by Kim Holden
I already resent passive.
And intervention.
With two hours until the show starts, I need some grub. I’m walking back to the bus to grab a pack of cigarettes, when Clare runs up behind me. I don’t know how she runs in five-inch stilettos, but she does. She’s panting. She’s always out of breath, probably because she’s the only person I’ve ever met who smokes more than I do. “Gustov,” she gasps. Even my name is a pant.
I slow my pace but don’t stop to wait for her. I turn my head to address her, but not enough to meet her eyes. I have trouble looking her in the eye. Every time I do I see a disappointed Bright Side staring back at me, like a ghost haunting me. I can’t face it. Bright Side would’ve hated Clare—polar fucking opposites. “Clare.” That’s the extent of my greeting.
“I noticed you seemed a little off during soundcheck,” she says matter-of-factly.
I’m not insulted. It's true. “I need a drink,” I respond.
She’s next to me now, leaning in so her mouth is near my ear. “I have something better than alcohol.”
At that I do turn and face her because this woman is insatiable. “Jesus Christ, we fucked an hour ago, Clare,” I say, exasperated. “I’m good for a few more hours. Thanks anyway.” She irritates the hell out of me and I don’t try to hide that fact from her.
She smiles seductively. It’s flirtatious. It’s also my cue to look away. She giggles. Her giggle is annoying on many levels: it’s high pitched, which is in stark contrast to her low, husky voice; it’s given too freely when it’s not earned, maybe it’s a nervous tick; and it’s fucking loud. “No, love. Although that sounds like a fabulous idea, I'm thinking of something else.”
By now we’ve reached the bus. I follow her up the steps before I join back in on the exchange. “Well, what is it?”
She reaches into her overcoat pocket and pulls out a small glass vial of white powder held between her pointer finger and thumb and waves it in front of my face.
My initial reaction is hell no. I don’t say anything though.
She’s grasped my wrist and is pulling me to the back of the bus and into the small bedroom she claimed on the first day she joined us. “Come on. Just do one line with me. It’ll help you get through the show.”
This is where I should stop and actually articulate the words, “Hell no,” but I just keep following her like a goddamn dumbass.
While she’s dispensing the powder onto a Vogue magazine that’s lying on her bed and efficiently forming it into two small lines, I look at her face closely for the first time. There are shadows under her eyes that I can still see through her heavy makeup. Fine lines feather out from the corner of each eye. She’s more haggard than I realized. I blurt out, “How old are you?”
She sniffs like her nose is already two steps ahead of her in its need, and looks up at me with wild eyes. “Twenty-five.”
That’s what I thought. Coke has aged her. I guessed her ten years older. I size up the powder lined up in front of us. “This isn’t your first time, is it?”
She’s rubbing her nose with the back of her hand. Her hand is twitchy. It reminds me of the prostitute that propositioned me at the bar back home the day of the funeral. “No. You’re going to love it. It’ll make you feel like Superman.”
In spite of everything I’m looking at, which is at the very least a glaring anti-drug campaign and at best just plain sad, my mouth makes the decision for me. “Okay.”
She goes first. She’s quick. A pro. It makes me wonder how long she’s been doing this.
I go next. I’m slow and it takes several passes. An amateur. My nose stings and my eyes are watering.
As the drug infiltrates my mind and body, I’m silently apologizing, “I’m so sorry, Bright Side. It's just one time. I won’t turn into Janice.” Bright Side’s mom was a cokehead.
I’m justifying it away. I smoke weed on occasion and have taken pills a few times. I tell myself that this won’t be any different.
Except that it is.
Clare goes with me, uninvited, to a pub around the corner. I eat, even though I’m not very hungry at this point. She smokes. She never eats. It weirds me out.
