There's Nowhere to Move On, Part One
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Spencer Smith had a routine that he stuck to, without fail, rain or shine. Every morning he woke up at 7:00am on the dot, jerked off in the shower, drank one cup of coffee, and left for work at exactly 7:45. He was at his desk and in front of his computer by 8:00. He had one more cup of coffee at 10:00, and then ate his lunch on the bench in front of his office building at noon sharp.
In the afternoon he drank three 8-ounce bottles of water. He managed twelve accounts with enough efficiency to get his bonus every year, which he only invested, never spent. He left work at 4:30, and with traffic, was home by 5:00.
His evenings consisted of watching the news for an hour, fixing dinner, and eating it with one glass of wine at his dining room table. After cleaning up, he watched TV for two hours, then went to bed and read one chapter of whatever book he was currently reading. His lights were always out by 10:00. Even on the rare occasions when he had dinner with his friends Ryan and Jon, he was still in bed by 10.00.
Spencer lived a life of moderation and routine, and he was happy. He was happy right up until the moment he walked into his bedroom and put a gun in his mouth, and didn’t hesitate to pull the trigger.
***
“Why did you try to kill yourself, Mr. Smith?”
“I don’t know. I think I was bored.”
Of the many things Spencer learned during his rather lengthy hospital stay, two stood out. One, that if you’re going to try and kill yourself, make sure to hold the gun steady so that you don’t just put a hole in your cheek instead of your brain, and two, they don’t just let you go home when you say you’re okay after you’ve tried to end your life.
Spencer decided to look at it as a learning experience.
”When people are bored, they usually turn on the TV or pick up a book. They don’t normally attempt suicide.”
“Well, I’ve always been unconventional. “
It turned out that the psych ward of the hospital wasn’t as terrible as he’d always assumed it would be. The nurses were nice, and though the orderlies were a bit scary, they didn’t bother you as long as you followed the rules and kept quiet. The food was the worst part about the stay, but even that was tolerable. He had three meals a day, and TV time. He had a routine. Spencer liked routines. Life was okay.
”Where did you get the gun, Spencer?”
“I don’t know, I just had it.”
“You just had a gun? You must have gotten it from somewhere.”
“I can’t remember.”
His assigned psychiatrist was named Gerard Way. He had kind eyes and unrelenting focus. Spencer met with him two hours every day for the first two weeks of his six week stay, and one hour every day after that. In their sessions Spencer focused on the framed picture on the bookshelf behind Dr. Way of a dark haired woman with a pretty smile. He figured they had a pretty good life. Dr. Way wore a shiny wedding band and he smiled when Spencer asked him about his wife. He never answered any questions about her, but his face softened when she was brought up.
”You don’t remember? It doesn’t seem like the acquiring of a gun is something someone would forget.”
“Well, maybe that bullet grazed my brain, after all.”
“Do you always use humor to deflect questions you don’t like?”
“Stop asking questions I don’t like and I’ll stop using humor to deflect them.”
Spencer spent an hour every day writing letters. He’d asked people not to call him while he was in the hospital, and they’d obeyed his wishes, but he felt guilty and isolated without any contact. He started writing the letters his first week, and he made it a part of his routine. He started with a letter to his mother, outlining his day, followed with a letter to his sisters, then finished with a letter to Ryan and Jon.
The letters didn’t vary much, because there was rarely anything new to talk about when you lived your life confined within the walls of an institution, but Spencer figured boring contact was better than no contact. The letters to Ryan and Jon were the most interesting. He’d tell them stories of the other patients in the ward: the guy who ate paper, the woman who had five imaginary children and insisted that the hospital serve them at dinner.
He received the same number of letters every day that he sent out, from the same people. His mother’s letters were always full of unrelenting fake cheer, his sisters’ letters were full of gossip about people Spencer had never met, and Ryan and Jon’s letters were snippets of their lives, with the occasional allusion to flowers or the moon. Spencer thought they were probably high a lot of the time when they wrote him.
”All right. What kind of questions would you like me to ask?”
“Here’s a better idea, why don’t I ask the questions for a change.”
“Would that make you feel more in control?”
“Obviously.”
“Control is a big issue with you, isn’t it, Spencer?”
“Isn’t it for everyone?”
Spencer made a friend the third week of his stay. His name was Pete and he seemed completely normal. Spencer asked him once what he was in for, and Pete replied, completely serious, “Oh, I’m totally nuts. Just give it time, you’ll see.”
Spencer didn’t really believe him until one day, close to the end of his hospital stay, when he walked into Pete’s room and found him talking to the wall. “Look, Patrick, you’re better suited for singing and you damn well know it. Stop trying to hide in the back on the drums. I’m the genius behind this operation, so just do what I say.”
And then he’d laughed, big and full. “Suck my dick, asshole.”
