Friday, February 16
(Franco)
My doorbell rings at eleven o'clock in the morning.
Six times it rings. One right after the next.
It's Gus. It has to be Gus. No one else is that annoying on purpose.
When I open the door, he pushes his sunglasses up into his hair on top of his head. "Morning. I need help."
"True that. I'm glad you've finally recognized there's a problem."
He rolls his eyes. "My brand of crazy is too adoring to cure. I'm talking about the shit in my truck."
I slip on my flip flops and follow him out to his truck parked on the street.
He opens the passenger door, and there are four thin cardboard boxes, about twenty inches tall each, stacked up next to each other on the seat and two more on the floorboard. I gather four into my arms; they're heavier than they look. He gathers the rest and shuts the door gently with his foot. The care he takes with his truck is hilarious. It's so rusty and beat up, but the way he treats it you'd think it was pristine.
"What are these?"
"Patience, cock star. They're for the Drum Grotto."
My favorite drum kit is set up in one of the spare bedrooms. It's where I practice every day. Gus named it the Drum Grotto because it's small like a cave and there's not much natural light that comes in through the tiny window. Plus, grotto's supposed to sound sexy. It does. It's my favorite room in the house.
We set down the boxes and start tearing into them. I notice that he leaves one of his untouched. Inside the boxes are black frames, each containing something music related. The first is the cover art of our first album.
"This cover is still killer." A gloss black crow on a matte black background, Rook in bright red letters.
"Nothing like simple to make a statement," Gus says.
The second is an action shot of me playing drums. I'm shirtless, covered in sweat.
"This was Denver, right?" I ask.
"Yup, first nationwide tour. It was hotter than hell in there that night, remember?"
I can't wipe the smile off my face thinking about it. "Like Satan's oven. The photographer was amazing, though. This is a great shot."
The third is Rook: Gus, Jamie, Robbie, and me standing in front of Joe's Bar before the first show we ever played as a band.
Gus laughs. "We were so young—we look like kittens."
We were young. "I didn't even have any tattoos yet. And we look scared shitless."
"We were scared shitless. Remember, Jamie threw up behind the amp stack right before we went on?" Gus reminds me. And then he busts into full on belly laughter.
And I can't help joining him, tears pricking the corners of my eyes. "God, that's right. It was all nerves. Poor kid."
"That's gold right there. Those were the good ole days."
The fourth is a photo taken in Grant, Minnesota. It's Rook and our friend, Kate Sedgwick, on stage during a performance.
I can't hold back the smile, or the lump in my throat when I see it. "She was so pissed at you when you forced her on stage that night."
He's smiling. It makes me so happy that he can smile when he talks about her now. "She was. Until she opened her mouth. And then it was on. Damn, that girl could sing."
"She could. That was the best night of that tour by far."
"Agreed."
The fifth contains two photos of my favorites drummers—John Bonham and Dave Grohl. Two completely different styles, but I grew up listening to and admire them both equally.
Gus shrugs. "You know, in case you need some inspiration."
"Thanks." I hold out my fist, and he bumps knuckles.
"These belong in here, so you don't have to stare at blank walls. The Grotto needed some character." He's a considerate bastard. His mom's child through and through. They're good people.
"I'm gonna grab a hammer and some nails."
Gus helps me hang four, and while I'm hanging the fifth, he announces, "I need to take a leak before we head out."
"No problem," I call back.
When he returns we get lunch—not brunch, lunch—and hit up an art studio downtown. It features several artists' work from all over the country. I could've bought ten paintings, but I settle on two by the same artist—D. Glenn. His style is raw and passionate, like flat-out sex on canvas. I'd like to meet this dude, I bet he's one smooth motherfucker.
The paintings are massive and take two people to hang. The larger of the two goes over my couch and the other above my bed.
When we're done, I find Gus standing in the living room with his hands on his hips staring intently at the wall above the couch. "Damn, is it just me, or is that painting hot as fuck? It's like I can hear Marvin Gaye in my head singing 'Let's Get It On' when I look at it." He exhales loudly. "I need to buy one of those for my room." Prying his eyes away, he looks at me standing next to him. "Listen, if this whole music thing doesn't work out for us, we should get our own show on HGTV."
"Decorating With Douchebags?" I suggest.
He slaps me on the back and points at me as he walks toward the front door. "That's catchy. Write that down."
"Will do. Thanks again for the Grotto artwork. It's perfect."
"Glad you like it," he says as he walks out the door and down my front walk. Raising his hand to wave, he adds, "Peace out."
"Take it easy."
After I lock the front door, I take a walk around my house to admire our handiwork. The house finally looks like a house. Lived in and homey. I can't wait for Gemma to visit. The last room I walk in, more out of necessity than to gloat, is the bathroom. I haven't peed all afternoon. I'm busy unzipping my fly and lifting the toilet seat, so it's not until I'm in full flow that I notice it. "Sonofabitch." There, framed and matted like all the others he gave me today, hanging proudly over my toilet, is me. Naked getting in the shower. It's the photo Gus snapped in L.A. and sent to Gemma. And apparently to himself. There's a sticky note stuck to it that reads, You're too damn sexy not to showcase in the shitter.
Fuck it. I'm leaving it. For now.