Gus

by Kim Holden

  She always declines. She's always been staunchly independent. “I’ll drive.”

  I’m relieved, because I plan on drinking my share tonight. I’m not going to get sloppy, but I’m going to sedate.

  I look to Impatient. “You wanna ride shotgun?”

  She shakes her head without meeting my eyes. Fine. I’m just trying to be nice. Whatever.

  Ma smiles at me as I’m fastening my seatbelt and asks, “What was your number?”

  I smile back because this woman knows me. She knows I was thinking it, so I answer, “Nine.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “Not five? First guess is always five. Nine is risky.”

  I agree. “Nine is risky. What can I say, I’m a rebel.”

  She laughs, and it warms my heart. “The number was eight. Your rebellious streak is rewarded tonight.”

  Bright Side and I used to fight over shotgun. Every time. It was a rivalry held over from our childhood. To settle it Ma used to think of a number between one and ten and whoever was closest got to ride up front in the passenger seat. I suspect Ma kept track in her mind and alternated evenly between rewarding each of us with a win.

  Ma’s eyes are on the road as she speaks, because she’s always been a cautious driver. “The flowers are lovely. Lilies. Mikayla’s favorite.”

  They are Mikayla’s favorite. I always give her lilies for her birthday, because Mikayla’s like family, my favorite pseudo-auntie. I hold up the bouquet wrapped in cellophane resting in my lap. “Only the best for Mikayla.”

  A smile breaks out on Ma’s cheek. “She’ll love them.”

  Ma reserved a private room at Mikayla’s favorite seafood restaurant, Delgado’s, for the retirement party. The room is expansive, with high ceilings and white linen tablecloths. There are twenty employees from the office and they all came, most with spouses or dates. It’s a good turnout and I’m glad. Mikayla deserves a proper sendoff.

  Mikayla predictably goes overboard when she sees me. “Oh my gosh, who’s this handsome stranger?” She reaches up and pats my hair. It's grown out to hit my mid-back, but it’s still shorter than my waist long she saw last. She pulls me in for a hug.

  I laugh off the compliment, set the flowers down on the table behind me, and wrap the little woman up in a hug and lift her off the ground. “How’s my favorite Mikayla?” I ask.

  She giggles like she does every time I do this. It’s one of my favorite things about Mikayla, she’s sixty-five years old, but she giggles like a child. Her laughter is pure and free of the cynicism that plagues most adult’s laughter. It’s also a curious juxtaposition to her serious nature. She’s so smart and driven career-wise, that’s something that always made Ma and her click so well. They’re cut from the same cloth. But when Mikayla laughs, she lets all of that go. I’ve always loved that.

  When I set her down and reach behind me for the bouquet, she gushes over the flowers. “Oh Gus, they’re just beautiful. Thank you, sweetie.”

  I nod and wink. “Anytime, Kay.”

  After we catch up for a few minutes I excuse myself to the bar to order a Jack on the rocks. Everyone else wants their time with Mikayla too, so I make myself scarce for the moment.

  When I return to the dining room everyone is taking their seats for dinner. I slip into an empty chair at the end of the table next to Ted, the mailroom dude—my replacement when I left to go on tour last fall with Rook. He’s a quiet guy, but super mellow, I think it’s all the weed he smokes.

  Dinner is excellent. Ma went all out. It’s special-occasion fancy, with whole steamed lobster for the shellfish fiends and some kind of pasta dish that I call heavenly-mind-blowing-noodle-fucking-fantasy for me. And wine. Lots of wine.

  Dinner segues into dessert, which segues into more wine, which segues into ... you guessed it … more wine. Even though my cough still clutches at my throat, and is persistent as hell, I’m enjoying myself. A bottle or two of red will do that.

  After a quick stop in the restroom to empty the bladder, I step outside for a cigarette. Ted’s already outside smoking, too. He finishes up before I do and announces, “I gotta take a piss, bro,” and walks away. I turn and take a final drag before tossing what’s left out into the street. When I turn back I walk right into Impatient.

  “Whoa, hey,” I say. Then, “Sorry,” because I knocked her off balance. Her high-heeled shoes don't help matters.

  She nods quickly as she rights herself. “Audrey’s looking for you. They’re cutting the cake for Mikayla.”

  I rub my belly, because there’s always room for cake. “Sweet.” I could do with some cake. And besides that, I’m pleasantly buzzed.

  A loud train whistle emits from my pocket. It’s Franco’s text alert. I slip out my cell and take a look as we walk back into the restaurant. The message reads, Been here 5 minutes and already got laid! Attached is a photo of Franco, Jamie, and Robbie standing at the entrance of a hotel wearing colorful leis around their necks. Looks like they made it to Hawaii.

  I laugh and text back, Enjoy it loser. It’s the only action your sorry ass will get all week.

  After I hit send, I look up at Impatient who’s looking at me questioningly. She doesn’t want to be, but I can tell that she’s curious.

  I shrug, still smiling from Franco’s text. “What?”

  She shakes her head like she’s going to blow me off, but then asks, “Franco?”

  I nod. “How’d you know?”

  “You’re smiling. He’s the only person that can get you to smile like that.” She walks away, back into the restaurant, before I can question her. So I ponder it a second. She’s right. That shithead is my link to any shred of happiness lately.

  Saturday, July 1

  (Gus)

  I have that nagging voice in my head still, pleading with me to call Keller again. It’s persistent, but has really amped up in both enthusiasm and bossiness this week. And this morning it’s managed to bully every other thought out of my head.

