Day 7 New Brunswick, NJ
MAX
REMEMBER EVERYTHING I SAID about the show last night?
Well, tonight is the fucking opposite.
We’re in the basement of one of those crummy ramshackle student houses in New Brunswick, a big foursquare way past its prime, treated with equal contempt by the landlords who rent it out and the students who pay the rent — in this case, an anarchist collective who has been living here for years.
At some point, somebody made an attempt at partially renovating this particular basement, so there’s sheetrock along one wall and a built-in bar that’s currently being manned by a crusty girl with dreadlocks and gauged-out ears.
But the concrete floor is still hard under my feet, and the beer in my hand could certainly be colder.
These kids are definitely Blake’s people.
We showed up in the late afternoon to load in and set up for the show, and I feel like every conversation I’ve heard is way over my head.
It’s all political shit, about the war in Afghanistan or the Bush administration or Communist theory or the ethics of vegan leather.
And like, I care. I do. I’m glad they care.
But I’m also a dumbass and I don’t really have anything to add.
I spot Sam leaning against a pillar, and I head over to join him.
He’s wearing a ratty black hoodie tonight, pushed up at the elbows, just like everyone else in the room.
The house band is opening for us, and they’re okay I guess.
They’re kind of doing a folk-punk thing, with acoustic guitars and big plastic buckets instead of drums and a washtub bass.
The song is about global warming, I think. Great.
I nudge Sam with my shoulder and sigh. If anybody in this room is gonna get how I’m feeling, I know he will. “Hey, I just heard three kids arguing about which of their friends is a Trotskyist. Do you think any of them even knows what a Trotskyist is? Because I don’t think I fucking do.”
“Hmm?” Sam replies absently, tilting his head towards me while keeping his eyes trained on the band.
I follow his gaze to figure out what he’s staring at so intently.
The lead singer is a big blond guy, strumming a banjo as he yells into the microphone, and I dunno — he just seems like he doesn’t belong here.
All of the rest of us, including me, are stringy little weirdos with too many tattoos and facial piercings who look like we subsist on a diet of cheap beer and cold pizza and cigarettes.
But this dude looks like a fucking Viking, or like the quarterback of the football team on some WB teen soap.
When we met him earlier, he told us his name was Damian, and he seemed okay, just a regular dude.
But still, I wonder how the fuck he ended up with this crowd.
And then he locks eyes with Sam, and he fucking winks.
Did I say he seemed okay? I mean that he seemed like an insufferable prick.
“Hey, I’m gonna go find Roxie, okay?” I shout into Sam’s ear. “I’ll be back.”
He nods. “Sure, okay — have fun.”
None of this is my fucking business. So why do I feel like it is?
SAM
I know exactly what I have to do.
I mean, I live with Max, right? And I’m used to all the little jolts of electricity that come with sharing a space with him.
Like when he comes out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel and talks to me for 20 minutes before he puts any clothes on.
Or when we’re watching a movie and he plunks his feet in my lap and falls asleep.
Or when I’m washing dishes and he comes up behind me and gives me a hug, and I close my eyes and lean back just for a second, one moment to let myself pretend that he means it the way I want him to mean it.
And then I head back to my room and I practice scales on my guitar or copy the names of all the drugs I have to memorize for school until I calm the fuck down and remember that it’s never going to happen.
But tour is different. Tour is eating next to Max and sleeping next to Max and sitting in the car with Max and making music with Max every night and Max and Max and Max all the time, and I can’t take a breath and I can’t get away and my heart is thudding in my ribs every second and I can’t get any fucking perspective.
That’s why I’ve been imagining shit the past few days. And I know what’s at the end of the road if I don’t get a hold of myself and it’s twenty years of friendship gone and my heart broken into a million tiny pieces.
So I have to give Max some space tonight. I know he’s gonna be fine, that he’s gonna plunk down next to some girl and charm the pants off her (probably literally), and I can either sit and watch that happen or I can look after myself. And I think I’ve gotten pretty good at looking after myself.
It’s about a half hour after our set, and the dance party downstairs has turned into a casual hangout throughout the house.
Most of the audience has gone home, so it’s just us and the ten or so kids who live here and a few of their friends.
I head out to the kitchen, grabbing a red Solo cup and making a beeline for the keg in the corner.
