That was our plan for coming off the drugs. I’d even told my parents the truth about where we were going; only I didn’t tell them why.
We found a place to camp on the Colorado River just outside of Austin. I didn’t want to camp at McKinney Falls because it had too many positive associations, and the next few days were sure to be hellish. We took a few precautions and made a few rules before embarking on this endeavor. I was to hide the keys to the van in the woods, and Seth was to hold onto our phones until they went dead, so that neither of us could double-cross the other in trying to get a fix. I even went so far as to search the van and pat Seth down to make sure he wasn’t hiding any contraband. He looked on with amusement and told me I’d better check his asshole too, with my tongue.
We spent the first day exploring the park and swimming in the river, even though the water was still a bit chilly. Seth played guitar by the campfire while I cooked dinner. We retired early to our tent, and after messing around some, Seth held me and dreamed out loud about Petty Crime and what he hoped they would accomplish. I still wished for all of his dreams to come true.
The next day we started suffering withdrawal. In our typical fashion, we were both trying to minimize our symptoms in order to be the stronger one. It was a game of chicken without any prize. That took us through most of the day, but by that evening, we started sniping at each other. We tossed and turned in our sleeping bags throughout the night, and on the third day, the effects from the withdrawal kicked in full force.
Seth tried every which way to get me to give him the keys to the van, resorting to saying some pretty nasty shit about my character—I was passive aggressive and sneaky and frigid. If he was the Queen of Hearts, then I was the fucking Queen of Icelandia, and what was wrong with me that I could be so devoid of feeling, like a fucking robot?
So, I gave him an earful as to what I thought about him as a boyfriend, which was that he was controlling and manipulative and selfish, that I could do better, and I swore if he didn’t get his shit together, I would. I also told him his fighting stance was weak as hell and if I wanted to, I could probably kick his ass. Then he tried to fight me, so I tackled him in a jiu-jitsu submission hold, and he accused me again of fucking Fabio.
We called each other names. We threw past grievances in each other’s faces. We exploited each other’s weaknesses out of spite and anger. We were the worst versions of ourselves, but in a way, it was also cathartic because we were able to get every little ill feeling we’d been harboring for months off of our chests.
By the fourth day, we were weak and dehydrated, but some of the physical pain and discomfort had subsided. We lay around listlessly and bemoaned our existence. Seth told me this was the stupidest idea I’d ever had, but it was without the same rancor as the day before. By the evening, we were both beginning to awaken from our stupor and realize that even though it had been ugly and disgusting, we’d both survived and come out on the other side of it together.
We were clean.
“This must be love,” Seth marveled while I prepared our first hot meal in three days.
“Why do you say that?” I was proud of him and of us. Nothing could get me down.
“Because nothing has ever felt so fucking awful before.”
“This isn’t love, Seth,” I told him with a bubble of optimism I hadn’t experienced in a while. “It’s sobriety.”
That night we made love for the first time in months with both of us being completely sober. No mind games and no power plays. Seth didn’t need to tell me he loved me because I felt it in every tender touch and sweet caress.
Like Before.
NOW
Dr. Denovo has me research the “cycle of abuse,” which would be a lot easier if we had access to the internet but instead involves me looking through a few of New Vistas’ musty old textbooks, which makes me wonder how people learned anything in their lifetimes without the expediency of Google.
The cycle of abuse is yet another revelation for me because while I was living it, I felt entirely alone. I feel a little stupid to find out that it’s a somewhat well-known and researched phenomena, but it does give me comfort to see something I experienced put into words. The cycle of abuse goes like this:
1. Tensions build between the abuser and the victim.
2. The incident of violence happens.
3. Reconciliation.
4. A period of relative calm.
There’s a much longer cycle of fourteen steps developed by the one-upper of the psychology world, but I won’t bore you with all the details. The point is I experienced that for months while I was with Seth. Some people endure it for years. The only way for the victim to end the cycle of abuse is to separate from their partner or die.
Pretty bleak stuff.
The point I’m trying to make with all of this is when Seth and I got clean in that campground on the Colorado River, I thought we were moving in the right direction.
But we were only in the fourth phase of the cycle.
Dr. Denovo is the only person who knows these things about me—my deepest, darkest secrets, fears and failings. I joke with him that I’ll have to arrange an accident for him when all of this is over. He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even crack a smile. He does suggest that I tell some of what I’ve told him to my parents. Thanks but no thanks, Doc. If they knew half the shit I’ve done, they’d never forgive me. Dr. Denovo says perhaps I’m not giving them enough credit. We go back and forth on the subject at length. At the end of our discussion, Dr. Denovo tells me that whatever I choose, I should consider myself a survivor.
I tell him that fact remains to be seen.
THEN
I told my parents I’d cut back on my hours at Sam’s Club, which made my mom happy because she’d been telling me that I was working too much. I felt like I was lying a little bit less. At least I wasn’t sneaking off to go get high, just sneaking out to go to Petty Crime’s last flurry of shows before their record dropped and they started touring big time.
