Monday, March 6 – Tuesday, March 7
(Gus)
No show tonight.
A free day.
It's a goddamn miracle.
I'm more and more tired these days. The yo-yo of alcohol and cocaine during my waking hours and pills to sleep is messing hard with my constitution. But I'm functioning. I'm killing it every night on stage.
We're in Amsterdam now. Yup, that's right—the land of hash bars and the Red Light District. It's like Christmas. I've talked the guys into taking a field trip. They were surprised because I haven't gone out with them the entire time we've been in Europe. Clare's pissed at me because I didn't invite her. Whatever. Just because I've been, for the most part, sleeping with her exclusively doesn't mean I'm going to take her out. We're not in a relationship. We have an arrangement. Two totally different situations.
After walking along the canals and feeding the pigeons in Dam Square, we eat an early dinner to get in out of the cold. Everyone we come across is so friendly and most of them speak English, which surprises me for some reason. After dinner we venture out in search of all things uniquely Amsterdam. When we step inside the first "coffee shop" we come across, it takes no coaxing to entice Franco, Jamie, and Robbie to join me, even though they rarely partake in pot.
Thirty minutes later we're all stoned off our asses, reminiscing about how our band got together and how god awful our first few shows were. I haven't laughed in a long time, and it feels good. I'm relaxed, just living in the moment. It's exactly what I needed.
Hours pass before we leave and move on to the Red Light District. We're all blissfully stoned as we pass by and watch window peep show after window peep show. I can't talk the guys into going into an actual brothel, so we settle on a live sex show. It's real-live porn, just a guy and chick going at it. It shouldn't be funny, except that for some reason it is. It's funny as hell. And none of us can watch with a straight face. We're all laughing like we're thirteen years old and have never seen boobs or a dick before.
We got kicked out before the show even climaxed. Dammit.
It's around midnight when we get back to the bus. Everything is quiet. We're still laughing about the sex show when Clare steps out from her room. We must have woken her up. She looks fucking murderous when she slides the bedroom door open and scowls at us. "I'm trying to get some sleep." Up north she's wearing a paper-thin tank top and down south she's wearing a thong. She's oblivious to the fact that four sets of eyes are on her.
"Somebody's in a bad mood." I laugh, because even she can't ruin my mood tonight.
She narrows her eyes at me, then exhales bitterly. "So, how was the hash, anyway?"
I smile. "Fucking. Excellent." This is the first time I've smiled at her.
She notices. Suddenly her anger seems to have disappeared, and her lips curl into a smile. It's her seductive smile. It's the only one she ever wears. It's basically safe to say that her smile is a proposition. "Excellent," she purrs as she takes a handful of my T-shirt and pulls me into her room.
She slides the door shut behind me and just like that she's on her game. "Did you fuck anyone?"
I laugh. "Excuse me?"
She's direct as she pulls my T-shirt over my head. "I said, did you fuck anyone? Prostitutes?"
I'm a little slow on the uptake. "Oh, no. We watched, does that count?"
Her smile returns and her dark eyes look possessive. "Good. You ready to have some fun?"
Fun always includes drugs and sex. "Hell yes."
She begins digging through her side table drawer and pulls out a plastic baggy filled with several different colored pills. She sifts through them and pulls out two identical capsules. She pops one in her mouth before handing me the other.
"What is this?" I usually never ask her anymore.
"Does it matter?" She playfully challenges.
"Probably not," I answer, because it really doesn't matter.
She's removed her tank top and steps out of her thong. She's unbuttoning my jeans when she says, "That pill is going to make what's about to happen in this bed the most intense thing you've ever experienced."
I toss it in my mouth and swallow. "Sounds good, dude."
"Did you just call me dude? I am not a dude." She looks down at her breasts. "Obviously." She's insulted, but not enough to finish stripping me bare.
I've never called her dude. Dude is usually a term of endearment for me. It's something I generally save for my closest friends. She's not my friend and there's nothing endearing about her. I wish I could take it back. I feel like I've shared a personal piece of me. "I didn't mean it."
"That's better." She's consoled.
If she knew, "I didn't mean it," was more an insult than an apology she'd be pissed, but the drugs are starting to cloud my mind. Suddenly I don't care about anything else but getting her into this bed.
Sex with Clare is always rough. It's the only way she likes it. She's like some kind of fucking masochist. She wants to be dominated. And she's into some way kinky shit. Sometimes it's cool. Sometimes it's not. But tonight is different. Everything's playing out in slow motion. Everything's softened. It's vanilla sex compared to what we usually do, which should be boring with her, but it's not. I'm into it. I'm taking my time. I'm kissing. I'm touching. I'm pleasing her. And she's pleasing the hell out of me.
