Chapter 15: Some Death Rattle at Most
The taxi is silent. Slight, warm rain is rolling down the windows, the wipers lazily travelling across the windshield, and I listen to the sound of my breaths while I can. Enjoy the calm before the storm. The driver says, "Hey! That's you!"
He's pointing through the windshield, up to the heights of Times Square buildings. I lean towards the back window and look up. My face decorates a billboard. "I don't know. Is that me?"
"Yeah, man! You're that –" He snaps his fingers impatiently, forehead wrinkling. "That musician, that..." He leans forwards to peer at the ad again. "Blaine Anderson! You're all over, boy!"
My paper face is gigantic and huge and enormous. It's staring down at us from the heavens, from the side of the building, shining on the taxis and cars and pedestrians. Lauren said that if the Lennons could do it, so can we, and she did just that: my face, meet New York.
So much for no longer getting recognized.
"Imagine that! You're in my taxi!" the man goes on to say, sounding pleased and craning his neck around to flash me a gap-toothed smile.
I let my elbow lean against the door panel, my knuckles pressing against my cheek. I unconvincingly smile back. I was enjoying the silence of this ride – the radio not on, him not singing or humming, the only music being the honking and the drumming of late spring rain. Or early summer. It's June tomorrow. Tomorrow, only a day away.
"Yeah, I recognize you now," the driver goes on to say, clearly having decided that our respectful silence is no longer an option. We inch along a few more car lengths, and I watch myself watching myself, a scrawl of 'The debut album from Blaine Anderson & The Pips' decorating the bottom of the advertisement, then a picture of the Wolf's Teeth cover next to my blank face. "You've got that song on the radio, a damn catchy tune. What's it called, something red? What's that song?"
"Crimson Gone."
"That one! Getting played all the time! I like your style. Not anything I've heard before. None of that disco crap or those fancy electro effect things, but still modern. Still very 1977, if you get my meaning."
Well, at least we agree on one thing.
"Say." He reaches over to the passenger seat and then tosses a newspaper to the back. "Sign that for me, will you? To Milton. Write, oh. Oh! Write, 'To Milton – thanks for the smooth ride. Blaine Anderson.'" He laughs. "Oh, write that! Ahaha!"
So I do.
"You touring soon?" he asks, suddenly a fountain of questions. I nod absently. "Any New York shows?"
"A few, yeah. Sold out already." Based on only one song.
"Aw, that's a shame. I like that song on the radio. You couldn't get me any freebies, could you?"
"Don't think so."
"A real shame. I do like that song." He starts humming it. We leave Times Square and my paper face behind. "Listen –"
"Look, man, I've got a headache, alright? Got a headache." I look out of the window and feel his eyes on me through the rear-view mirror.
He huffs. "I see how it is." And, quieter, "Famous cunts."
Silence lands on us once more. I fight off the headache that changed from imaginary to real the second I said it, and I close my eyes and pretend that I'm somewhere else. I'm tired. That's all. And it's not my problem if they idolize me or follow me around – I need to worry about myself. Not them. Let them do whatever they want. Keep my head above the water and not drown. Make Bolin and Buckley wait a bit longer before I join their decomposing ranks.
"Well, this is a party," Milton says as the car slows down. Masses of people are packed on both sides of the club entrance, a mix of fans and journalists. The taxi comes to a stop. "Get out of my cab."
I inhale. Close my eyes. I hear nothing. Nothing.
"Sure thing, Milton. Thanks for the smooth ride." I pay him and get out of the taxi with my head held low. That's why I refused Lauren's limo – if they saw a limousine coming, they'd be swarming around it before it was even half a block down. This way I've taken six steps out of the taxi and towards the door before they realize who's arrived. Someone gasps. A splash of my shoe in a puddle, my breath and my lungs and my heart and my head, and then – A chorus of voices and yells and screams explode. Silence is a temporary art.
They come in at all sides with their cameras raised and records lifted up to the air, waving them, yelling for me to sign the Warblers records and Crimson Gone singles. Anything goes.
The bouncers are thankfully on alert and push their way to my sides to help me keep walking, and I lift a hand as cameras flash and people ask me to look their way. A whole lot of Blaine! Blaine! Blaine! for nothing.
"Welcome, sir," the other bouncer booms as he holds the club door open, and I snake inside quickly. The door closes behind me, creating a wall of muffled yelling behind me and a wall of thumping music ahead of me, echoing from the bottom of the stairs I'm gazing down at. I follow the steps leading down, and the press and fans and their soul-eating cameras get left behind. When I push open the doors at the bottom, I find myself on a landing, peering down at a dance floor with purple lights flashing from the ceiling above us. Someone spots me. The entire dance floor stops as they all spot me. They start jumping and cheering and waving.
"Blaine!" An arm around my shoulders, squeezing. Jeff. Grinning like mad. He makes a broad arch with his free hand, motioning at the club in a 'this is our kingdom' kind of way. "Welcome to the album release party. You're three hours late, you fucker. Lauren's furious, man. It's hilarious." He laughs. Pats my shoulder. We descend into the chaos. They're playing our album.