Spencer had backed out of the room as quietly as possible.
”Certainly everyone has some control issues, some minor, some major. I have a feeling yours are more major than minor.”
“I like things a certain way. That’s not a bad thing.”
“Not always, no. It’s when things start getting out of control that it can go bad. What happened that made you feel out of control, Spencer?”
“Why do you always say my name like that? Is it so you remember who you’re talking to?”
“No, it’s so you remember who you are at all times.”
“I don’t think there’s a chance of me forgetting.”
“No, probably not. But it’s a habit. Now, tell me what made you feel out of control.”
“Well, this session isn’t doing much to keep me feeling like I am.”
Spencer had spent three days in the trauma ward, with a bandage on his cheek and an IV in his arm, pumping morphine and sedatives through his body at steady intervals. When they’d come in to release him, there had been an orderly standing in the doorway to keep him from going anywhere. Spencer didn’t know what they’d thought he’d do, he was so drugged up on sedatives for those three days that even if he’d attempted to run he wouldn’t have made it far. Soft voices told him that he needed to stay for a while, but that he could leave whenever he wanted.
Spencer hadn’t tried to leave yet, but he had a feeling they’d been lying about that last part.
”Spencer, tell me where you got the gun.”
“The way you switch topics without warning or proper segue is disconcerting.”
“It’s supposed to be. Where did you get the gun?”
“I said I don’t remember.”
“You did, but you’re lying. Now tell me where you got the gun.”
“I bought it, okay? I bought it.”
“Why did you buy it?”
“I-I don’t know. Protection.”
The only thing Spencer really hated about his stay was art therapy. He was forced to spend an hour, three days a week in a room with ten other patients working out his emotions with Crayola watercolors and thick paper. Spencer usually worked on keeping his lines straight. He couldn’t draw for shit, and no amount of emotion put into it was going to help, so he spent the time drawing tic tac toe boards and making Pete play with him when the therapist wasn’t looking.
”Protection from what? You live in a good neighborhood, and you’ve never been attacked. Why would you suddenly think you needed protection?”
“People get attacked in nice neighborhoods all the time.”
“They do, but somehow I don’t think that was your motivation for buying a gun.”
“Well, we’ve all got to be wrong sometime, Doc.”
“How long had you been planning to kill yourself, Spencer?”
Spencer started reading One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest his third week. It wasn’t on the approved reading list for the mental ward, but Spencer’s favorite nurse, a guy named Tom, smuggled it in for him. After reading the first couple of chapters, Spencer realized that things could be a lot worse. At least his mental institution didn’t have Nurse Ratchet.
”I’ve already told you that I wasn’t planning on killing myself.”
“Yes, but you were lying. Tell me the truth, Spencer. Trust me on this, you’ll feel better when you do.”
“I don’t particularly feel bad now.”
“Stop lying. There’s no point to it, I can tell when you do. When did you decide to buy the gun?”
“A month ago.”
“Is that when you decided to kill yourself?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do. Tell me when.”
Two days before Spencer was to be released he got a call from Ryan. It was the first phone call he’d received since he’d been admitted into the mental ward. Jon’s father was sick, and he and Ryan had to go back to Chicago for a while. Ryan apologized over and over, sounding wrecked that he wouldn’t be there for Spencer’s release into the real world.
Spencer spent a few minutes assuring him that it was fine and then hung up. He walked to Pete’s room and sat next to him on his bed, listening to Pete talk to the wall and call it Patrick.
”Say it right now, Spencer. Just get it out. Just tell me when you decided to kill yourself, and you’ll never have to say the words again. Just this one time. Just say it.”
“Before I bought the gun. A week before.”
“Why?”
“Because nothing ever changes.”
“What doesn’t change?”
“My routine, my fucking routine. Every day I live the same way, everything I do is exactly the same, and I can’t change it, and suddenly all I fucking wanted was to make it all different and I couldn’t control it and it made my head all fuzzy and I just. Had to stop it.”
“Well, things are certainly different now.”
Spencer packed his things up the day before he left. It took him five minutes to pack up six weeks of his life. All he had were the clothes he’d been admitted in, his toothbrush, and a few books. When he finished he laid down on his hard bed and stared up at the ceiling, taking deep breaths. It was all a learning experience, he told himself. You’ve learned that killing yourself was no way to escape. It’s just another way to end up trapped.
”You’re leaving tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
“Are you scared?”
“Why would I be?”
“Most people are.”
“I’m not most people.”
“You really, really are. And that’s okay, Spencer. It’s natural to be afraid of going back.”
“Everything will be different.”
“No. Only you will be different. That’s not a bad thing.”
“I’ll be okay.”
“Maybe not right away, but yes, eventually, you will be."
