Day 9 New York, NY
SAM
EVER FEEL LIKE YOU’RE JUST sitting around waiting for the other shoe to drop?
I can’t believe how I fucking acted last night.
This is why I usually try to drink in moderation around Max, because I know that if I get a few too many in me, that I’m gonna make a fool of myself and let something slip.
And last night, I was slipping all over the fucking place.
I can’t believe I kept touching him like that.
If I had acted that way around any of the guys we grew up with, any of the ones who used to shove me into lockers when they walked past me, I would have gotten my ass beat.
Max, though? I get too close to him, and Max just holds me.
He’s always been like that. Whatever that button is that most straight guys have, the one that tells them that guys like me are dangerous and we need to get pounded into the ground the moment we step out of line, Max just never developed it.
I remember him holding my hand on the playground when we were kids, and he still does sometimes, when it’s just the two of us.
And he’s always been big on hugging, on kissing my cheek when he’s teasing me, draping an arm around my shoulders when we’re sitting on the couch.
And maybe that’s how I’ve survived as long as I have, never looking for a real boyfriend, because the intimacy I get from Max is almost enough.
But no matter how intimate I think we are, I can’t forget that Max isn’t actually my boyfriend — that he’s straight, and someday he’s going to meet a girl that he wants to keep around forever.
And I can’t go losing my head and thinking he’s going to kiss me when he’s just being nice.
I’m going to ruin everything if I keep stepping over the line.
Still, it doesn’t seem like Max is mad at me.
This morning, even though he was as hung over as I was, he snuck out early and bought me a decent coffee and a greasy breakfast sandwich to put me on the road to recovery.
And right now, he’s giving me a crazy grin as we stand on a Manhattan street, grabbing instruments and cables and amps to load into our venue for the afternoon.
“Can you believe we’re actually here?” he says. “ABC No Rio — I’m so fucking excited.”
“I know, right?” I agree. “This is gonna be insane.”
Some people think that CBGB is the first and last name when it comes to punk rock in New York City.
And sure, for mainstream bands and big record labels, maybe it is.
But in the late 80s, a lot of people started getting sick of where the scene was headed, and so the anarchist community space at ABC No Rio started hosting its own weekend matinee with a simple credo — indie bands only, and absolutely no tolerance for racism, sexism, or homophobia.
A whole lot of our favorite bands have played here at one time or another, and this afternoon, thanks to the combined efforts of Sage and Blake, we’re the opening act.
No matter how I’m feeling about last night, there’s no fucking way I’m ruining this for Max.
So I match his energy and keep up the banter as we’re setting up in the tiny basement space, making sure we have everything ready. And before we go on, while we’re waiting to be called, he slings an arm around me, resting his head against mine.
“If I was going to do this with anybody, I’m glad I’m doing it with you,” he whispers.
“Me too,” I whisper back — and I mean it.
max
What more could a guy possibly want?
I’m playing to the crowd at ABC No Rio — and sure, it’s not exactly Carnegie Hall.
The ceiling is way too close to the top of my head for comfort, and the room is dark and small, a sea of thrashing bodies in front of me.
We’re sweaty and dirty, and so is everyone in front of us.
But the energy is infectious — the mother of all basement shows.
And I dunno, maybe it’s corny, but I really feel like I’m part of something.
Sam and Roxie and I — we’re just three kids from the sticks in Pennsylvania, trying to be better than the shitty towns where we grew up.
We started listening to punk because it spoke to us, because it filled some hole, gave us some sense that there was someplace out there where we would fit, where maybe the world could look the way we wanted to, even if it was just for a moment.
And like, this is it. I’m standing in a room where so many of the bands that got me through high school have played, all the bands that convinced me to pick up a guitar and try it out for myself.
And even though I don’t usually believe in woo woo shit, I can feel them all around me.
Sam gets it. Every time he looks over at me, I feel like he’s outlined in gold, even though his hair is plastered to his forehead and his shirt is soaked through and it’s a miracle he hasn’t cracked his head on a low beam yet, the way he’s jumping around.
He’s riding just as high as I am, and I know I don’t have to say anything at all. We’re always on the same page.
This thing that’s been brewing the past few days — I have to tell him how I feel, right? Somehow I know he’ll understand.