I also bought a motorcycle with the money I’d made from the “Queen of Hearts” video—a sweet little Kawasaki Ninja with green fairings. My parents hated it—especially my dad. He called me a hoodlum and told me it gave people the wrong impression. If he’d said he was worried about my safety, I might have backed down, but because it was an appearances thing, I dug my heels in and told him I’d bought it with my own money, and I wasn’t getting rid of it. Besides, if I tried to sell it, I’d lose money.
“Mendouna koto ni naru yo,” my dad warned me. You’re asking for trouble.
The video turned out awesome, and awesome wasn’t a word I used lightly. Seth raved about the video being properly taboo and sexually explicit enough to capture the attention of the masses without cheapening its meaning or artistic integrity. Sabrina told me she was glad I was off the drugs, but that I was stupid to believe Seth’s sobriety would last. I reasoned that she’d never had much faith in him to begin with.
All of our attention in those weeks was focused on preparing for Petty Crime’s release of their debut album, Queen of Hearts. There were shirts to be made, party details to be finalized, a new lineup of live songs to be arranged, a video to be screened, tour dates to be determined...
The six of us, which included Jeannie when she was able, came together with the sole purpose of elevating Petty Crime from a local band to a legend, or at least a band with a following outside of Austin.
On the day of the record release, Petty Crime was giving a show featuring their new songs at Corner Bar, which gave me some heartburn because that was where I’d discovered Seth’s infidelity almost a year ago, and it was a place I’d avoided ever since.
But this was a new day, a new Seth and because of it, a new me. I was suffering from that same old malady, an abundance of confidence. Only this time, it felt completely deserved because not only had I overcome my addiction, but I’d help Seth do the same. It wasn’t an abundance of confidence in myself, but in us, our relationship, and
our creative partnership, which had never been closer or more productive.
I worked the merch counter at Petty Crime’s show. Jeannie was with me, sitting on a stool because she was about six months along by that point. They were having a boy, and in between selling T-shirts and CD’s… Seth insisted on selling CD’s even though most people didn’t even own CD players anymore…Jeannie told me some of the names Mitchell had suggested—Cash and Guthrie and Tyger with a “y,” which was from a William Blake poem. At one point it occurred to me to tell her, “I can’t believe Mitchell came up with all those ideas. He’s usually so reserved about giving his opinion.”
Jeannie shook her head. “He’s only that way around Seth. With me, he’s an open book.”
That was another revelation to me, that I might only know the version of Mitchell as it related to Seth. The same might also be true for me. How much of my own personality had been overshadowed by Seth?
But just as quickly as that thought came on, I dismissed it because things with Seth were really good, and he was onstage, serenading our creative lovechild to his room of adoring fans, pausing their set to tell the crowd he’d like to dedicate the next song to his one and only. “Hiroku Hayashi,” Seth said from the stage while pointing at me. “You and me forever, babe.”
Then they launched into “Queen of Hearts,” and for once, it didn’t feel so tragic because our future was looking brighter than it ever had before. Seth was giving up control, and I was establishing my personhood without the drugs or his constant overbearing influence.
I look back on that moment now, and much like the year before when I was watching Seth seduce a yellow-haired boy from the crowd, I wish I could stop everyone right there in time like little people in a dollhouse and arrange them just right so that their lives would continue along a happy path forever.
But the problem since the very beginning was that I could only control my own actions, never Seth’s. So, even when I thought I had some semblance of control, it was only an illusion.
But it’s important for you to know, that as I stood there in that throbbing crowd, listening to Seth sing his anthem for me and me alone, I felt like the luckiest man alive.
NOW
I tell Dr. Denovo I want a meeting with my parents. Not just them, but Sabrina and Mai too. I have unfinished business with all of them, and I’m going to need their help if I mean to execute my treatment plan and remain drug- and Seth-free.
That doesn’t mean I don’t twist and turn on my plastic mattress every night thinking about all the ways in which it will go to shit. It’s the fatalist in me. I’m not even sure my dad will stick around long enough to get to the part where I ask him for help.
And Mai? Is this even fair to her? If I were less selfish, I’d let her live her new, shiny life at Columbia without having to worry about her fuckup of a little brother.
But Dr. Denovo is persuasive. Part of me thinks he doesn’t know my parents like I do, but another part trusts him to be the expert in these types of situations. His only ulterior motive is to keep me the hell out of New Vistas, and that goal happens to align perfectly with my own.
I want to have faith in myself, but I’ve come to realize I can’t do this alone.
THEN
The after party was at Tish’s house. The guest list grew exponentially larger when Seth gave out her home address to the patrons of Corner Bar and insisted they all join us there for free beer and the screening of their new video.
“You can be the first ones to see it,” Seth promised them in a sultry voice. He still had the ability to make any everyday Joe feel extraordinary. Meanwhile the thought of all those strangers seeing that video made me nervous as hell.
At Tish’s house, the band was welcomed like royalty, which extended to me because Seth had always elevated me as part of their court. There was a wide range of guests in attendance—Petty Crime’s groupies, Hilliard High graduates, Mitchell’s work friends from Sunoco, Sabrina’s Libertarian bros, an assemblage of Hilliard band geeks, and a couple of my colleagues from the visual arts department who’d helped me with editing. There were some of Seth’s drug buddies present as well, which meant I’d need to keep a close eye on him, just in case he was tempted.
