Gus

by Kim Holden

  And I love Mancala. Who knew?

  I also know this can’t happen again. This was a moment of weakness. I can’t slip into trust-mode with this guy. The last man I trusted with friendship broke me.

  (Gus)

  I had a great morning; completely, unexpectedly great. Hell, it felt almost normal. I didn’t think that was allowed on the road. Normal. Hell, I didn’t think that was allowed in my life at all anymore. And mystery solved on why Impatient doesn’t answer me sometimes when I whisper to her late at night or early in the morning while everyone is sleeping. I always thought she was just ignoring me. I didn’t know she was hard of hearing. Makes me feel a little less like the enemy. Don’t get me wrong, she’s still standoffish and quiet. Only now I think that may have more to do with her than me.

  Saturday, May 20

  (Gus)

  Apparently I was wrong. Standoffish and quiet has everything to do with me.

  I invited Impatient to go with me to the laundromat this morning, but I guess she did her laundry yesterday. Which is fine, but she’s turned down every attempt I’ve made to be nice to her this week. She’s avoiding me, like intentionally and obviously avoiding me. I don’t know what I did, but I’m sure I did something. I thought we turned a corner last weekend on the whole friendship thing, but I guess I was wrong.

  Scratch the part where I thought we could be friends.

  We’re back to sticky notes.

  Fuck it.

  I tried.

  Whatever.

  Wednesday, May 24

  (Scout)

  I’m back to keeping to myself. It’s better this way. I feel more comfortable. I talk to Paxton every day; he’s my lifeline to the real world outside of the weird, rock star world I’m trapped in at the moment. He asks a lot of questions about the band because he loves their music. I don’t have many answers for him, because, well, I don’t know their music and I’m definitely not discussing them personally—that’s a line I won’t cross.

  And besides that, they’re just people.

  Paxton idolizes them.

  I live with them … and wish I didn’t.

  Two totally different views that I can’t reconcile in my mind.

  Friday, May 26

  (Gus)

  We’ve been on the road for just over a month now. Even though we’re in a different city every night, repetition is king: sleep, eat, drink, call Ma, drink, eat, perform while drinking, sleep. Repeat. Once again alcohol is an amiable companion. Because people are just too hard for me right now.

  It’s monotonous, but I don’t have to think too much at my current pace. It’s routine and easy. And I’ve cut out women. There’s never a shortage of propositions, but even sex isn’t doing it for me like it used to. Seeing them so eager to please me makes me feel like a fraud. They want to be with Gustov. Not Gus. It’s not that I act like two different people; I’m just me. But they don’t know who that really is. I do. That’s the difference. I’m done.

  I’d rather just hang out on the bus. How fucking sad is that? It’s the truth, though.

  Four more weeks and I’m home.

  Four weeks.

  Fuck my life. Four more weeks.

  And Impatient? She's another mental game that I can’t shake. She doesn’t like me. The past two weeks avoiding all actual verbal interaction is key for her again. It’s like those few days when we talked and acted friendly never existed. Like they were some weird dream I conjured. I wish it never would’ve happened, because then I wouldn’t miss it. I wish this didn’t bother me so much, but it does. It’s like I have people throwing themselves at me, wanting a piece of me, all day, every day. I love the fact that she doesn’t do that. That also means she won’t have anything to do with me. Shit, I’m drinking way too much these days to analyze like this.

  She’s back to using sticky notes for all of her reminders or instruction; it’s her sole source of communication again. I don’t know what happened between us, but I’m kinda pissed. Or maybe I'm lonely. Hell, I don’t know. But I usually don’t respond anymore. I just want to talk, not write notes. She still gets shit done despite my lack of participation or cooperation, though. It’s nothing life or death, but she takes her job seriously. And as much as I resented the whole PA idea at first, it’s been for the best. She’s efficient and thorough, and if I have to admit it, even if she doesn’t like me she’s got my back work-wise. She’s going out of her way to meet her obligations.