We play our set, and then there are two more bands, so we join the crowd, and it’s fucking perfect. By the time it’s over, we’re completely filthy, and I’m pretty sure the dirt on my shoes is never going to come out, but it’s worth it.
Because I just had the best time of my life, and I know what I want. It can only get better from here.
SAM
Damian was right. As long as I’m this close to Max, I’m never going to get over him.
Watching him play tonight, dancing with him — his joy is fucking infectious, and I feel like I’m on drugs any time I get close to him.
I just can’t keep it in, what he does to me.
But I know how the fucking world works. I know it’s going to be a disaster if I can’t get some perspective and remember who he really is. Who I am.
So after the show, while we’re loading up the van, I wait until Roxie and Blake go back inside for another load and then I pull him aside.
“Hey, I was thinking — when we get this shit back to Jersey City, I might take a shower and then come back and go to a gay bar.” I’m picking at my nail polish, because I can’t look at him.
“You know, because I’ve never actually been to one, and we’re here in the city. I just want to see what it’s like.”
And I need to choke on a stranger’s cock before I lose my head and ruin every good thing that has ever happened to me.
Max reaches out and closes his hand over my fingers, forcing me to stop. I look up sharply, and he’s got that new puppy at the dog park look on his face. “Hey, that sounds like a great idea! Do you want me to come with you?”
I think of stony silence in a darkened living room, Max’s shoulders hunched on the sofa, and I hesitate, chewing on my lip. Finally, I sigh. “Okay, don’t take this the wrong way — but you were kind of weird the other night? I just — if I meet someone, I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
“I promise I’ll be cool,” he replies cheerfully. “Come on — I can be your wingman or something.”
Well, that’s a terrible idea. But I can’t say no to Max, so I nod. “Okay, you can come.”
The smile he gives me could power the entire city, and he squeezes both of my hands. “Awesome! We’re going to have an amazing time.”
I don’t know about that, but what else could I say, really?
MAX
I’m going to tell him tonight.
I don’t know, somehow it just feels right.
The show was so fucking great this afternoon, and I feel like I’m on top of the world.
And going out on our own like this, taking a break from tour to go to a bar where we don’t have to perform — it almost feels like a date. I wish I had flowers or something.
What the fuck am I talking about? He’d freak out if I bought him flowers.
And I’m not sure what I’m gonna say, because I don’t even know what it all means yet.
A crush feels like I’m a teenage girl, but I don’t know what else to call it.
A mania, maybe. A sudden, manic urge to kiss my best friend that I’m only barely managing to contain.
An urge that, according to Roxie, everyone knew about but me.
Except Sam, apparently. But he’s going to know soon.
He’s been in the bathroom for a while. When we got back a little while ago, he told me to shower first, and I put on some clean clothes. Now I’m waiting on the couch, jiggling my knee, and Roxie keeps giving me smug looks that I don’t actually mind.
I hear a cough behind me, and there’s Sam standing in the living room doorway. He’s wearing a skinny gray tank top that shows off his arms, a deep red scarf slung around his neck. And he’s clearly put a lot of work into his appearance, his hair carefully gelled and makeup that brings out his eyes.
Something warm settles in my belly.
“Is that what you’re wearing?” he asks.
I look down at my raggedy NOFX T-shirt and jeans. “Yeah?”
Sam snorts and rolls his eyes. “You’re hopeless. Come with me.”
He leads me to the back bedroom where we’ve been storing our shit and starts rifling through his bag, pulling out another one of his tank tops, this one white. “Here, put that on.”
I make sure that I keep eye contact with him as I drag my shirt up and over my head, and I’m pretty sure he looks, his cheeks coloring as he eyes my bare chest. His shirt is much snugger than anything I usually wear, and I feel very exposed.
“Are you sure?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest. “Because I sort of feel like —”
He eyes me critically. “Yeah, you’ll get hit on more than I will like that. Where’s that checked shirt you wore to the ska show the other night?”
Thankfully, we stopped at a laundromat yesterday, and it’s clean. I slide it on, but when I go to button it, Sam grabs my hands to stop me.
“Leave it like that. And put on that bike chain necklace thing you wear to shows sometimes. And do your eyeliner.”