Heartless Few Box Set

by MV Ellis

  “I’m still hella pissed about what Marnie did, but I shouldn’t have taken my anger out on you. I understand you were in a difficult position, stuck between the two of us. If you feel even a tenth for Marnie of what I feel for London, I can see why you did what you did, and we all know that if things were the other way around, I would have done the same and not even thought twice. Beyond the video fuckup, I’m sorry I took you for granted. Marnie too, but mostly you. I can’t believe I was so wrapped up in my own shit for so many years that I didn’t see the writing that was so clearly on the wall. Then I had the cheek to question your brotherly loyalty. I’ve been the worst kind of hypocrite. Sorry, dude.” I truly mean it.

  “Apology accepted, and credit where credit is due. You acted in anger. It was a shock, and you lashed out. It’s understandable. None of us is at our best in those circumstances. But I never thought I’d see the day that you’d offer me an unprompted and apparently sincere apology for anything. Especially not with witnesses. Wonders will never cease.” A smile pulls at the corner of his lips. The fact that he can see even a remotely funny side to all of this makes him a better human than me. If it’s one thing I know how to do, it’s hold a grudge.

  “You know, even when shit’s all fucked up like it is right now, I think she’s a good influence. London, I mean. Even from afar, she’s changed you, man. For sure, a year ago you wouldn’t be saying the things you are now, and the only difference in your life is her and your baby. Who knew all that was needed to bring you back from the dark side was the love of a good woman, then to have her trample all over your heart and leave you for dead?”

  “Fuck you, man.” I guess the status quo has been restored. Good, I was starting to feel uncomfortable with all the lovey-dovey bullshit between us. If one of us had cried, I think I would have offed myself just to make it stop.

  By the time I get back to Rosemond House much, much later, fighting my way through the crowds of paparazzi and fans, the internet is already alight with talk of the show. It has literally taken the world by storm. There doesn’t seem to be a person between the ages of nine and ninety who hasn’t seen it and loved it. It even has its own hashtag, #hummingbirdIloveyou. Epic. It’s working out exactly as I had hoped. Better, even.

  Reading reviews isn’t normally my thing. I give zero fucks what journalists think, and I always figure that people will vote with their feet, one way or the other. If what we do sucks, it will flop. If not, not. No point getting bogged down in the detail provided by so-called experts. This gig is the exception. I have an ulterior motive in wanting it to be as big as possible, and talked about on a global scale, and I get lost down the rabbit hole of the internet reading the reams of commentary, trying to gauge its impact. It’s overwhelmingly positive, with talk of Fight[or]Flight being our best album yet. Wow. There’s also a shit ton of speculation about the meaning of the songs, especially “Hummingbird,” most correctly guessing it’s about London. Perfect.

  I write to Squirt again, hoping after that the adrenaline will subside enough for me to get some much-needed sleep.

  Dear Squirt, today was a big day. I sang that song I wrote for you. It’s called “Before I Knew You (I Loved You).” I wish you were there to hear it. Here are some of the lyrics.

  I loved you before I knew you,

  There’s a place in my heart that’s always been yours

  I loved you before I knew you

  I want to give you the world and so much more

  I loved you before I knew you

  Before you knew me, before you I was poor

  Love you, Daddy.

  As usual, there’s no response. I just have to trust in the plan.

  Nineteen

  Dear Squirt, I had strawberries today. I wonder if you’ll like them. Grandma tells me that I loved them so much when I was a little kid that once I ate enough to give me a terrible bellyache. Uncle Luke hates them. Go figure. I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but it made me think of you for some reason. Love you, Daddy.

  Two days later, something changes among what seems like thousands of PR engagements off the back of the concert. I send my daddy update, and pretty much instantaneously I get a ping back. I’m almost too nervous to click on it, but I can’t not. After a radio silence this long, I really want to know what caused London to respond to me. I open the message to find a date and flight number: Sunday 14th 4:30 p.m., JFK, QF11. I later double-check this with Marko, and as I suspected, these are her flight details from Sydney. I guess she’d like me to meet her at the airport. She doesn’t need to ask me twice. In fact she doesn’t even need to ask once, which she actually didn’t—I would walk barefoot over a bed of white-hot nails to see her and Squirt. I’ll be there no matter what.

