Chapter 1. #3
I take a long breath, then pocket my phone. “To fuckin’ fuck,” I agree. She seems to appreciate my mirroring of her sentiment. Then I guess her song comes on, because she screams in my face, and off the nameless emo girl goes, tearing through the crowd.
I’ll probably never see her again.
And standing in this line that hasn’t moved in ten minutes, I stare off, and the quailing, surprisingly sultry vocals of the rock band worm their way into my ears. Abandon … Oh, oh, my abandon … The darkness holds my hand in your sweet abandon …
I see AJ laughing with his crew as they talk about how insane their trip will be, hitting waves in Cali, kicking back on the sand.
You never know what holds you … Oh, oh, until it’s gone …
AJ throwing back another beer, losing track of time, or maybe entirely aware of it, knowing I’ll forgive him, oh, but look at Paris, she’s right there on the other side of the room, just within reach.
Back into my sweet abandon … Until it’s all gone, gone, gone …
Then I see myself, staring out the window of a different room, out in the countryside, alone, while my parents discuss my future in a newly-renovated office made just for me, and all summer I’m counting stars, and I’m counting scoops of ice cream served with a smile on my face at my summer job at T&S’s, and I’m counting the days of my life as they burn away one sunrise at a time …
Everything, everyone, gone, gone, gone …
I discover a sudden need to vomit.
I ditch the line and shove my way through the crowd.
I burst into a hallway and race toward a restroom sign.
Locked. I hurry down another corridor, everything fuzzy and far away, until I’m totally turned around and lost. Apparently every restroom in this building is playing hide-and-go-seek with me, so I find a waist-high trash bin at an intersection in the hallway and clutch it for dear life with my head half inside, awaiting the inevitable.
It’s something far worse than vomit that comes.
It’s tears.
Oh, no. Tell me this isn’t happening. Not in a back hallway of some rundown college-tour-dump-pad venue with shitty security. And I’m alone here with sad-boy lyrics dancing a waltz with the nightmares in my head like they’re my new best friends.
Tell me I’m not about to be trapped for another long summer of having my soul sucked out of my feet with every aching step in my dusty Texas town with too much love to give.
Tell me my life isn’t over before it’s started.
The response I get is the shuffling of a nearby shoe.
I lift my head a fraction of an inch and spot a guy in skinny jeans, a white ribbed tank, and an opened flannel shirt leaning against the wall, partly obscured in shadow, eyes on me.
“Sorry.” I let go of the bin, immediately grow dizzy, and grab hold of it again. “Didn’t realize I … had an audience.”
“Don’t we always,” he mutters back, not quite a question.
“Couldn’t bear another note of that sad song.
Too many bands writing sad songs that emulate every other sad song and no one remembers where sad songs actually come from.
Or love songs. Or angry songs. Why is music lately so fucking trite and shallow?
” I sigh and shake my head. “Sorry. You’re probably a huge fan.
Don’t mean to offend.” I rethink it. “Or maybe I do. This hellhole clearly isn’t for me.
Got lost on my way to the restroom to hurl.
But what would I even hurl? Haven’t eaten anything since the Cheetos.
Oh, I mean Cheeto,” I correct myself, “thanks to that fucking squirrel. Are you hiding or something?”
His probing eyes haven’t left mine. “Sure looks like it, huh?”
“Maybe I am, too. From everything. Even myself.” My grip on the bin tightens.
“You realize Chase Holt is about to go on? Don’t wanna miss the opening song.
Bet it’s a real banger—some soulless producer-written shell of a song about love,” I mumble miserably.
After noticing the silence, I give the guy a glance.
“Look, sorry, I don’t know the first thing about whoever this alleged not-so-country-anymore sellout is that we’re all here to see … ”
“Sellout?”
“… other than he’s out and gay, and my bestie AJ was hooked on his music for a hot minute last year, and—Wait.
Can I still call him my bestie? Was he ever?
” I ask, a totally separate question, a Pandora’s Box of terror I just opened up.
I stare into the depths of the trash bin.
“I heard this Chase Holt guy had a show here, and I thought, hey, go surprise your bestie with tickets, he’ll love that.
But nope. I lose him to a fucking city in France. ”
“Uh … Paris?”
“I’m not drunk, by the way,” I feel compelled to explain. “This isn’t puke. It’s fucking betrayal spilling out of me.”
“So your best friend … ran off to Paris …?”
“Ran off after Paris, big difference. He’s in love and doing what he thinks is right.
He’s as trite as a Chase Holt love song.
Aren’t we all?” I let go of the bin and start to laugh.
Yeah, I’m losing it. “Am I the idiot for filling my head with the wild notion that I could actually make my life move forward? That I could not just be the nice gay friend everyone takes advantage of? Nice guys get left behind. They get stuck. Like I’ll be.
