Kneeling by the Roadside 4/4
J2 RPS AU
NC-17
Part 4 of 4
Master post
Art
I trust your assessment of me - I believe you believe in me - but I'm not always sure I trust my own assessment of myself. But I do remember what it was like when PoD was brand-new, when we played our first shows and recorded our first songs and waited to find out what people thought of us, critics and fans alike. I remember what it was like when we were still figuring out what and who we were. Gabe always seemed to know we'd make a success of ourselves, and even in the very early days he was sure what our final sound would be, but he was the only one, and his confidence didn't always rub off on the rest of us.
This is the same, only it's me and Chad and Jake and maybe Alona and this unknown fiddler, instead of me and Chad and Gabe and AJ. I can skip ahead like Aldis taught me, flip past the chapters about band formation and all the construction of our sound and our persona and our story, and go right to the chapter where we're rehearsing for our third show, or our tenth. I can do that because I've done it, because I went through it with Potatoes of Defiance, because I know how that story goes.
At least I know how that story can go. Every music scene is littered with the skeletons of dead bands, musicians who never made a go of it, groups that didn't work. For every real success there are probably a hundred failures. How do I know this new band won't be another one? How do I know that despite our best work and all our combined experience, we won't crash and burn?
I don't. But I have to push forward anyway, as if success is a foregone conclusion. I have to pretend it's seven years ago, me and Chad and Gabe and AJ getting together and saying "Let's form a band", except this time I know that whatever we do will work.
"Thank you," I say.
"For?"
"Listening to me."
"Any time. You know you'll have to go home, though. I'm glad I can be here for you, listen to you, talk to you, give you advice, all of it, but you have to go home. You have to go back and face your shit."
I search your voice for regret and find none. You're right, I know you're right, and I know I can't stay here forever, but it's like the aftermath of Kim's memorial party and Smith's last great hurrah, when I realized how easy it would be to just let myself be a mess until I was ready to not be. What if I was never ready? Being a mess is easy. Ignoring everything is easy. Facing shit is hard.
"I know," I say. "But can I stay a couple more days? I just got here."
"Of course." You grin at me. I want to kiss you so badly it's almost a physical pain. At this point I don't know if the feeling will ever pass, even after I go back to Austin. "We'll do something fun tomorrow. I got the day off, didn't I."
The only thing I want to do is you, but somehow I don't think that's the right thing to say. Danny and I didn't have time to see the Space Needle, so you and I talk about that, and you try half-heartedly to sway me because it's such a touristy thing to do, but I am a tourist, I point out, and I want to see it. Who knows when I'll be back here? Potatoes of Defiance played the west coast three times and only made it to Seattle once, and this new band, whatever we decide to call ourselves, who knows how long it will take before we have enough songs to tour with? Who knows if anyone will even want to see us play. We might never make it out of Texas. We might never even make it out of Austin. So I have to take advantage of Seattle while I can, and I have to take advantage of seeing you.
I want to drive around, I want to see the ocean, I want to see the mountains - "Didn't you just drive through the mountains?" you ask, and I shrug, because you're not wrong but I want to see the mountains with you - I want to go to Portland. You just laugh at me.
"I don't want to go home," I admit.
"I can tell. But you have to. Otherwise life is just going to move on without you. You don't want to always be playing catch-up."
We get a late start the next day, partly because I just don't want to be forced out of bed. The view from the Space Needle is everything I wanted, and a couple of times I catch you watching me while I'm admiring the view.
"Good thing I'm not afraid of heights," you say. "I would've made you do this yourself."
"It would've been worth it," I say. It's another clear day and I feel like I can see forever. It reminds me a little of driving through New Mexico, the flat flat southwest, with nothing to obstruct my view but the occasional fence. I'm just a lot higher up this time.
"You wanna go ride the Great Wheel after this?" you ask. "It's not far."
"It's not too touristy?" I grin at you, enjoying the teasing. You roll your eyes. "Is that a yes?"
"That's a 'Do you want to ride a giant Ferris Wheel'."
I do. But -
"Wait." You interrupt my thought. "The Museum of Pop Culture!" You point but all I see are trees. "The building's ugly but you'll like the exhibits. Music, movies, the Science Fiction Hall of Fame." You sound excited, trying to get me excited. All I wanted to see today was the Space Needle, and I'll go anywhere if it means going there with you.