***
The sun was too bright. Spencer didn’t remember it being so bright before he went in, but now it was blinding , making him squint on the stairs in front of the hospital. People milled around him carrying flowers for loved ones, and Spencer stood alone. There was a cab waiting for him, but no one familiar. He’d asked his family not to come, promising that he’d go straight to their house. He didn’t want them to see him there, not even when he was on his way out. Dr. Way had said that he needed to surround himself with people to keep from feeling too isolated, but Spencer figured the ride home didn’t count. He needed a little time to remember who he was without the walls of the hospital before people saw him.
He was starting to realize it was going to take longer than a few minutes outside to help him remember.
Taking a deep breath, he clenched his fingers around the small bag of belongings he had with him and walked the few steps to the curb, where the empty car in bright yellow was waiting. He opened the door and got in; the driver looked at him warily and Spencer wondered if he was on retainer with the hospital, always used to picking up crazy people and never knowing what they were planning on doing with their first taste of freedom.
He gave his parents’ address in a quiet voice, sitting back when the driver pulled away from the curb. The only sound in the car was the music from the radio, an instrumental version of an old Streisand song, Spencer thought. He couldn’t remember the lyrics.
The drive didn’t take long enough. Fifteen minutes wasn’t enough time to figure out what to say to his mother, to his sisters. To his father.
He didn’t have any money, and he asked the driver to wait while he got cash, but the driver just smiled tightly and said it was taken care of. Spencer just looked at him, then nodded and said thanks. He didn’t look back as the cab drove away.
The house where he’d grown up was the same as always, white with blue shutters, and flowers blooming in the beds below the windows. He didn’t know why he’d thought it would look different.
He stood for a long while, forcing himself to take deep breaths. He was still breathing when the door opened and his mom came out, slowly as though not to startle him, like a wild animal.
”I don’t know what to say to them.”
”Your family?”
”Yes.”
”Just tell them the truth, Spencer. It’s always the best thing to say.”
Spencer closed his eyes and felt tears burn behind his eyelids. His mother’s hand was on his cheek and she whispered, “It’s okay, baby. You’re home.”
And things were a little less horrible than they’d been five minutes ago.
***
Spencer was beginning to think his mother had spoken to Dr. Way. Instead of the large family dinner he’d been expecting (and dreading) his family left him alone and went out to eat. They didn’t hover over him or lock away the butcher knives, making sure he wasn’t planning to try and kill himself again; they all just hugged him and asked if he wanted to join them at dinner.
Spencer thought his feelings should be hurt that they were so willing to leave him alone on his first night home, but mostly he was just relieved.
He went to his old bedroom, and stood in the doorway, taking in the stacked boxes cluttering the floor. His mom had told him three weeks into his stay at the hospital that he’d lost his apartment, but Spencer hadn’t really thought about the fact that his parents must have had to pack him up. He closed his eyes, feeling his face turn red as he realized that his mom had probably seen his porn.
Well, he thought, opening his eyes, Nobody to blame but myself.
He entered the room and grabbed the nearest box, setting it on the bed. Looking around the room to see if there was anything he could use to break the tape, he spotted his keys on the top of the bookshelf against the wall. He grabbed them and went to work on the packing tape holding the box closed. After he got it open, he found himself looking at his coffee maker and toaster. That’s when he realized that the box had been labeled “Kitchen Appliances” in his mother’s neat handwriting. He rolled his eyes at himself and set the box on the floor.
He began moving boxes around, checking the labels. The majority of his stuff must have been put in storage, because most of the boxes contained things he could use while staying with his parents: his books, his computer, and, he found, his porn. His face turned red again when he opened the box labeled “Misc. Reading Material,” and found a pink dildo resting on top of a slip of notebook paper. Grabbing it from beneath the dildo, he read the words written in Ryan’s messy scrawl.
Hey, so Jon and I went to your place when your mom said they were going to pack up and got your shit out. You owe us, you bastard. Don’t ever pull this shit again.
You better call me soon,
R.R.
Spencer started laughing. His cell phone was sitting on the desk and he grabbed it, sitting down on the bed and turning it on and typing out a message to Ryan.
Got your note, thanks for hiding my stuff.
A minute passed before he got a response. No problem. You out?
Yeah.
K. I’ll call you when we leave Jon’s.
I’m going to bed. I’ll call you tomorrow.
Okay. Don’t forget.
Spencer sighed and set the phone down. He’d call. He just didn’t know what to say. He had a feeling that was going to be a problem for a while. Moving the box off his bed, he crawled under the sheets fully dressed, ignoring that it was still light out. He’d figure things out tomorrow.
***
He woke to the smell of bacon frying and had to fight disorientation as his brain struggled to remember where he was. He took deep breaths the way Dr. Way had instructed him to do when he was feeling out of control or scared, and eventually the feeling of panic receded and the familiar blue walls of his room reminded him that he was home.
He pushed the covers on the bed back and got up, sighing when he realized he was still wearing yesterday’s clothing.
