by Pete Wentz
Thank you for purchasing this Gallery Books eBook.
* * *
Join our mailing list and get updates on new releases, deals, bonus content and other great books from Gallery Books and Simon & Schuster.
CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP
or visit us online to sign up at
eBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Acknowledgments
About Pete Wentz with James Montgomery
TO: B.M.W. AND ANYONE WHO HAS EVER GOTTEN LOST TO FIND THEMSELVES . . .
1
Sometimes, late at night in the hotel room, after the lights have gone out and the mistakes have already been made, when it is heavy and silent and still, I lie awake and listen to my pulse on the pillow. It’s the only way to get through this. “Let’s start this at the end.”
That’s how it goes, like a feather on a drum, bristling and quick, barely there. It’s a microscopic sound, elusive, somewhere between my earlobe and my neck—a matter of nanometers—and I almost have to strain myself to find it, closing my eyes and holding my breath . . . feeling for it without actually feeling for it, because the slightest movement disturbs the rhythm, makes the blood slosh around and the heart stutter, turns the whole thing into a giant production, which is precisely what you don’t want in a situation like this, lying in the dark with someone next to you, in some city somewhere, unbearably sad, tethered to the leaden silence of moment, sinking into the darkness. I am an anchor for an anchor.
Because then the anxiety comes, or the guilt (usually both), and I start to think that I’m living in the middle parts of Great Expectations, right before things go really wrong for Pip, and of course I’m Pip, because it’s my tiny violin playing this one, because everything has to be about me. And that makes me angry, makes my head pound and my blood foam up and all I want to do is rip off the covers and escape, only it’s my hotel room and there’s really nowhere else I can go, and even if there were, it wouldn’t make a difference because I’d just be running from myself, and you can’t do that no matter how hard you try, and trying hard is what got you in this predicament in the first place.
And then there will be sweating and rolling, pitching fore and aft. Seasickness in a dry-docked vessel. I will probably vomit. I’m an insomniac, my mind works the night shift.
• • •
So you have to be careful when you’re trying to find it. I’ve had years of practice at this point, so it’s not that scary. I’m an old hand, a professional. I don’t move, I don’t breathe, and eventually, I hear it: the soft, muzzled beat of my pulse, against the pillow, ffft ffft. ffft ffft. I focus a bit—carefully—and it grows louder, firmer, until the sound fills the room, blocks out the world. ffft ffft. ffft ffft. There’s something comforting about it, because it always sounds the same, no matter what city I’m in, no matter how far I’ve drifted from home. It beats in perfect biological rhythm, blood vessels and capillaries thumping in precise, sanguinary syncopation. My body is a metronome, keeping time for the universe, the maximal and the minimal. All of it. It makes me feel less alone. ffft ffft. I think of phrases like cilia and eukaryotic, stuff from science class, and I can feel my body slowing down. ffft ffft. I think of the planets and the veins of stars, stuff from movie theaters and planetariums, and I can feel my head lifting toward the heavens. ffft ffft. I think of sleep, for the first time in weeks.
And then, as if on cue, she wakes up, the stranger lying next to me. My insomnia isn’t entirely my fault, after all. Strange, stranger.
She’s got her chest pierced. It’s gruesome. It’s gorgeous. Even now, in the middle of the night, her black hair falls over her eyes just right. She sits up in bed and is fumbling for something. I feign sleep, but she knows me too well. She flips on the light, pulls her knees up to her chest, and lights a cigarette. Her smoke rings are wide and gray, almost big enough to climb into. Like life savers off the bow of a sinking ship. She’s trying to tempt me now, or talk, and I’m really hoping it’s the former, not the latter. Actually, who am I kidding? I don’t want it to be either. Because this is a giant production now. This has all gone to hell.
“Hey,” she whispers, brushing her hand on my shoulder, “are you awake?”
I hate her. Really I do.