You're not wrong about the building and you're not wrong about the exhibits. I send Chad some pictures of the horror exhibition - Scared to death in Seattle! I text, and he responds with We should call the band Gum Wall - and spend so much time looking at all the science fiction stuff and the fantasy exhibits that you have to grab my arm and drag me bodily from the rooms.
"This was your idea," I remind you, as my stomach growls and you laugh. "I want to see the Nirvana stuff and then we can go."
"You don't want a snack first?"
It turns out to be lunch, and then you let me examine the Nirvana exhibit and I finally let you lead me out of the museum and back to the car. I'm having the best time. I have an entire day to see interesting things and admire the views and let you show me around, and I have an entire day to spend with you. Just the two of us, as if no time has passed, as if a different life and changes I can't stop and don't want to accept aren't waiting for me back in Austin. I love you for doing this for me, for treating me like you used to, for acting as if you want nothing more than to play tour guide for my trip to Seattle.
I'm still ridiculously, unfortunately in love with you, but I know we can't get back together, so I'm going to enjoy the time I have left with you before I let it all go, before I finally close the book of Jared-and-Jensen-the-couple and open the book of Jared-and-Jensen-the-friends.
We're stopped at a light on the way to the Great Wheel and you smack my shoulder and tell me "I know what we could've done today! Olympic National Forest. The only temperate rainforest in the lower forty-eight. It's beautiful. There's some great hiking trails."
"I didn't bring hiking boots."
You lean over just enough to look down at my feet. "I think those might be okay. We'll go tomorrow. We'll pack a lunch and see the forest. And then you'll go home. How's that?"
It's an extra day. "That'd be great."
You glance over at me, smiling, then you look back at the road, and I can't stop staring at your profile. You turn up the radio, sing along. Tom Petty, "Yer So Bad". I know why we broke up, and most of the time I'm okay with it - I've even made my peace with Misha - but right now, watching you sing with the radio, thinking about spending the next couple of days with you, all I want is to turn back the clock, to fix what I helped break and to follow you to Seattle. What if two years ago I'd moved up here to be with you? What if I'd left home and all my friends and my family and my band and I'd moved to the Pacific Northwest, so I'd be able to see your face every day and listen to your voice and feel the press of your lips and your hands?
But no. I can't rewind time and change what happened, and there's no guarantee it would have worked out if I'd come with you instead of demanding you stay with me. And what if it had happened the other way, and you'd loved me enough to stay in Texas? Where would we be now? Who knows? We can't go back. And in all honesty, I'm grateful for what I have, because I still have you. You're half a country away and yet I know I can drive three days and 2100 miles and you'll open your door to me and put me up and screw my head on straight and tell me what to do. I know and you know that I'd do the same for you, if circumstances were different. I'd tell you what to do, and then I'd send you back home.
That's what you do for your friends. You do what they need, not what you want.
But it doesn't mean I won't want to kiss you stupid when we get back to your house, and I won't want to pull your clothes off and fuck you into the mattress, and I won't want you to fuck me. The heart wants what it wants, and mine still wants you. Because who else could I talk to? You're the only one who knows my history but doesn't have any investment in my future. It doesn't matter to you whether I stay in PoD or not. It doesn't matter to you what I say to Gabe, as long as I say something. You knew Kim and you saw shows at Smith's, but your attachments were looser than mine. It doesn't matter to you what Ms S does, if anyone cares enough and can scrape together the money to take over Smith's and keep it going. All that matters to you is that I'm happy and that I do the right thing for myself, and you'll do whatever I need, and whatever you can, to make it happen. My head knows - and my heart will fall in line - that's the most valuable thing I could get from you, more important than even your desire. After everything, you're still proving that you give a shit about me.
It's a lot of revelation to happen in the passenger seat of your car, so much that it lights up my brain until we're almost to the top of the Great Wheel. Once again I'm glad I'm not afraid of heights although the Space Needle is higher, and I kiss you quickly on the lips and whisper "Thank you" in your ear.
"I'll make tacos for dinner," you answer, as if we were just discussing food, as if we were any couple just out seeing the sights, and I laugh. I love you and I missed you and I needed you and you were here for me, and in two days I'll go home and face my shit and go back to my life.
You scorch the tortillas but everything else is good, and we watch some TV and you tell me about Olympic National Forest and I still want to kiss you and I still want to fuck you but you were right, once was enough and probably we shouldn't even have done that. I really wasn't planning on it, when I packed a bag and got in my car and drove out of Austin, but deep in my heart of hearts, subconsciously, I hoped it would happen. It was hard to discard the possibility that it might.