He rolled his eyes at himself and went to shower.
When he came down the stairs twenty minutes later, his mom was scrambling eggs over the stove, the bacon he’d smelled piled on a plate on the kitchen table.
“Hey, honey,” she said, smiling when she saw him. “You hungry?”
Spencer started to refuse, then realized he hadn’t eaten since breakfast the previous day and nodded. He didn’t feel hungry, but Dr. Way had said that one of the things he needed to concentrate on was taking care of himself.
He started to prepare a plate for himself, but his mother gently hip-checked him and took the plate from his hands. “I’ll fix it, go sit down.”
So he went and sat down, and his mom entertained him with a story about the girls searching for an apartment they both liked.
“I swear, Spence, I love them, but I’m ready for them to go. I was so happy when they decided to live at home while going to school, but now that they’re about to graduate, I’m finding that I’m perfectly okay with them moving out. They keep fighting over the dumbest stuff, like who is going to get the bigger bedroom or who gets the best view.”
She set his plate down in front of him, piled high with eggs and bacon and toast. “Do you want orange juice or coffee?”
“Um, coffee, please.” He stared at the food laid out in front of him. Compared to what he’d been eating for the past month and a half, it was a feast. His mom placed a mug full of black coffee next to his plate and sat down across from him with her plate, containing only two slices of toast with raspberry jelly and one slice of bacon. It was the same breakfast she’d eaten every day since Spencer could remember, and he felt a sudden rush of affection for his mom, who never changed and was always there for him. He reached out and grabbed her hand, squeezing. “I love you,” he said, voice breaking. “I’m sorry.”
She looked at him, her eyes filling with tears. Standing up, she walked around the table and wrapped her arms around him, holding his head to her chest. “It’s okay, baby. It’s okay. I love you, we all love you.”
He’d started crying, loud sobs that he couldn’t seem to control. Over and over he whispered, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” as she rocked him.
After a long while his tears began to slow, and eventually his mom pulled away to look at his face. “Listen to me,” she said firmly, “We’re not ever going to stop loving you. But you can’t ever do that again, Spencer. Ever.”
A few more tears fell as he nodded. “I know,” he said, “I know.”
She stroked his hair gently. “You’re going to be okay, Spencer.” She held him tight as he repeated it to himself over and over.
***
Spencer went back to bed after breakfast, exhausted from the emotionally draining episode with his mother. He fell instantly asleep and only woke because his mother was shaking him gently, saying, “Spencer, honey, wake up. Ryan’s on the phone, and he’s refusing to hang up until you talk to him.”
He blinked open his eyes and took the phone from his mom, groggy and half-asleep. “Hey,” he said, voice low.
“What the fuck, you were supposed to call me, you dick,” came Ryan’s angry voice, which sounded a lot like his normal voice, but Spencer could tell the difference.
Spencer forced himself to sit up, glancing at the clock, surprised to see that it was well into afternoon. “Yeah, sorry, I fell back asleep after breakfast.”
“You’re an asshole,” Ryan said, sounding disgruntled.
“Yeah,” Spencer agreed. “How’s Jon’s dad?”
“About the same.”
“How’s Jon?”
“Pretty well, considering. How are you?”
The sun was shining through the slats in the blinds over the windows, making patterns on the bedspread and wall. Spencer counted them, and then answered, “Pretty well, considering,” and smiled a little when Ryan laughed.
***
Spencer called his boss the next morning. It was possibly the most awkward conversation of his life, full of silences and the sound of his boss clearing his throat nervously. They agreed that Spencer would start back at work the following Monday. Spencer hung the phone up and immediately went into the bathroom and threw up.
***
Monday came entirely too quickly for Spencer’s liking. He woke an hour before his alarm was supposed to go off and was staring at the ceiling when it began beeping shrilly.
Forcing himself out of bed, he went to shower. His mom had made him breakfast, just like every other day since he’d come home, but this time he barely ate anything, only managing a few bites of his buttered toast. He drank his coffee and nervously drummed his fingers on the table, only stopping when his mother rested her hand gently on top of his, quieting him. “It’s going to be fine,” she said, her eyes soft. “You’re going to be fine.”
Spencer nodded. He was going to be fine.
***
His mom drove him to work. It was stupid, because he had his own car parked at his parents’ house that he should be driving, but he couldn’t seem to get himself behind the wheel. His mom hadn’t even asked him if he’d wanted her to drive him, just grabbed her keys and ushered him out the door after straightening his tie.
She kept up a cheerful one-sided conversation during the drive, finally falling silent when they reached his office building. She looked at him and he swallowed. “I’m going to be fine,” he said again, and she nodded.
“Call if you need to come home early,” she said firmly. “Call if you need anything.”
Spencer swallowed again, and opened the door and got out. “I’ll see you later,” he said through the open window, and she smiled reassuringly at him.