After Lauren finds me and gives me a mouthful about not answering my phone (unplugged it) and not opening the door for the chauffer she sent (ignored the banging), she calms down because now the main attraction is present at his own "fucking album release party, Jesus Christ. Well, at least you look good."
I made an effort. Going through my wardrobe and drinking heavily. I didn't want to come because this war tactic of avoidance was working so well for me. So damn well.
The club has a seated section in one corner, and that's where we end up receiving guests like royalty sitting on their thrones, letting people come and sit down with us for a while: dozens of friends, semi-friends and acquaintances, Rebecca, Nick, Michael, Mark, Cameron, Mel... How you been, yeah it's been a while since I was down at that bar, I've been around – other bars, you know, other parties, other scenes. Busy, busy, busy. Everyone here has been invited specifically – there are no awkward fans around, but fellow artists. Supporters of the arts. Critics too, Rolling Stone, Creem and The New York Times and then some, but I leave them to the criticizing. I won't suck up to anyone.
The guests are nodding to the music. Taking it in. Some smiling. Some laughing in what looks like disbelief. I don't care what the world thinks. Sure I don't. It's only my first move away from The Followers legacy, my first independent musical statement.
And, well. Almost no awkward fans are present.
Ian Crawford sits down on the couch next to me with a whoosh of messy, brown hair. "Blaine! Man! Good to see you!"
"Yeah," I say, looking over his shoulder and scanning the room. I wonder if he remembers that the last time he and I shared a drink, he ended up snorting god knows what in the bar bathroom and that Kurt and I then dragged him to my apartment where he passed out on the couch, but not before he half-begged me to fuck him. Not sure if Kurt ever told Ian the exact details of what he did. "Who are you with?" I ask although I know.
"I'll never tell," he grins drunkenly, tapping his nose before he laughs jubilantly. "God, I've been listening to the album, and I wanted to say, man, that Wolf's Teeth, this album, dude –"
"Yeah, thanks," I say with an artificial smile, and he barely even notices that I'm not paying attention as he rambles on with high praise.
I wanted to make him wait. Not the other guests, just him. So that when he arrived, boyfriend in tow, my name would be on everyone's lips. Let him wonder where I am and who with.
"– the best movie I've ever seen!" Ian enthuses. "The special effects! Man! Have you seen it yet?"
"What?"
"It's called Star Wars. If you – if you haven't seen it yet, we could go together sometime. I wouldn't mind seeing it again. It just came out. I have never seen anything like it!" He smiles at me enthusiastically. Then his smile falters, and he adds, "They're in space and stuff." He blushes profusely. I stare at him in utter confusion. He goes redder. "Um. I-I'll go get myself a drink." He nearly stumbles trying to stand up too fast, and I watch him flee, shoulders slumped and head hung low. That kid must embarrass himself daily.
Mercedes is sitting beside Sam, hand on his knee, talking to Brittany and promptly ignoring me. She's not speaking to me anymore, as a matter of fact. If she can avoid it. That'll make touring fun: a passive-aggressive wench glaring at me at all times. Sam's said that he's not taking sides. Jeff said that he's taking mine.
So I cheated on my ex-girlfriend a little and everyone in New York knows it. I can't go blaming Rachel. She didn't get on a soapbox to bellow it out – she's got more class than that. Her friends, however, don't have such class.
The reputation of a womanizer does wonders for your love life. The women get even bolder. And so do the gay kids with crushes, it seems. And was anyone surprised by what I did? No. Even Rachel always knew. Suspected it. She knew me better than anyone, and deep in her bones she also knew that I wouldn't be faithful. She loved me, anyway.
Rachel left the significant part out when she sobbed against her friends' shoulders. About who lured me away from our quasi-matrimonial bed. She hasn't started any angry rumors. She could have. But she hasn't. Probably because it hurts her too much.
It wasn't foolish to love her.
"Hey, sit down!" Roderick pipes out. The handful of couches we're occupying form a square, and a rectangular glass table sits in the middle, covered in full ashtrays, coke traces and empty bottles. Across the table, Kurt Elizabeth Hummel from Anonymous Catholic Town, Ohio sits down next to my drummer with a drink in his hand – Jack and Coke by the looks of it. If I had to guess. He likes Jack Daniel's. I like Jack Daniel's on his tongue.
What a sickening memory to have. Erase, erase. Delete. Destroy. Splotch out with correction fluid.
What lies I tell myself.
I rub my face with one hand, nodding as Sam laughs about his attempts to pack for the imminent tour, but it's a forced laugh. Sam knows who has joined our group, and he probably wishes that he didn't know what Kurt and I spent most of this spring doing. Sam also knows that it's over. A drunken half-mention from me in a jazz bar one night after Rachel had gone. Wanted Sam to know but also not to know. Hoping that he'd sympathize without reading into it too much, without realizing how shattered I am. Kurt's not one of those larger than life people who'll turn you inside out and then spit you out, leaving you dumbfounded and heartbroken. He has none of that persona. He's just a boy, but he got me good.
"Are you okay?" Sam asks, and I rub my temples, nodding.
"Damn headache."
