I hate to give Gustov credit for anything, but if there's one thing endearing about him it's how much he loves his mom. He talks to her on the phone every day. I never realized until yesterday that that's who he calls every afternoon.
Every.
Afternoon.
I can't help eavesdropping now. What rock star calls their mom every day? It makes him more human.
Don't get me wrong, I still don't like him. He's just more like a real person, that's all.
Five more weeks and I'm done with this.
Five.
More.
Weeks.
Friday, May 5
(Gus)
When I arrive back on the bus after soundcheck, there's a stack of clean, folded laundry on my bunk. My sheets. And my clothes. All of them. Clean. Like, so clean I just want to bury my face in them and inhale for the next few hours because they smell like fucking sunshine. I haven't washed my clothes since we've been on this tour. And I only have a few outfits. They were ripe.
Impatient walks out of the bathroom and catches me smelling a pair of socks. That's when I put two and two together. "You washed my clothes, dude?"
She shrugs, but won't meet my eyes. She never makes eye contact. "It smelled like something died over there. It was time. Like, two weeks ago it was time."
As she's talking, I see one of her sticky notes lying on my bunk next to the clothes. It reads: When your jeans can stand up on their own it's time to wash them. You're welcome.
I nod and go back to smelling the socks. They smell so damn good. "I know it's not your job, but thanks." I'm taking a visual inventory of my stockpile and notice there are twice as many pairs of underwear and socks as I used to have. "Hey, either my socks and drawers were going at it like rabbits at the laundromat and multiplying, or someone bought me more." I turn and look at her questioningly.
She grabs her bag from her bunk and quickly heads for the door. "You can't keep wearing the same underwear day after day without washing them. It's disgusting," she says bluntly. When she does talk she gets right to the point, but that damn voice softens the blow. It's not just that it's soft and feminine, but her voice is enticing, and serene even. I can't put my finger on it, but I like listening to her.
She bought me socks and underwear?
She bought me socks and underwear.
"Who says I've been wearing any? I draw the line at manky skivvies. Commando's been where it's at for the past week."
A look of disgust flashes across her face and she shakes her head.
And I know I've crossed a line. "Sorry. TMI. But, thanks, dude."
"It was nothing. Really. I had to wash my clothes anyway. And those are WalMart socks and undies, nothing fancy. I used the company credit card." Then she disappears out the door.
Maybe it was nothing to her. Maybe she did it because she couldn't stand the stench anymore. She probably did it because she couldn't stand the stench anymore. Whatever the reason, it was free of motive or the expectation of reciprocation. She was just being nice.
I fucking love nice.
Two points to Scout.
Wednesday, May 10
(Scout)
No show tonight. We're driving across Texas and even though I'm trapped on the bus with the band, it's a welcome change from our normal schedule. The guys are all doing their own thing—reading, listening to music, or on their laptops. Everyone's plugged into their own little world. The silence is welcome.
I've been texting with Paxton for the past hour. For some reason we started quoting movies—our favorites lines, most of them funny. It started with random movie trivia that turned into a bizarre conversation using only movie quotes. We do bizarre well. He's so smart and his recall is lightning-fast, which means he has me on my toes and thinking hard, digging deep for the next reply. It's fun. Before long he has to head off to a study session, so I start reading a new book I picked up at the truck stop this morning. It's a murder mystery called The Cuckoo's Calling, which isn't something I would usually read, but the writing is spectacular. Maybe I need to branch out into new genres more often.
Gustov climbs down out of his bunk and then returns a few minutes later and climbs back up. It's not enough of a distraction that I stop reading, but I'm aware of his movements.
The silence is broken by the tearing of plastic wrap, followed by what can only be a jar opening. Suddenly the scent of peanut butter hits me. Like a punch to the nose it hits me. I love peanut butter. And now that it's invading my senses, I'm ravenous. I would kill for a peanut butter sandwich.
Apparently I'm not the only one lured in by the smell of Gus's snack because Franco calls out, "Hey, pass me a few of those, dipshit."
My peripheral vision picks up motion, an exchange of food. Anything involving peanut butter sets my sense of smell to overdrive. I would pay for a spoonful.
As if he can read my mind, I see Gustov's big hand extended down at me from across the aisle. "Want one?"
There are two saltine crackers lying in the palm of his hand, a tiny cracker sandwich with peanut butter filling. I lean out of my bunk further to get a better look.
"You want one?" he offers again.
It's a mouthwatering sight. I don't know why I'm hesitating, but I'm hesitating. He's trying to be nice and all I can meet it with is suspicion. It's a trained reaction. I wish I could just meet nice with nice. So, I make an effort. "What is it?" I mean, I know what it is, but I've never seen anyone eat saltines and peanut butter together.
"It's only the tastiest snack known to man. You need one. Seriously. Take it."
I do and I back burner the suspicion for the moment. "Thanks."
I take a bite, and yeah, it's the tastiest snack known to man. Or woman. Before I finish it I already want another one, despite the crumbs I'm leaving in my bed.
"You can't stop at just one," he says. His hand reappears, and there are two little heavenly sandwiches in his palm this time.
I smile though he can't see my face, and take them. "Thanks."
"You're welcome. I've got a whole sleeve of crackers. Let me know when you're ready for another one. Oh yeah," he pauses, holding out a bottle of grape juice, "and I've got grape juice, too, if you need to wash 'em down. Nothing goes better with crackers and PB than grape juice."