He turned around, and walked inside.
The morning dragged. Spencer felt everyone’s eyes glued to his back while he was working, as though they were waiting for him to grab his letter opener and slash his wrists open right there. People stared at his bullet scar when they were making polite conversation with him about the weather. They spoke in soft voices and gentle tones, like he needed to be soothed.
His boss had taken away all of his accounts, and only gave the easiest one back, saying they’d “start slow for now.” Spencer finished the little amount of work it required after an hour and spent the rest of the morning looking up random shit on Wikipedia.
Finally noon arrived, and out of habit he headed toward the break room to retrieve his lunch from the refrigerator, only to realize when he was halfway there that for the first time in the two years he’d worked there, he hadn’t brought a lunch. He stood in the hall, took a deep breath, turned around. This was a good thing, he thought Dr. Way would say. Too much routine led to suicide attempts. He snorted out loud, causing a passing co-worker to look at him nervously and scuttle away quickly. Suppressing the urge to yell, “I’m not going to fucking kill myself right here, you bastards.” he headed for the elevator to go down to the street to find some lunch.
Spencer saw that there was a hotdog cart in the corner of the office courtyard when he went outside. He’d never noticed it before, and he wondered if it was a recent addition. Shrugging, he made his way over, ordering a hotdog with the works.
When he had his hot dog in one hand and a soda in another, he made his way over to what he’d always thought of as “his” bench, only to stop when he got in front of it. Dr. Way’s words echoed in his brain. ”Don’t sit where you always sit. Change things up. Try new things. Go back to work a few minutes early, or a few minutes late. Not everything has to be exactly the same day to day, Spencer.”
Spencer turned around and looked over the area, spotting a small picnic table under some trees on the edge of the courtyard. He nodded to himself and walked over to it, sitting down. He should have brought a book, he thought as he took a bite of his hotdog. Instead he made a mental list of more things to look up on Wikipedia when he got back to work.
It wasn’t a half-bad way to spend his lunch hour, all things considered.
***
The afternoon didn’t go any faster than the morning had, but finally 4:30 arrived and Spencer grabbed his things and went outside, waiting for his mom to arrive. He couldn’t help but feel self-concious , waiting for his mom to pick him up, watching as his coworkers exited the building. He was giving them another excuse to feel sorry for him and he’d already had enough pity for the rest of his life. This wasn’t going to work, he decided, and he was absolutely going to be driving himself from that point on. He was an adult, and it was time he started acting like one again.
Baby steps, Dr. Way had told him, would be best. He probably wouldn’t approve of Spencer driving himself, but he didn’t really care. He was taking baby steps in every other way, he wanted at least some small semblance of normalcy in his life, a tiny shred of the independence he’d lost. That he’d given up.
His mom pulled up at 4:45, babbling apologetically when he got in the car about traffic and how she was “So sorry, Spencer, I didn’t mean to keep you waiting, I just underestimated the amount of time I’d need to get here.”
Spencer reached out and placed his hand on her arm. “It’s fine, mom, seriously. Don’t worry about it, I was okay.”
She took a deep breath and nodded, and for the first time since Spencer had gotten home he saw the strain on her face that she’d been trying so hard to hide from him.
“Mom,” he said quietly, “I really am okay.”
She looked at him for a long moment and placed her hand on top of his where it was resting on her other arm. “You are, baby.”
They looked at each other for another minute, finally his mom smiled and squeezed his hand before releasing it and pulled away from the curb.
They were both quiet on the drive home, and Spencer was grateful. When they arrived home he saw his car parked on the street where it had been since he’d gotten out of the hospital. “Mom,” he said as they walked up to the door of the house, “I’m going to drive myself to work from now on, okay?”
She looked like she wanted to protest, but in the end she bit her lip and said, “Okay,” and Spencer smiled.
That evening was the most normal one he’d had since he’d gotten out. His mom fixed spaghetti for dinner and they ate in the dining room, Jackie and Crystal dominating the conversation, talking over each other as they described the out of control water balloon fight on the campus that day. Spencer stopped listening halfway through, and when he glanced at his dad they shared a look of boredom, and Spencer started laughing. The room fell silent and he stopped laughing abruptly. “What?” he asked self-consciously.
His sisters stared at him and Jackie finally said, “You haven’t really laughed since…” she trailed off.
“Oh,” he said dumbly.
“It’s nice to hear,” Jackie said quietly.
Spencer looked at them. “Well,” he said, “I’m going to try to keep laughing.”
“Okay,” Spencer’s mom said, breaking the silence, “I want to know what happened when campus police showed up,” and Jackie and Crystal were off again.
Spencer looked back at his dad, who reached out and put his hand on Spencer’s shoulder, squeezing.
Things were okay.