"You don't have to stay, you know. People will get it if you want to get some rest." He looks at me with concern. "When was the last time you slept for more than three hours, anyway?"
Good question. Who knows? A lifetime ago? "I don't know, man. The run up to the release has been insane. Last week, I think. Been all interviews and parties lately."
His hand lands on my shoulder, and he squeezes it fraternally. "You need to go home and sleep."
Leave my own album release party? After days of dreading it, knowing he'd be here as all of the film crew was invited for a good night out? Then procrastinating, putting on clothes that I know he likes, and now that he's here, after weeks of having been able to avoid him, leave?
Yeah. Yeah, I need to get the fuck out of here.
"I will. I'll leave now."
I stand up, not caring if it looks suspicious that I get up to leave when Kurt sits down. I'll go home and sleep, that sounds like a plan, but oh, Will's here, that's nice, haven't seen him in a while, so I sit back down, and an hour later I'm still at the club, now by the bar talking to Will, good old Will, and he's saying that he ought to hate me because I stole Dave from him, was a good employee, apparently, didn't have the wits to ask for a raise at any point whereas these new kids, well god, and I get drunker by the minute as the girls that are lingering around laugh at Will's jokes.
Dave came over to say hi. He looked one tenth as tired as I feel, and we haven't even started the tour yet. Dave's exhausted but excited. I can't stand the sight of him.
One of the skirts that Will's taken a liking to tags along as we reclaim our seats, just in time to see Sam taking Cedes for a few spins on the floor, and everyone's patting my shoulder and saying hi and telling me that they'll come and see us play and that the new album's amazing, and I feel – artificially loved. And important. None of these people would be here if it weren't for me. I'm the center of their attention. And yet, I can't bring myself to enjoy it.
"Hey."
I look up from my drink. Will's no longer sitting next to me. He and the girl are gone. Kurt's looking towards the dance floor, and oh, there they are. So is Lauren, dancing with Sam as Roderick tries out his moves with Mercedes. Everyone having a good time.
What do you say to your former lover? Hi? Hey there? Thanks for nothing, you heartless bastard? Or maybe 'what do you think of the album?' Fuck the critics – what did he think?
I go for none of the above and relish the fact that he's come over to talk to me. It counts as a victory. I still ask, "Do you really want to be seen talking to me?" I focus my eyes on my friends and acquaintances. Not him. Not trying to figure out if I can feel his body heat against my side, or if my skin there has just gotten aware all of a sudden from his close proximity. I could lean my knee to the left a little. Make our legs touch.
"More suspicious that we never talk anymore. Dave thought we were becoming good friends at one point, when he saw us talking a lot."
"Oh, we were the best of friends. Could hardly leave the bed." I take a sip of my vodka, can feel the irritation coming off of him. "What? Was that offensive?"
"You don't have to be so fucking crude about it," he says, sounding perhaps a little hurt.
"I'm just not embellishing the truth." A sharp pain radiates from the left side of my chest, but I ignore it. The first thing I do is pick a fight with him. Of course that's what I do. Help him add things to the list of why he didn't choose me. "So did you want something?"
I make the mistake of looking at him. His soft blue, gray, green eyes, the way they sparkle when he smiles. The curve of his nose, and the way it presses to my spine when he kisses my back, going down, further. The fullness of his lips, pink and soft and tasting like home.
He's smoking, and he brings the cigarette to his mouth, and I envy it, the fucking cigarette. His lips purse around it, his cheeks hollow. I try not to think of him sucking my cock. I fail. I keep telling myself that the distance will do me good. Will help me forget.
So much for that theory.
"I tried to get out of coming on tour. I just wanted you to know that." His left knee keeps bouncing. Nervous. On edge. "But Dave said that I can't quit the project out of the blue, that I'll fuck up his work if I do. He's pretty stressed. He needs me there, you know? So I have no choice, but I did try. That's all I wanted to say."
That's nice. That's barely nice. A good blow to my ego first off. Thanks.
"You and me on tour… Well. Imagine that." I take another slug of the vodka. It's got mixer in it, some Coke to add color to keep up appearances. I gather the residue off my lower lip with my tongue.
He was looking. He clears his throat. Was he looking? "Doubt we'll even see much of each other," he states. He's not saying anything about the music. Not asking how I've been. They're not playing the album anymore – instead Joe Trummer's vocals are blazing through. The English always did it well, but I did it better.
"So what did you make of the album?" I ask, submitting that much.
He shrugs. "Sounded good. I mean it is good, but you know that, anyway."
"Right." That's all I'll get out of him, and I know it. He clearly thought nothing of what I sang. Some death rattle at most. "So are you travelling with the commoners or in the VIP class?" I ask, referring to the sharp separation between the band and everyone else – all the roadies, merch people, techs and majority of the film crew travel by bus. The important people just go from airplane to limo to hotel to limo to venue to stage to limo to hotel to limo to plane. And I know that Dave, as the head of the film crew, will be travelling with the band. And Dave's loyal, long-term boyfriend?
"I'm travelling with you guys," Kurt admits. And yeah. I figured as much. We can't exactly ignore each other in a confined space, can we?