  I can’t help wondering what’s changed, why she’s gone from zero contact to this. Part of me doesn’t want to question it—why look a gift horse in the mouth, after all? But another part of me remains ever cynical. This kind of reversal can’t possibly mean anything good, can it?

  The next five days are the longest of my entire life, and possibly Hunter’s too. Definitely Hunter’s. While I feel like a mixture of a kid on Christmas Eve and a high schooler waiting for the results of their SATs, I get the impression that Hunter feels like a prisoner trapped in a cell with a deranged monkey. Midway through day three, he snaps.

  “Listen, man, you know I love you, but you need to get the hell out of here. I totally get that you’re going through some shit, but I can’t see any benefit to both of us losing our fucking minds over here. That’s where this thing is headed if you stick around much longer climbing the goddamn walls.”

  This is as close to pissed as I’ve ever seen this laid-back cat, so I take his objection seriously, but I don’t want to hear it. I need to be here “working,” or at the very least driving Hunter to his wits’ end with my pacing and sighing in lieu of working. I can’t be responsible for my actions if left to my own devices.

  As if reading my mind, Hunter speaks up again.

  “Man, why don’t you call the guys and arrange to do something… like… uh….” He seems to draw a blank. I guess he doesn’t care what I do, so long as it doesn’t involve getting stuck under his feet.

  I take the hint and make myself scarce, calling Stevie from the car as I leave the club. It’s an odd feeling, contacting him in a situation like this. The old Stevie would have hauled my ass to a bar and helped me drown my sorrows in a bottle of vodka or six. The last thing I need right now is to wreck myself out drinking for hours on end, as tempting as that prospect may be. Thankfully, the new Stevie is more likely to be seen nursing a matcha latte or some other weird healthy shit than sinking a shot, so no danger of that. I still find it hard to wrap my head around the new status quo, but I guess I’m going to have to, as this version of Stevie appears to be here to stay.

  He picks up after a few rings.

  “Hey, man, what’s up?” Both Stevies are relentlessly cheerful. Fuck them.

  “Nothing. Well, not much, I guess. Hunter threw me out.”

  “What? You guys had a lovers’ tiff? I knew it! I always thought there was more to your friendship than met the eye. How long has this been going on?” He’s a dick. A chirpy dick, but still a dick.

  I laugh despite my initially somber mood. He’s good at that—even sober he knows just what to say or do to lift someone’s spirits.

  “Not like that, asshole.” I can’t even pretend to sound serious, I’m laughing too much.

  “Oh, so you’re still together?” He joins in my laughter.

  “We’re not together. Never have been. He wants me out of the club. London’s coming back from Sydney in a couple of days, and the waiting is killing me. Apparently I’m driving him nuts in the meantime, and today he finally lost his shit and told me to fuck off.”

  “Oh man! I can only imagine the pain he’s been going through, the poor guy. You’re like a bear with a sore butthole on a good day, let alone over the past few months when you’re mo
ody and moping over London. I mean, he’s pretty chill normally, right? For him to snap, you must have been real bad. You’re lucky it was him, not one of us. We probably would have pushed you into oncoming traffic by now.” I can just imagine his face right now as he laughs himself stupid.

  “What? Fuck you! I am not moody and moping, and no fucker would be shoving me under a bus.” Maybe I’ve been a little… off my game, but who could blame me with what’s gone down? I’d defy any of them to go through the same and come through it with a smile on their face.

