Pax stammers when he realizes he may have just insulted her. "Sorry, no disrespect. Yours look nice."
She smiles back sweetly. "Why don't you try a few frames on and see what you like?"
Pax spends the next thirty minutes trying on everything we throw at him. In the end, he picks a pair of black-rimmed frames. They look good with his dark hair and pale skin.
After Brandy instructs us to come back after two o'clock to pick up Pax's glasses, I pay for everything, and then we hit a few stores. The kid needs new clothes. He wore uniforms at his last school and doesn't have much outside of navy blue polos, white button-downs, and khakis. I don't know Pax, but I know he's not a polo and khaki kind of dude. He's indecisive when I tell him to pick out a few shirts and pairs of jeans. Either he doesn't really know what he likes, or he just doesn't want me to spend the money on him. I'm guessing both.
When he finally starts picking up items to look at, he always asks, "What do you think, Gus? Is this cool?"
The first few times I answer with, "I don't have to wear it. Do you like it?" I don't want him picking out clothes just because he thinks I like them. When I realize he looks a little overwhelmed, I also realize he's probably never done this before. I bet his mom always shopped for him. "Close your eyes."
"Why?" he challenges.
"Just do it, young Jedi."
He does.
"Now when I say open your eyes, I want you to go pick up the first thing that screams, Hey, Pax, I'm fucking rad. You need me. Okay?"
He smiles and nods. "Okay."
"Open your eyes."
He does and after a two second hesitation he walks to a T-shirt on a rack on the back wall that reads, Epic is a state of mind. It's a black tee with faded white ink.
"Nice choice. Not that I wanna steal your thunder, but I think I need that one, too."
He eagerly helps me find my size.
After that it doesn't take long before he's got several T-shirts, hoodies, and jeans and he's in the dressing room changing. I make sure he has an outfit for every day of the week so he only has to do laundry on the weekends.
After lunch we head to the skate shop to buy him some kicks. He's been wearing a pair of running shoes that are worn out and probably too small. And his only other pair are brown leather dress shoes that I'm sure were part of his school uniform, based on the fact that they looked like they belonged to a middle-aged man. He picks out some navy blue Half Cabs and wears them out, leaving the running shoes behind.
We pick up his new glasses on the way home. I don't say anything, but I watch him out of the corner of my eye the whole drive back to the house. The kid is looking around like he was blind and he's just been given the gift of sight. He's quiet, just taking it all in, looking at everything up close and far away. It makes me happy. "Pax, you're the shit in those specs. Just sayin'. Wait until Mason sees you."
He smiles shyly and his cheeks glow red hot, just like he does every time I bring up her name, and he looks away out the passenger window. I know he's still smiling. I can feel it.
When we get home he takes all of his new clothes downstairs and appears back upstairs only minutes later wearing new jeans and a Nirvana T-shirt.
"Come with me," I say and gesture for him to follow me to my room.
It's the first time he's been in in my room, and he's looking around wide-eyed. My room's pretty sparse, if you don't count the piles of dirty clothes on the floor. Only a bed, nightstand, and small dresser. I've got three guitars—two electric in their cases next to my closet door, and my old acoustic that always sits out propped up in the corner. "Yeah, sorry about the pig sty. I kinda needed to do laundry like two weeks ago."
I pull out a cardboard box filled with Rook T-shirts from my closet and plunk it on the floor. "I don't know if you've heard our music, but if you want a couple shirts, knock yourself out. If not, no sweat, dude."
His eyes light up. "Really?"
I nod. "Sure."
He kneels down in front of the box and starts digging through it. After he chooses two, he looks up at me. "Rook is my favorite band. Thanks for these."
That surprises me. "No shit?"
He nods enthusiastically. "Yeah, I've been listening to you guys since the album came out last fall."
"Wow. Thanks, dude." I know we get recognized on the street sometimes, but deep down it still shocks me when anyone knows about Rook.
"Actually," he says, "my dad's Jim Ridgely, your tour manager." He says it like an apology.
"Your dad is fucking Hitler?" I ask, immediately wishing I hadn't said that out loud.
He laughs and I'm relieved I didn't just insult him. I'm also turning this over in my head, figuring out how the pieces all fit together. If Hitler is Paxton's dad, that means he's also Impatient's uncle. It's no wonder she could deal with him better than everyone else. Not that their relationship seemed like family at all, but she's the only one who could deal with his shit and talk to him frankly without coming off like an ass. And now I know why he trusted her.
Pax pushes aside the fucking Hitler comment. "I actually can't believe I'm standing here in your room. Is this where you write?"
"Usually. Haven't really written anything in a while."
Now there's a look of confusion on his face. "What about your next album? There will be another album, right? Please tell me there's another album."
I nod, but I'm not into it. "There will be another album."
He smiles. He didn't hear the doubt in my voice. "Good. I need another album. Don't get me wrong, I could listen to the first one all day, every day, for the rest of my life, but ... " He looks up at me expectantly.
But.
That's my life.
But.
And all of the indecision and unknowns that it holds.
Sunday, September 10
(Gus)
Ma, Impatient, and Pax are out at a movie. Normally I'd go, but I went with Franco and saw the same film a few days ago. I should be doing something other than lying on the sofa mindlessly channel-surfing, but I'm too lazy to figure out what that something might be.
When there's a knock at the door, I'm cursing whoever it is because I don't want to get up. But after two rounds of knocking I can't ignore it anymore, and climb my lazy ass off the sofa. I'm already pissed at whoever it is before I open the door. Then it gets worse. It's fucking Michael. I've got zero patience for this sonofabitch.