And soft.
Like my limbs and gut have been filled with cream cheese.
My lazy ass has probably gained twenty pounds this past month. I've always been active and staying in shape was never an issue before, it was the unintentional consequence of surfing almost every day. But it's impossible to be active when you're on tour. Okay, it's not impossible. Impatient runs every day, and from what I can tell she's in phenomenal shape. But being active requires effort. And these past few months, effort just doesn't hold my interest. I make an effort to survive my own self-destruction. Which is a little fucked up. Survive and self-destruct shouldn't coexist within the context of the same thought. But for me it's been the norm. The European tour was fueled by booze and drugs and not much food, which would probably explain why weight wasn't an issue then. This US tour is fueled by booze and junk food since apparently my appetite is back. Which is why I decided I need to make some changes and add some sort of exercise to my schedule.
I tried to jog this afternoon. Dismal failure. My smoker's lungs laughed at me about a quarter of a mile in. It was audible. I heard a peal of laughter emanate from within my chest followed by, "Gus, what the fuck do you think you're doing?" I'm pretty sure the vocalized taunting came from my lungs and legs working in concert, teaming up against me. The short-lived attempt segued into a long walk around the streets of Madison, Wisconsin. Don't get me wrong, Madison was cool, but this functioning like a doughy, middle-aged man shit isn't gonna fly. I've just been bitch slapped by poor choices and I don't like it. Guess who's getting back in shape? This fat ass, that's who.
Three more weeks and I'm home. I can surf again.
Every.
Damn.
Day.
For now, I'm sticking to long walks.
Saturday, June 10
(Scout)
I talked to Audrey again this morning. I'd be lying if I said I didn't have my heart set on this job. I want it more than I've ever wanted anything else in my life. It's a dream job. And not only is it a dream job, but it's a dream job across the country from home. I need that.
I also know better than to get my heart set on anything, so I try not to dwell on it. But Audrey's so personable and welcoming. I feel like I click with her. And I don't click with many people.
I also know Audrey is Gustov's mom. I did some research online after I talked to her the first time. When I saw her photo on the company website there was no denying that the last name wasn't a coincidence.
Which means Gustov had something to do with facilitating this opportunity for me. An anonymous favor. Which is incidentally my favorite kind. When someone initiates kindness anonymously, you know it comes from the most pure, kindhearted part of them because they'll probably never be singled out and thanked. It speaks to his character.
I still feel like I need to keep my distance from him. I don't really belong in his world. Not that he's rock star cliché like I first thought. He keeps to himself most of the time on the bus, but his lifestyle is still something I can't wrap my head around, even though I've been on this bus with him for the past several weeks. While people flock to him, people keep their distance from me. We're opposites. And if this job doesn't work out with Audrey, I know we'll never see each other again. What's the point in even trying to develop any sort of friendship at this point?
So, Gustov and I still don't talk, but, in addition to the sticky notes, I do find myself communicating with him in other ways. It's like subtle charades and he's good at it. His eyes are more expressive than anyone else I've ever seen. Just one look tells a story. And it's never benign. Every wink, squint, stare, widening, side-eye, scrunch, and eyebrow raise means something different and always gets a reaction out of me—an internal reaction that I usually hide, but that I also can't deny. It's a strange connection that I've never had with anyone else.
Tuesday, June 27
(Gus)
There's a sudden pain in my ribs. Both sides. Franco's punching me from the left side, and Jamie's poking me from the right.
"Wake up, ass hat," Franco says, practically shouting into my ear.
"We're on the ground, Gus." It's Jamie this time.
My eyes are sticky and crusted with sleep. And my nose, my entire head really, is stuffy and congested. My throat is sore, like I've been swallowing razor blades. I have a cold. Symptoms started last night before our last show of the tour, but after a few hours' sleep on this flight home, it feels as if the germs have waged an all-out assault on my immune system. Summer colds are bullshit. As I clear my throat and pry my eyes open, Franco punches me again. Hard.
I hold up my hand to ward off any further physical attack. "Stop. I'm up, dammit. I'm up." My voice sounds like sawdust, dry and dusty.
As we wait for those in the front rows to exit the plane, Jamie hops out in the aisle and pulls down our carry-ons. Robbie joins him from across the aisle.
When the semi-orderly evacuation finds our row, my body protests vehemently to standing and walking. Every joint in my body aches. Strike the foolish notion that this is a cold—it's definitely the flu. I trudge behind Franco, Robbie, and Jamie, following their taunts about how slow I am the entire way to baggage claim. I can't say it bothers me at all though. Over the past few weeks, things with the guys are back to normal. The tension and edge is gone.
After we find our bags at the baggage claim, we head outside to the taxi lanes. Franco, Robbie, and Jamie share a cab. Jamie and Robbie share a place in Carlsbad with a couple other guys, but they're staying at Franco's place in San Diego tonight. The three of them leave for Hawaii tomorrow. They're going on vacation for a week. Surfing for a week, no less. Me, I'm just happy to be heading back to Ma's. I don't need a vacation. I need home.