"Well. We might even make it to Europe this time," I say slowly. "Get you off this goddamn continent. Always did wonder what you'd be like in France. Or Germany. Or Spain. If it would make you fuck different somehow." I finish my drink and place the glass on the floor between us. I glance up at him, and he's staring at me with hurt on his face. "I guess I'll ask Dave for updates," I say with a sweet smile, standing up rather gracefully, the alcohol intake considered. "Oh, and by the way," I straighten the suit jacket that he likes, "haven't seen you and lover boy exchange a single word to each other tonight. How are things in monogamy heaven?"
His eyes flash dangerously. "You know, we could be civil to one another. You could be civil."
"And why would I want to do that?"
"Christ, just –"
"'Piss off', yeah, yeah, I know. Watch me do a trick. You watching? See. I'm going… I'm going… I'm gone."
I walk into the crowd without looking back, offering my arm to the first girl rushing towards me, and she laughs brightly and accepts it, enthralled, and, well.
You have to do these things with style.
None of the lights are on in my apartment. I walk through the rooms like a ghost, haunting the poor thing. Pouring myself a drink.
I left the girl with Jeff. Never had any intention to do more than piss off Kurt with her help. It's all about appearances. I don't miss him. Let him not think for one conceited second that I miss him. Hurt, well, I'll let him think that I'm hurt because it's true. But it was a mutual decision, wasn't it? He said no. And I said no. Almost at the same time. Practically simultaneously.
No.
No.
As simple as that.
I linger by the living room window, staring down into the street where a few lost souls are prowling. I think one of them might be one of those crazy friars from down the street. They have their God. They have someone to go home to.
I was meant to, too. This apartment was meant to finally become a home. I wanted Rachel here. So many things were meant to be different. She was supposed to put me back together piece by piece. Nurture me back to health. But instead I am left to my own devices and, well. I squeeze my fist. Feel the painkillers locked inside. Well, well. That's just a fucking stupid move on everyone's part, isn't it?
I packed for the first few shows yesterday and I found a shirt of Rachel's. It still smelled like her. The memories of her are fading. I don't want to forget, but her face is getting blurred.
I'm sorry.
It's too easy to pretend that I'm turning love into hate. Too damn easy. And Kurt didn't fume in jealousy when I walked off with some girl. I'm just wasting my time trying to hurt him like an attention sick child.
He talked to me. So fucking glad he talked to me.
So pathetic.
Stay away, stay away, stay –
I knock the pills down with the vodka.
"There you are," a soft male voice comes from behind me, and I look over my shoulder. Oh. I forgot.
"You're still here," I observe. The shadows fall on the guy's naked form, and he stands alluringly by the couch, a seductive smile on his lips. I gaze around the room, make sure things are still in place. "Haven't stolen anything, I hope."
He scoffs. "Honey, I don't give a shit about this crap." He's got a lisp. He's that type: an effeminate fag. He reminded me of Rachel when I first saw him last night, they somehow move in that same, feminine way. Like dancers. "I've been sleeping since you, uh. Wore me out. But I'm ready for more if you are."
I assess the situation. Think of the way he groans. He's not so feminine then. Full on male, musky and masculine. Reminding me of someone else instead. In my bed. In my big goddamn bed that I have all to myself.
I set the drink on the windowsill and unzip my fly. "Get on your knees, then."
He walks over, the light hitting his face – forgotten his name, but he's beautiful in that utterly insignificant way – and he smiles. "My pleasure, sir." He drops down onto his knees. My hands settle in his short, brown hair, almost the exact color I wanted.
"You'll do," I say, voice hoarse.
He'll do. For tonight.
Roll an imaginary wedding band around my finger. Glad we made it this far, baby. Sure's been worth it. Sure it has.
The private jet isn't ours ours, but it is ours for now. It seats ten passengers: five on each side of the aisle. The pilot and co-pilot shook our hands at the airport and said how excited they were to have been hired, and they then tried to engage me in conversation about the Longthorn model we'll be flying on this tour, but Lauren was quick to lead them to the side and let them in on the 'Don't disturb Mr. Anderson' rule.
Now we're about to start landing in Baltimore. It's been a short flight of less than two hours. A car will be waiting for us. Take us straight to the arena. The gear will be all set up for us – the crew got there this morning. We did a few crew practices last week. The kids should know the drill, and we should have the songs figured out for live performances. Now tour passes hang around our necks like collars on dogs, 'All Access' and 'Diamonds and Pearls tour 1977' written on them. I hide mine beneath my shirt, but Lauren says I hardly need one. People will know who I am, anyway.
It's a whole new different type of tour this time. No more playing poker with the roadies. I'll consider myself a humanitarian if I even learn the roadies' names or set foot on their bus.
The album went straight to number two. Lauren said that we'll be number one next week.
Brittany is sitting in front of me, hanging across the aisle as she incessantly talks to her girlfriend, Santana, who's already informed us all seven times that she has never flown before, and she seems extremely excited about now getting to experience it. I've always liked Santana, the little I've seen of her. A hippie dreamer like Brittany is, but with a sharper tongue.
