shut. To help calm his nerves about speaking to his overly worried mother, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his pack of cigarettes, which had yet to be opened. He opened the pack, put a cigarette into his mouth and tilted his chin up at Tim. Tim threw him a lighter. "Thanks man," said Larry. "What?" he spoke back into the phone, "I really was going to call you! I was gonna say thanks for the shirt! It's nice! I'm gonna wear it to our concert." He lit his cigarette and sighed out a wisp of smoke. The relief showed instantly on his whole body.
Robby shook his head and sat down on Larry's hotel bed. Tim followed and sat down next to him.
'I want that back later,' Tim mouthed to Larry, pointing to the lighter. Larry nodded and stuck it into his pocket with his pack of cigarettes.
"I wish you could be here, ma. Maybe we can get somebody to record it." Larry continued his conversation with his mother. He pushed his hair back out of his face with his fingers and it stuck out in all directions. "Yeah, they can put it on the internet. You can get Enrique to show you. Yes, momma."
"He got a tattoo!!" Robby shouted, then quickly looked away as if he had no idea who would say such a thing.
Larry covered the bottom of the phone. "Shut the fuck up, Robby!" he hissed at the drummer. "She'll find out when she finds out!" He then took a deep breath and spoke into the phone once more. "That was just Robby. He's just screwin' around."
"That's not what she said last night," Robby muttered under his breath.
Tim elbowed Robby in the side. Robby shut up.
"Can I talk to her?" Tim asked.
"Why?" Larry responded, covering up the bottom of the phone again. "You ain't got nothin' to say to my mom."
"Sure I do."
"Fine, whatever. Just make it short."
Tim stood, almost a head taller than the rhythm guitarist, and took the phone. He set it to speaker, putting it down on the dresser where the receiver was. "Miss DelGato?"
"What?! Who's this? Where's my baby?!" came a heavily accented Spanish voice from the other side of the telephone. Tim and Robby did their best to stifle their automatic amusement.
"It's Tim. Remember me?"
"Ohh yes. Timmy Lee."
"That's right, miss. We really like the bus. It was mighty nice of you to help us out."
"Anything for my baby's band."
"We appreciate it. But, Miss DelGato?"
"We have to go now. We're on our way out to get breakfast. Gotta be ready for the concert tonight."
"Oh, right, right. You boys go, then. I'll see you on the news tonight!"
"Bye momma!" Larry called, leaning over to the phone.
Tim pushed the end button and set the phone down on the receiver. "She's such a nice lady. I bet you can't wait 'til we get back to California so that you guys can be a big happy family again."
Larry sighed and looked up at Tim. "She's my mom. I love 'er. It's been two years since I've been home, man. She missed my twentieth birthday."
But Tim wasn't listening. He was staring at the wall behind Larry, deep in thought, silly grin upon his face.
Tim and Larry both looked back to him; they both forgot he was sitting in the same room.
"We should probably get goin', guys," said the drummer. "Phil's probably done checkin' us out down at the desk."
Larry followed Robby out, only stopping to rest his hand on the doorway. "You comin', Tim?"