"What are you thinking?" you ask me, and I realize you stopped talking a while ago.
"How much I still want you," I say honestly.
You don't seem to have an answer to that.
"I know, I know," I continue, "I'm not going to jump you, don't worry. I know it's over. You got your life up here, I got my life down there. There's no way to make it work. But I haven't forgotten what it was like to be with you."
"We were really compatible," you say agreeably. "I've dated a few guys up here but no one can get me off like you could." Then you make a face, like you can't believe you just said that.
I think about Justin and his amazing mouth. He was a rebound and I knew it at the time but I wouldn't take it back. I wonder if you met someone like that, someone to take your mind off me, to help you get over me. "Tell me about them."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah. I want to know about your life. I want to know if you found someone who makes you happy. Besides, thinking about how you look when you come is a real turn-on, even if someone else is getting you off."
You laugh. "You're such a freak." But you tell me about the guys you've been out with, and I tell you about Justin and a guy Chad tried to set me up with, and I tell you Misha came on to me once after a show, not long after you left, and I was still so pissed at him, I almost punched him in the face. I can't say either of us was sober at the time and I can't say I didn't desperately want to break his nose, but in retrospect it was smart of me to hold back.
"You know," you say, "I didn't hear anything from him after I moved. I guess I was out of sight, out of mind." You shrug, dismissing him.
"He doesn't do long-distance," I tell you. "He and Vicki had a girlfriend for a while but she moved up near Dallas, I think Plano, and that was the end of it. And Plano's not even that far. I made my peace with him. Our paths cross often enough and it's not a huge community, and it just wasn't worth it to hold a grudge. I could hate him every time I saw him, or I could get over it. I still don't like his weird experimental shit but at least I can admit that if he has to, he really can sing." He wasn't really any of the reasons we broke up, but he was so insistent that we should both let him fuck you, and so dismissive of our objections, it took me a long time to reach this equilibrium.
I tell you about the country-western show at Smith's, for HAAM, and you laugh when I get to the part about Chad and the jackets. You make me play you the Flying Burrito Brothers songs on my phone.
"I would've loved to have seen that," you say. "It's gotta be on YouTube."
"It should be. Gabe looked for us but he didn't find anything, otherwise he would've told us. Smith's had a livestream but I don't know if anyone recorded the whole show."
"Well, let's look."
So we spend some quality time searching YouTube on your laptop, trying to find good evidence from HAAM Day and coming up with Ally Pally's set - which is great because I want you to see Adrianne - and Rob and Rich, and a three-minute clip of Osric, of all people, channeling Hank Williams with terrifying accuracy.
"Well, shit," you say, admiringly. "I didn't know he had it in him."
I didn't either, and I was there.
"Christian didn't tell you about it?" I ask. We haven't found a video of him and his talented friend doing their best Johnny and June.
"He did," you say, "but it was just a lot of bitching about Steve realizing at the last minute he wasn't going to be around and the rest of the band not being able to find someone to fill in with no notice. One of Jason's friends recorded him and Gina but it was just audio. He did tell me he was really impressed with Rob and Rich, though."
"Yeah, weren't they good? Christian was too. It's too bad no one got him on film."
I discover that it's not so hard any more, talking about Smith's. Maybe I've finally talked and thought myself around enough of the pain. I think I'm ready to go home and face the fact that it's gone. I got used to Kim being away - I can probably get used to Smith's being gone too.
Except when Kim left, I thought he'd come back. He'd kick the cancer in the ass and come back to us.
"Jared?" you say.
Did I zone out? Have you been talking to me and I didn't hear you? Why do I keep doing that? "Sorry. I was thinking."
"I thought I smelled smoke." Your mouth turns up in a smile. "What were you thinking?"
"Kim went back to California a year ago. More. I got used to him just not being around. But I always thought he'd come back - he'd beat the cancer, he'd come back to Austin, he'd go back to giving advice and telling people what to do. And then he didn't." I shrug. "It's like... I think I can get used to Smith's being closed, but I'll keep expecting it to reopen. And it won't."
"You think you'll be able to live with it?"
"I have to. I mean, maybe something else will open in its place, but whatever it is, it won't be Smith's. I just have to deal with it." You're still smiling, nodding your head. "What?"
"That's where you need to be. Miss it, mourn it, go on. Stop spinning your wheels. Did you really need to drive up here to get yourself to this point?"