When we're done she doesn't want me to leave her bed. So I don't.
I didn't know it then, but that was a mistake. The culmination of many, many mistakes.
When I wake up several hours later, my head feels like a fucking marching band is playing at full volume inside my skull. I stretch and my entire body aches. Then I feel a warm body next to me.
There shouldn't be a warm body next to me.
Please let this be a stranger in bed with me, I think. But I know it's not. And I know I've just fucked up royally. I sneak a peek and sure as shit Clare's next to me. "Shit." This I do say out loud.
Her eyes are closed. "What?" she says. Her voice is still half asleep.
I roll my eyes. "Nothing." I slide out of bed and start looking for my pants. I find them by the door and pull them on. I'll look for my underwear later; I need to get out of here.
She's watching me now, and I can't figure out how she could possibly be smiling at me like that when she took the same shit I did last night. Why doesn't she feel like hell? "Last night was hot," she says. "You're sweet when you want to be. When you let your guard down."
Shit. Shit. This just keeps getting worse. I'm racing through my fuzzy memories of last night and can't come up with much after we got in bed. It's like my memories aren't related to anything physical, but instead take on this dream-like quality. And they're completely unattached to Clare, completely separate. They're hazy and vague, but warm and tender. Like I was some place totally safe. Somewhere I never wanted to leave. I felt love and loved.
Her voice breaks my trance. "I've never had someone make love to me before." She looks like she just won a prize and it makes my stomach churn because for some reason that I can't explain, I know she's right. I didn't fuck her, I made love to her. I'm so confused. I need to get out of here.
I slide the bedroom door open and am about to escape when her next words explain everything. "You called me Bright Side last night. What does that mean?"
I feel bile rise in my throat and there are tears stinging the backs of my eyes. That name from her mouth is desecration. I can't think of anything worse right now than hearing Clare say her name. I turn on her instantly and am standing over her pointing my finger an inch from her face. "Don't you ever fucking say that name again!" I'm yelling.
Her face has flipped from triumphant to shocked.
Franco's out of his bunk now. He's got ahold of my arm and is pulling me out of the room. He sits me down at the table near the driver, and hands me a cigarette and a lighter while he tells our driver, "Pull over, Ed. Gus needs to get out and cool down." My hands are shaking so badly I can barely light the cigarette.
Ed, our driver, pulls the bus to the side of the road and I slip on my Vans and coat, not bothering with a shirt or socks. I step off the bus into the snowy shoulder of what I assume is Dutch countryside. I'm pacing next to the bus and almost done with my first cigarette when Franco joins me.
"What's up, punk ass?" He's wearing his concerned face: brows furrowed and lips tight, turned down in a slight frown. It's the same face he wears anytime something bad happens.
I shrug as I inhale more nicotine into my body. It isn't calming me down like it usually does. My head is throbbing, my heart is racing, and the whole of my body is shaking inside and out. "Did you hear the whole conversation this morning?" The walls are thin; if he was awake, he heard it.
He nods apologetically. "And last night."
I squat and bury my face in my hands. I'm not just embarrassed, I'm lost. I rub my eyes and my hands come away wet. I light another cigarette. I'd rather cut off my right arm than hear the answer to this question, but I force myself to ask it. "What did I say to her last night?"
He eyes me. "You don't remember?" It's not really a question, he knows I don't. He's stalling.
I shake my head.
He scratches his bald head. He doesn't want to answer me, but I know he will because that's what good friends do. They give you the bad news even when you don't want to hear it. "I'm not going to get into all the details, but you kept calling her Bright Side ... while you were having sex. You told her you loved her, dude."
I turn around and scream with everything I've got in me. It feels like my head is splitting open. The pain is excruciating, but it only makes me want to scream longer and louder. When the screaming dies out I can't catch my breath, and before I know it I'm doubled over retching into the snow. I don't remember what I ate last night but it's all over the ground and my shoes now. My stomach empties quickly but my body doesn't relent. I keep heaving. It makes my eyes fill and spill over. And when the heaving stops, I realize that I'm bawling. I'm on the ground now, knees wet with vomit and snow. I bury my face in my forearms and crouch down on the wet, snow covered ground. I'm crying like I cried the moment she died. Crying like my fucking world is about to end. Franco kneels down beside me and puts his hand on my back. "My heart hurts so fucking bad, dude," I gasp. "I miss her. I miss her so much."
"I know, big man." No judgment.
I'm thankful it's Franco here with me because he knows how to talk to me. I couldn't do this with anyone else right now. Not even Ma.