Of course, hours ago, in the back room of a bar, this wasn’t the case. She had on nosebleed heels, her knees and elbows were as sharp as knives, and that piercing. She was across the room, sitting on one of those black leather couches they always have in rooms like this, ignoring the advances of the kind of guys that always find their way back here. Her knees were locked, keyless, and she looked at her hands the whole time, in a way that made it obvious that she was trying not to look at me. But she was. The hardest part of watching someone watching me is making it appear that I’m not watching.
It wasn’t the case at the after-party, either, when we finally spoke, after a few hours of doing stupid, arbitrary avoidance maneuvers. Shifting glances, wan smiles, F-14 barrel rolls like in the movies. They were stupid and arbitrary because we both knew what we wanted out of this situation. We huddled in a dark corner, I made a joke, she laughed. It wasn’t funny and her laugh was annoying. This is routine by now. I could bring this ship into port on autopilot, could go take a nap belowdecks. In fact, I probably do. My life is so fucking predictable, my nights even more so.
She’s got a mound of red cocaine, cut with strawberry Quik. They’re all only here because I am too.
The cocaine was largely symbolic. Phenylethylamine (PEA), the chemical responsible for the swooning and feelings of adoration, is structurally similar to cocaine. However, when given the chance, many people choose cocaine over love. I wouldn’t say that’s a bad choice. The endorphins released during infatuation are similar to heroin. OxyContin, “the cuddling hormone,” most often found in new mothers and newlyweds, is like ecstasy; every touch tingles. I think I read that somewhere. Love exists in powder. Love exists in pills. We are all addicts.
My head is swirling when I pass her my hotel-room key, surreptitiously as if it were a promise. It’s passed like taking the new communion. I whisper for her to go wait for me there, and she does. It will be more than an hour before I even leave the bar, mostly because I like the idea of her sitting there, back in my room, bee-stung knees on the bed, waiting. Maybe she’ll go through my shit, take something. Maybe she’ll rethink it all and leave. I don’t care either way. My moral compass is spinning next to the magnet that is all of my desire.
When I finally get back to the room and open the door, she’s sitting there, just as I’d imagined. Knees locked, elbows sharp, the piercing in her chest jumping slightly. She’s nervous, doesn’t know whether to stand as I approach her. We don’t talk. My head is still whooshing, but everything’s slower now, sludgier. I push her back on the bed, kiss her neck, make my way down to that piercing. Her knees unlock. You can pretty much imagine what happens from there.
But now, she wants to talk, sitting up against the head-board, knees drawn tight, smoking that cigarette. This is her conf
essional. She explains how she ran away to LA or was addicted to OxyContin or something. It’s all the same to me—a fucking red flag emblazoned with the words DO NOT BECOME EMOTIONALLY INVOLVED WITH ME, and this bed is barely big enough for my own baggage. I ask her about her family because it seems to be the kind of question I am expected to ask. She tells me her mother is “a French whore.” She says this as she’s stubbing out her cigarette, showing the tattoo on her lower back. I don’t know how I didn’t notice it before. It’s something written in French, in dagger-sharp script. I laugh, she doesn’t.
“No, seriously, my mom is a fucking French whore,” she says, looking at me with wide eyes, searching for some kind of response. She has rehearsed this, delivered that line in front of a mirror while she put on lipstick. I hate her. I don’t know what she wants from me, so I just roll back over, feign sleep again. She sits there for what feels like an hour, knees up against her chest piercing, then she turns out the light. I don’t know if she’s asleep, but I hear her breathing in short, little sighs. I imagine her chest piercing rising and falling, like ancient Roman empires. I think about her mother, the French whore, who probably isn’t anything of the sort. At least I hope she’s not.
In the morning, as she’s leaving, I get another look at the tattoo on her back. It reads JUSTE COMME MOI. Hours later, riding to somewhere else, I look up the translation. It means “just like me.”
2
The bus crawls into Dallas, but it doesn’t matter. All the skylines look the same now. It’s raining again, because the rain clouds follow me wherever I go. As usual, I don’t have an umbrella. Life. I am not prepared for any of this.