"Yes."
"Huh. Do you want some suggestions for band names?" Now you grin, wide and excited, and I let you share some really stupid potential names for my and Chad's future band, and I think This might be okay. I might be okay.
You get me up early so we can pick up enough snacks and picnic components to keep us fed during our trip to and hike around Olympic National Park. It's a long day, and very green, and very tiring, and I enjoy it very much. I'm exhausted by the time we make it back to your place, but so are you, and I love you so much I can't contain it. I feel as if every emotion is written on my face, across my forehead, and you can read in actual words how I feel about you. But you say nothing, just look at me as if you know what I'm thinking. You thank me for giving you an excuse to tramp around the rainforest, and I thank you for taking me, and you tell me you'll make me breakfast in the morning and I say that's fine as long as it's not breakfast in bed.
And you laugh, because that was always one of our jokes, because you would always undercook the pancakes or overcook the eggs or put too much milk in the oatmeal and I would have to get out of bed and make breakfast for myself. But you learned to cook in the last two years, as evidenced by the dinners you made for us, so maybe I should cut you some slack.
I'm so tired but I can't sleep, thinking about you lying on the air mattress on the other side of the door. I think about the years we spent together, and I think about Smith's, and I think about you on stage doing soundcheck with Lucy Long, and Kim telling you that you should consider fronting a band. I think about Chad and Jake, and I think about Gabe, and I think about telling Alona that we really, really want her in our band. I think about the last show PoD played, and I think about our last tour and how we got so lost in Phoenix that we were two hours late for our soundcheck, and I think about when I first learned to play the bass and how bad I was. I think about you falling asleep on the couch waiting for me to come home after a show, and I think about you manning the merch table when we played Smith's, and I think about you telling your mom you were moving in with a musician, yes he has a steady job (I didn't), yes his band is really good (we were), yes I know what I'm doing (you did), yes we love each other (we did).
I think about how much I still love you, and how grateful I am for you, and how grateful I am for Chad and AJ and Alex and even Gabe, for everything I learned from them and got to do with them.
I think about my old life, and my new life, and what Aldis taught me about looking ahead. I think about the 2100 miles between you and home, and I think about how badly my car is going to need a bath after I drive back through the dusty southwest.
The smartest thing I've done in a long time was drive up to see you. I knew you'd give me what I wanted, you'd tell me what I needed to hear, and you'd help me get my brain back in gear.
I'm ready to go home. I'm ready to start the next chapter, to write the next song, to see what happens in my life and what I can make of it.
In the morning you make me eggs and bacon and toast and don't burn anything. You pack me a lunch, you give me directions to the cheapest gas station, you tell me where I can stock up on good snacks for the road.
"Thank you," I say. I needed you and you were there. But I don't have to spell it out for you. You know.
"Maybe don't make a habit of it, though," you tell me, and I laugh, short and a little bitter. "You know," you continue, "I had a good time. Not the best circumstances, but it wasn't a bad visit."
"No, it wasn't. I had a great day yesterday and Friday. I had fun with Danny too."
"Yeah, she's a good friend. We shouldn't be strangers any more. We should be friends again. Okay?" I nod. I think we already are. "Call me when you get home."
"I will. I really - I needed this." I needed you.
"I know." You look like you're about to kiss me, but instead you grab me and pull me close and I put my arms around you and hold you like you're the only solid thing in this world.
You kiss my cheek and step back, take me by the shoulders and turn me to face the door.
"Go home," you say. "Take care of yourself. Don't wait two years to tell me the important shit."
"I'll call you. Thank you."
And I walk out the door and down the stairs and outside, and I throw my bag in the back seat and put the lunch you packed me on the passenger seat, and I get in my car and I drive away.
It doesn't take as long to get out of Seattle as it took to get in. The highway unrolls in front of me, half a country's worth taking me back to my life, to the old things and the new things and the things I don't know what they are yet. I'm not ready, but... I am. And if I'm not? I have 2100 miles waiting for me in which to do nothing but think and prepare and plan.
I shouldn't have needed you to fix my shit for me, but I wanted your help. I thought I needed you to point me in the right direction, and you did.
"Runnin' Down a Dream" comes up on my playlist as I cruise down 90, past forests and trucks and other cars. Workin' on a mystery, goin' wherever it leads. I'm not sure what's waiting for me at the end of this road, but I do know I'm ready to face it.
