by P. J. Post
“Then I guess I’m two years too fucking late, huh?”
She shakes her head and hugs me.
“Let’s go,” I say and brush past her and walk back out to the loading area.
§§§§§
“Great, really, like wow,” Shauna says as she and Carla join us backstage. It’s obvious that Shauna is still pissed and upset with me, but she’s putting up a good front. She’s not a bad person, just a little immature and self-involved. I just laugh at myself, because I’m not one to talk. But she’ll find the right guy, someone she deserves and she’ll be happy.
I smile at her and her resolve breaks just enough to smile back, not one of those plastic looks, but with her eyes. I owe her more than she’ll ever know, but it was a tough lesson for both of us.
Tonya is pacing around and looks unsure of where to go or what to do.
I push my speaker cabinet over near her. “You were pretty incredible. I’d love to hear what you could do if you gave a shit.” I don’t even wait for a response, I’m too pissed. And then I walk back to the other gear.
The rest of our friends from over the last year show up and congratulate us on the show. Even Carla reluctantly concedes that I was extraordinarily intense tonight. It must have nearly killed her to admit it.
I’m stoked, but differently from why our friends probably think. This was the first step in letting go for me, the first step in accepting that Tonya isn’t going to be in my life anymore. I don’t feel like dealing with anyone right now, especially when Trevor shows up. Tonya doesn’t exactly run to him, but she loiters awful close.
I just keep busy, stacking our equipment and getting it ready for load out. Unlike The Underground, we don’t need to wait for the last band to get the fuck out of here, but I haven’t decided what I want to do yet. Having a smoke and a beer and finding some space to decompress sounds like a good start.
I nod to Todd and start for the bar when Trevor blocks my path. “Amazing, as always. You’re even better than before.”
“I’ve been practicing, thanks.”
“Where you off to?” he asks.
“I need a beer. I’ll see you later,” I say and step around him and down the steps to the dance floor. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m just not in the mood.
Fans confront me immediately, patting me on the back and trying to talk, each saying how great we were, how awesome I was, and what music they play, and asking what kind of gear they should use and, and, and…
And I try to answer each and every one of them. I spend the time with them, because Shelly taught me that they aren’t just a bunch of kids getting drunk, they’re invested in our music, in us — in me. So I need to be invested in them. It’s a relationship too.
They walk me to the bar and I even give out a few autographs. Under different circumstances, I’d be more excited. They keep asking when our next show is, but I’m fairly confident that the truth of the matter is that this was our last show.
And that fucking sucks. Even if Tonya wants nothing to do with me, the band should have been more important.
I still can’t believe she meant what she said.
How can anyone be so talented and powerful on stage if it isn’t something they live for? She was so damn passionate tonight.
It just doesn’t make any sense, but then that last few days haven’t made much sense either.
“Give me a cup,” Todd says to the bartender as he leans against the bar. He hands him a cup and then Todd pours a beer from my pitcher. “Dude, just wow, huh?”
“Yeah. Wow,” I say flatly.
“We did it tonight. Best fucking show — fucking ever.”
I turn to him. He’s grinning and pleased as punch, and he should be, but I’m just not feeling it.
“Trevor’s invited everyone over to his place for an after-party,” Todd says.
“What about the gear?”
“We’ll load up and just park at his house. It’ll be fine.”
“Who’s going to help unload it later?” I ask.
He looks at me blankly.
“That’s what I thought. Let me guess, you’re catching a ride with Peggy and Tonya is going with Trevor, so you’d like me to drive the van, is that about right?”
“Do you mind?”
“Unloading everything?” I ask.
“Well, not everything, I mean…”
“Yeah. Get me his address and phone number, I need it anyway. I need to call him about something else next week. I’ll unload everything back at the Garage and meet you guys later.”
“You sure you don’t mind?” he asks timidly.
I slide my hands around the back of his neck and pull him close enough to touch foreheads. “You’re into Peggy, right?”
“Yeah, I am,” he says as his eyes light up. He’ so, so, fucking hopeful.
“Then I’ll do it. You said I was due a couple of weeks ago, but I think you were wrong, it was you that was due. Enjoy it, make her happy. I got this trivial shit.”
He smiles as I pull my hands down and lean back.
“I’ll get you the address,” he says.
He refills his beer and heads back to the stage as the manager stops in front of me.
He’s wearing dark blue jeans, cowboy boots, a checkered shirt and a leather vest. He’s got a full beard and looks like Cowboy Bob from the Café’s placemat. He so doesn’t fit with what’s happening tonight.
He’s about sixty years old, doesn’t have a goddamn clue about the music and his name is Buck.
But I like him. He’s honest.
“Great show, Connor, really great. You pack the house and sell a lot of beer,” he says, smiling as he reaches out and shakes my hand.
“That’s our job,” I say unenthusiastically.
“I want you to know, you have an open invitation, just let me know when you want to play and I’ll try to fit you in.”
“Thanks, that means a lot, but money would mean more,” I say, rubbing my fingers together. I’m not sure about Trevor’s party yet, but all of a sudden I want to get the fuck out of here.
