His pompous laugh resounds behind me as I rip open the sliding door leading to the balcony. He's practically shouting now. "I'm afraid after your behavior in Europe, you certainly do."
Shutting the door on his condescension, I slump into a deck chair.
I'm lighting a second cigarette when Franco joins me. He opens his mouth to speak, but I beat him to it. I'm irate. "They can't fucking do this," I say bitterly. Then I look up at Franco. "Can they?"
He shrugs. "I don't know, dude."
Snubbing out my cigarette, I huff. "The next few months are going to be a nightmare. What good is a personal assistant, other than to narc back to fucking Hitler?"
His eyebrows rise in agreement. "I'm not sure what to make of this either." He chuckles a little, apparently amused. "She's definitely not a new fuck buddy. He made sure of that. She's all business, man."
I'm staring at the ground lost in my own rage, but his laughter pulls me out of it. I shake my head. "Have you talked to the girl, dude? She's rigid as fuck."
He laughs harder. "Yeah, I get that. We all got introduced after you left. Go easy on her though, I think she's just shy. And maybe a little uptight," he adds.
"A little? She was completely disgusted with me earlier when she heard me hitting on the stylist." I look him in the eye and can't help laughing with him. "This is a goddamn nightmare."
He slaps me on the shoulder before he walks away. "Welcome to Hitler's hell, twat waffle."
Nine weeks of hell.
Nine more weeks and I'm home.
Nine more weeks.
Home.
Saturday, April 22
(Gus)
The show last night was probably the best one we've played since last year. I was on the uncomfortable side of sober by showtime, but it worked. The crowd was loud and their energy was easy to feed off of.
We didn't play "Finish Me." Hitler was furious. I'm beginning to take some serious pleasure from seeing that vein in his forehead throb.
I went to sleep as soon as we got on the bus after the show and didn't wake up until noon today. I've never slept so hard on the road. I feel almost human.
Before I open my bunk curtain, I tug on a T-shirt. There's a decency line I'm pretty sure I shouldn't cross this time around. The last thing I need is Impatient calling sexual harassment on me.
It isn't until after I use the bathroom that I realize the bus isn't moving. And I'm the only one on it. After putting on some jeans, socks, and my shoes, I grab the essentials and make my way out into the bright sunshine. We're in Phoenix and it's hot. I don't mind the heat; it beats the hell out of the cold. I've had enough cold this winter to last me a lifetime.
While I light the first of many cigarettes for the day, I survey the surroundings. We're parked in the back lot of the venue. There's a taco joint across the street, and my stomach starts growling at the sight of it. This boy needs tacos.
The place is small inside and cleanliness doesn't seem to be high on the list of priorities, but it'll do just fine. And when I see veggie tacos on the menu, I know I'm home. I order a six-pack of tacos and a bottle of water and take a seat at the booth by the front window. The tacos don't taste like Ma's, but they're damn good.
When I'm done, I find that I don't want to leave. The sidewalk outside isn't crowded but there's a fairly steady stream of people. I love to people watch. I could sit here all day and try to guess people's stories. Or make up their stories in my head. I can get creative, and it's entertaining. So I sit back and watch. The blinds are closed except one that's bent open. I feel like a spy peeking through it.
About five minutes later I spot a tall, slim brunette wearing a loose red hoodie and shorts. The shorts aren't obscenely short, but they show off her spectacular legs, long and lean. She looks like a runner. She's talking on a cell phone. Some people walk around, especially when they're distracted by something like a phone, and don't pay attention to what's going on around them, but even with her hood pulled up, I can tell by the subtle movements she's making that's she's looking at everything around her. She'd be a brilliant witness to a crime; I'm betting that nothing gets past her. It's fascinating. At one point she stops moving and leans up against the wall. She seems intense and focused. She doesn't talk with her hands. The hand that's not holding the phone is tucked in her front pocket. And even though she's standing still, she can't stand still, like there's a nervousness that she can't shake. Or maybe it's impatience kicking in. I feel for her. Calm is elusive most of the time; I miss it.
She's still on her phone when she pushes off the wall and crosses the street. She's walking toward me. The closer she gets, the more I can't look away. I don't know if it's those damn legs or the natural grace with which she moves. She's like the human equivalent of a gazelle.
I'm fixated on her until I realize who she is. It's Impatient. And my eyes instinctively jump away, but only momentarily before they bounce right back to her. She's probably twenty feet away when I realize I'm staring.
I shouldn't be staring. Especially when she can't see me through the blinds.
But I am. I'm not trying to be rude. I'm curious.
There's scarring on her right cheek. It looks like she was burned severely. Her hair falls around her face, but I can still make out the scar tissue. It looks like it starts below her eye, just missing her nose and mouth, and continues down her cheek and neck, disappearing into her shirt. I wonder how much of her torso is affected since her legs are unblemished. How did I not notice this before? I've been around her for two days. I'm usually a little more observant. Now it's obvious that I really have been ignoring her and the job she's supposed to be doing.
She's coming in this restaurant now. Luckily, my seat keeps me obscured by a plant. I can't see her, but I can hear her. Her voice, though quiet, is anything but meek. It's the kind of voice that holds authority, but presents it to you in hushed, soothing tones. And there's a slight accent I didn't notice yesterday—East Coast, maybe. I decide to listen in.