Yawn. Squint. Dark glasses. I hate the way the sky looks at me, as if it knows everything I’ve been up to. I sit up in my bunk, in my underwear and sunglasses, listen to the motor hum and the miles whistle away beneath my feet.
I imagine the bottom of the bus falling away, me hitting the ground running, burning north up 35, cutting east on 44 at Oklahoma City, rocketing across great distances, jumping onto 55 in St. Louis, just a blur now, a bottle rocket headed north, past Springfield, Peoria, Lexington, Chenoa, Pontiac; then Chicago looming large on the horizon, me headed right for the heart of it, now supersonic, Kedzie Ave, Ashland Ave, Chinatown flashing by, digging my heels into the asphalt, making sparks fly, skidding to a stop on Lake Shore Drive, standing there in my underwear and sunglasses, my heels cooling in the morning light. Maybe a scarf wrapped around my neck for warmth. Oh, what would they say about me then?
I laugh about this to myself. I am fucking crazy.
Anywhere, Texas. Everywhere, USA. I feel the same regardless. I am homesick all the time. I didn’t sign up for this. It used to be simpler—you know far—far, but never too far from home, from Her. Now, everything is bigger. Stranger. We have money, but we don’t ever need it. We don’t pay covers. We don’t stand in lines. We sleep through the days. I mostly think of vampires, which isn’t quite the same, but they are the closest I can come. They gotta know something about the way we don’t go to sleep until the sun comes up. Or maybe something about the marks I’ve got on my neck.
“What the fuck are you doing?” asks the Disaster, who is inexplicably awake (or, more accurately, hasn’t yet gone to sleep). He’s staring at me as if I were covered in blood or something, and I don’t understand why, until I remember that I’m sitting in my underwear, legs dangling out from my bunk, with a pair of $300 sunglasses on my face.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I say, which is a pretty good explanation for all of my peculiarities. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“I didn’t sleep,” the Disaster enthuses (our lives have become so predictable). “I partied the whole way here. Everyone else is passed out. Let’s go eat.”
We call him the Disaster for all the reasons you’d expect. He’s always looking for something to ruin. He is a man of few words . . . a man of action. He has no feelings of remorse, no regrets. He is everything I am not. He’s pretty much my hero.
In the rare instances when the Disaster sleeps, he does it less than three feet away from me on the tour bus. He’s always beating off, and he doesn’t make any attempts to hide it, mostly because he doesn’t care enough to. Right now, he’s standing between the rows of bunks, swaying a bit as the bus pumps its brakes (or because he’s kind of wasted). He’s got on boxer shorts and a shirt that says COWGIRLS RIDE BETTER BAREBACK. I know he put it on just because we’re in Dallas. Those are the kinds of things he thinks about. It’s enough to make me laugh because I know later on tonight, after the show, he’ll still be wearing it, and he’ll use it as a pickup line.
The bus pulls in behind some arena named after an airline. It’s ten in the morning, but already, kids are milling about, some playing it cool, barely looking up from their phones, some losing their minds. There’s never an in-between with them (our lives have become so predictable), it’s full throttle or nothing at all. I watch them through the tinted window of the bus, feeling guilty. Sometimes I feel like the fucking pied piper, only I’m leading them down a vermin hole. I never meant to be like this.
The Disaster looks at them too, only he’s a talent scout. He spies a couple of prospects (“Tremendous upside potential” is how he puts it), spits, and heads to the bathroom. When he returns, he’s got his skinny jeans tucked into a pair of cowboy boots. They’re made of rattlesnakes. Of course they are. He looks at me for approval, and I crack a smile. I pull on jeans and a hoodie—my uniform—and we make our way to the front of the bus. Out into the spotlight. Showtime.