***
It felt surprisingly good to get behind the wheel of his car again. It was a small thing, but driving himself gave him a feeling of independence, something he’d missed over the last month or so. His mom watched him drive away in the morning, smiling from the front porch and waving when he pulled away from the curb. Spencer thought it should make him feel like a child going off to school for the first time, but mostly it just made him feel loved.
His first week back to work was okay, in the end. People had mostly stopped eyeing him warily by Friday, and some had even begun striking up conversations with him in the break room. They were still hesitant and nervous around him, but it was a little better than it had been. He brought his lunch on Tuesday, but the rest of the week he ate at one of the restaurants near the office and was proud of himself for not eating the same thing every day.
When he left work on Friday, he didn’t want to go home right away, but he was unsure what to do. He stood outside of his car and leaned on the car door, thinking. He squinted across the parking lot at the small shopping center across the street from his office park and decided to walk over and see what shops they had to offer. It wasn’t particularly exciting, but it was a small step. Small steps, echoed Dr. Way’s voice in his head. Small Steps are the way to go.
He called his mom, leaving her a voice mail telling her he would be home later, before pocketing his phone and starting across the parking lot, trying to make out the shop names as they got closer. There was what looked like a women’s clothing store, and some sort of candle shop. There was a small place in the middle named Weathervane that peaked his curiousity. He thought maybe it was one of those places that sold small electronics, like Brookstone or Sharper Image. He could definitely pass some time in a store like that, he thought, a little excited over the prospect.
When he arrived though, he realized after a glance through the window that it was actually a music store, instruments and racks of sheet music lining the walls. He paused outside the door and debated whether or not to go in. He’d played the drums in high school, but it had been years since he’d even touched a pair of drumsticks. As soon as he had the thought, though, he realized he’d missed it, and pulled open the door. The store was quiet and cool, a welcome respite from the blistering Vegas heat, and noisy traffic. There weren’t any employees bustling around, which Spencer thought was odd, but forgot quickly enough when he spotted the drum kit in the corner.
He’d had one years ago, but he wasn’t sure what had happened to it. The last he knew it had been in his parent’s attic, but his dad had moved it out when he’d converted the space into a game room. He wasn’t sure where it’d been moved to. His parent’s might have sold it, for all he knew, perhaps trying to get some of the money back they’d lost on buying it.
He walked over to it slowly, reaching out to touch it gently, even though there was a hand-lettered sign above it saying “Please don’t touch the instruments!!! THEY AREN’T TOYS!!!” in red. He ran his index finger around the silver rim of the snare drum reverently. He hadn’t been a bad percussionist; his music teacher in high school had begged him to continue music, in fact, but in between majoring in business and partying in college, drumming had fallen to the wayside.
Unable to stop himself, he sat on the stool and wished he had a pair of drumsticks. He was lost in thought, his hands twitching as he tried to remember the beats to the old Blink 182 songs he used to know when a voice came, startling him.
“You play?”
Spencer’s head shot up, apologies falling off his tongue. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I know the sign said not to touch, I just got kind of caught up, I’m seriously so, so sorry.”
There was a kid watching him, with messy dark hair and wearing jeans and a red t-shirt. “Dude,” he said, looking amused, “calm down, you’re fine.”
Spencer took a breath and nodded, and the kid walked closer.
“I keep the sign up because of the kids,” he said, “You know? Parents come in here and let their kids do whatever they want, and they inevitably end up banging on the kit for half an hour. And while I’m all about introducing kids to music at a young age, that’s really not how I want to do it.”
As he got closer, Spencer had to revise his estimate on his age, realizing he was probably closer to Spencer’s age than not.
He stopped when he was directly in front of Spencer and held out a hand, grinning. “I’m Brendon.”
Spencer looked at the offered hand and took it gingerly. “Spencer,” he replied, nervously. It had been a while since he’d had to interact with a new person who wasn’t feeding him medication or trying to talk about his feelings.
Brendon smiled widely. “Nice to meet you, Spencer. So, you like the drums?”
“Um, yeah,” Spencer said, “I used to play, back in high school.”
“Yeah?” Brendon looked excited. “Sweet, I played drums in high school, too! Were you in the marching band?”
Spencer shook his head. “Nah, I mostly played in my garage.”
Brendon laughed. “A common thing, that. So, you want to try them out?” he asked, gesturing toward the drums.
Spencer looked at him. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to mess them up or something.”
Brendon shook his head. “It’s fine, dude, seriously. Instruments are meant to be played. Just not by a 10-year-old with sticky fingers.”
Spencer chuckled and walked back over to the kit, sitting down on the stool gingerly. “Um,” he said, looking around, “do you have some sticks I could use?”
“Oh! Yeah, hold on just a second.” Brendon hurried over to the counter and rummaged under it, pulling a pair of drumsticks from beneath. “Sorry, dude, here you go,” he said, handing them to Spencer.