He laughs. “You don’t fuck around. I like that. I like you, son. And I hate everyone, so consider that a goddamn compliment,” he says, pointing a friendly finger in my face. He pulls out a fat money clip from his far too tight jeans and peels four one hundred dollar bills off.
I raise an eyebrow.
He hands them to me.
“The deal was three,” I say.
“Consider it a tip. Like I said, I like you, son,” he says and pats me on the shoulder. “See you around partner.”
Great. We were almost there.
Almost.
9
After-Party
I rope Greg into helping me load the van after everyone takes off for the party. He’s grumpy about it, but he has to pay his dues — shit, I’m doing it. He says he’ll meet us at the party and then I leave for the Garage.
Todd gave me Trevor’s address and phone number, written on the back of his business card — Vidsoft, whatever the hell that is. I know where he lives though; it’s not far from the Garage. I toss the card in the van’s junk tray and make a note not to forget where I put it so I can call him next week about Nancy. No matter how fucked things seem to be, I have to make time for shit like that. It’s the simplest of gestures that can mean so much and change lives.
I read somewhere once that the measure of a man is how he treats people that he can’t benefit from. Doing good shit for others is the one thing no one can ever take away from me or them. It’s permanent.
I take my time unloading the van back at the Garage. I’m in no hurry to get to the party. I don’t want to go at all, but there’s going to be a lot of people from the scene there and some of our fans. I need to at least make an appearance so I don’t look like a dick, but seeing Tonya with Trevor, seeing her at all is about as depressing as anything I can think of.
It should be a blast and maybe to everyone else it will be. But for me, it�
�s not a celebration, it’s a fucking wake, a farewell and no one even knows it.
I finally lug the last of the large speaker cabinets out of the van and get them inside. I can’t believe how often I thought the band was ending, and the Garage was going to be nothing more than a memory over the last few weeks and now, finally, it really is.
I grab a clean shirt from the garbage bag I keep them in and lock up.
I light a cigarette and jump back into the van.
I get to Trevor’s close to two in the morning. I assumed the party will be winding down, but I find the street lined with cars. I park at the end of his driveway, blocking in the cars up front and hear music coming from inside — it’s U2, from their Red Rock concert. It’s not loud enough to get the police involved, but loud enough for me to know the party is still in full swing.
I stop on the front porch and take a deep breath and try to relax. I laugh as I realize someone has puked off to one side, near the flower planters.
I guess it’s not a party until someone tosses their cookies.
I’m right, the party is cranking when I walk in. The place is packed.
Trevor has a townhouse on the east side of town. The kitchen is at the far end of the room behind a breakfast bar. The living room is right inside the door and has a vaulted ceiling two-stories high with a loft bedroom overlooking it. The place is decorated in suburban mall chic.
I see overturned beer cans, cigarette burns on the end table near the door, and butts ground into the carpet. Empty beer and liquor bottles are scattered everywhere and the ubiquitous pot heads are lounging on the couches near the front window passing a joint around. Trevor probably won’t make the mistake of having an after-party again.
I almost feel bad for him.
I scan the faces and take note of who’s here and who isn’t, finally spotting Todd and Peggy in the kitchen, playing quarters with Shauna, Carla and a bunch of people I don’t know.
I don’t see Tonya or Trevor and that’s just as well.
I wade through the crowd and lean over the breakfast bar and grab Todd’s shirt sleeve.
“Hey, get me a beer,” I say.
He grins and turns to the refrigerator.
Peggy flashes a smile, but her eyes are soft and full of concern.
Carla isn’t glaring at me, which is unnerving. She has concern in her eyes as well.
So we’re all still playing the secrets game. Fine.
I’m over all of it.
I turn back to the crowd just in time to see Tonya and Trevor coming down the stairs from the bedroom with a group of other partiers. She stops on the stairs and scans the room and when our eyes meet, she turns and takes Trevor’s hand, guiding him the rest of the way down the stairs and into the living room.
And there’s the fucking jealousy again, demanding I do something, say something to let everyone know that she’s mine. But she’s not. It’s such a useless emotion.
Okay, I’m not fucking over it — not yet. I may be failing miserably, but I’m working on it. I had more focus at the Palomino, but my resolve is wavering. It wavers every time I see her again.
She glances back briefly, but she looks so sad that my facade crumbles and I want to go to her. I take a step, but then steel myself — whatever her issues are, she was pretty clear that I’m not part of her life anymore, so I guess I don’t need to apply for the Good Samaritan job.
“Looks like you screwed up,” Shauna says with just a little too much enthusiasm as she leans over the counter.
I look at her and smile. “I told you she wasn’t in to me.”
“It’s obvious you’re into her though.”
“Well, some shit…”
“Just is,” we say together.
She makes her way out of the kitchen and over to me. “I’m almost over you, but I could probably be talked into giving you another chance,” she says with a sly smile.
And there it is — the easy way out.
I give her a one-armed, friendly hug and she leans into me. She smells wonderful, feels so soft and warm, and she’d take me back in a second. No worries and no responsibilities to be concerned with — just getting our kicks.
