8 #2
"Edify me. Do tell."
"It's a bit dodgy. I mean…I always try so hard not to implicate anyone in my shit. Makes it sort of difficult to talk about." I shook my head, taking another shot.
“Then tell me as much as you can.”
"Alright. So...um...you've heard of the band before, right?"
"Here and there. Mostly tonight. In…In...?"
"—victa. Invicta. Don't even ask why, mate," I grinned, not wanting to betray I’d chosen the name because I thought it sounded edgy.
Thought it might make us sound hard or countercultural or something.
"So, there’s a bunch of uz, right? There's Nathan—he's just the best in my opinion...
and the first of us who played a few chords onstage. "
"Some band.”
"Well, we got there. Lot of crash courses in guitar, percussions." I deliberated a moment, then laughed. "Fuck’s sake, we were hopeless there for a minute. Until we got Levi on the drums, to be fair. He really pulled it all together. Almost single-handedly defined our sound.”
"Ah, got it. Now you’re a proper outfit?"
"Exactly. Alex is the funniest. More of an idea man. He does a lot behind the scenes. Then there's the aforementioned Levi, or Leo, as we sometimes call him. He used to keep uz all in check, but now he's just sort of a lad."
"I know the type," Joe chuckled.
“And of course there’s Nathan—or Nate. The Welshman. I adore him. He’s my best friend, if I had to choose one. My partner-in-crime, so to speak. Always had my back. Unconditional. Never missed a beat.”
Suddenly, I picked up the bottle and poured another shot. That one went down smoother than expected. I think I was becoming numb. Not just emotionally, I think all the shots had literally begun to anesthetize my throat. After yet another dose of liquid courage, I went on.
"Then there's Roman."
"Hm...I must say—and I'm just thinking out loud here—but this Roman fella sounds like a real piece of work already," he chuckled, creases forming at the corners of his downturned eyes.
"Fuck, yes. Tell me about it. Mate, that’s the perfect way to describe him."
"What's the deal with this Roman character anyway?"
"Everything..." I groaned. Rising, stumbling, and pacing. "You nailed it, mate. He really is just a piece of fucking work, and I never say that about anyone."
"What is he? Slacker? Party animal? Lothario?"
"No, worse," I joked, "He's the quiet type y'know?
And, um...like annoyingly clever and self-assured.
Vain, artistic...moody. A real aesthete.
The kind of guy you just, uh, can't ever figure out, so you're always desperate to get to know him...or, uh, ingratiate yourself or something.” I squatted, staring frantically at the floor.
“Really fucking introverted. Intimidatingly good-looking.
Hard to draw into conversation, but when you crack him, I've found that he has so much to say.
Good shit too, not the average bullshit people our age
drone on about, y'know?"
"Sure...I gotcha." He ran a hand through his spindly, ginger hair; probably wondering why I was being so neurotic over a bandmate.
Oddly, a sense of ease swept over me. Urging me to unload the ruinous baggage I’d been hoarding the past few years right at his feet.
I wanted everything to go. The things I kept bottled up—the mass dragging me down into the asphyxiating holds of secrecy.
The mad gospel, unfit for utterance or unsuspecting ears.
The fear, the loathing. I was ready to give it all up.
There was something about the night, something about the bar, something about the tequila—something wide open and peculiar about this man that made it impossible to adulterate the plain truth or shut up.
I barely knew him and probably never would, but in that moment, he was a confessional priest. The proverbial bottle into which I was inclined to whisper the most furtive details of my life.
Hoping someday—maybe years down the road—he’d launder them to the world in one of his brilliant books.
Maybe he'd come clean about a wasted singer he met in a bar one night, and reveal in no uncertain terms just how much that singer loved another singer. I only hoped like hell he’d tell somebody—anybody. Otherwise, the whole of it would die with me.
I joined him on the seat again, topping off both our glasses.
We discussed the origins of the band. How it was formed on a whim one rainy afternoon at Northbridge Academy, a preeminent boarding school for performing arts in London.
Boasting an acceptance rate lower than 10% and an elite alumni—actors, filmmakers, musicians. No kidding, he’d said.
I told him how long I’d stood in line to audition.
How grueling the bootcamp and annual assessments had been.
How we’d all met in the assigned dorm and become fast friends, exchanging CDs and covering songs together.
Learning our chosen instruments. Enhancing our vocals.
How we’d fallen in love with rock. How we’d agreed on the name Invicta.