Spencer smiled nervously. “Thanks.”
He stared at the snare drum, not sure how to begin. Finally he shrugged at himself and began a slow roll, closing his eyes as he counted the beats in his head. He didn’t know how long he drummed, but when he opened his eyes, Brendon was leaning over the counter, writing something.
Spencer kept drumming, figuring that he could keep going until Brendon started looking annoyed. It felt really good to be sitting behind drums again, cathartic in a way he needed desperately these days. He watched Brendon while he pounded away, writing with his right hand and keeping the beat with his left, his index and middle finger keeping perfect time with Spencer. Without thinking, Spencer changed the beat, watching to see if Brendon made the change. He did, with no problem that Spencer could tell.
It became a game for Spencer. He would set a rhythm and watch Brendon follow it easily, then he’d switch it up and try to throw Brendon off. He hadn’t succeeded yet, as far as he could tell. Finally he moved into the most complicated drumming pattern he could remember, and watched Brendon follow it with no trouble.
Huffing in frustration, he pounded as hard as he could, and Brendon started laughing. Spencer looked at him questioningly, pulling his sticks away from the drums and resting his hands. Brendon walked over and said, “Dude, seriously, you’ve got to do better than that to be able to trip me up.”
“You knew, huh?” Spencer asked, laughing at himself.
Brendon leaned in, and Spencer couldn’t help but notice how very dark his eyes were. “It was pretty easy to figure out.”
Spencer stared at him, watching as Brendon’s eyes got darker and he looked, well. Brendon looked interested, and Spencer felt a spurt of panic. Interested in Spencer was not a good thing, and Spencer needed to get out of there immediately.
He stood quickly, walking away from the kit. “Listen, I’ve got to go,” he said, babbling a little, “It’s so late. But dude, thanks so much, I really enjoyed that. Sorry for taking up so much of your time.”
Brendon looked confused, but he held out his hand to shake. “It was no problem, Spencer. It was nice having someone play who actually knows what they’re doing for once.”
Spencer took Brendon’s hand and shook it carefully, “Thanks.”
Brendon squeezed his hand and leaned in again. “Come back and play anytime, dude. Seriously.”
Spencer looked at him, dark eyes and red lips, and realized that coming back was a bad, bad idea.
***
Spencer had a standing appointment with Dr. Way every week, on Saturday mornings. The first thing he said to him when he was ushered into his office was, “I met someone.”
Dr. Way looked at him and gestured for him to sit down. “Someone?”
Sitting down on the soft leather chair, Spencer nodded. “Yeah, he works at this music store across from my office and he’s really hot and he knows music and he let me play the drums and I want to go back but now I can’t because he looked like he was checking me out and I’m not ready for that.” His voice got higher and higher as he spoke and when he finished the last word was squeaked out.
Dr. Way looked amused. “Spencer, calm down.”
Spencer nodded and took a deep breath.
“Okay,” Dr. Way said, “First, what’s his name?”
“Brendon.”
“Are you interested in him, or is he just interested in you?”
Spencer played with a loose thread at the hem of his t-shirt. “I don’t know. I think I could possibly be interested back, given time. He’s hot.”
Dr. Way laughed. “Look, Spence, it’s okay to like someone. You’re perfectly able to maintain a healthy relationship, if you want to. All of your other relationships were in good shape when you tried to commit suicide, and I don’t see that that’s changed now. You’re the best judge of what you’re ready for, though, keep that in mind.”
Spencer nodded, and Dr. Way continued. “If you don’t think you’re ready to date, then that’s okay.”
“The thing is,” Spencer began, “I do want to go back. I mean, he let me play the drums for almost an hour and it was awesome, because I haven’t played the drums since I was a kid and I didn’t realize how much I missed it.”
Dr. Way looked thoughtful. “Well, then you should go back. I mean, this Brendon guy, did he seem like a good guy?”
Spencer nodded.
“Then you don’t really have anything to be afraid of,” Dr. Way said reasonably. “Even if he does ask you out, you can probably say no thanks without him flipping out on you.”
“I hate when you use logic against me,” Spencer said, disgruntled, and Dr. Way laughed.
“Look,” he said, sobering, “I can’t help you fix your life, Spencer, if you’re unwilling to try some new things. You have to take chances, and you have to take steps to making things right within yourself again. If drumming makes you feel good, then you should do it. It’s all a part of healing yourself.”
Spencer fidgeted. “I thought I was healed when you let me go.” He looked up at Dr. Way, who looked sad.
“You’re only healed when you know it, Spencer. It takes time. Six weeks spent in a hospital can’t do it. It just takes time,” he repeated, and Spencer nodded.
“Okay.”
***
Spencer didn’t go back to the music store. He reasoned to himself that there were different music stores he could go to, so he wasn’t avoiding playing the drums, he was just avoiding Brendon.
