I had always hated Roger's shows. Not that I didn't like his band or his music, that wasn't it at all. I just hated the scenes. I hated the scuzzy bars, hated the people in the scuzzy bars and hated the way everyone fawned over Roger. Poured over Mr. Rockstar. Didn't notice the little blonde in the corner.
What a selfish thing for me to say. I hated Roger's shows because he got the attention. But then again, when didn't Roger get the attention? He had the looks. He had the clothes, the bleached hair, the talent, the voice, the skill, the charm. And me? I had the thick glasses and drab blue eyes. I had the naturally blonde hair. I had the vintage sweaters and old, worn, obscure t-shirts. I had the obsession with my camera. I had the small, nasal tenor voice. I had the fumbling and awkward hand motions and the fidgety movements. I was the geek and he was the God. What else did I expect?
Nothing. I didn't expect anything. But it's not like I would have accepted any offers from the women that went to Roger's shows. Christ, you should have seen some of these chicks, they were ghastly. Walking bad dye-jobs, and they wore little more than bottle caps and a cocktail napkin for outfits. So no, I wouldn't have accepted any offers from any of them. I probably would have either laughed in their faces or had to excuse myself to go vomit in the corner.
But there were a few here and there that were mildly interesting to look at. Sometimes there would be a pretty redhead who looked absolutely disgusted with the show, or a gorgeous brunette that was on her way out. I wish that I had the gall to talk to them. Then again, they probably would have laughed in my face or excused themselves to go vomit in the corner. Ironic, isn't it?
At least the music was good. At least I knew the songs and could sing along in my head. At least Roger got me free alcohol. Something to distract me from the dingy atmosphere where I was an insignificant little nothing. A lot like home, huh? I thought so too.
No matter how much I hated these gigs of Roger's I always went. I never said no, and it was coming to a point where he didn't have to ask me anymore. He'd just announce that he had a gig and I'd show up there, camera in hand, ready and semi-willing to play the role of supportive friend. I'd never say no to Roger. He likes the support. I think he genuinely wants me to be there. Partially so he can show off, but partially so he can show me that he's doing okay. His songs have been getting minimal play on some local college stations, he's been getting better money for better gigs. He's even talking about getting some studio time and recording a demo or something. I'm proud of him. I really am. He's finally getting his shit together.
Where does that leave me? I don't need to take care of him anymore, I don't need to remind him to take his meds, I don't need to beg him to get out of the house...what do I need to do? They want me to help organize a little show they're planning to put on in the lot, but other than that I have no purpose.
That's not true. Roger knows little to nothing about sound equipment and is constantly asking me to fix his amp or run sound for his shows.
Wow. What an existence.
I shouldn't talk like this. I know Roger values me as a friend. I should be happy about that. I should just take that for what it is and go with it. I may not be the most important thing in his life, but at least I'm up there, right?
That's better than nothing. But what about me? Am I better than nothing?
I have to be. I have to believe I am, otherwise I'll just be one of those people that hates themselves and who they are. I don't hate myself. I'm completely comfortable with who I am. Where I am is a different story.
I guess my biggest question is a simple one. When do I get *my* one song glory?