Seth wanted me by his side the entire night, not in a possessive way, but in one of shared camaraderie. He drank but not excessively. Just enough to have a goofy smile on his face when he couldn’t figure out how to get the video to project onto the screen they’d set up. I assisted him with that task, and he lavished me with affection to the point that I was red and stuttering and slowly backing away so that I didn’t pop a boner in front of the crowd.
The video played, and even if they didn’t like it, our audience definitely seemed captivated by it. Like viewing my own photographs in larger-than-life size, this was a similar experience, only it wasn’t just my artistry on display but my body and soul as well, since it wasn’t hard to guess who the “you” in the song was. It felt a lot more personal now than when I was filming or editing the footage on a computer and could put some distance between myself as the creator and the boy on the screen.
I tried to gauge the viewers’ reactions. Did they think I was crazy to put myself on display like that? Or starved for attention? Was I making a complete fool of myself as a person and an artist? Did I tell too much? And that didn’t even account for its technical imperfections.
I started spiraling then at this Pandora’s box I’d inadvertently opened when Seth laid his hand on my arm and said, “Stop.” I glanced over, and he gave me a reassuring look. “It’s an amazing work of art, Hiroku. It’s honest and real and beautiful. It’s the perfect expression of Petty Crime and what we’re trying to accomplish. You should be proud of yourself and what we’ve accomplished.”
The same feeling overcame me as when Seth had first seen my photography and told me I had a real talent, and in the many moments since then when he’d encouraged me in my art. He’d given me the confidence I needed to pursue my artistic vision, and this was the result. I was filled with gratitude.
“Thank you, Seth.”
People clapped. A few people whoop-whooped. A few others looked stunned. I supposed that was to be expected as well. Seth made an announcement that the band would be going on tour in a couple of months and invited everyone present to follow them around the country, Phish style. The crowd dispersed, and Seth came over and pulled me into a long, lazy kiss. I didn’t care if people were watching. I was already thinking about our private celebration at the end of the night.
“I meant what I said about the tour,” Seth told me. His nose brushed against mine, his forearms rested on my shoulders. His fingers were tangled in my hair, and I didn’t even mind that he was messing up my carefully coiffed hairdo.
“You’re going to have quite a following,” I said with my eyes closed, only half-listening because I was still in a fog of nerves and lust.
“I mean about coming with us. I want you on the tour, Hiroku.”
I blinked my eyes open to see if he was serious. His expression was open and trusting. He genuinely wanted me there with him, but the tour was four months long at least, nationwide, and it wasn’t scheduled to start until the end of summer.
My body stilled in his arms, an accidental response, but Seth noticed it nonetheless. “You have to come with us,” he said more urgently. “The band needs you. I need you.”
His voice had a note of desperation in it. Of course, I wanted to say yes. Like the times I skipped school or jumped off the cliff or took the stage wearing only metallic briefs, I wanted to join Seth in his adventures, travel the country and live it up like a rock star…
But.
“I have school, Seth. And my parents…”
His face fell, and the light in his eyes dimmed. He pulled away from me and conducted while he spoke. “Fuck Hilliard High. Fuck your parents, Hiroku. What have they ever done for you as an artist? If they saw this video you created—this magnificent piece of brutally honest work�
��do you think they would appreciate it? Or would they be ashamed? I mean, they don’t even know you. Not like I do. I’m your family. I’m the only person you need. I can make you into something special. I can give you anything you want.”
His voice rose in pitch as he made his argument. It had been so easy for Seth to quit school and to leave his mother’s home. He barely even said goodbye to her. But even though they didn’t always accept me, my parents still loved and cared for me. I couldn’t just…run away. And school was something I was good at. I still planned to go to college. I couldn’t give that up, even for Seth. I wanted to trust Seth would take care of me, but even sober, I couldn’t pin all of my hopes and dreams on him.
“I don’t know, Seth.”
He searched my soul. I’d never been able to hide anything from him, and this time was no different. It took only a few moments for him to grasp everything I wasn’t saying. I was doubting him. His belief in the two of us and what we could accomplish just wasn’t enough for me to gamble my future. Or my heart. Seth’s face crumpled.
“Please don’t be mad at me for this,” I begged.
“I’m not,” he said dispassionately. He wouldn’t look at me. “It’s cool. Don’t stress about it, Hiroku. I know it’s a crazy idea. Just… when I think about doing this without you…it doesn’t feel right.”
I reached for his hands and squeezed, then brought them to my lips.
“You won’t be alone, Seth. You’ll have the band. They’re your family too, aren’t they?”
He nodded. “Yeah…but they’re not you.”
I tried to catch his eyes, but he looked past me. I’d hurt him, and I wanted to make it better for him, but I didn’t know what else to say, and I didn’t want to give him false hope. Seth clapped my shoulder. “I’m going to get another beer.”
Hiroku Page 23