  “Sure, you tell yourself that, bro. Meanwhile in the real world, we’re all over here having a party because you told us you were going to be more hands off on the final elements of the album, which incidentally was a false promise, because we then had to spend two weeks breaking balls to get it finished for the gig. I nearly cried when you told us you were back all hands on deck.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “I kid you not. It had gotten to the point where we were drawing straws to see who would have to sit closest to you and deal with your sighing and huffing, and even worse, the side eye and death stares. We’ve nominated Hunter for a Nobel Peace Prize for dealing with you one-on-one every day. He’s a better man than me. I mean, there’s four of us, and we’ve been struggling. I can only imagine what he’s been going through with nobody else to take the pressure off. Poor bastard. Maybe we should all front up some cash to pay for counseling for him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s suffering from PTSD.”

  “You’re actually serious right now?” He’s actually serious.

  “Never been more so, dude,” he deadpans.

  “You bunch of shit lickers.” I love-hate those numbskulls.

  “You know it, but who else would have you? If we were nice, normal, respectable guys, we’d have left you for dead years ago.”

  He’s got a point, but damned if I’m going to let him know that.

  It’s at times like this that I realize how lucky I am to have these dickwads in my life. I tell people that music saved me when I was that angry kid who had just lost his dad. It’s true, but having them around was another huge factor in keeping my ass out of jail, or worse. The reality is that knowing the boys have my back is one of the few things helping me stay somewhat sane right now. They might annoy the shit out of me on a daily basis, but even when I want to all-out kill them, I love them still. And Stevie’s right—I know for sure if they didn’t have me, no fucker else would.

  So often over the years, I’ve thought about the accident of us coming together as a group and how we just “worked” then and still do now. I don’t know exactly how or why, but I guess we’re united by our similarities and our differences. Fuck knows really, but it ain’t broke, so I ain’t looking to fix it.

  Even though I’m only related to one of them, music, not blood, is the tie that binds us. Whatever differences we may have, when we’re on stage together or even just jamming in a hotel room or green room somewhere, magic happens. You can see, feel, and hear the bond between us, and it’s the main reason we’re still at the top in this business after all these years, still cranking out music the world wants to hear. It’s our differences that keep us together as friends too. Everyone brings something different to the group, so each of us has his place.

  Twenty

  Dear Squirt, I hung out with Uncle Stevie today. He sends his love. Well, that’s not true. He sends a big fat raspberry and some words not suitable for little ears. He’s your funny uncle, but I’m sure you’ll work that out once you meet him. Love you, Daddy.

  “So I’m guessing you didn’t call just so I could tell you what a miserable sinner you’ve been lately, did you?” Sober Stevie is on point.

  “Nope. I called to see if you want to hang out.”

  There’s an audible gasp on the other end of the line.

  “Man, did I just hear you ask me to hang with you? I thought being drunk and/or high all the time fucked with a person’s mind, but now I’m dead sober and I think I’m having hallucinations. Can green tea do that?”

  “I don’t know anything about tea, man, but you heard me right. And after the number of times I’ve hauled your drunken ass out of this scrape or that over the years, you fucking owe me, so quit playing hard to get.”

  “Well, when you put it like that, I would love to voluntarily and not at all with a gun to my head spend an evening in your delightfully pleasant company. Why, thank you so much for the very kind and gracious invitation. What can I bring to this most prestigious event?” He’s funny as fuck.

  Stevie is the joker in the pack. It’s always party time when he’s around. Or at least it used to be. But even sober, he’s a prolific joke teller and prankster, never one to let a moment pass quietly, and one of the funniest idiots I’ve ever met. If he hadn’t made it as a drummer, I’m sure he could have had an equally successful career in comedy.

  “Just bring yourself. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  And by take care, I mean order takeout and bring out the video games, which is exactly what I do. We spend much of the evening battling it out on the console in amiable silence, until clearly fatigued from one too many ass whoopings from me, Stevie puts his controller down on the couch and turns to me.

  “So, come on, man, what’s going on?”

  I sigh. I knew this would come up at some point.

  “London is coming back this weekend. After not speaking to her for all these weeks, she messaged me to meet her at the airport. Well, she didn’t ask me, exactly, but she sent me the flight details, so I guess that’s kind of the same thing. I’ll be there regardless.”