In front of the flower power couple are Sam and Mercedes. Why Mercedes has to tag along when we'll be back in New York in a few nights anyway is beyond me, but I guess that Sam just wants her here. Our first ever live show is tonight. It's a big event for all of us. Jeff and Lauren are bickering behind me, Roderick sits across the aisle from me, buzzing with nerves, the poor fool, and nearest to the cockpit are Kurt and Dave. Kurt, from what I can see, is reading a book in silence. He's the only one not trying to talk over everyone else, or, well – Kurt and I are the only ones keeping quiet.
Everyone else is excited.
"I'm so glad there's another couple on tour with us," Brittany says, clutching Santana's hand and staring at Mercedes. "It's good to see others' love, don't you think? It strengthens your own."
Behind me, Jeff says, "No, Lauren, South America is not just one big jungle. We do have cities, you know. And juntas. Lots of juntas."
"We're mostly couples!" Mercedes laughs good-naturedly, and Brittany glances towards the back where Lauren and Jeff are arguing.
"Mercedes, honey, they're not..." Brittany says with a sympathetic smile that it's truly sad if that's what Mercedes defines as love.
"No, no, I mean Kurt and Dave!" Mercedes elaborates, causing Dave to pause his conversation with Sam and look enquiringly at Mercedes. Kurt's picked out his name too, looking over his shoulder questioningly.
Brittany's expression brightens up. I thought she knew. Well, she isn't the most observant person, truth be told. She's too preoccupied with her fairytale thoughts to take much notice of anything else. "That's lovely!" she chirps, and I focus on looking out of the window, at the ground below us that's gradually coming closer as we lose altitude. Cities beyond cities beyond cities. Let everyone be told, then. That he's not mine. "You're homosexuals like us! I had no idea! Congratulations!"
I muffle an involuntary burst of laughter. Only Brittany would walk around congratulating people on their sexual orientations. I wonder what I'd get if I told her. A huge party, perhaps? A present of some kind? A song titled 'Blaine Likes Boys Too and I Think It's Swell'?
The silence tells me that the gay couple are trying to grasp Brittany's well wishes, but she just goes on with, "How long have you been together?"
"Um." A hesitant voice. Dave is scratching the side of his neck. "Two years and... four months now?" He looks to Kurt for validation.
"Something like that," Kurt agrees, nodding.
Brittany's completely enthralled and misses their obvious discomfort. I'm equally enthralled. Monogamy heaven, take two. "How did you meet? Santana here found me." She nods towards her girlfriend lovingly, and Santana flashes a proud smile at everyone, a 'damn right I did!'
Kurt sees me looking. "Well, uh." He drops his gaze. "I was working in a bar in the Castro District in San Francisco, and Dave came in one night, and we hit it off, and well. Here we are."
"That's not how it happened," Dave laughs.
"Roughly it did."
"Not really."
"Vaguely," Kurt says impatiently.
"I chased you for weeks. Weeks. I was hanging around the bar like a lovesick puppy while you just gave me the brush off." Brittany giggles appreciatively, and Kurt looks anything but pleased. "Mason had to give me pointers after a grand speech that I could piss off if my intentions weren't noble."
"So what happened?" Santana now asks eagerly.
Dave looks over, having been staring at Kurt in slight annoyance. We're all looking their way, and he seems surprised, like he's not sure what to say.
"He wore me down, didn't he?" Kurt jokes, flashing a smile at us and reaching out to clutch Dave's hand. "And it's been strong and steady since."
Brittany awws, being the romantic she is. Dave's shoulders are tense, but he smiles at Kurt. The lovesick fool. Kurt pulls his hand back when the others are focused on Santana's tale of how she met Brittany, and Kurt goes back to his book. Dave picks up a conversation with Sam.
Fuck them and their relationship problems and their desire to work on those problems. If Kurt chose that over me, then clearly what I had to offer was a lousy deal in his eyes. I was spoiled goods. And now I have to sit here, watching them trying to act like the dream couple they once were.
Like I never had a claim on him at all. Like I didn't matter, and if I did, he's busy pretending that I didn't, and that's – well that's just fine. If it's that easy for him to pretend that it was really nothing.
Brittany starts singing as we lose altitude, and Jeff joins in happily, and when we land in Baltimore, most of the guys are singing, "You started this fire down in my soul, now can't you see it burning out of control," doing disco dance moves with their hands and all of it, cackling hysterically as they take the piss out of the music we're opposing.
The plane bounces and slows down, and the guys cheer and laugh and clap. "Oh, there are limos waiting for us!" Brittany says giddily, peering out of her window. "Some press too! I feel so important!"
Kurt reads his book, and I focus on being angry or bitter or anything other than sad. Because that's the worst part. When I'm just sad.
I settle on being bitter. It feels like the best option, all things considered, and thanks to it, our first show goes well. I think. If I cared enough, I'd even be pleased.
