Saturday, April 22
(Gus)
The show last night was probably the best one we've played since last year. I was on the uncomfortable side of sober by showtime, but it worked. The crowd was loud and their energy was easy to feed off of.
We didn't play "Finish Me." Hitler was furious. I'm beginning to take some serious pleasure from seeing that vein in his forehead throb.
I went to sleep as soon as we got on the bus after the show and didn't wake up until noon today. I've never slept so hard on the road. I feel almost human.
Before I open my bunk curtain, I tug on a T-shirt. There's a decency line I'm pretty sure I shouldn't cross this time around. The last thing I need is Impatient calling sexual harassment on me.
It isn't until after I use the bathroom that I realize the bus isn't moving. And I'm the only one on it. After putting on some jeans, socks, and my shoes, I grab the essentials and make my way out into the bright sunshine. We're in Phoenix and it's hot. I don't mind the heat; it beats the hell out of the cold. I've had enough cold this winter to last me a lifetime.
While I light the first of many cigarettes for the day, I survey the surroundings. We're parked in the back lot of the venue. There's a taco joint across the street, and my stomach starts growling at the sight of it. This boy needs tacos.
The place is small inside and cleanliness doesn't seem to be high on the list of priorities, but it'll do just fine. And when I see veggie tacos on the menu, I know I'm home. I order a six-pack of tacos and a bottle of water and take a seat at the booth by the front window. The tacos don't taste like Ma's, but they're damn good.
When I'm done, I find that I don't want to leave. The sidewalk outside isn't crowded but there's a fairly steady stream of people. I love to people watch. I could sit here all day and try to guess people's stories. Or make up their stories in my head. I can get creative, and it's entertaining. So I sit back and watch. The blinds are closed except one that's bent open. I feel like a spy peeking through it.
About five minutes later I spot a tall, slim brunette wearing a loose red hoodie and shorts. The shorts aren't obscenely short, but they show off her spectacular legs, long and lean. She looks like a runner. She's talking on a cell phone. Some people walk around, especially when they're distracted by something like a phone, and don't pay attention to what's going on around them, but even with her hood pulled up, I can tell by the subtle movements she's making that's she's looking at everything around her. She'd be a brilliant witness to a crime; I'm betting that nothing gets past her. It's fascinating. At one point she stops moving and leans up against the wall. She seems intense and focused. She doesn't talk with her hands. The hand that's not holding the phone is tucked in her front pocket. And even though she's standing still, she can't stand still, like there's a nervousness that she can't shake. Or maybe it's impatience kicking in. I feel for her. Calm is elusive most of the time; I miss it.
She's still on her phone when she pushes off the wall and crosses the street. She's walking toward me. The closer she gets, the more I can't look away. I don't know if it's those damn legs or the natural grace with which she moves. She's like the human equivalent of a gazelle.
I'm fixated on her until I realize who she is. It's Impatient. And my eyes instinctively jump away, but only momentarily before they bounce right back to her. She's probably twenty feet away when I realize I'm staring.
I shouldn't be staring. Especially when she can't see me through the blinds.
But I am. I'm not trying to be rude. I'm curious.
There's scarring on her right cheek. It looks like she was burned severely. Her hair falls around her face, but I can still make out the scar tissue. It looks like it starts below her eye, just missing her nose and mouth, and continues down her cheek and neck, disappearing into her shirt. I wonder how much of her torso is affected since her legs are unblemished. How did I not notice this before? I've been around her for two days. I'm usually a little more observant. Now it's obvious that I really have been ignoring her and the job she's supposed to be doing.
She's coming in this restaurant now. Luckily, my seat keeps me obscured by a plant. I can't see her, but I can hear her. Her voice, though quiet, is anything but meek. It's the kind of voice that holds authority, but presents it to you in hushed, soothing tones. And there's a slight accent I didn't notice yesterday—East Coast, maybe. I decide to listen in.
"Yeah, it's only for nine weeks. I really need this money. I can do anything for nine weeks, right? ... I haven't really talked to Gustov yet, but he seems pretty rock star cliché ... " She sounds a little bitter. "His ego seems to project out in front of him. You know, you run into it before you even meet him. Honestly, he seems like a jackass ... Listen Jane, I need to grab something to eat before I dive into day two. Do me a favor and go outside today. Take a walk. Get some fresh air ... Okay. I'll talk to you later. Bye."
Well, that's unfortunate. I was kinda hoping I could ease into friendship or at least roll with the whole PA idea. You know, if you can't beat 'em join 'em? Yeah, that. I know I judged her hard, initially. It's just the whole idea of her as my PA that I don't like. My first impression of her rubbed me the wrong way, but I may as well not fight it. I mean, hell, I don't need another obstacle. Guess she's not open to friendship, though. She's right about one thing: I am a jackass lately. In my opinion, she's out of bounds with her "rock star cliché" assessment. I've always kinda prided myself on not being cliché.
After hearing her less-than-stellar characterization of me, I decide it's best if I slip out of the restaurant while she's ordering so we don't bump into each other.
I don't see Impatient until later that afternoon. I'm sitting in my bunk on the bus when she approaches. And I know it's immature, but I'm a little hurt by what I overheard her saying about me earlier and I've been stewing on it. And maybe a little mad at myself because I'm starting to question who I've turned into. I don't want to be a cliché. Whatever the reason, I don't even look at her when she starts talking. It's rude, but I can't help myself. She meets my evasiveness with a little of her own and stands facing away from me while she talks. Touché. Head turned slightly, she's side-eyeing me, but she's direct and to the point. The conversation goes something like this:
Scout: "You need to blah, blah, blah. And when you're done with that we need to go over blah, blah, blah."
Me: Ignore, but nod as if I'm listening.
Scout: Silence. My rudeness has been met with irritation. She's pissed and doesn't try to hide it. At least she doesn't embarrass herself and kiss my ass. She just flat out doesn't like me and has no qualms about it.
I'm discovering more and more that people in this business have no pride. They'll sacrifice morals, ethics, hell, even their own mother if it means getting ahead. It's fake. Everyone wants to be your friend. Everyone wants a piece of you. It disgusts me and warps my sense of reality. I'm almost happy this girl so blatantly doesn't like me. It restores my faith in humanity.