He asked his parents what had happened to his old drum kit, and they said they’d loaned it out to his cousin a few years back. When they offered to try and get it back, Spencer shook his head and said it was fine. He could always buy another one.
But he didn’t. He went as far as Googling music stores in the Vegas area, but as soon as he saw Weathervane listed at the top of the search, he closed the tab.
Spencer could do avoidance with the best of them, but after a solid week of laying awake at night, remembering the feeling of the sticks in his hands, and staring across the road at Weathervane as he was getting into his car after work, he decided he was being ridiculous and went back.
Crossing the road felt like an accomplishment.
Brendon was there again, behind the counter this time, cursing as he worked an electric calculator and wrote something down. He looked up when the door closed behind Spencer, grinning widely.
“Hey! I didn’t think you were coming back.”
Spencer fidgeted nervously. “Yeah,” he said, “Me, neither.”
Brendon looked like he wanted to ask questions, but he didn’t, only smiled and said, “Well, if you want to do some practicing, have at it,” and he gestured toward the kit Spencer had played the week before.
“Are you sure you don’t mind?” Spencer asked, even though he was already heading to the corner where they were set up. “I’m sure your boss wouldn’t like someone coming in and playing, but never buying.”
“Spencer,” Brendon said, looking amused when he turned around, “I am the boss. This is my store.”
“Oh,” Spencer said dumbly. “Okay, then. Thank you.”
Brendon just smiled and went back to his paperwork.
Spencer spent at least an hour playing, not realizing, until he stopped, that night had fallen, and that Brendon had switched from paperwork to reading a book. As he worked the kinks out of his fingers, he wondered how Brendon managed to keep the store open, because both times he’d been here, no one but him had ever come in. He watched as Brendon put his book down and stood up, stretching. His shirt rode up, exposing a strip of pale skin on his stomach, and Spencer stared at it, transfixed.
Brendon cleared his throat, and Spencer pulled his eyes away. Brendon was grinning when he started toward him.
“So, it’s about closing time,” he said when he got closer to Spencer. “I think I’m going to go to a movie and get something to eat tonight.”
Spencer nodded, and his stomach clenched nervously. He stood up and handed the sticks to Brendon. “Yeah, I should probably be going.”
Brendon ignored him and kept talking. “I was wondering if maybe you’d want to join me?”
Biting his lip, Spencer said, as calmly as he could, “Like a date?”
“Well,” Brendon replied, with a nervous looking smile, “it doesn’t have to be a date.”
Spencer didn’t know what to do. He liked what he knew of Brendon, and the idea of an uncomplicated evening of a movie and dinner sounded appealing, but the whole thing was just a bad idea. If it was a date then Brendon might try to kiss him, and while that in and of itself was also kind of appealing, it was all the stuff that came after kissing that scared Spencer to death. And if it wasn’t a date, wasn’t that kind of a shitty thing to do to Brendon? Leading him on or something? No, it was just a bad idea.
He didn’t realize how long he’d been quiet when Brendon said, “Okay, never mind, it was just an idea,” and turned around, walking back to the counter.
Spencer felt like shit, and followed him. “No, I’m sorry, look, it’s just. Complicated. I’m complicated.”
Brendon turned back around. “Are you in a relationship?”
“No,” Spencer said, “I’m just a mess. I’m not really fit for company.”
Brendon bit his lip. “I like messy things,” he said, and Spencer laughed a little.
“Not this messy, Brendon, trust me,” and Brendon sighed.
“Look,” Spencer said, “I really like you, and I like this place, and I’d like to keep coming here. But if it’s going to be awkward for you, then I don’t have to. I can always buy a drum kit and take it home, you know? I mean, I was going to buy one anyway, I was just going to ask if I could keep it here and practice, but if it’s going to be a problem for you, and believe me, I understand if it is, I can just take it home.”
Brendon shook his head. “No, it’s fine,” he said, but he sounded less buoyant than he had before. “I don’t want you to stop coming here. You seem like a good guy, and it’s nice having someone around with actual talent.”
“Oh,” Spencer joked, trying it out, “So you’re just keeping me around for my skills?”
Brendon shrugged, but he was smiling again. “Pretty much.”
Spencer stuck his hand out. “So,” he said, “Friends?”
Brendon looked at him, and then reached his own hand out, taking Spencer’s. “Friends,” he said, and if he was upset by Spencer’s rejection, he was doing a good job of hiding it.
Spencer pulled away and walked to the door. “I’ll be back in a few days, then,” he said, and Brendon nodded, raising a hand in goodbye.
“See you then,” he said, and walked to the door as well, locking it from the inside when Spencer exited. He waved again when Spencer caught his eye, then turned around and went back to the counter.
Spencer watched him for a moment before heading back across the street to his car.
***
Part two