I've never been the type to be excited about walking on stage, but actually doing it is not at all as repulsive as I recall it as having been. I just don't give a flying fuck what they think anymore. The crowd's wild – not the reaction I was expecting after Brittany's supporting set. Her music is mellow, likely to make you cry, not riot. But it's a different kind of wild from The Warblers days when underwear would get thrown at us and there'd be hysterical sobbing and deafening screaming. Now we get enthusiastic applause and cheering. It sounds like appreciation. That's nice. Thanks. Three fucking years too late, but that's sweet.
I'm the last to get on stage. No horror, no stage fright. I see Roderick behind the drum kit, looking damn excited, Jeff's on my left grinning wolfishly, and Sam on my right looks like he is back to where he belongs.
And thousands of people are taking us in with their beady eyes. The arena cheers enthusiastically: the people on the floor, standing in masses and masses, then at the sides where there's seating, rising up row after row, and curving to the back of the arena where the seats meet somewhere in the darkness. Not too small or too big – eleven, twelve thousand people. The Warblers pulled crowds like this before we died.
"I'm Blaine Anderson, and these are The Pips. This is our first ever show. Thanks for coming out," I say into the microphone simply. None of Seb's obnoxious 'How you doing, Baltimore?!'s. They cheer even more.
It almost feels like cheating, starting from the top, but at least I got something out of The Warblers. At least I got something from that fucking mess, and it doesn't feel weird to be back on stage but without Nick behind me. That when I look back, I see Roderick with his glasses and a hat on, not Nick with his bandanna and vest and friendly smile. Don't miss those days. At all.
"A one, a two, a one two three four," Sam says, and we kick into our first song. The music fills the arena, and it's stupid, I think. All these people paying to hear us live.
From the sidelines, Lauren watches intently. Dave's got his whole film crew there too, the lenses zooming in and out and focusing on different people. They've been filming us all night – first show jitters. They wanted to interview me too, but I dodged the bullet and let Roderick do it instead. I know I owe the documentary crew at least one in depth interview, but they'll have to catch me first. Oh, the suckers will have to try.
Brittany and Santana are looking on, swaying, Brittany singing along. She'll come on soon to do backup vocals the way she does on the album. And Mercedes's smiling, well that's fucking rare, and we do Rampant, Royal Blood and Piccadilly in a flash. We've got thirteen songs on the album, and I'll play twelve of them, so we've made extended versions of the shorter songs to make sure no one feels cheated by the set not lasting long enough.
Brittany soon comes on, and we do two of the three songs she sings on. The crowd seems besotted with her, and I told you, didn't I – I said that I'll make a star out of you. Her album's coming out at the end of summer. She'll shine so brightly.
I ignore the fact that Kurt is watching us play when Brittany and I sing Bruises. I busy myself detaching the lyrics from their context as much as I can until it's just something I sing, something about the taste of cigarettes in a guilt-ridden kiss. And when I switch guitars after the song, the audience cheering after having sung along to every word and the album's only been out for a damn week, I look to the side again and Kurt is smoking, now standing slightly away from the other on-lookers. He seems unnerved. I don't care.
After we're done with Paradox, turning it from a four-minute song to a seven-minute epic during which Sam does an amazing guitar solo that's mostly improvised, Kurt seems to have taken off. I try not to think about it for the rest of the show, but he's nowhere to be seen when we walk off for the encore break. Lauren is beaming that we're playing fucking well, and Roderick is shivering from adrenalin. Kurt's nowhere to be seen at all. Coward. Stupid coward. God, I hope he's alright.
We do Five Close Calls and then, of course, Crimson Gone because it's on the radio, and it's the song that gets the biggest reaction. Someone yells, "Play Alienation!" right before we do the last song, and I count it as a victory that we're about to wrap it up when I hear someone demand a Warblers song for the first time. Do us a favor and shoot yourself in the head, Warblers loving asshole, you've got the wrong fucking band.
The asshole fan included, then, it goes well. It goes really well. The audience loved it. I'm not smiling, but I could smile were I so inclined. I've got a good band. At least something's going as it should.
We walk straight off stage, getting led into long corridors by venue coordinators, down a flight of stairs, left, down the corridor, right, through double doors, up a flight of stairs, hurried steps, and soon we vanish into the limo that is waiting for us. No sticking around, no packing up the gear. Not for the band. Not for Blaine Anderson and The Pips.
The people that have managed to exit the arena are singing Crimson amongst themselves as we slide past in the car, protected by the tinted windows. Sam laughs brightly, an arm around Mercedes's shoulders. She isn't objecting to his sweaty embrace. "That was magical, right?" Sam asks enthusiastically. The band and Mercedes agree, the four of them buzzing the same kind of energy.
My family's happy tonight. Well, good that someone is. I can feel that much through this muddled cloud of ugly, ugly love that I don't want anymore. Not tonight and tomorrow.
Our luggage is waiting for us at the hotel, and we kick back in the lavish suite that Jeff and Roderick share. We start drinking. It doesn't take too long for our numbers to multiply by three or four as whoever we know in Baltimore that gets our okay finds their way to the hotel. We don't see the road crew or any of the lowly documentary crew – they're all on the bus to Philly with the gear. Good riddance. See you tomorrow. Only those who travel on the plane are staying the night, and Lauren, Dave and Kurt appear eventually, everything having been sorted out at the venue.