Author's Note!
NC-17
Part 4 of 4
Master post
Art
I trust your assessment of me - I believe you believe in me - but I'm not always sure I trust my own assessment of myself. But I do remember what it was like when PoD was brand-new, when we played our first shows and recorded our first songs and waited to find out what people thought of us, critics and fans alike. I remember what it was like when we were still figuring out what and who we were. Gabe always seemed to know we'd make a success of ourselves, and even in the very early days he was sure what our final sound would be, but he was the only one, and his confidence didn't always rub off on the rest of us.
This is the same, only it's me and Chad and Jake and maybe Alona and this unknown fiddler, instead of me and Chad and Gabe and AJ. I can skip ahead like Aldis taught me, flip past the chapters about band formation and all the construction of our sound and our persona and our story, and go right to the chapter where we're rehearsing for our third show, or our tenth. I can do that because I've done it, because I went through it with Potatoes of Defiance, because I know how that story goes.
At least I know how that story can go. Every music scene is littered with the skeletons of dead bands, musicians who never made a go of it, groups that didn't work. For every real success there are probably a hundred failures. How do I know this new band won't be another one? How do I know that despite our best work and all our combined experience, we won't crash and burn?
I don't. But I have to push forward anyway, as if success is a foregone conclusion. I have to pretend it's seven years ago, me and Chad and Gabe and AJ getting together and saying "Let's form a band", except this time I know that whatever we do will work.
"Thank you," I say.
"For?"
"Listening to me."
"Any time. You know you'll have to go home, though. I'm glad I can be here for you, listen to you, talk to you, give you advice, all of it, but you have to go home. You have to go back and face your shit."
I search your voice for regret and find none. You're right, I know you're right, and I know I can't stay here forever, but it's like the aftermath of Kim's memorial party and Smith's last great hurrah, when I realized how easy it would be to just let myself be a mess until I was ready to not be. What if I was never ready? Being a mess is easy. Ignoring everything is easy. Facing shit is hard.
"I know," I say. "But can I stay a couple more days? I just got here."
"Of course." You grin at me. I want to kiss you so badly it's almost a physical pain. At this point I don't know if the feeling will ever pass, even after I go back to Austin. "We'll do something fun tomorrow. I got the day off, didn't I."
The only thing I want to do is you, but somehow I don't think that's the right thing to say. Danny and I didn't have time to see the Space Needle, so you and I talk about that, and you try half-heartedly to sway me because it's such a touristy thing to do, but I am a tourist, I point out, and I want to see it. Who knows when I'll be back here? Potatoes of Defiance played the west coast three times and only made it to Seattle once, and this new band, whatever we decide to call ourselves, who knows how long it will take before we have enough songs to tour with? Who knows if anyone will even want to see us play. We might never make it out of Texas. We might never even make it out of Austin. So I have to take advantage of Seattle while I can, and I have to take advantage of seeing you.
I want to drive around, I want to see the ocean, I want to see the mountains - "Didn't you just drive through the mountains?" you ask, and I shrug, because you're not wrong but I want to see the mountains with you - I want to go to Portland. You just laugh at me.
"I don't want to go home," I admit.
"I can tell. But you have to. Otherwise life is just going to move on without you. You don't want to always be playing catch-up."
We get a late start the next day, partly because I just don't want to be forced out of bed. The view from the Space Needle is everything I wanted, and a couple of times I catch you watching me while I'm admiring the view.
"Good thing I'm not afraid of heights," you say. "I would've made you do this yourself."
"It would've been worth it," I say. It's another clear day and I feel like I can see forever. It reminds me a little of driving through New Mexico, the flat flat southwest, with nothing to obstruct my view but the occasional fence. I'm just a lot higher up this time.
"You wanna go ride the Great Wheel after this?" you ask. "It's not far."
"It's not too touristy?" I grin at you, enjoying the teasing. You roll your eyes. "Is that a yes?"
"That's a 'Do you want to ride a giant Ferris Wheel'."
I do. But -
"Wait." You interrupt my thought. "The Museum of Pop Culture!" You point but all I see are trees. "The building's ugly but you'll like the exhibits. Music, movies, the Science Fiction Hall of Fame." You sound excited, trying to get me excited. All I wanted to see today was the Space Needle, and I'll go anywhere if it means going there with you.