By the time the show starts I’m still flying high. I’m not lethargically going through the motions tonight. I can’t say that I feel completely in control, because I’m sure as hell not, but there’s this force driving me from the inside out. It amps up my anger and channels it into a fierce performance. Amazingly, the crowd eats it up. It’s the strangest fucking experience of my life. It’s like watching everything play out from somewhere outside myself, while at the same time feeling it so deep inside me that I swear it was never there before. It's completely surreal.
Time is inconsequential, irrelevant. Before I know it the band is telling me that’s all we’ve got, the show’s over, it’s time to leave.
Franco stays behind with me while I smoke a cigarette before we get on the bus. “I’m not sure what that was tonight,” he says, “but the crowd loved it.”
They did. So did I. “It was the new Gus.”
He squints at me like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. “You okay, shithead?”
I smile at him. That’s right, I smile. I haven’t done that in a long time. “Fan-fucking-tastic, dude.”
Tuesday, February 28
(Gus)
The past eight shows have gone off like clockwork. Clare has come through every night and fueled Superman. An unexpected perk of being Superman is that I don’t think about Bright Side much anymore. I mean I think about her, but I’m not obsessing.
Sleep is an elusive motherfucker, though. Clare gave me some pills last night after the show. I don’t know what they were, but I slept like a baby.
Monday, March 6 – Tuesday, March 7
(Gus)
No show tonight.
A free day.
It’s a goddamn miracle.
I’m more and more tired these days. The yo-yo of alcohol and cocaine during my waking hours and pills to sleep is messing hard with my constitution. But I’m functioning. I’m killing it every night on stage.
We’re in Amsterdam now. Yup, that’s right—the land of hash bars and the Red Light District. It’s like Christmas. I’ve talked the guys into taking a field trip. They were surprised because I haven’t gone out with them the entire time we’ve been in Europe. Clare’s pissed at me because I didn’t invite her. Whatever. Just because I’ve been, for the most part, sleeping with her exclusively doesn’t mean I’m going to take her out. We’re not in a relationship. We have an arrangement. Two totally different situations.
After walking along the canals and feeding the pigeons in Dam Square, we eat an early dinner to get in out of the cold. Everyone we come across is so friendly and most of them speak English, which surprises me for some reason. After dinner we venture out in search of all things uniquely Amsterdam. When we step inside the first “coffee shop” we come across, it takes no coaxing to entice Franco, Jamie, and Robbie to join me, even though they rarely partake in pot.
Thirty minutes later we’re all stoned off our asses, reminiscing about how our band got together and how god awful our first few shows were. I haven’t laughed in a long time, and it feels good. I’m relaxed, just living in the moment. It’s exactly what I needed.
Hours pass before we leave and move on to the Red Light District. We’re all blissfully stoned as we pass by and watch window peep show after window peep show. I can’t talk the guys into going into an actual brothel, so we settle on a live sex show. It’s real-live porn, just a guy and chick going at it. It shouldn’t be funny, except that for some reason it is. It’s funny as hell. And none of us can watch with a straight face. We’re all laughing like we’re thirteen years old and have never seen boobs or a dick before.
We got kicked out before the show even climaxed. Dammit.
It’s around midnight when we get back to the bus. Everything is quiet. We’re still laughing about the sex show when Clare steps out f
rom her room. We must have woken her up. She looks fucking murderous when she slides the bedroom door open and scowls at us. “I’m trying to get some sleep.” Up north she’s wearing a paper-thin tank top and down south she’s wearing a thong. She’s oblivious to the fact that four sets of eyes are on her.
“Somebody’s in a bad mood.” I laugh, because even she can’t ruin my mood tonight.
She narrows her eyes at me, then exhales bitterly. “So, how was the hash, anyway?”
I smile. “Fucking. Excellent.” This is the first time I’ve smiled at her.
She notices. Suddenly her anger seems to have disappeared, and her lips curl into a smile. It’s her seductive smile. It’s the only one she ever wears. It’s basically safe to say that her smile is a proposition. “Excellent,” she purrs as she takes a handful of my T-shirt and pulls me into her room.
She slides the door shut behind me and just like that she’s on her game. “Did you fuck anyone?”