"I don't know how to be Gus without her, dude. I'm fucking lost as shit."
"I know."
I rise up on my knees and look at him.
He hesitates like he was going to say something and thought better of it. And then he says it anyway, "Listen, I know it's none of my business, man. If you're into Clare that's on you, but—"
I interrupt. "I'm not. I don't know what the fuck I'm doing with her."
He raises his eyebrows. He's calling me out.
"Okay," I huff, "I know what I'm doing with her. I'm fucking her. Using her. She's a meaningless distraction. That's it."
"But she's been helping you with your meds, too."
That was way too casual for Franco. "Is that what you call it? Meds?"
His eyes narrow. "Yeah," he says cautiously. "I talked to her a few weeks back about you. I didn't go into personal specifics, but told her I thought you needed to see a doctor. She told me a few days later that she'd arranged for a doctor to come by the venue while the rest of us were at dinner and that you got a prescription for anxiety and sleep meds."
"Doctor? I didn't realize Clare had a fucking license to practice?" I don't like the fact that she's been keeping Franco in the dark. But the truth is that I've been lying to him, too.
There's a shift in his features, a vein in his forehead begins pulsing and his eyes turn dark and intense. I know what's coming. "What have you been taking?"
"Coke, pills, whatever she could get her hands on."
He's on his feet in a flash and flying toward the door of the bus. I surprise myself by jumping up after him, and soon it's me holding him by the arm trying to keep him out of her bedroom. He's a strong fucker when he's angry. He doesn't get angry like this often; I've only seen it once or twice in five years. He can be scary as hell when he's pissed like this. He isn't budging. Clare is standing by the bed, wrapped in a thin robe. Her face is pale but unyielding. Franco's screaming at her. "What have you done to him?" When she doesn't answer and stands there defiantly with her arms crossed over her chest, he explodes again. Louder this time. She flinches. "I said, what have you fucking done to him?!"
A smirk emerges and her eyes shift to mine. "Nothing he didn't want, right love?"
I have a grip on both of his biceps from behind now. His arms are shaking violently with rage. "You fucking lied to me!" I don't know how he keeps getting louder, but he does.
No response.
He's pointing at her. "Stay away from him, do you hear me? Stay the fuck away from him. You don't give him anything. You don't talk to him. You don't even look at him."
She looks at me and there's fear behind the icy façade. I know she hasn't been doing this job long, and she knows it could be in jeopardy. "Gustov is a grown man, Franco. I never forced him to do anything. He wanted it."
I don't like Clare, never have, but I have to admit I feel a little sorry for her right now. She's in the direct path of hurricane Franco and it should be me. "She's right, dude," I huff. "She never forced me. If you're gonna be pissed at anyone, it should be me."
Franco turns, breaks my grip, and faces me. His eyes pierce me and I know I'm in for it. "Oh, I am pissed, Gus." I can tell, because he rarely calls me Gus. "Fucking pissed. What in the hell were you thinking? Listen," he pauses, glancing at Clare like he wishes she wasn't within earshot. He turns back to me and continues, "I know everything is shit right now. I know that." He lowers his voice. "We all miss her, dude. But this is no way to deal. Do you know how disappointed she'd be if she was standing here watching this whole goddamn debacle play out?"
She'd hate it. I fucking know that. "Well, she's not here, is she?" I can't have this conversation. I don't need the reminder. I live it every second. "She's fucking dead." I'm not listening anymore. I walk away toward the mini-fridge and pull out a beer.
Franco turns back to Clare and points at me sitting at the table. "Stay the fuck away from him." It's a not-so-subtle reminder. Then he looks and me and points at Clare. "Same goes for you. Stay away from her. Find a new fuck buddy."
Clare closes the door to her bedroom. She's on the inside and I feel some relief having the buffer.
Franco slides into the seat across from me. He looks spent and has calmed down. "Sorry, dipshit. I shouldn't have brought up Kate in front of her."
I throw back half the can before I come up for air. "The cat was already out of the bag, dude. Sounds like I did a stellar job of that last night." I run my fingers through my hair and hold it back in a ponytail. "I can't believe I did that."
He raps his knuckles on the table. "You pretended the person you were with was the person you wish you were with instead. We've all fantasized. No shame."
I look him in the eye. "You don't fantasize about dead people."
"You were higher than a fucking kite." He exhales and stares at me for a while, his eyes begging for honesty. "You loved her, I know you did. Don't play the 'best friends' card with me, man. Do I blame you? Hell no. Kate was the most incredible woman I've ever met. All of us sorry fucks will be lucky if we end up with someone who's half the person she was."
I nod and sit back and finish my beer.
Franco lets me.
End of discussion.