Music is a visceral experience if you're doing it right.
I'm doing it so fucking right this week.
Impatient's note this morning reads, Song 2. Chorus. Perfect now.
I grab a pad of sticky notes and a Sharpie from my nightstand, because that's where I keep them now, and write back a reply. Thanks. It's getting there.
Saturday, December 9
(Scout)
It's early. The sun's coming up. I'm headed out to run. When I open my bedroom door, Gustov's door is open, too. I peer through the doorway, but he's not inside.
Then I walk into the living room and I find out why. He's outside, pacing the deck. I see him through the sliding glass door. Back and forth. Back and forth. And his lips are moving. He's talking to himself and he looks tense, distraught. As I approach, I can hear his words through the glass door.
"You don't need one. You don't want one. You don't need one. You don't want one." That's what he's muttering to himself.
Confused, I open the door. "Gustov? Everything all right?"
He's startled out of his internal conversation. He raises his head to look at me, but doesn't say anything. He's fidgety. He's never fidgety. He's always laid-back and fairly calm these days.
"What's wrong?"
He stops pacing and puts his hands on his hips. He inhales deeply once and then drops his chin. "I quit smoking a few days ago."
"That's great," I offer.
His eyes flash to mine and he looks a little irritated and a little helpless. "It is so not fucking great. I want a cigarette so bad. So fucking bad." And he's pacing again.
"Maybe you just need some oral stimulation." And as soon as the words are out of my mouth I know how bad it sounded. Really bad.
The pacing has stopped and he's smirking at me now. "Jesus. Did you just say what I think you just said? When did we segue this conversation to BJs?"
Well, at least I took his mind off his withdrawal. My cheeks are burning. "Gum. Toothpicks. That kind of oral stimulation. Like a substitute. When I quit smoking, I chewed a lot of gum. I know it sounds stupid, but it helped. I've got some in my purse. I'll go get you a piece."
When I return, he takes the piece of gum, unwraps it, and pops it into his mouth. "Thanks. Though unless this is jam-packed with an intense fucking amount of nicotine, I don't think it's gonna do shit for me."
I raise my eyebrows. "Suck it up, buttercup."
He shakes his head, but he's smiling. "That's how it is?"
I nod and start down the stairs toward the beach. "That's exactly how it is. If I can do it, you can do it."
"I can't do it!" he calls after me.
"Yes you can!" I yell back.
(Gus)
I calmed down a bit after Impatient left and my cravings subsided. I don't think it was the gum, but I was able to go back to bed with Spare Ribs and sleep for a few hours.
When I open my bedroom door around noon there are a couple dozen packs of gum on the floor—every brand and flavor imaginable. And there's sticky note stuck to one of them. Suck it up. :)
That damn smiley face is sneering at me.
"Suck it up," I repeat. And then I put the sticky note on my bathroom mirror so I have the reminder.
Wednesday, December 13
(Gus)
"Hey, asswipe, what's shakin'?"
"Come over. I've got sixteen solid songs."
There's a long pause on the other end and then, "Seriously?"
I'm nodding my head dramatically even though he can't see me. "Seriously."
Another long pause. "I'll be over in ten."
Ten minutes later, I'm standing in the driveway wishing I was smoking a cigarette, but most importantly not smoking a cigarette because I'm fucking determined to kick this shit and it's already been a week, when Franco pulls up to our house. He gets out of his truck and his grin is huge, even by Franco standards. His headphones are hanging around his neck, a pair of drumsticks are tucked into his back pocket, and he's carrying a case of Modelo.
I point to the beer. "I see you brought lunch."
"I like to call it inspiration," he says. He actually is pretty damn creative when he drinks, but I don't say anything.
He knows the refinement and fine-tuning that needs to happen now is up to me and him. It used to be Bright Side I relied on. He knows those are big shoes to fill, but Franco hears music with his heart. He gets amped up about it. I need him this time.
We stop in the kitchen on the way through to my room. Franco grabs the Tupperware container of Impatient's homemade cookies from the counter and two oranges from the fruit bowl and places it all on top of the box of beer and starts walking.
I'm staring at the mixtures of tastes he's clutching.
"What, man?" he questions.
"That's fucking disgusting. You're seriously going to eat oranges and cookies while you're drinking beer?"
He doesn't miss a beat. "Yeah."
I shake my head. "Dude, that's a bad combo. That's like toothpaste and OJ."
"No way. Scout's cookies go with everything."
"Sure you don't want a glass of milk? I'm a dunker," I say as I open up the cabinet and pull out a glass.
He laughs. "You're such a fucking rock star." That was sarcasm at its best, but after he watches me pour a tall glass of the cold stuff, he clears his throat. "Pour me one, too."