You're not wrong about the building and you're not wrong about the exhibits. I send Chad some pictures of the horror exhibition - Scared to death in Seattle! I text, and he responds with We should call the band Gum Wall - and spend so much time looking at all the science fiction stuff and the fantasy exhibits that you have to grab my arm and drag me bodily from the rooms.
"This was your idea," I remind you, as my stomach growls and you laugh. "I want to see the Nirvana stuff and then we can go."
"You don't want a snack first?"
It turns out to be lunch, and then you let me examine the Nirvana exhibit and I finally let you lead me out of the museum and back to the car. I'm having the best time. I have an entire day to see interesting things and admire the views and let you show me around, and I have an entire day to spend with you. Just the two of us, as if no time has passed, as if a different life and changes I can't stop and don't want to accept aren't waiting for me back in Austin. I love you for doing this for me, for treating me like you used to, for acting as if you want nothing more than to play tour guide for my trip to Seattle.
I'm still ridiculously, unfortunately in love with you, but I know we can't get back together, so I'm going to enjoy the time I have left with you before I let it all go, before I finally close the book of Jared-and-Jensen-the-couple and open the book of Jared-and-Jensen-the-friends.
We're stopped at a light on the way to the Great Wheel and you smack my shoulder and tell me "I know what we could've done today! Olympic National Forest. The only temperate rainforest in the lower forty-eight. It's beautiful. There's some great hiking trails."
"I didn't bring hiking boots."
You lean over just enough to look down at my feet. "I think those might be okay. We'll go tomorrow. We'll pack a lunch and see the forest. And then you'll go home. How's that?"
It's an extra day. "That'd be great."
You glance over at me, smiling, then you look back at the road, and I can't stop staring at your profile. You turn up the radio, sing along. Tom Petty, "Yer So Bad". I know why we broke up, and most of the time I'm okay with it - I've even made my peace with Misha - but right now, watching you sing with the radio, thinking about spending the next couple of days with you, all I want is to turn back the clock, to fix what I helped break and to follow you to Seattle. What if two years ago I'd moved up here to be with you? What if I'd left home and all my friends and my family and my band and I'd moved to the Pacific Northwest, so I'd be able to see your face every day and listen to your voice and feel the press of your lips and your hands?
But no. I can't rewind time and change what happened, and there's no guarantee it would have worked out if I'd come with you instead of demanding you stay with me. And what if it had happened the other way, and you'd loved me enough to stay in Texas? Where would we be now? Who knows? We can't go back. And in all honesty, I'm grateful for what I have, because I still have you. You're half a country away and yet I know I can drive three days and 2100 miles and you'll open your door to me and put me up and screw my head on straight and tell me what to do. I know and you know that I'd do the same for you, if circumstances were different. I'd tell you what to do, and then I'd send you back home.
That's what you do for your friends. You do what they need, not what you want.
But it doesn't mean I won't want to kiss you stupid when we get back to your house, and I won't want to pull your clothes off and fuck you into the mattress, and I won't want you to fuck me. The heart wants what it wants, and mine still wants you. Because who else could I talk to? You're the only one who knows my history but doesn't have any investment in my future. It doesn't matter to you whether I stay in PoD or not. It doesn't matter to you what I say to Gabe, as long as I say something. You knew Kim and you saw shows at Smith's, but your attachments were looser than mine. It doesn't matter to you what Ms S does, if anyone cares enough and can scrape together the money to take over Smith's and keep it going. All that matters to you is that I'm happy and that I do the right thing for myself, and you'll do whatever I need, and whatever you can, to make it happen. My head knows - and my heart will fall in line - that's the most valuable thing I could get from you, more important than even your desire. After everything, you're still proving that you give a shit about me.
It's a lot of revelation to happen in the passenger seat of your car, so much that it lights up my brain until we're almost to the top of the Great Wheel. Once again I'm glad I'm not afraid of heights although the Space Needle is higher, and I kiss you quickly on the lips and whisper "Thank you" in your ear.
"I'll make tacos for dinner," you answer, as if we were just discussing food, as if we were any couple just out seeing the sights, and I laugh. I love you and I missed you and I needed you and you were here for me, and in two days I'll go home and face my shit and go back to my life.
You scorch the tortillas but everything else is good, and we watch some TV and you tell me about Olympic National Forest and I still want to kiss you and I still want to fuck you but you were right, once was enough and probably we shouldn't even have done that. I really wasn't planning on it, when I packed a bag and got in my car and drove out of Austin, but deep in my heart of hearts, subconsciously, I hoped it would happen. It was hard to discard the possibility that it might.