Of course, it’s never that simple, so we have to wait for our road manager to guide us from the bus to a waiting car. It’s something like ninety feet, so, naturally, there’s no way we could do it alone. This is a voyage fraught with peril, after all. The convoy is assembled in the front lounge of the bus—someone has poured a beer on the Xbox, I note—and we head out, swinging the bus door open with a shudder. The girls start screaming, jumping up and down as if something were inside them that their bodies just can’t contain. They call my name over and over (the world is on a first-name basis with me).
We pile into a black SUV, the Disaster rolling down the window to wave good-bye to his pair of prospects. This hasn’t gotten old to him yet, and it probably never will. The SUV pulls away from the arena, making its way through the maze of empty streets, exploring the canyon of skyscrapers. Downtowns are always amazing on weekend mornings, nothing but shadows and lonely newspaper bins, coffee shops with the chairs turned upside down on the tables. Ghostly. You can imagine it’s after some meteor strike, after the humans have died out. You can imagine grass growing between the cracks of the sidewalks, vines swallowing skyscrapers. Or, at least I can.
Now we’re in the “artistic” area of Dallas—you can tell by the vegan restaurants—and the SUV parks outside one of them, some place with bright graffiti on the awning, and we go inside. No one even raises an eyebrow at us. They’re all too cool to care who we are. It . . . it’s kind of refreshing, actually.
We sit at a table near the window, and the Disaster leans back in his chair, folds his hands behind his head, and props those rattlesnake boots up on the table, knocking his knife and fork to the floor with a clatter. He lets out a huge groan and wonders aloud if it’s too early to have a beer, which draws more than a few disapproving stares from the room. It’s all MacBooks and expensive jeans, beards and disheveled hair in here. Trust-fund babies and graphic designers and aspiring novelists. This only emboldens the Disaster, and now he’s letting out thunderous belches and scratching himself. It’s devolution at work. Man back into monkey. I look out the window, wishing I were anyplace but here. I stare down at the menu, but I’m not even hungry.
Our waitress comes by, and suddenly there’s no place else I’d rather be. Jesus, she’s beautiful . . . black hair and big eyes, hips that peek out of her jeans. She’s got a tiny piercing in her cheek too, just to let you know she likes a bit of pain as well. I bet she hates her father and
reads Camus. Naturally, she’s the kind of girl who doesn’t give a shit about me at all, which only makes me want her more. I take off my sunglasses when I order. It’s the polite thing to do.
She disappears with our order, and I know I didn’t exactly win her over with my charms. It’s over. The Disaster is talking loudly to the road manager about something—the Stunt Rock DVD, I think, which has become a favorite of his on this tour—and I do my best not to listen, my eyes drifting from table to table. These places are always the same no matter where you go. Same terrible artwork on the walls (it’s always for sale), same soy milk, same tofu scrambles with stupid names. Like the people who eat here, these places like to think they’re unique. They’re not. There’s a place exactly like this back home in Chicago, down on Clark Street, where we used to sit in one particular booth and order coffees (because we had no money) and sit there all night (because we had no place to be), much to the delight of the waitstaff. We were such little shits back then.
“And there’s a fucking wizard in it, onstage, and he’s blowing shit up the whole time,” the Disaster is shouting. “You guys should do that.”
I think he said it to me, but I’m not paying attention anymore. I’m thinking about Chicago. And getting back on my medication. But mostly I’m thinking of Her. I’ve been trying not to . . . it’s because we’re in this restaurant. We used to waste the night away in that place on Clark Street, just Her and I and two cups of coffee, still wrapped in our sweaters, the cold still tingling in our legs. We’d sit on the same side of the booth and hold hands under the table, watch the flurries of snow whip around on the street. Eventually, she’d have to go home and I’d walk Her outside, hold Her tight to keep Her warm. The buttons on one side of Her coat never snapped on the other side. They were for fashion, not function, she would tell me. Then she would kiss me and say something like “You’re beautiful for a boy” and make me laugh, and I’d watch Her get into Her car and drive up Clark, take a right on Newport, and disappear. And I’d go back inside and finish both our cups of coffee, just because.