  I’m beginning to resent being an obligation. Especially if that’s all I am to her.

  It’s five-thirty and we just wrapped up soundcheck. The venue sells pizza, so I grab a few slices and a couple of beers and head back to the bus to eat while the guys go to a steakhouse down the street. Vegetarians and steak don’t mix, so I’m sticking to three slices of veggie and three slices of cheese.

  The bus is quiet when I climb on and take a seat at the table. Silence is rare when you share a bus with so many people; I don’t take it for granted. I feel like it’s the only time I can get out of my head and just relax. When I’m finished with the pizza, I reach in my pocket for my phone. It’s not there. I try the other pocket. Not there either. The terror is fucking immediate. I feel that flash of panic when you realize you’ve lost something important. When it subsides, I decide to check my bunk. I hope I didn’t lose it again. I’ve gone through four phones in as many months and it’s always a pain in the ass to get it replaced.

  I pull back the sheets and blanket, lift my pillow, check under my laptop, and shuffle through some paperwork Impatient left for me to sign. Nothing. “Shit. Where in the hell is it?” I’m talking out loud, as if the damn thing is going to come out from its hiding spot.

  “It’s charging.”

  I jump out of my fucking skin at the words, and turn. Impatient is sitting in her bunk across the aisle from mine.

  Those are the first words she’s spoken to me all week. She’s sitting in her bunk reading a book and she’s laughing at me. She's stifling it, but she’s laughing nonetheless.

  Her laughter immediately lightens my mood. “Jesus fucking Christ,” I say. “You scared the hell out of me. I thought I was alone this whole time. You could be a fucking hired assassin, you know that?”

  She’s back to her book now. Any hint that this person has a sense of humor has vanished. Without looking at me, she says, “On the counter, by the toaster.”

  I walk to where she’s instructed and, sure as shit, there sits my phone, plugged into the community charger. Exactly where I left it earlier.

  I disconnect it and take it back to my bunk with me, pushing aside the mess I made during the mad hunt, and climb in. My eyes keep drifting back to her bunk as I scroll through missed texts and emails. From this high angle I can’t see anything from the chest up but I can see the book resting in her lap and her long legs stretched out. Those damn legs. They’re crossed at the ankle. I was right about her being a runner. She runs every day. It’s the first thing she does when the bus stops.

  I don’t know why but I have to talk to her. I don’t want to let this opportunity go. “How’d you know I was looking for my phone?”

  She doesn’t hesitate. “You always call your mom around this time of day.”

  I do. See, she pays attention. Like I said, nothing gets past her. “What are you reading?”

  She stays tucked away in her bunk, but she answers, “It’s a biography about an Afghani woman. She’s leading the fight for equal rights for women in the Middle East.” She always stays tucked away. Even if she’s talking to someone face-to-face, she’s tucked away. She angles herself away and avoids eye contact. At first, I thought it was part of her personality—the impatience and irritation. But it wasn’t until I saw her, really saw her, and watched her around others that I realized she’s hiding. Hiding the right side of her face. I’m no expert, but I’d guess that she’s lived with her scars for a long time. She overcompensates for them like she’s protecting them, protecting herself. Hiding is how she
functions. I wish she wouldn’t hide, but I’m in no position to judge. I’ve been hiding from myself for months.

  “That sounds fun.” I’m only joking, partially because I’m a little nervous, but it comes off insensitive and rude.

  And that’s exactly how she takes it. “There’s this great big world out there where women are valued for more than their vaginas,” she says flatly. She’s a woman of few words, but when she says something she means it.

  It takes my breath away. She’s harsh. You’d think I’d be used to it by now. “Is that what you really think about me?”

  “Don’t act so shocked. It’s your M.O. I watch it every night after the shows.”

  Not knowing how to respond, I try to joke around with her despite failing miserably at it only seconds ago. “Jealous?” I don’t why I just said that. I’ve had a few beers tonight, but that’s no excuse. I need to shut my damn mouth.

