She rolls her eyes at my sarcasm and answers with a little of her own. "Who do you think you are, Elvis Presley? The good lord only done made one of those." She pulls the bingo parlor schedule from her purse and begins fanning herself with it. "That man certainly had himself some fire," she adds under her breath.
I laugh. "Have a good one, Mrs. Randolph."
Thursday, November 30
(Gus)
Ma is in the kitchen, wrapped in a bright red apron, up to her elbows in dead carcass cooking glory this morning. I've been a vegetarian since I was fifteen, and Bright Side and Gracie were, too, so Ma hasn't cooked a bird for Thanksgiving in years. I'm severely outnumbered by carnivores this year, judging by this gigantic turkey. Good thing she's making shitloads of green bean casserole and sweet potatoes to accompany that pumpkin pie. I'll be in food heaven all afternoon.
Ma and Impatient are both in the kitchen when I check in. "Need any help?"
Ma smiles. I haven't seen her this happy in a long time. She only busts out her apron when things get hardcore. "I don't think so, honey. Scout and I have everything under control. But, can you get some more whipped cream when you go to the airport." She looks pointedly at me. "Someone ate all of it."
I raise my eyebrows and shrug my shoulders, feigning innocence.
She smiles again. "I don't want Stella to have to eat her pie with no whipped cream."
"I'll buy extra." I look to Scout. "Wanna ride with me to the airport?" I don't really know why I'm offering because I know she needs to help Ma, but I can't help but feel protective of her after all the shit that went down last week. Plus, I like being around her.
She nods her head toward the front door. "When we're done with this, I'm gonna go for a run while I can. Thanks, though."
I nod. I understand, but disappointment tugs at me.
After a quick cigarette, I take Ma's car (because I can't get everyone in my truck) and head to the grocery store. Four cans of whipped cream and a Twix bar and I'm out the door and on the way to the airport. Keller and Stella's flight gets in about twenty minutes before his father's. I find the closest parking spot I can, which is like finding a needle in a haystack on a holiday weekend, and head to baggage claim. I'm early; it's a miracle. I take a seat and people watch. The airport is crowded and bustling with hurried people. Emotions range from extreme irritation to complete, off-the-charts happiness on the faces before me. You can both see and feel which people are doing holiday travel out of obligation, and which ones are amped up on the prospect of what's to come. I like watching the happy ones. It feels almost therapeutic, like a reminder that this life is all about embracing the good and making the most out of the good moments, even if they're fleeting.
As I'm watching the masses, I catch the eye of a teenage boy. He's probably sixteen. He's standing by the baggage carousel with two adults—I'm guessing they're his parents. He's keeping a distance from them that says, I'm not with these people, but I have a feeling they're family. He has earbuds in his ears, and he's wearing a Rook T-shirt. For a moment, I debate my next move. I treasure being inconspicuous. On stage, I'm all about the crowd. Off stage, I'm just Gus. He's open-mouth staring now; I've just been recognized, so I wave him over. He looks behind him with wide eyes, as if I'm gesturing to someone else. When he looks back at me, I nod and smile and wave him over again. He says something to his mom quickly and points to me. Her eyes widen, too. This kid has his mom's eyes. She smiles and nods and I see her mouth form the word, "Go," and he walks quickly toward me, but not so quickly that he's lost his swagger. Teenage boys know how to work the image-thing, 24/7.
When he's standing in front of me, I hold out my hand to bump knuckles. "S'up? I like the shirt."
He glances down at the crow on his shirt like he doesn't know what to say and pops the earbuds out of his ears.
"What's your name, dude?"
"Josh." The swagger is fading and nerves are taking over. I was this kid not so long ago.
"What're you listening to, Josh?"
He smiles. He's trying to hold it back for the sake of appearance, but he's too nervous and excited. He's fidgeting with the earbuds in his hand. "Rook," he answers.
I smile again. "No shit?"
He shakes his head, but says quickly, "No shit. You guys kick ass."
"Thanks, dude. Traveling with your family today?"
"Yeah, going to see my gran in La Jolla for Thanksgiving." He glances back over his shoulder and his mom and dad are standing at a distance waiting patiently with what looks to be all of their luggage.
"Well, have fun. I'd better let you get back to la familia; it looks like they're waiting." I stick my hand in my front pocket and pull out a handful of change. In amongst the coins are two guitar picks. Don't ask me why, but ever since I started playing I've always carried a few around with me. I hand one of the picks to him.
A smile appears on his face instantaneously. He looks like he's ten years old instead of sixteen. It's funny how joy unleashed makes a person seem younger. "Thanks, Gustov."
I pat him on the shoulder. "It's just Gus, dude. And you're welcome. Tell your gran I said hey."
He nods, still looking at the pick in his hand. When he looks up at me sheepishly, he says, "You think I could get a picture with you?"
"Absolutely." I hate having my photo taken, but I'll do anything to keep that smile on this kid's face.
He calls back over his shoulder while he pulls out his phone from his pocket, "Mom, can you take our picture?"
She practically runs over as if she's been waiting all her life for this moment, like there's nothing she wouldn't do for this boy. It reminds me of Ma. I know how lucky they are to have each other.
I extend my hand. "Hey, Josh's mom. I'm Gus."
She accepts my hand and shakes it vigorously. "Oh, I know who you are. Josh has posters of your band all over his room."
Josh protests, mortified. "Mom."
She nods an apology to him and smiles at me. We pose for a couple of shots. I even ask them to take one with my own phone.