I laugh. “Excuse me?”
She’s direct as she pulls my T-shirt over my head. “I said, did you fuck anyone? Prostitutes?”
I’m a little slow on the uptake. “Oh, no. We watched, does that count?”
Her smile returns and her dark eyes look possessive. “Good. You ready to have some fun?”
Fun always includes drugs and sex. “Hell yes.”
She begins digging through her side table drawer and pulls out a plastic baggy filled with several different colored pills. She sifts through them and pulls out two identical capsules. She pops one in her mouth before handing me the other.
“What is this?” I usually never ask her anymore.
“Does it matter?” She playfully challenges.
“Probably not,” I answer, because it really doesn’t matter.
She’s removed her tank top and steps out of her thong. She’s unbuttoning my jeans when she says, “That pill is going to make what’s about to happen in this bed the most intense thing you’ve ever experienced.”
I toss it in my mouth and swallow. “Sounds good, dude.”
“Did you just call me dude? I am not a dude.” She looks down at her breasts. “Obviously.” She’s insulted, but not enough to finish stripping me bare.
I’ve never called her dude. Dude is usually a term of endearment for me. It’s something I generally save for my closest friends. She’s not my friend and there’s nothing endearing about her. I wish I could take it back. I feel like I’ve shared a personal piece of me. “I didn’t mean it.”
“That’s better.” She’s consoled.
If she knew, “I didn’t mean it,” was more an insult than an apology she’d be pissed, but the drugs are starting to cloud my mind. Suddenly I don’t care about anything else but getting her into this bed.
Sex with Clare is always rough. It’s the only way she likes it. She’s like some kind of fucking masochist. She wants to be dominated. And she’s into some way kinky shit. Sometimes it’s cool. Sometimes it’s not. But tonight is different. Everything’s playing out in slow motion. Everything’s softened. It’s vanilla sex compared to what we usually do, which should be boring with her, but it’s not. I’m into it. I’m taking my time. I’m kissing. I’m touching. I’m pleasing her. And she’s pleasing the hell out of me.
When we’re done she doesn’t want me to leave her bed. So I don’t.
I didn’t know it then, but that was a mistake. The culmination of many, many mistakes.
When I wake up several hours later, my head feels like a fucking marching band is playing at full volume inside my skull. I stretch and my entire body aches. Then I feel a warm body next to me.
There shouldn’t be a warm body next to me.
Please let this be a stranger in bed with me, I think. But I know it’s not. And I know I’ve just fucked up royally. I sneak a peek and sure as shit Clare’s next to me. “Shit.” This I do say out loud.
Her eyes are closed. “What?” she says. Her voice is still half asleep.
I roll my eyes. “Nothing.” I slide out of bed and start looking for my pants. I find them by the door and pull them on. I’ll look for my underwear later; I need to get out of here.
She’s watching me now, and I can’t figure out how she could possibly be smiling at me like that when she took the same shit I did last night. Why doesn’t she feel like hell? “Last night was hot,” she says. “You’re sweet when you want to be. When you let your guard down.”
Shit. Shit. This just keeps getting worse. I’m racing through my fuzzy memories of last night and can’t come up with much after we got in bed. It’s like my memories aren’t related to anything physical, but instead take on this dream-like quality. And they’re completely unattached to Clare, completely separate. They’re hazy and vague, but warm and tender. Like I was some place totally safe. Somewhere I never wanted to leave. I felt love and loved.
Her voice breaks my trance. “I’ve never had someone make love to me before.” She looks like she just won a prize and it makes my stomach churn because for some reason that I can’t explain, I know she’s right. I didn’t fuck her, I made love to her. I’m so confused. I need to get out of here.
I slide the bedroom door open and am about to escape when her next words explain everything. “You called me Bright Side last night. What does that mean?”