  “That’s a good thing, right? So what’s the issue?” He shoots me a sidelong glance, clearly trying to read my vibe.

  “The issue is I don’t fucking know what to do or say to her. I mean, I know what I want to say. I know I want her and Squirt in my life. So goddamn bad. But I have no idea where her head is at. I want to believe that her sending me the flight details is a good thing. It’s the most contact I’ve had from her since she took off.”

  “She loves you. You know that, right, man?” He’s still looking at me, but I keep my gaze fixed on a point on the wall ahead.

  “Yeah. Well I thought so before all this, but now I don’t know what to think. If she does, how come she was so quick to take off when the whole Marnie situation kicked off? I’m no expert at this relationship business, you know that. In fact, I don’t think you could find a guy who knows less about this stuff than me. But still, I figure if you love someone, you stay and work it out. Even if that means fighting it out, right? Isn’t that just basic couple shit? How come as soon as she’s in any doubt, her first instinct is to push me as far away as possible and run? How come she rushes to that douche in tights and spills her guts, but won’t even take my calls? When do I get to be the guy she runs to, not the one she runs from?”

  “I can’t help you with any of that stuff, brother. Women are a mystery to me. A beautiful mystery, but a mystery just the same. Maybe you should be having this conversation with Jake? He’s the only one of all of us who’s managed to keep a chick in his life for longer than the time it takes to come.”

  “I know, but I think I cashed in all my chips with him the last time I needed help with London. Besides, when I think about it, I don’t really know how comfortable I feel taking advice from a dude who’s only ever had one woman wrapped around his dick. He doesn’t know about women, he knows about Kris. There’s a difference.”

  Jake, our man on keys, is the only married member of the band—or in fact, in any kind of steady relationship. He also has two kids. That’s a big part of the reason he has naturally fallen into the “tour father” role, but it’s also just his personality type. He has always been the most reserved and sensible of the group, unlike the rest of us who have been sowing our wild oats and whatever else for years.

  He and his high school sweetheart, Kris, have been together since the rest of us were still trying to work out how to
suck our own dicks. They settled down into a life of wedded bliss not long after graduating. Not that things have always been easy for them. They’ve had their fair share of drama, like any couple, but they seem to have come through it all stronger than ever. Even still, I doubt he’d be much use in helping me undo a fuckup of this magnitude. He’s got no idea what real dating is like. I mean, he’s never even been on Tinder!

  On the other hand, he’s definitely our designated guy for “taking care of business.” Whatever that business may be. He’s the first person we all hit up if we need something done. Or fixed. Or undone. He’s also most likely to make sure everyone makes it onto the plane, or to interviews, or other commitments, and to pull us out of the many dipshit situations we seem to regularly find ourselves embroiled in.

  He’s what anyone would agree is a “nice guy,” and definitely the kind of guy you’d be happy to introduce to Grandma. Naturally quite reserved, he’s the quietest member of the group, but with all the larger-than-life personalities, that kind of works well too. Somebody’s gotta shut up long enough to actually think, and that someone is most definitely Jake.

  “Or what about Brad? Or Gramps? He and your grandma were married even before they laid the Rosetta stone, and they were possibly the handsiest people I’ve ever had the misfortune of spending time with. No offense. They were a great couple, and I feel terrible for your Gramps now that he’s all alone, but I still have traumatic memories of seeing them together at your family gatherings. There are some things you just can’t unsee.” He laughs at this own joke, and I join in. It’s funny because it’s true.

  “Ugh. I’d rather pull my toenails out with pliers than suffer through Brad’s big brother condescension. It was bad enough when I was a kid and kind of had to listen, but there’s no way that as a grown-ass man I’m going to voluntarily put myself in the line of fire of that crap.” He’s totally clutching at straws here. I guess he really doesn’t want to babysit me, but that’s his tough shit. I give zero fucks, and he’s not getting rid of me that easily.