Franco tips his chin up when he catches sight of me. "What's up, douche nozzle?"
I shake my head. "Not much, mangina."
Ma doesn't even flinch. It's how Franco and I have always talked to each other. They're terms of endearment. The truth is, Franco's the only person I have left in my life who will tell me exactly like it is now that Bright Side's gone. No sugarcoating, no blowing smoke up my ass, just straight up honesty. I love him for it. Despite the tough guy façade of shaved head and tattoos, he's a softy ... with a fierce sense of loyalty.
He points to my bag. "That all you're taking, man? We'll be gone for two months."
I shrug. "And my guitars. I can buy more on the road when I need it. Let's roll, dude."
He nods and I'm thankful for his lack of psychoanalysis. He hugs Ma. "Thanks for breakfast, Mrs. H." He's palming two large blueberry muffins wrapped in a paper towel.
She squeezes him tight. "Of course. Have fun over there, Franco."
"Will do."
When she hugs me I want to fall apart in her arms. To cry like I did when I was eight and I broke my ankle. But I don't. We both hold on longer than usual and hesitate to release. "Make sure you enable the security system every night while I'm gone," I tell her.
The corner of her mouth turns up and I know she's put on her brave face for me. "I always do. Don't worry about me. Go see the world, Gus. I'm so proud of you."
I nod. Compliments have always managed to embarrass me, like I'm somehow not quite worthy of them. The last few weeks I've felt completely unworthy. "Thanks Ma. I love you."
She kisses me on the cheek and hands me my own paper towel-wrapped blueberry muffins. "I love you, too, honey. Be safe."
Normally I'd respond with, "Always," but I can't bring myself to say it now. I feel like it would be premature betrayal for the next two months of unknowns. I don't feel like being cautious. Not in the least. "Bye, Ma."
"Bye, Gus."
Friday, January 27
(Gus)
It's officially Friday by the time we touch down in Berlin. I've never traveled outside the United States before and I quickly learn what all the fuss is about—jet lag is a motherfucker.
My ass is dragging from the moment we step off the plane, through customs, and all the way to our hotel. Time is not on my side today. We've got back-to-back meetings before soundcheck this afternoon, and then two interviews before the show tonight.
It's hard to put my game face on. I fucking loath faking anything. I'm horrible at it. So I'm actually grateful when Hitler escorts us everywhere. The dude's in love with the sound of his own voice and I'm more than happy to let him yammer on for us during the meetings. Most of it is stuff he should be dealing with anyway. And I practically want to hug the guy when he instructs both interviewers that all personal questions are off the table. No need to dodge why the tour was delayed or why we've been off the radar for a month. Thank God, because I'd probably take somebody's head off if they mentioned her name. I say Bright Side's name in my head a million times a day. But hearing her real name, Kate Sedgwick, spoken by a stranger who never knew her? Some journalist feigning concern or sympathy? I'd be tempted to silence them with my fist.
Dinner is preceded by, and concluded with, several pints of strong German ale.
There's enough alcohol in my system that when we take the stage my guitar feels comfortable in my hands and the crowd is only a fuzzy blur of color and motion. My memory's teetering just enough to the near side of lost that I need to concentrate with single-minded focus on the chords I'm playing and the lyrics I'm singing. That leaves room in my mind for nothing else for a solid hour. It feels like I've discovered the formula for coping: the combination of excessive amounts of alcohol and live performance.
Magic.
Friday, February 3
(Gus)
We're a week into this tour, and the distraction of drunkenness and performing isn't working anymore. I don't think I've been sober since the day we arrived on this side of the pond. During the first few days, I couldn't sleep enough. These past few days, I haven't wanted to. It's like I can't get enough of just sitting around thinking about her: her ever-present deep but feminine laughter; the faint dusting of freckles on her nose and cheeks and between her shoulder blades; how she loved to watch the sunset; the sound of her voice when she said I love you; how beautifully she played her violin. I know I'm obsessing in an entirely unhealthy way, but I have this fear that if I don't keep turning her over in my head, I'll forget. And forgetting scares the hell out of me.
Franco thinks I should see a doctor. Maybe get some sleeping pills, or anti-depressants.
I think that's a pussy's way out. I'm not going to start popping pills to avoid grief. Booze is my only strategy. Some would argue meds would be a better alternative, but I don't like the idea of giving some doctor carte blanche to manipulate me with scripts. If anyone's going to manipulate me ... it's going to be me.
I try not to think about that night with Bright Side. I try not to think about it because everything else pales in comparison. It was the best night of my life. I didn't know it was going to happen. She didn't know it was going to happen. But goddamn it did happen. So, while I'm lying on this bunk in the tour bus, in the middle of the night, cruising across the European countryside, I'm going to give into it and replay it in my mind. Closing my eyes, I allow the memories to flood in.
I walk into the guest room from the hallway at the same time Bright Side walks in from the adjoining bathroom. She's brushing her teeth. She always multi-tasks while she's brushing her teeth. Right now she's digging through her duffle bag on the floor.
"What're you looking for?" I ask. The sight of her hunting through her bag makes me sad. She's packed and ready to leave for Minnesota early tomorrow morning. I don't know when I'll see her next. We've never gone more than a day or two without seeing each other, and even that was rare.
She shifts her toothbrush to the side of her mouth and tries to talk through all of the frothy toothpaste. "Pajamas," she says. At least, that's what I think she said. She turns, runs back in the bathroom, spits out the toothpaste, and returns smiling. "Pajamas," she repeats. "I think they're in my other bag. It's already out in my car."