Kurt takes one look at me and quickly disappears into the crowded room with that same nervous edge he had when I saw him during the show. I don't go investigate – he wouldn't tell me, anyway. I simply focus on getting drunk off my face because that's what this occasion requires. I stop in the bathroom to pop codeine pills down my throat. It's midnight now, and I know what day it is, I know, I know, and I don't want to deal with it. Not tonight. You're asking too much of me.
Dave comes to congratulate me on a great opening night. I know that he and Kurt are sharing a hotel room. Of course they are, only makes sense, but I'm not sure if Lauren's gotten them one or two beds. I could've told her to make sure they have their own beds, but then she'd say some kind of uncomfortable truth that I wouldn't want to deal with. Maybe she got them two. Lauren's smart. She wouldn't want to start rumors of us harboring fags in our ranks.
But the number of beds doesn't matter because they can push the beds together or use just one of them. Love finds a way. It always does.
Kurt's talking to Mercedes and Sam, and they seem to be enjoying each other's company, Kurt talking animatedly. Too animatedly, a slight giveaway that he's holding something back. They can't see it. I can. He still laughs, and it occurs to me how rarely I see that anymore. I swear he used to laugh more.
Cry, cry, baby.
I need a bottle of something strong.
Roderick's off his face – an introduction to tour life – and someone says that the hotel bar on the second floor has a piano, so a bunch of us grab our bottles and pill and powder bags and head down to investigate. The good kids – Sam, Brittany, Mercedes et cetera – get left behind. Even Lauren's drunk as she tags along. Wow. She really must have thought the show went well.
We get an assistant manager to open the door for us, and they're giggling like fools, the dozen or so of us, and I don't know anyone's names but it hardly matters. Someone starts playing Queen songs on the piano, and I laugh under my breath when the guy playing starts bellowing out, "You suck my blood like a leech," angry and bitter, just the way the song should be sung, just the way all songs should be sung. I'm not nearly as wasted as I'd like.
"You know what they say about this guy," the guy sharing my table says confidentially. "Freddie Mercury. You know what they say."
"No. What do they say?"
"That he's a fag. Yeah. I know. And people still listen to them. Can you believe that?"
"No, man. Really can't. Sickening shit, right?"
"Revolting."
"Yeah. Yeah. Fuck off, you cunt," I hiss, get up and wander off in search of better company. I think like Catullus: I will sodomise you and stuff your gob with my cock. And I don't know if it's the drugs or – No, can't be – The booze, maybe? The combination? Lack of sleep? Whatever it is, the room suddenly spins in a weird way, and I come to a stop. Everything blacks out momentarily. I try to shake it off.
"Blaine. You okay, man?" someone says, hands on my shoulders.
"Piss off," I mutter, trying to push them off.
"Is he –"
"No, I don't think – Can someone get his manager?"
"Lauren."
"Yeah, Lauren! Anybody seen –"
"I've got this. Just leave it to me." A body presses to my side, an arm securing itself around my waist to support me. "Come on, B. Come on now."
"I can fucking walk," I object, but let myself be led away anyway.
Suddenly the room's no longer full of the dark wooden furniture of the bar, and the banging of the piano sounds distant. The walls are white instead. The tiles too. A kitchen. A glass of water is pressed into my hand, and I clutch a counter with my other as I gulp down the water, the sudden dizzy spell evaporating, the cool water soothing my throat. Reality comes whooshing back in an unpleasant way, everything becoming more focused. I don't know what happened.
Kurt's staring at me, his arms crossed over his chest. He looks kind of pissed off.
"What?" I prompt. I finish the glass, closing my eyes and pinching the bridge of my nose. Try to get air in.
"Nothing. I get it: first night of tour. You deserve to have a good time." He couldn't sound more sarcastic if he tried. Yeah, what is he? My keeper?
"Look, I've hardly taken anything," I tell him angrily before he can even start. Let's rewind to him snorting god knows what during The Warblers days.
"It doesn't seem like it."
"Even if I snorted all the fucking coke in this hotel, I don't need you to look after me!" I snarl, my guts throbbing with nausea. Not today. I can't deal with this today, wondering if it means something, that he worries or gets pissed off.
He left me. He left me, and she left me, and nobody wanted me in the end. And today. Today.
I rub my face and try to fight off the memories crashing on me like a tidal wave.
"It's the first night of tour," he says again. "And look at what a mess you are already. I just thought you had figured out moderation by now."
"I've hardly taken anything," I repeat, and it's true. But they add up over days and days, all the chemicals and never sleeping anymore. I've never had dizzy spells before. In front of everyone too. Fuck.
I take him in, standing in the hotel bar's kitchen with me. Think of him smoking nervously during our show. I might eye-fuck him – accidentally, of course – because he becomes agitated, a faint blush emerging on his cheeks. I think of him beneath me, staring up at me with blown pupils, his hair a mess and cheeks flushed. Those breathless, vulnerable gasps when I've got him good. I miss you. I miss you, I miss you. God, fuck off.
"I'd just hate to think it's anything to do with me," he says at long last, drawing out every syllable like it's taking a lot of effort to say it.