How long we'd been at it. How we’d vowed to still be performing into our 40s and 50s.
Yet, we’d barely made it five years before the seams began to unravel.
Five rewarding but brutally draining years.
"You alright?" Joe asked.
"Uh, yeah, I guess. Eh...no, actually. Not really," I gulped another shot, wiping my mouth with the back of my trembling hand. When I offered him another, he tapped out, flipping his class upside down on the coffee table before us.
"That'll do for me. Speak your mind, kid."
"I dunno, mate. I honestly don't know what's going on lately. I, uh…just have an awful, sinking feeling, y'know?"
“What’s going on exactly?”
"I just feel like...for the first time in a while, things aren't going to be alright. I was always an optimist before. But…it seems the older I get, the more dismal I become. The more I see how fucked everything truly is and always will be."
"In some cases, sure.” He tossed his hands up.
His brow furrowed deeply. He blinked rapidly in the low light.
“Reality, in its most unadorned form can be a difficult pill to swallow. Some things that come your way…you simply have to confront and accept. No argument there. But…it’s not all bad.
Not always. Not by a long shot. Look, you’re young.
That matters because, you’ll have more good days.
I guarantee you. It’s just the way it goes.
And after a while, what’s bugging you now won’t seem nearly as catastrophic as it did tonight.
When you’re as young as you are, everything can feel like a tragedy, until you gain more perspective. ”
“That’s fair. But…I dunno, mate…” I pursed my lips. “Seems I can’t catch a break anymore…”
“What brought this on?"
"Honestly?"
"Honestly," he nodded, sitting back in the seat. I turned to face him, resting my arm along the top of the couch.
"Him."
"Roman? That jackass?” We laughed. “What's he done now?"
"He just...I just sort of have this feeling he's walking out, y’know?
And soon. It's the most fucked thing to do to a person, innit?
Tell them you're thinking of leaving but not tell them when.
I just have this dreadful feeling every time I think of him.
Nothing's at ease anymore. I keep thinking I'll wake up one day to news he's gone. "
"Think he'd leave without saying goodbye?"
"Mm-hm. It’s his style. I'd be surprised if he said two words to me—or any of uz beforehand."
"Then shouldn’t that illustrate everything you need to know about his character?"
Shit, he was right.
"Yeah, but that's Rome. He doesn't mean to be harsh, but sometimes he just is. He's just kind of candid, y'know? And that leaves no room for bullshit. He doesn't like softening the blow or sugarcoating the facts. And you've got to respect him for it...at the end of the day."
"Why does he wanna take off?"
"He's just different, Joe," I rubbed my face. "He's not like uz. He just wants to be elsewhere right now. He's not really enjoying it anymore."
"What's not to enjoy?"
"Exactly! Anyone would kill for this opportunity.
Even if things become stressed at times, the highs are high enough to pull you through the lows.
But, uh, I think he just doesn't see it that way anymore.
And that's his truth, I guess. And, uh, I would never want to judge him for it, or try to come in the way of him pursuing his own definition of happiness. Whatever that may be."
"You'll miss him when he's gone?"
"Can't begin to tell you how much."
"Have you told him that?"
"Over and over again," I said, quietly.
"How does he respond?"
"It’s always the same. He tells me that he hears me. That he'll miss me too. But ultimately, it doesn’t matter. He says he can't take it anymore."
"You sound like good pals."
I lifted my brows in a sort of shrug. "Yeah...pals."
"More than pals?" he asked without flinching. His deep, dark, steely eyes suddenly unnerving me.
I offered a weary smile, but kept quiet. The room was beginning to spin. And although I couldn't be sure of myself if I headed down that road—revealing my heaviest shit to a perfect stranger—part of me was eager as hell. The last thing I registered was that Rome would kill me if he knew. Oh well.
"His mum...Rome's...she, uh, gave him the best advice recently.
And it's one of those things where it's so simple, mate, but it never really occurs to you if you don't stop to think about it.
She said: 'If it doesn't make you happy, don't do it.
' And I thought that was bloody brilliant, to be fair. "
"Can anyone argue with that?"
"Exactly. She's a sweet lady," I muttered, slumping down and setting the bottle onto my stomach.
"You know what my mom told me?"
"Wut?"
"I don’t wanna see you again unless you have a wife and kids." We laughed. "She's been begging for grandkids my whole life."
"Had any yet?"
"Never got around to it."