I feel bile rise in my throat and there are tears stinging the backs of my eyes. That name from her mouth is desecration. I can’t think of anything worse right now than hearing Clare say her name. I turn on her instantly and am standing over her pointing my finger an inch from her face. “Don’t you ever fucking say that name again!” I’m yelling.
Her face has flipped from triumphant to shocked.
Franco’s out of his bunk now. He’s got ahold of my arm and is pulling me out of the room. He sits me down at the table near the driver, and hands me a cigarette and a lighter while he tells our driver, “Pull over, Ed. Gus needs to get out and cool down.” My hands are shaking so badly I can barely light the cigarette.
Ed, our driver, pulls the bus to the side of the road and I slip on my Vans and coat, not bothering with a shirt or socks. I step off the bus into the snowy shoulder of what I assume is Dutch countryside. I’m pacing next to the bus and almost done with my first cigarette when Franco joins me.
“What’s up, punk ass?” He’s wearing his concerned face: brows furrowed and lips tight, turned down in a slight frown. It’s the same face he wears anytime something bad happens.
I shrug as I inhale more nicotine into my body. It isn’t calming me down like it usually does. My head is throbbing, my heart is racing, and the whole of my body is shaking inside and out. “Did you hear the whole conversation this morning?” The walls are thin; if he was awake, he heard it.
He nods apologetically. “And last night.”
I squat and bury my face in my hands. I’m not just embarrassed, I’m lost. I rub my eyes and my hands come away wet. I light another cigarette. I’d rather cut off my right arm than hear the answer to this question, but I force myself to ask it. “What did I say to her last night?”
He eyes me. “You don’t remember?” It’s not really a question, he knows I don’t. He’s stalling.
I shake my head.
He scratches his bald head. He doesn’t want to answer me, but I know he will because that’s what good friends do. They give you the bad news even when you don’t want to hear it. “I’m not going to get into all the details, but you kept calling her Bright Side … while you were having sex. You told her you loved her, dude.”
I turn around and scream with everything I’ve got in me. It feels like my head is splitting open. The pain is excruciating, but it only makes me want to scream longer and louder. When the screaming dies out I can’t catch my breath, and before I know it I’m doubled over retching into the snow. I don’t remember what I ate last night but it’s all over the ground and my shoes now. My stomach empties quickly but my body doesn’t relent. I keep heaving. It makes my eyes fill a
nd spill over. And when the heaving stops, I realize that I’m bawling. I’m on the ground now, knees wet with vomit and snow. I bury my face in my forearms and crouch down on the wet, snow covered ground. I’m crying like I cried the moment she died. Crying like my fucking world is about to end. Franco kneels down beside me and puts his hand on my back. “My heart hurts so fucking bad, dude,” I gasp. “I miss her. I miss her so much.”
“I know, big man.” No judgment.
I’m thankful it’s Franco here with me because he knows how to talk to me. I couldn’t do this with anyone else right now. Not even Ma.
“I don’t know how to be Gus without her, dude. I’m fucking lost as shit.”
“I know.”
I rise up on my knees and look at him.
He hesitates like he was going to say something and thought better of it. And then he says it anyway, “Listen, I know it’s none of my business, man. If you’re into Clare that’s on you, but—”
I interrupt. “I’m not. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing with her.”
He raises his eyebrows. He’s calling me out.
“Okay,” I huff, “I know what I’m doing with her. I’m fucking her. Using her. She’s a meaningless distraction. That’s it.”
“But she’s been helping you with your meds, too.”
That was way too casual for Franco. “Is that what you call it? Meds?”
His eyes narrow. “Yeah,” he says cautiously. “I talked to her a few weeks back about you. I didn’t go into personal specifics, but told her I thought you needed to see a doctor. She told me a few days later that she’d arranged for a doctor to come by the venue while the rest of us were at dinner and that you got a prescription for anxiety and sleep meds.”
“Doctor? I didn’t realize Clare had a fucking license to practice?” I don’t like the fact that she’s been keeping Franco in the dark. But the truth is that I've been lying to him, too.