“Thanks, but it wouldn’t be fair to you,” I say.
“Maybe, but I bet we’d have fun,” she says looking up at me.
“I think single works better for me. Relationships are too much responsibility.” I pull away and lean against the counter.
“No, I think you carry the responsibility of the world around with you all the time, and no one appreciates you for it.”
“Well, I get enough.”
“No, I don’t think you do,” she says and slides her arm back around my waist.
“She’s happy, that’s what matters,” I say.
“Is she? I mean, are you sure about that?” Shauna asks, looking across the room at Tonya.
“She’s smiling,” I say and take a drink of my beer.
“People can hide a lot of pain behind a smile. I’m not so sure. She looks really sad.”
So it’s not just me that’s sees it. But what does that mean and more importantly, how do I fix it?
I can’t.
It’s none of my business, that’s what she said. I’m just a play-toy that she can put back in the box when she‘s done.
That sickening feeling is erupting in my stomach again and the jealousy is suddenly pounding in my temples. I’m preoccupied with crushing Trevor’s Hollywood handsome face. Why can’t I stop feeling this way? I don’t want to be that guy — that asshole that everyone hates. And every time these thoughts flood my head, it’s my heart that feels ashamed — betrayed.
I keep noticing Tonya glancing over at me and every time she does, she moves closer to Trevor.
Fuck this.
I finish off my beer and realize I need to leave. I will never act on these feelings because I know how fucked up they are, but I can’t stop feeling them. Seeing Tonya with him like this, laughing and smiling and every time she glances at me — she’s just rubbing it in, reminding me of what I’m never going to have — the opportunity to make her happy.
“Have fun, Shauna. I need to run. See you later,” I say and set the beer can down on the counter.
She grabs my hand and pulls me close again. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Really, I am.”
“Yeah, me too. Thanks.”
I work my way back through the crowd and almost make it to the door before Trevor sees me.
“I was afraid you weren’t coming,” he says. “I’m really glad you came by.”
And he really means it. He doesn’t know anything about how I feel about Tonya, and why should he? Shit, I never told Tonya how I feel, not really. I only have Peggy’s word for it that she knows I love her. Maybe Peggy is wrong and I’m just reading in shit that isn’t here. Maybe she’s not rubbing my nose in anything. Maybe it’s like she said — I just really don’t matter that much.
But I still need to get the fuck out of here, because no matter how hard I try to change how I feel — I still love her.
“Hey, thanks. I wanted to stop by, but I’m really tired. I’m going to cut out, man,” I lie.
“No, you have to stay a little longer,” he encourages.
“If he’s tired, he should go,” Tonya says flatly as she takes a drink of her beer and looks back towards the kitchen, nonchalant.
Fuck, this shit isn’t getting any easier to hear from her.
“Later, but thanks,” I say casually.
“Thanks for coming,” he says and shakes my hand.
“I’ll call you about next week.”
He nods and releases my hand.
The night air is cool and refreshing. I shuffle down to the street and as I step into the neighbor’s lawn to walk around the front of the van, I see a shadow out of the corner of my eye.
The punch to my cheek buckles my knees and I brace myself against the van. I quickly regain my footing and step up onto the van’s bumper, jumping onto the hood and a
cross the windshield. I slide off by the passenger door, grabbing the big side mirror for support and drop back to the pavement.
The shadow isn’t fast enough to follow me around the van and now I’m ready for this cowardly fuck.
Sucker punch me?
I don’t fucking think so.
As I move around the front of the van, my attacker is backing up in the neighbor’s yard. Neither of us is saying anything. Our breathing mixes with the sound of sprinklers from down the street.
All of the frustration, depression and rage bubbles up again. All of the jealousy and the shame, and the deep desire to destroy something beautiful surges into my fists — and now I have an outlet, a target.
You done fucked up, boy.
I skip to the right and he jumps left in response, trying to maintain his position, but I was only testing how skittish he is. I run straight at him and block his clumsy roundhouse punch with my left forearm. His punch radiates pain up and down my arm, like hitting my funny bone. It hurts, but I don’t slow down and get all of my power and motion behind my first punch, which lands squarely on the side of his jaw. I feel his cheek against my knuckles, the flesh shifting across the hardness of his teeth.
I drive straight through and feel his chin twist.
He buckles and starts to lose his balance, falling with the punch and I hit him again with my left in the eye as he falls to the grass. His head bounces off the ground, and with his arms and legs splayed out like they are, he looks unconscious. All of his fight has disappeared too.
I have no idea who this asshole is, maybe he’s a foolhardy mugger or just some douche from the party who has a grudge against me. I’m tempted to keep beating on him, but he turns his face enough to catch the light. His mouth is bleeding, but he’s not out cold after all.
It’s Larry from Scrotum.
“What the hell, dude?” I ask with exasperation.
He slowly scrambles back to his feet. “You can’t steal my drummer, asshole.”
“No one stole your drummer, he can do what he wants.”
“You screw up everything. You think you’re such hot shit, but you’re nothing, Connor.”