  “Get over yourself, Gustov.” She sounds pissed now, even her soft voice isn’t tempering the anger. “Not if you were the last man on Earth.” There’s disgust in her voice. Then she circles back on the insult, leans out of her bunk, and glares up at me. “Are you really so self-absorbed that you can’t fathom the fact that there are women out there who have no interest whatsoever in sleeping with you?”

  I shrug, because I feel shitty. When did I turn into that guy? I’m not that guy.

  She shakes her head, tosses her book to the foot of the bed, slips out of her bunk, and disappears out the door of the bus.

  I stare blankly at her bunk. I want a do-over of the last five minutes. Instead, I call Ma because it always gets me out of this crazy world I’m living in and back to sanity. Under my breath, I repeat while I’m listening to the phone ring. “One more month and I’m home. One more month and I’m home.”

  “Hi, honey.” Comfort, that’s what her voice sounds like.

  “Hey, Ma. What’s my favorite person up to?”

  “Just eating a late lunch here at the office with Mikayla.”

  We’re on the east coast so she’s three hours behind. “How’s Mikayla doing?”

  Ma sighs, it’s a happy sigh with underlying sadness. “She sold her house. Closing is next month. Retirement is finally going to take her away from me.” Mikayla’s been Ma’s assistant since the first day she opened her advertising firm twenty years ago. They’re close friends and I know Ma feels like she’ll be lost without her.

  “Good for Mikayla. Sucks for you.”

  “Good for Mikayla is right. She deserves to enjoy retirement. I’m just being selfish.”

  “I know you knew this day was coming, not that it makes it any easier on you, but what are you gonna do? Mikayla’s superhuman.” She is. Ma’s damn good at what she does. She’s one helluva business woman. But Mikayla’s always been her backup. Another set of eyes and ears that stayed on top of everything. They’ve worked together so long they can finish each other’s sentences. I swear they speak telepathically half the time.

  Ma laughs. “Mikayla is superhuman. And I don’t know what I’m going to do. I don’t even want to think about interviewing and hiring someone new. Mikayla’s gritty attitude and ability to make things happen out of thin air is irreplaceable.”

  As soon as she says it my eyes dart to Impatient’s empty bunk. Gritty attitude. Ability to make things happen. The wheels are turning in my head and before I know it, my mouth is getting ahead of me. “I might know someone.”

  “You might know someone?” I don’t know why she sounds so surprised.

  “Yeah, she’s traveling with us. Her name’s Scout, but I call her Impatient. She’s my babysitter.”

  Ma scoffs at the babysitter tag, but I know she’s relieved that someone’s looking out for me besides Franco.

  “I don’t think she has a job when our tour ends. I overheard her talking to someone on the phone a few days ago.” Impatient was talking to Jane (I still haven’t figured out if Jane’s a family member, or a friend) earlier this week and said she started sending out her resume. She sounded a little desperate.

  Ma interrupts. “Gus, you shouldn’t eavesdrop.”

  “Ma, she lives three feet from me on the bus. It’s hard not to. Anyway, can I have her call or email you?”

  “Sure. It wouldn’t hurt to talk to her.”

  “Thanks. And do me a favor and don’t tell her we know each other.”

  “Why not?”

  “She hates me.” It’s as simple as that.

  “I’m sure she doesn’t hate you.” Moms never believe stuff like this. That someone could dislike their child.

  “Pretty sure she does,” I confirm.

  “How are you going to convince her to call me then, if this girl doesn’t like you?”

  “I’ll have Franco talk to her.”

  “Okay.” She sounds hesitant.

  “Thanks Ma. I’ll let you get back to lunch with Mikayla. Tell her I said ‘hey’ and give her a hug for me.”

  “Will do, sweetie. Good luck tonight.” She says it before every show. Always has.

  I answer the same way I always do. “Don’t need luck; I’ve got Franco, Jamie, and Robbie.”

  “Love you.”

  “Love you too, Ma.”

  “Bye, honey.”

  “Bye.”