  It’s early morning, so I grab my cigarettes, lighter, and phone, and head out to the deck. After I smoke a cigarette, I bring up his number on my cell. I was going to text, but my fingers are shaking so damn bad that I can’t type, so I opt for a call instead. I’m dreading hearing his voice, because it’s going to open up the Bright Side wound. Keller was her boyfriend. He sat there holding one of her hands, me holding the other, when she died. When cancer stole her from us. He’s a good guy, but I can’t separate him from Bright Side in my mind. I can’t think about him independently. The damn guy loved her fiercely. Which is why I need to call him. He’s the only person who can relate to my grief, my pain. On the other end, the phone rings. And rings. No answer. I almost hang up, but then I realize that my stomach is in knots and I don’t want to go through this again later, so when I hear the prompt to leave a voicemail, I start talking. “Keller. Dude, it’s Gus. Long time no talk.” I pause and nausea roils inside. “Yeah … so … I was just calling to see how you and Miss Stella are doing? Give me a call sometime, so I know … that everything’s okay in Minnesota. You know … that you guys are okay. Okay. Later.”

  I press the red circle on the touchscreen to end the call. I want to throw my phone over the deck railing, as far as I can, but I squeeze it in my palm instead, and then slam it face down on the wooden tabletop.

  And then I light another cigarette. That phone call was a bad idea. My heart can’t handle it.

  When I finish up my smoke, I decide that breakfast is in order.

  Impatient is in the kitchen. She’s dressed in running shorts and a loose, long-sleeved T-shirt. Her face is flushed and I can see beads of sweat on her forehead. She’s drinking a glass of water. I find myself wondering how scarred her arms are because I’ve never seen her in anything other than long-sleeves. And it’s fucking hot outside.

  “Hey,” I say. It’s our standard greeting, if we decide not to substitute it for a non-verbal nod. It works. It’s what we do. It's how we tolerate each other, I guess.

  �
�Hey,” she answers, equally disinterested.

  I pull the carton of eggs out of the fridge, along with butter and milk. “How many miles?” I ask.

  “Huh?” She turns toward me, looking surprised.

  I point at her running shoes. “How many miles did you run this morning?”

  She looks down at her feet like she needs a visual aid to process the question. “Oh. Eight.”

  I’m surprised. “You ran eight fucking miles this morning?” I’ve been running a little lately, but a couple of miles is a monumental task for me. And that’s if I walk half of it.

  “I’m registered for a marathon in a couple of weeks.”

  I begin to crack five eggs into a bowl, then pour in some milk. “Ever ran a marathon before?”

  She shakes her head. “Nope. First time.”

  As I put the skillet on the stove I ask, “Want some eggs?”

  She starts to shake her head. I wouldn’t expect her to say yes, since she never accepts anything I offer her, but then she stops. “Do you have enough for both of us?”

  I open the carton back up to show her the four remaining eggs.

  “Sure. I guess. I haven’t eaten anything since last night.”

  I cook our eggs. She continues to drink her water. We're eating in silence when my cell rings from inside my pocket. I slip it out and the first thing I notice, because I can’t fucking help it, is the shattered screen. Must have happened when I slammed it down on the table. “Shit,” I mutter. Then I notice the name of the person calling, and I freeze up. “Shit,” I mutter again.

  Impatient looks at me quizzically.

  I want her to ask me if I’m okay. Just fucking ask me, because I need to tell someone I’m not. I’m not okay, not even close. I hit “ignore” and set the phone down on the table. Keller’s name remains on my screen for a few more seconds before the call goes to voicemail and he disappears.

  Ask me who it was! I want to yell at her. Ask me why my heart can’t take that conversation right now. Ask me why I can’t get over her. Ask me why my best friend had to die. Or no, better yet, tell me why my best friend had to die. Tell me. Please. Explain it to me. I want to know. I need to know why I’m supposed to go through the rest of my life without being able to talk to her. Hug her. Hear her laugh. Watch the sunset with her. Watch her play her violin. Kiss her forehead. Tell her I love her. Hear her say it back. Why? Why?!

  Dragging my hands down my face, I try to rub away the hysteria that’s building inside me. I push the chair back from the table and leave my plate of eggs half-eaten.

  I go outside and I smoke a cigarette.

  It doesn’t help, but I do it anyway.

  Sunday, July 2

  (Gus)

  There’s a sticky note on my bedroom door when I open it.

  Your new phone is on the kitchen counter.

  I lost my phone several times while we were on tour and Impatient always managed to get it replaced for me. After the first time she helped, I put her name on my account so she could handle things without me even being involved.

  I guess she’s still handling things for me.

  I don’t know whether to be pissed or relieved.

  I decide on a little bit of both.

  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.

  Friday, July 14

  (Gus)

  I’ve been working this week in the mailroom at Ma’s advertising firm. Ted’s on vacation and Ma was going to hire a temp to cover, but I know this job inside and out—I did it for a couple of years. And it’s not rocket science. So I volunteered to help out. Little does Ma know she’s helping me out. I surf every morning, but I can’t sit in that house anymore during the day by myself or I might lose it. I’ve been sitting home alone for a couple of weeks now. Solitude doesn’t foster happiness, at least not for me. Not at this point in my life.

  It’s not that I really want to be around people either, but that I need to be busy. And I don’t need to think about this job. I can just do it.

  Which is better than my real job. Music. Too much thinking.

  Monday, July 17

  (Gus)

  Ted never came back from vacation. I told Ma I’d help her out as long as she needs me, until she finds someone else. I’m kinda hoping it takes a month or two.

  Friday, July 21

  (Gus)

  Ma hired someone for the mailroom. He starts on Monday.

  Which means I go back to my real life on Monday.

  I don’t want to go back to my real life on Monday.