Gus (8 page)

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.

Sunday, April 23

(Scout)

I may not have many friends, but I try to give everyone a chance. I try to give them the benefit of the doubt. Probably because people have never really done the same for me. But lately, these past few months, my patience is shot. I make split second judgments on people and rarely go back on them. And they're usually negative. I've been around Gustov Hawthorne for a little over forty-eight hours now. He's an ass. My first impression was dead-on. I walked in on him trying to hit up the stylist. The fake, easy-going charm oozing out of him like some kind of toxic playmaking trap set for his next conquest. Men are pigs. Gustov may be one of their leaders. Not to mention that sobriety doesn't seem to be on his agenda for the next two months. He's going to live up to the "rock star" title if it kills him. And it just might. What a waste.

I'm here for the money. That's it. I've got a job to do. And I'm going to do it if it kills me, because I can't go back home. I can't. Okay to be fair, I'm here for two reasons: money
and
escape. Maybe leaning more toward escape, the opportune but temporary variety. I'm finishing up my two final online classes to graduate and get my degree next month. A degree and the money I make will hopefully allow me some permanent escape when this job is done. I know I'm running away from my problems. I know that.
And I hate that
. But being home reminds me of him. It makes me feel ugly inside. It makes me feel used. It makes me feel like a failure. And I hate failing at anything.
 

So, when I was offered this job very last minute, I jumped on it, even though it's not ideal. It boils down to the lesser of two evils. And this evil provides an exit from the other evil.
 

And so far, Gustov is fairly low maintenance—at least for me. I don't need his input for the majority of my daily tasks, and when we do need to communicate, I use a passive approach. Direct doesn't seem to work with him. I'm great at passive, and I prefer it; it's how I've lived most of my life. People respond better to me when I'm passive. And anyway, I don't think Gustov likes me either. That's fine. It's better this way. He's just a job. I'm here as a buffer between him and management because they don't want to deal with him. Honestly, I can't blame them. I want this job to be over with, but I've got this. That's my pep talk ...
I've got this.

Nine fucking weeks.

God.

Fucking.

Help.

Me.

Wednesday, April 26

(Gus)

Scout is
a big fan of sticky notes.
 

And she's kind of a smartass.

I just came back to the bus to grab my phone, because I forgot it. It's sitting on my bunk with a sticky note stuck to it that reads:
You forgot your phone. Again. It was dead. It's charged now. You're welcome.

I can't decide if I love it or hate it.
 

Pretty sure I hate it, which is why I've resorted to equal opportunity sticky note torture. Two can play at this game.

I turn the note over and write on the back:
I didn't forget it. It's a cranky bastard when it doesn't get time to snuggle in my bunk. It was napping, not dead.
I drop the note on her bunk before I leave.

Thursday, April 27

(Scout)

It's been one week.
 

I've discovered that Gustov drinks a lot.
 

He drinks all day long.
 

I thought it was all part of the rock star act, but I get the feeling now it's how he gets through the day, like he needs an aid to deal with reality. At first, I didn't like him. Now that's coupled with feeling a little sorry for him. For the most part, I try to avoid him. When I can't, I tolerate him. Although, I have to admit his sticky note replies are pretty witty. He's kind of a smartass, which is fine because smartass is my second language.
 

The rest of the guys, Franco, Jamie, and Robbie seem okay. I don't talk to anyone much. This isn't anything new. I've always been a loner. I try to keep to myself, but they're all polite. And sober most of the time, which is a bonus for intelligent conversation. I haven't watched any of their performances. I don't plan on it either. I sit on the bus reading while they're playing and when the chaos settles post-show, I go back in and play damage control if it's needed. It's usually not needed. The only thing I seem to run across is Gustov being pawed at by some overly enthusiastic groupie. He disappears into dark rooms with them every night.

Eight more weeks to go.

I've got this.

Friday, April 28

(Scout)

Now we're in Kansas City, Missouri. I've never been to the Midwest. It feels comforting and stable in a way I can't explain, like the people here have life figured out. No one's in a rush and that's nice. I wish I could live that way. My brain never turns off. Maybe that's what happens when you grow up in New York, in a city that never shuts down and reboots. Sometimes I wish I could turn my mind off altogether, but I can't. That's just stupid and unrealistic. Life is a fight. And I'm a fighter. And I'm good at fighting. I'm good at protecting myself when I have to.

I'm standing outside the bus when my cell phone rings.

"Hi, Jane," I answer with relief. It's been a few days since we talked last and I've been worried. I need to know she's okay.

"Hi, Scout." She sounds happy. It makes me glad, because it's rare that I hear genuine happiness in her voice.