  When Franco returns from dinner, I rundown the situation and ask him to talk to Impatient in the morning. At first I don’t think he’s hearing anything I’m saying because he’s just looking at me like I’ve finally lost it, but by the time I’ve finished, he’s climbed onboard with the idea. If I know Franco, he'll treat this like a game. It’s not that Franco’s into deception, but he’s definitely into a challenge. I think he wants to see how far this whole thing could go. And he’s a good guy so he knows that if he wins, so does she.

  Game on.

  Saturday, May 27

  (Gus)

  It’s early. The bus is eating up miles across upstate New York. I’ve been up for a while but I haven’t heard anyone else stir yet, so I’ve been sitting in my bunk reading a book I downloaded on my laptop. I don’t read very often for fun. My mind wanders too easily and I have trouble concentrating. It’s hard work, if you want to know the truth. Bright Side used to read all the time. She’d read anything: books, newspapers, magazines. It’s one of the reasons she was so damn smart.

  As my mind’s drifting to Bright Side, I hear a curtain pull back, and the shuffling feet of someone moving out into the aisle towards the bathroom. Every sound made by the movement is muffled and quiet, deliberately so. Although my curtain is pulled shut, I know it’s Impatient. She moves around this bus like a ghost. For all her quiet attitude, unless you’re interacting with her one-on-one, she disappears into the background, like she doesn’t want to be noticed. Like she wants us all to pretend she’s not here.

  I hear Franco moving around now. His bunk is under mine, directly across from Impatient’s. The swoosh of his curtain opening is accompanied by the creaky hinge on the bathroom door opening and shutting, which is followed by the sounds of a sleepy collision in the aisle.

  “Shit. Sorry Scout. I didn’t see you there. You okay?”

  Her voice sounds gravelly like it does every morning for the first hour or so that she’s awake. “I’m okay. And you didn’t see me because your eyes are closed, Franco.” I can almost hear a smile in her voice. Franco tends to bring that out in people. It’s one of his gifts.

  He laughs. “I try not to open them before ten in the morning. I’ve mastered getting out of my bunk, using the bathroom, and getting back into bed without opening my eyes. I just pretend I’m still sleeping.”

  “Please don’t tell me that. We share the same bathroom.” She’s not smiling anymore, but it’s not rude.

  “I gotta take a leak, but I need to talk to you before you stow away in your bunk again. I promise I’ll use the pisser with my eyes open this time.”

  “Okay.”

  After Franco finishes in the bathroom, I can hear him give a q
uick sell on the job prospect. I’ve still got my curtain shut, but I hear him hand her the slip of paper—the one with Ma’s cell phone number and email address written on it. I didn't put her last name down because Hawthorne might set off an alarm.

  She sounds stoked, and for the first time in a long time my heart feels lighter. Like I’ve somehow redeemed myself a tiny bit and maybe I can shed the asshole persona I’ve been hiding behind, or under, or inside of, for months now.

  Saturday, June 3

  (Scout)

  I’m officially a degree-holding college graduate. Well, I’m not physically holding it, because I wasn’t at the ceremony today. That’s okay. I’m still proud either way. I’ve been smiling inside all day. Paxton and Jane both called to congratulate me. Their praise was like a physical hug I could feel through the phone. I usually don’t need that sort of thing, but today I can’t deny that it felt so good. They were here with me in spirit. For me. My celebration is complete.

  Monday, June 5

  (Gus)

  This afternoon, I called Ma from a small coffee shop down the street, a block or so from the venue we play tonight. I wanted to phish for information about Impatient, without anyone on the bus overhearing. Ma was oddly tightlipped about the whole thing, which isn’t like her at all. Usually she's open about everything with me. I don’t know if it’s because she feels like there’s bad blood between Impatient and me and she’s just being the overprotective mama bear, or if she’s trying to keep this somewhat confidential because Scout and I have an existing working relationship and she doesn’t want to jeopardize herself as a potential employer. All I could pry out of her was that Impatient called her this morning and emailed her resume.