In the ever-loving quicksand that is my hometown of Spruce.
I’m tired of being …” My posture breaks. “… what everyone tells me I am.”
There’s a thick silence that follows. I hardly notice, as if I’m all alone in this hallway, like the guy is imaginary.
Then, in a changed, softer voice, the guy mumbles, “I get it. Feelin’ boxed in. People decidin’ who you are before you get to.”
“All these years slipping by, and I’m no closer to finding out how to rescue myself from … from myself.”
“What’s the rush?” he gently asks. “Some things take time.”
“I’m a senior next year. Once I graduate, it’s all over.
I’ll be trapped. And believe me, I’ve tried everything.
Music. Dancing like Jimmy. Doodling. I’m apparently bad at all of it.
I’m even bad at planning road trips enticing enough to keep my bestie’s attention.
I’m just … I’m just gonna … I-I’m gonna …
” Oh, no. Here come the tears again. “I’m gonna be stuck in Spruce for the rest of my life. ”
“You don’t gotta be a damned thing other than what you are.”
I look at him challengingly. “And what am I?”
“You seem like a guy who knows when somethin’ ain’t right,” he answers, this stranger I’m trauma-dumping on, this man with kind eyes. “I can clearly see passion inside you.”
“It’s the rest of the betrayal,” I explain. “I’m holding back.”
“Don’t gotta hold back. Not here. Ain’t no one here but us.”
“No, no. I’ve perfected the art. It’s the one thing I’m good at.” I fold my arms over my chest. “And this dam of mine, yeah, it will break when I let it, and trust me, you don’t want to be there.”
“Says who?” He kicks away from the wall. “Tell you what. Just take a breath, maybe a minute or two, then head on back to that crowd out there and enjoy some music. Who knows. Maybe this … sellout isn’t what you think. His music might even—”
“What I need,” I cut him off, “isn’t another fucking guy singing about his feelings. What the fuck about mine?”
He flinches at my words, eyebrows lifting up, taken aback.
“Let him sing,” I go on, growing more bitter with each word I spit out.
“Let that guy whine about his achy little heart to a crowd of devoted fans. And let those fans adore his clichéd love songs so he can strut back to his studio and shit out some more, while the rest of us out here in the real world continue to suffocate.” The dam’s cracking without awaiting my blessing.
“Does it make me a terrible person for …” My voice starts shaking.
Eyes are welling up. “… for wishing someone felt as bad as I do right now …?”
He says nothing.
But that’s because his face says everything for him.
Whatever motivation this guy had to help me out of my funk has clearly been shredded to bits after my words.
I’ve ruined his night. Just like AJ ruined mine.
Which makes me feel even worse. This guy didn’t come here for my abuse and doesn’t deserve it.
He just bought a ticket to enjoy an artist he probably cherishes.
I don’t know if he has an answer to my question.
I don’t wait to find out.
I turn and head down the hall before he sees my dam shatter apart completely.
I don’t stop until I’m outside, fleeing through some side door no one’s watching.
My back slams against the brick wall. I slide down, a shuddering, blubbering, broken-down mess next to a smelly dumpster, scaring away a poor cat.
Probably for the best. The same doomsday clouds that took away my afternoon sunshine choose now to spill over my head like a prank, an utter downpour the second the rain comes, and it doesn’t let up.
Isn’t that how it always goes?
I hate hearing myself cry. No one deserves to see this. But I guess someone already did.
You don’t gotta be a damned thing other than what you are.
Does he even realize how difficult a request that is? To defy what every minute of my life has been pushing me to become?
You seem like a guy who knows when somethin’ ain’t right.
But that doesn’t make me a guy who knows any better how to fix what’s wrong.
I can clearly see passion inside you …
It’s right then that the rain lets up. Nearly gone.
Like a shower twisted off, leaving the world dripping and sad.
And in the eerily quiet air, I hear the crunchy roar of a crowd waking up inside the Horseshoe.
Somehow, through the brick and the mortar and the impenetrable heaviness in my stomach, the muffled yet confident chords of a guitar cut through, followed next by a voice—rich and bright and as warm as a hug.
It pierces my soul with a melody that is so instantly capturing, I can’t help but close my eyes, as if to receive its healing tones, as if it’s a hand reaching out to take mine, offering a kind of shelter no roof can provide.
Maybe I was wrong about the music.
I still have my ticket. I could stay for the whole show.
If I wasn’t so terrified about what else the music will make me feel.
It’s probably just my sad sack imagination, given my current state of mind and that I can’t possibly discern lyrics from all the way out here, but I swear I hear him sing, “I see the passion in you,” over and over.
When the song ends and the audience roars, I’m surprised to find myself smiling.
No, I don’t hear what comes next. I’m already off the filthy pavement and tramping my way back to the parking lot, done.