"So, how's it going today? Anything exciting on tap?" I ask. It's how we always start off our conversations. Even though I don't want to be home, I still want to know what's going on. And that Jane's okay. So we talk every few days. I don't miss home, but I miss the feeling of home. I miss security, or the illusion of security. I'm a creature of habit. I miss having a routine.

"Paxton's home this weekend. We're going out to lunch in an hour. I'm meeting him at Pasqual's Deli." Now she sounds nervous. Maybe even scared. Paxton is her son, and they have an extremely strained relationship. He's seventeen. He's my cousin, and he and I grew up together. Even though there's a six-year age difference between us, we're close. He's my best friend. He goes to a year-round boarding school in Boston and he hates it, everything about it: the school, the spoiled kids he's surrounded by, the isolation. I don't blame him. It stifles him. It's changed him and stunted him socially and that breaks my heart. Basically, the school is an alternative parenting strategy. The school parents the kids so the parents don't have to be, you know, parents. Because, honestly, Jane can't parent at this point. And Paxton doesn't want her to. I hate being in the middle of them. I try to play peacemaker. I usually fail horribly.
 

Holding the phone to my ear, I don't know what to say. I don't want to offer false hope and I know Paxton; I don't think he'll show for lunch, but I can't bring myself to say it, so I say, "Tell him I said hi. And to call me." I usually hear from him every day, but I don't want her to know that.

She sighs, and I can hear the doubt through the phone, I can practically feel it. She doesn't want to be doubtful. She wants to be optimistic. She dreams of optimism, like little girls dream of princesses and happily-ever-afters. But at heart, she's a reluctant fatalist. Disease drives her fate. It's the reason Paxton refuses to be around her. "I will," she says, finally. She's trying, and failing, to smile. I can hear it in the fluctuations in her voice.

In an attempt to cheer her up, I add, "Oh, and stop at Sweet Treats on the way home from Pasqual's and eat a slice of carrot cake cheesecake for me." Jane loves carrot cake cheesecake, and it always cheers her up. Me too. At least once a month we'd take a trip to Sweet Treats and drown any bad feelings in cheesecake. It's the cure for just about anything, at least for a little while.

Her voice brightens. "I will. I haven't gone since you've been away, you know. I think it's time."

I offer reassurance in a nod she can't see. "It's definitely time."
 

She changes the subject. "How's everything going with you?"

I shrug. "Same. Eight more weeks. I've got this." I do. I have to.

"You can do anything Scout. Anything you put your mind to." She's always encouraged me ... and only me. Almost like she's living vicariously, making up for all of the bad choices and the things she hates about herself. It makes me feel sorry for her. I've always felt that she's one of those people who never realized they have potential, or the power to create potential. Life merely happens
to her
, but she doesn't live it. She doesn't participate.

"Thanks, Jane. Well, you better go get ready for your lunch date." I don't want to say what comes next, because if he's a no-show she'll be crushed. "Text or call me later and let me know how Paxton is doing."

"Okay." There's already doubt and disappointment in her voice. I wish I could take it away for both of them.

A text comes in from Jane four hours later.
Paxton didn't show up.

My heart sinks and I don't want to text back. I don't want to acknowledge the hurt she's feeling because then it's real. But I do text back with the only thing I can come up with that's genuine.
I'm sorry.

She doesn't reply. What's she going to say anyway?

Saturday, April 29

(Scout)

I didn't hear from Paxton yesterday. I know he's hanging out with his friends since he's home for a long weekend. He doesn't get to go home often, so I know he's busy, but I have to text him to check in on him.
NYC this weekend?

The response is almost immediate.
I go back to prison tomorrow night.
 

Having fun?
God, I hope he is.

Hanging out with Cisco today.
That's a yes. Cisco is his one of his closest friends. They've known each other since they were five.

Good. Let me know when you get back to school tomorrow night.
I like to know where he is and that he's okay.

Sure thing.

Thursday, May 4

(Scout)

I hate to give Gustov credit for anything, but if there's one thing endearing about him it's how much he loves his mom. He talks to her on the phone every day. I never realized until yesterday that that's who he calls every afternoon.
 

Every.
 

Afternoon.
 

I can't help eavesdropping now. What rock star calls their mom every day? It makes him more human.

Don't get me wrong, I still don't like him. He's just more like a real person, that's all.

Five more weeks and I'm done with this.

Five.

More.

Weeks.

Friday, May 5

(Gus)

When I arrive back on the bus after soundcheck, there's a stack of clean, folded laundry on my bunk. My sheets. And my clothes. All of them. Clean. Like, so clean I just want to bury my face in them and inhale for the next few hours because they smell like fucking sunshine. I haven't washed my clothes since we've been on this tour. And I only have a few outfits. They were ripe.