I offer the bottle. "Bottoms up, sweetheart."
"I don't drink," she repeats. Then her eyes light up. "Wanna play Mancala?" She's almost smiling, like that was a dare.
"Hell yeah," I say, breaking into a huge smile. "Franco and I are always down for a little trash-talking game of Mancala." I don't know why that just made me so happy, but it did. It did.
Friday, July 14
(Gus)
I've been working this week in the mailroom at Ma's advertising firm. Ted's on vacation and Ma was going to hire a temp to cover, but I know this job inside and out—I did it for a couple of years. And it's not rocket science. So I volunteered to help out. Little does Ma know she's helping me out. I surf every morning, but I can't sit in that house anymore during the day by myself or I might lose it. I've been sitting home alone for a couple of weeks now. Solitude doesn't foster happiness, at least not for me. Not at this point in my life.
It's not that I really want to be around people either, but that I need to be busy. And I don't need to think about this job. I can just do it.
Which is better than my real job. Music. Too much thinking.
Monday, July 17
(Gus)
Ted never came back from vacation. I told Ma I'd help her out as long as she needs me, until she finds someone else. I'm kinda hoping it takes a month or two.
Friday, July 21
(Gus)
Ma hired someone for the mailroom. He starts on Monday.
Which means I go back to my real life on Monday.
I don't want to go back to my real life on Monday.
Sunday, July 23
(Gus)
It's the middle of the afternoon and I'm fucking restless. The water's too crowded to surf. There's nothing on TV. Ma's at a baby shower this afternoon. The deck is too quiet. I sat out there for the past couple of hours, drank, and smoked a pack of cigarettes. Now, I'm antsy. I can't sit still. I can't turn my goddamn mind off.
I don't want to be outside.
I don't want to be inside.
I'm at the point where I just ... don't. I know that doesn't make any fucking sense, but it's how I feel. I don't.
When I go back in my room for another pack of smokes I can hear Impatient's voice. I ignore it at first, but I realize that it sounds like she's in pain. I rush to her bedroom and her door's open, which is unusual. She's lying on top of the covers in a pair of running shorts and a long-sleeved T-shirt. And she's deep in sleep. Scary deep. Like if a meteorite fell from the sky and landed in the middle of the room it wouldn't wake her. My first inclination is to nudge her awake because I think she's in the middle of a nightmare, but the longer I stand and watch her, the more confusing the whole scene is. She keeps saying, "Michael," over and over again. Every time she says it, her face somehow morphs from pain to pleasure, from heart-wrenching sadness to ecstasy. Then she begins to moan. She's still in deep REM sleep and I know I'm in a fucked up state of mind and I've had more than my share to drink today, but ... goddamn. This just turned erotic as fuck. And now the moaning is mixed with, "Michael," again. Her voice is almost breathless now.
I should not be here. There's no doubt that she's mentally having some mind-blowing sex right now. I feel like a voyeur. Not only is my drunk mind getting turned on, but my drunk body is two steps ahead of it. I'm beyond aroused.
That's my cue to leave. But just as I step away from her doorway, across the hall, and back into mine, the depth and volume of her voice increases. Every negative emotion has left her and all that remains is the satisfying of pure need. Carnal need. There's room for nothing else, and it's somehow invaded me. The need.
I'm inside my room now. Door open. Eyes closed. Hand inside my shorts. Stroking.
Fucking stroking.
Holy shit.
This is fucked up.
I need to take a cold shower.
And forget this ever happened.
Monday, July 31
(Gus)
Ma and I had a long talk last night. She's concerned about me. My life. My health. My emotional state. My work. My future.
She made an appointment for me to have a physical with our family doctor. I'm in the waiting room now. I hate doctors' offices. They remind me of Bright Side. Bright Side at the end.
Dr. Donnelly was direct and to the point and covered all the basics: eat better, quit smoking, curb my drinking. I'm good otherwise. She likes that I'm surfing or running almost daily.
I didn't share any of the emotional shit.
I'll deal with that myself.
I'll heal myself.
Someday.
Sunday, August 6
(Gus)
Ma's out of town for the weekend. She drove up the coast to cut loose in San Francisco. It's good for Ma, she works hard and deserves the break. She always comes home a little lighter in the stress department when she's had a weekend away.
The house is quiet. I know I should be writing, but this block is still weighing on me. If you want to know the truth, it's bearing down full-force now. It's all I can think about—the fact that I can't think. Creatively, I'm at a standstill—completely mind-fucked. It was irritating at first. But, after a month, and with mounting pressure from everyone involved with the band—agents, managers, producers, the record label, etc. fucking etc.—it feels like a prison sentence. Music fills me with anxiety. It used to just fill me. I guess that's the difference money, contracts, and deadlines make. It's utter shit.
So I'm drinking.
A lot.
By Monday morning I'll wonder if Saturday and Sunday even happened, or if the entire time lapse was a hallucination—that's how much I intend to drink.
After a quick trip to the liquor store to buy Jack and cigarettes, I park myself in the lounge chair on the deck.