"What are you thinking?" you ask me, and I realize you stopped talking a while ago.
"How much I still want you," I say honestly.
You don't seem to have an answer to that.
"I know, I know," I continue, "I'm not going to jump you, don't worry. I know it's over. You got your life up here, I got my life down there. There's no way to make it work. But I haven't forgotten what it was like to be with you."
"We were really compatible," you say agreeably. "I've dated a few guys up here but no one can get me off like you could." Then you make a face, like you can't believe you just said that.
I think about Justin and his amazing mouth. He was a rebound and I knew it at the time but I wouldn't take it back. I wonder if you met someone like that, someone to take your mind off me, to help you get over me. "Tell me about them."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah. I want to know about your life. I want to know if you found someone who makes you happy. Besides, thinking about how you look when you come is a real turn-on, even if someone else is getting you off."
You laugh. "You're such a freak." But you tell me about the guys you've been out with, and I tell you about Justin and a guy Chad tried to set me up with, and I tell you Misha came on to me once after a show, not long after you left, and I was still so pissed at him, I almost punched him in the face. I can't say either of us was sober at the time and I can't say I didn't desperately want to break his nose, but in retrospect it was smart of me to hold back.
"You know," you say, "I didn't hear anything from him after I moved. I guess I was out of sight, out of mind." You shrug, dismissing him.
"He doesn't do long-distance," I tell you. "He and Vicki had a girlfriend for a while but she moved up near Dallas, I think Plano, and that was the end of it. And Plano's not even that far. I made my peace with him. Our paths cross often enough and it's not a huge community, and it just wasn't worth it to hold a grudge. I could hate him every time I saw him, or I could get over it. I still don't like his weird experimental shit but at least I can admit that if he has to, he really can sing." He wasn't really any of the reasons we broke up, but he was so insistent that we should both let him fuck you, and so dismissive of our objections, it took me a long time to reach this equilibrium.
I tell you about the country-western show at Smith's, for HAAM, and you laugh when I get to the part about Chad and the jackets. You make me play you the Flying Burrito Brothers songs on my phone.
"I would've loved to have seen that," you say. "It's gotta be on YouTube."
"It should be. Gabe looked for us but he didn't find anything, otherwise he would've told us. Smith's had a livestream but I don't know if anyone recorded the whole show."
"Well, let's look."
So we spend some quality time searching YouTube on your laptop, trying to find good evidence from HAAM Day and coming up with Ally Pally's set - which is great because I want you to see Adrianne - and Rob and Rich, and a three-minute clip of Osric, of all people, channeling Hank Williams with terrifying accuracy.
"Well, shit," you say, admiringly. "I didn't know he had it in him."
I didn't either, and I was there.
"Christian didn't tell you about it?" I ask. We haven't found a video of him and his talented friend doing their best Johnny and June.
"He did," you say, "but it was just a lot of bitching about Steve realizing at the last minute he wasn't going to be around and the rest of the band not being able to find someone to fill in with no notice. One of Jason's friends recorded him and Gina but it was just audio. He did tell me he was really impressed with Rob and Rich, though."
"Yeah, weren't they good? Christian was too. It's too bad no one got him on film."
I discover that it's not so hard any more, talking about Smith's. Maybe I've finally talked and thought myself around enough of the pain. I think I'm ready to go home and face the fact that it's gone. I got used to Kim being away - I can probably get used to Smith's being gone too.
Except when Kim left, I thought he'd come back. He'd kick the cancer in the ass and come back to us.
"Jared?" you say.
Did I zone out? Have you been talking to me and I didn't hear you? Why do I keep doing that? "Sorry. I was thinking."
"I thought I smelled smoke." Your mouth turns up in a smile. "What were you thinking?"
"Kim went back to California a year ago. More. I got used to him just not being around. But I always thought he'd come back - he'd beat the cancer, he'd come back to Austin, he'd go back to giving advice and telling people what to do. And then he didn't." I shrug. "It's like... I think I can get used to Smith's being closed, but I'll keep expecting it to reopen. And it won't."
"You think you'll be able to live with it?"
"I have to. I mean, maybe something else will open in its place, but whatever it is, it won't be Smith's. I just have to deal with it." You're still smiling, nodding your head. "What?"
"That's where you need to be. Miss it, mourn it, go on. Stop spinning your wheels. Did you really need to drive up here to get yourself to this point?"