I’m just about to squeeze the plastic nozzle when a huge hand closes over mine.
“No no no, my friend, that’s Natty Light. You don’t want that.”
I turn and look up into the face of Damian, the singer from the band that opened for us. “You got a better offer?”
He grins down at me, and damn, I could definitely do a lot worse for a companion for the evening. I’ve done significantly worse. “I sure do. Come with me.”
I follow Damian through the house, feeling like a dinghy in the wake of a cruise ship. He leads me up the stairs to the second floor, and then opens the door to his bedroom.
Man, this is the easiest hookup I’ve ever had. I wonder if I should take off my pants or just drop to my knees.
But he’s rummaging in a mini-fridge in the corner, and when he turns, he’s holding two bottles of small batch hard cider and a bottle opener.
“Shit, you really did bring me up here to give me a drink,” I blurt.
“Why, what did you think?” Damian puts the bottles down on his desk, opening them one by one, then looks up at me. “Oh, you thought we were just gonna — aww, you’re kind of adorable. At least let me buy you a drink and get to know you first.”
He offers me one of the bottles, and I take it. “What should we toast to?”
“To new friends,” he suggests, and we clink them together. “Come on, let’s go downstairs.”
The living room is a large open space, set up for several activities at once.
Max is sitting in front of the TV playing GoldenEye with a few of the other kids.
I notice that one of them is the sort of hard-edged, mouthy girl that Max usually goes for, so I figure it’s just a matter of time until they figure things out.
Blake, meanwhile, is in the center of a group who are all trading protest war stories.
Roxie is quiet, curled up in his lap with her head against his chest like a pissed-off whippet.
So I don’t have to feel like I’m being rude or abandoning anybody when Damian leads me to an unoccupied loveseat in the corner.
He sits, stretching his arm out along the sofa, and I take the hint, kicking off my Vans and curling up beside him, letting him put his arm around me.
This isn’t how I usually handle these types of situations, but I have to say that it’s sort of nice.
“So —” Damian asks. “When did you start playing bass?”
“It’s well, kind of a long story,” I reply. “You see, Max and I —”
I don’t even know how long I talk to him.
We chat about our families, and about music, about what we want out of life, about the state of the world.
I’ve never actually been on a date, because I’ve always been too wrapped up in my feelings for Max to look for anything other than a hookup.
But I wonder idly if this is what a first date is like.
Damian is funny, and kind, and he gets up twice to fetch us more ciders from his room.
As we talk, I notice that a lot of my stories are about Max — but I can’t help it if the guy has been in my life since before I can remember.
All I know is that my cheeks are warm and I’m waving my hands around a lot as I talk and it feels good to chat with somebody new, somebody who seems to think I’m fascinating.
We’re just finishing our third round of ciders when I stretch, nestling a little deeper into his side. “Do you guys ever think about touring? I mean, your band?”
“Nah, not really,” Damian replies. “You know, what we do is fun for local shows, but we’re not tight like you guys are. And I don’t know if the draw would be the same for me because —”
He pauses and looks around the room, and I glance up at him. When he speaks again, his voice is meant just for me.
“— Because I’m not in love with my lead guitarist.”
I freeze, and I’m sure my eyes are like dinner plates.
“Did I say something out of turn?” he whispers.
“I just — I can’t talk about this here. Not with —” I nod over in Max’s direction.
“Is it something you would want to talk about?” He has blue eyes, and they’re so fucking kind that I want to cry. “I mean, I could be an ear — if you want.”
My heart is pounding so hard that I’m pretty sure I need to go to the hospital. But I lick my lips, and then nod slowly.
Damian smiles softly. “Come on — let’s go outside where it’s a little quieter.”
He stands up, holding out his hand, and I let him lead me through the house, out onto the front porch where there’s an old broken-down couch playing the role of outdoor furniture. Damian plops down, and I sit beside him, elbows on my knees and hands clasped in front of me.
“Am I that obvious?” I whisper.
“Maybe not to everyone,” Damian says kindly. “But I sensed it when you guys first showed up here today — you two are like magnets, like you’re always reacting to each other.”
I run both hands through my hair, product sticky under my fingers. “I’ve never talked to anyone about any of this shit.”