"What?"
He shrugs slightly and avoids eye contact. "I don't know. I just – Some of the songs on the album... just resonate."
I almost laugh. So is that why he's doing his best to avoid me? Because the songs hit too close to home? He never wanted to know. When I tried to tell him, he made it more than obvious that he didn't want to know anything. Well, he doesn't have the right to resent me for those songs. I can sing whatever I want. Even the truth that he had no interest in.
"You think I'm being self-destructive because of you, and now you feel guilty. Huh. I did wonder why the fuck you'd even care if I passed out at the bar. Should've known it's about your conscience." I scoff and try to fight off the anger.
"Silly of me to assume something like that. You're right. It's just you taking artistic liberties, lyrical exaggeration and –"
"I mean everything that I sing," I cut him off, and an awkward silence lands on us. That's not what he wanted to hear.
"Do you really?" he asks quietly. "Because you say things in those songs you never said to me, not even when we were –"
"Would it have changed anything?"
"No. No, of course not."
"So what difference does it make?" I ask, hanging my head. What makes him think the songs are about him, anyway? The small references only the two of us could ever get? I didn't mean it to be a bunch of whiny letters to him, although that's what he's taken it as. No. No, it's about purifying my soul, just getting my secrets out of my system. Not about him. It's about a public confessional, a recantation of what I thought I had. "It's the first night on tour, and maybe – maybe I'm in a bit of a mess tonight, sure. But I deserve to be. And not because we're on tour or because of the things I sing. We just – God." I pause to take in a breath. "We met. Three years ago today. And it's not something I feel like celebrating or remembering."
It's pathetic. It's sad. I know. Tenth of June, 1974. First day of tour. I remember wanting to smash Pete's face in and renounce music altogether just to avoid having to deal with my band. Now it's the tenth of June, 1977, first night of tour. So much has changed. So little has changed. It's important to remember significant dates. Rachel taught me that too.
I remember that day. He was wearing this... this t-shirt that only came down to his belly button. He was reading Hemingway and doing drugs and drinking too much and sleeping around, and he was stubborn and young and fierce, god, he was so fucking beautiful, and he never took any bullshit from me. Never. The only one who…
He looks confused. What have I got to hide, anyway? Feign indifference when even hearing me sing songs about us makes him too uncomfortable to watch the band perform? He knows how I feel. I'm shoving it in his face on a nightly basis now, and my feelings. My heart and what it contains. All of that is even more obvious when I try to mistreat him.
"I didn't." He pauses and looks… "I didn't think you'd remember."
"What?"
He slowly uncrosses his arms. "Our anniversary." His voice is faint.
I stare. He remembered. He knew. He knows.
The urge to suddenly take a step closer and kiss him is overwhelming. Three years. Three years, and I'm not even allowed to kiss him. Three years, and I know that if I tried to kiss him, he'd shoot me down. He's happy with Dave. So obviously happy. Sure. With the forced smiles and barely talking, and still it's better than what I offered.
He clears his throat. Looks uncomfortable. "Look, I - I gotta head back out. Drink some more water, will you?"
"No. No, we're talking about this!" I say angrily, stepping up to him quickly, which proves to be a mistake. The world just tilts, swinging around its axis, and I need to close my eyes to steady myself. I shake it off, and he's still here, looking concerned but no longer intervening.
"You should sit down," he says.
"No." I study his face, the slight alarm in his eyes. He knew what day it is. He's always known. Been counting the years, maybe the months.
"Blaine, you're drunk."
"I'm not. You just wish I was." He counts the years and helps me when I overdo the recreational poisons. That must be love. In our world, in this little bubble world, that must be enough to call it love. "I know what it means because it means the same to me, it means –"
The door to the kitchen opens. Jeff walks in with a smile, but then stops abruptly when he sees that I'm with Kurt.
"Oh. Sorry for –"
"Jeff, can you see to it that Blaine gets to bed?" Kurt asks, backing away from me like from a ticking time bomb.
"Um –"
"You're not getting away that easily! Can't we just fucking talk about this?!" I demand, feeling desperate. If he only stayed. If only. I swear he'd see things my way soon enough. "Goddammit, you don't get to walk out on me on our fucking anniversary!" I hiss angrily, and Kurt reacts instantly, saying, "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Oh, come on. You think Jeff doesn't know?" I laugh. Kurt stares at me in horror. "What? You don't think we've been obvious most of the time?"
Kurt's mouth opens slightly, but nothing comes out. He looks furious. Scared. Jeff looks like he feels out of place – must be a first.
"Thanks for that, Blaine," Kurt says through gritted teeth. He rushes out with a muttered swearword, the door swinging behind him. I laugh to myself, trying to keep the world upright as all the energy I spent trying to convince Kurt that I was feeling alright has now drained, and the world looks wonky again.
Jeff's arm is around my shoulders, holding me to him firmly. "Estás en problemas, hermano," he tells me, shaking his head and sighing. "Let's get you to bed, man. Come on."
Am I in trouble? Why on earth would I be in trouble? It's just the truth. That's all. And I for one, most certainly for one, think it's about time other people started telling the truth too.