"Yes."
"Huh. Do you want some suggestions for band names?" Now you grin, wide and excited, and I let you share some really stupid potential names for my and Chad's future band, and I think This might be okay. I might be okay.
You get me up early so we can pick up enough snacks and picnic components to keep us fed during our trip to and hike around Olympic National Park. It's a long day, and very green, and very tiring, and I enjoy it very much. I'm exhausted by the time we make it back to your place, but so are you, and I love you so much I can't contain it. I feel as if every emotion is written on my face, across my forehead, and you can read in actual words how I feel about you. But you say nothing, just look at me as if you know what I'm thinking. You thank me for giving you an excuse to tramp around the rainforest, and I thank you for taking me, and you tell me you'll make me breakfast in the morning and I say that's fine as long as it's not breakfast in bed.
And you laugh, because that was always one of our jokes, because you would always undercook the pancakes or overcook the eggs or put too much milk in the oatmeal and I would have to get out of bed and make breakfast for myself. But you learned to cook in the last two years, as evidenced by the dinners you made for us, so maybe I should cut you some slack.
I'm so tired but I can't sleep, thinking about you lying on the air mattress on the other side of the door. I think about the years we spent together, and I think about Smith's, and I think about you on stage doing soundcheck with Lucy Long, and Kim telling you that you should consider fronting a band. I think about Chad and Jake, and I think about Gabe, and I think about telling Alona that we really, really want her in our band. I think about the last show PoD played, and I think about our last tour and how we got so lost in Phoenix that we were two hours late for our soundcheck, and I think about when I first learned to play the bass and how bad I was. I think about you falling asleep on the couch waiting for me to come home after a show, and I think about you manning the merch table when we played Smith's, and I think about you telling your mom you were moving in with a musician, yes he has a steady job (I didn't), yes his band is really good (we were), yes I know what I'm doing (you did), yes we love each other (we did).
I think about how much I still love you, and how grateful I am for you, and how grateful I am for Chad and AJ and Alex and even Gabe, for everything I learned from them and got to do with them.
I think about my old life, and my new life, and what Aldis taught me about looking ahead. I think about the 2100 miles between you and home, and I think about how badly my car is going to need a bath after I drive back through the dusty southwest.
The smartest thing I've done in a long time was drive up to see you. I knew you'd give me what I wanted, you'd tell me what I needed to hear, and you'd help me get my brain back in gear.
I'm ready to go home. I'm ready to start the next chapter, to write the next song, to see what happens in my life and what I can make of it.
In the morning you make me eggs and bacon and toast and don't burn anything. You pack me a lunch, you give me directions to the cheapest gas station, you tell me where I can stock up on good snacks for the road.
"Thank you," I say. I needed you and you were there. But I don't have to spell it out for you. You know.
"Maybe don't make a habit of it, though," you tell me, and I laugh, short and a little bitter. "You know," you continue, "I had a good time. Not the best circumstances, but it wasn't a bad visit."
"No, it wasn't. I had a great day yesterday and Friday. I had fun with Danny too."
"Yeah, she's a good friend. We shouldn't be strangers any more. We should be friends again. Okay?" I nod. I think we already are. "Call me when you get home."
"I will. I really - I needed this." I needed you.
"I know." You look like you're about to kiss me, but instead you grab me and pull me close and I put my arms around you and hold you like you're the only solid thing in this world.
You kiss my cheek and step back, take me by the shoulders and turn me to face the door.
"Go home," you say. "Take care of yourself. Don't wait two years to tell me the important shit."
"I'll call you. Thank you."
And I walk out the door and down the stairs and outside, and I throw my bag in the back seat and put the lunch you packed me on the passenger seat, and I get in my car and I drive away.
It doesn't take as long to get out of Seattle as it took to get in. The highway unrolls in front of me, half a country's worth taking me back to my life, to the old things and the new things and the things I don't know what they are yet. I'm not ready, but... I am. And if I'm not? I have 2100 miles waiting for me in which to do nothing but think and prepare and plan.
I shouldn't have needed you to fix my shit for me, but I wanted your help. I thought I needed you to point me in the right direction, and you did.
"Runnin' Down a Dream" comes up on my playlist as I cruise down 90, past forests and trucks and other cars. Workin' on a mystery, goin' wherever it leads. I'm not sure what's waiting for me at the end of this road, but I do know I'm ready to face it.
Author's Note!