Wednesday, July 5
(Gus)
My flu or cold, whatever the hell it was, has all but disappeared. Ma's been pumping me full of vitamin C in all its forms, the damn thing didn't have any choice but to flee and go pick on somebody else.
The guys are back from Hawaii. We all went surfing this morning and had lunch this afternoon. Tales of Oahu filled the first few hours, and then it shifted to music. Our music, specifically. The next album. The one, that under our contract, we're supposed to have recorded by the end of January. It's July. That's seven months away. Which wouldn't be such a stretch, if we had some new material. We don't. Which is kind of a pisser because it's all on me. I write our music. I write our lyrics. And I haven't written anything worth a shit since "Finish Me" last fall.
I can't bring myself to it. There's a block. I don't know if it's an unconscious choice that my mind's making or it's an unconscious choice that my heart's making. Either way, I'm fucked. Music has always been a part of me, an extension of my feelings, my life, my experiences. Ever since Bright Side died, every creative part of me has been stifled. Silenced. If she wasn't there writing with me, she was always the first person I shared a new song with. She had an ear for music like no one I've ever met. I loved her approval. Craved it. It made me want to write more, just so I could see her eyes light up when I played her something new. I'd give anything to see that gleam again, because without it, without her, I feel empty. My life lost purpose, and my creativity vanished completely.
How do I tell that to my bandmates? MFDM? The label? Our tour manager? I'd love to help you out, you know, with your careers, your livelihood, but I'm a fucking barren wasteland. All tapped out. That would go over like a turd in a fucking punchbowl. They're depending on me and I've got nothing for them. I feel like shit.
So, I skirt the issue. Again. "I'm working through a few songs, but I'm not ready to share any of it yet, dude. Give me a couple of weeks."
Yeah, in another month I'll still be in this sinking ship. It's going down fast. I feel sorry for the rest of them, because this sonofabitch doesn't even have life preservers.
Franco's over tonight. He had dinner with Ma, Impatient, and me. It was a nice change. I felt relaxed and calm. I actually laughed. Ma laughed. Even Impatient laughed, which is almost unheard of. I liked hearing it. But, that's Franco for you. He's likable. He's got charisma and no one's immune to its effects.
After the dishes are done, Franco heads out to the deck. "Come on, Scout. We're taking the debauchery outside so cock lobster can smoke."
"That's Mr. Cock Lobster to you," I taunt. It's so good to have him around, but away from anything music related. There's no pressure. Impatient pauses at the sliding door to the deck. I know she won't follow us out. She never comes out here just to hang out. There's always some excuse. It's okay; I wouldn't want to spend time with me either.
So when she steps out on to the deck, I'm surprised. She walks to the railing and leans over to take in the view. I know Franco and I aren't going to finish this evening sober, so I retrieve a bottle of whiskey from my room. When I return she's sitting across the table from Franco. She's sitting, as always, with her back favoring the left side of the chair, while her legs are crossed at the knee toward the right. This puts her in the perfect position to present us with the left half of her face, while keeping the scars hidden for the most part. It makes me wonder if this is habit or if she consciously makes an effort with everything she does.
After opening the bottle and taking a swig, I set it down in front of her.
She shakes her head minutely. It's a quiet refusal, but I can't tell if it's judgment or a gesture that isn't meant to offend. She's tricky sometimes. "I don't drink, Gustov."
I roll my eyes, grab the bottle, and tip back another gulp.
Then Franco takes the bottle from me and pours some into the water glass he carried out with him. I knew he'd be down for this. It's been a while since the two of us have had drinks together. We don't go out to clubs anymore, now that Rook's getting more popular. We always get recognized in places like that and that makes me a little uncomfortable. The whole concept of "fans" still weirds me out. I understand they're into the music. I get that. Hell, I'm fanatical about certain music, too. But, that's the difference. I appreciate what they create. The people are just people. Not that they're not cool, at least some of them, but they're still just people. It's freaky when people shift into idolizing mode. When they forget you're a person and you turn into a name. You become your fame. You're not you anymore.
"Come on, it's not going to kill you to have a few drinks with friends."
She flashes her eyes at me and I can't help but feel like the "friends" label is pushing it. Are we? Friends?
I offer the bottle. "Bottoms up, sweetheart."
"I don't drink," she repeats. Then her eyes light up. "Wanna play Mancala?" She's almost smiling, like that was a dare.
"Hell yeah," I say, breaking into a huge smile. "Franco and I are always down for a little trash-talking game of Mancala." I don't know why that just made me so happy, but it did. It did.