On the bus ride to Oakland, where we would stay Saturday and Sunday nights before playing there Monday, Krystal pulled off her headphones and said, “If there’s fifteen million fingers, that could only include the fingers on one hand, right?  I mean, otherwise the math wouldn’t work.”

“What?”  Heather glanced up from a drawing tablet, where she was sketching out something that had to do with the stage presentation.  She looked tired, and there were fifty shows left to go.

“Does ten go into fifteen million an equal number of times?” Krystal said.  “I know five probably does, but not ten, right?”

The bus hit a bump.  Lilly, who believed math was more of an intrusion than a necessity, rolled her eyes and looked at Krystal with a blank face.

“What the heck are you talking about?” Heather said.

“I’m listening to this AC/DC song, ‘Let there Be Rock,’ and they say ‘there were fifteen million fingers learning how to play’ – talking about all kinds of people learning to play the guitar after rock got popular.”

“So?”

I leaned back in my seat and put down my newspaper.  My ears were still humming from the noise at the Cow Palace, and I felt like I’d had way too much coffee, even though I’d had none.

“Soooo,” Krystal said, “all those fingers – does he mean just the fingers on the left hand, or all the fingers?”

“What difference does it make?” Heather said.  I could tell she was irritated.  She preferred the first hours after a show to be serene and contemplative.

“You know what?  I just thought of something.  You only have eight fingers total – thumbs aren’t fingers.  So that makes it even worse.  Can you divide eight into fifteen million and get an even number?”

Celeste came out of the bathroom in new purple jeans and a white shortie top.  Hairbrush in one hand, a bottle of carrot juice in the other, she said, “Maybe there’s a few people in that group that don’t have the normal amount of fingers.”

“You mean like if they got some fingers chopped off in an industrial accident, like that substitute teacher we had that time?”

“Something like that.”  Celeste sat on one of the couches and began brushing her hair.

“So you’d take all the eight-fingered people and divide them into fifteen million fingers, and when you went as far as you could go, the last guy would only have the remainder’s worth of fingers?  Like three or six or however-many?”

“Are you drunk?” Heather said.

“No, but I wish I was.”

“Well, Gary’s got some beer and wine in the refrigerator.  Why don’t you try some and see if it helps.”

We were on the bridge now, and the bus hit another bump.

“Haven’t you ever heard this song?”

“Yeah, and somehow, miraculously, I managed to pass right over the fifteen-million-fingers part without having to decide if Bon Scott wrote it with a calculator or if he just basically guessed.”

Lilly dug in her travel bag and found her calculator.  She was the only one still in her stage outfit – red-and-black jumper and white sailor top, cross-tie hanging loose.

“I thought Brian Johnson was their singer,” Krystal said, and I knew then that she was screwing with Heather.  Krystal knew the AC/DC lineup backwards and forwards, including on which album (Back in Black) Johnson had taken over for the deceased Scott.

“He is, but only after Bon Scott killed himself partying,” Heather said.

I was very surprised Heather knew that.

“Partying never killed anybody,” Krystal said.  “Bon Scott had a death-wish.”

“You need some sleep.”

“Well, now that we talked about it, I think he did just guess, you know, just came up with a round number that sounded good.  I can just hear that line if it was mathematically correct.”  In a scratchy, shriekingly high voice not unlike Brian Johnson’s – or Bon Scott’s, for that matter – Krystal sang: “‘And there were fourteen million nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand . . . nine hundred and ninety-six . . . or whatever . . . fingers learning how to play.’  You can see what kind of effect that would have on the pacing of the song.”

“I wish I had some of whatever’s having an effect on the pacing of your brain since we got on this bus,” grumpy Heather said.

“One million, eight hundred and seventy-five thousand people, exactly,” Lilly said.  When everybody looked at her, she held up her calculator.  “That many people times eight fingers equals fifteen million fingers.”

“Oh, my God – so he must have used a calculator,” Krystal said, “because there’s no way in hell he could have just guessed without ending up with at least one person with less than eight fingers.  That’s profound.  That’s why AC/DC kicks ass – because they pay attention to details.”

“You want to do some yoga or something?” Celeste said.

“I thought you were calling Prince Eric.”

“I tried in the bathroom.  I think he’s asleep.”

“You were going to talk to him in the bathroom?  While you were doing what?”

Celeste got up and tugged on Krystal’s arm.  “Come on, let’s do some stretching.  Try to wind down a little.”

“Good idea,” Heather said.

Krystal shooed Celeste away.  “No, I want to listen to this music.  Thanks for the math, Lilly.”

“No problem,” Lilly said.

Krystal went back to her fifteen million fingers, Heather to her sketching, and Celeste to her brushing and carrot juice, and Lilly moved over to sit by me in one of the captain’s chairs.  When Krystal started tapping her palms on her legs, Lilly whispered, “She took a bunch of cocaine.”