Gus (30 page)

It's ten-thirty and I'm lying in bed. I should be sleeping because I'm helping Audrey with a big presentation at work tomorrow morning. Instead, I'm listening. Gustov didn't come out of his room tonight for dinner. I haven't seen him at all today and I feel a little off because of it, like I can't end my day without seeing his face.

And then I hear something that makes me strip back the covers and put my feet to floor. Before I know it, I've inserted my hearing aid and I'm standing in my pajamas in the hallway in front of his door.
 

Just standing.
 

And listening.

He's singing. His voice is barely audible. More humming than words. But he's
singing
.
 

I sit down next to his door with my back against the wall and I listen.
 

The humming continues and meshes with the guitar. He strums over and over, each time changing something, fine tuning. Pretty soon the humming gives way to words. A verse at a time, but I swear it's like listening to the creation of magic. Pure magic.
 

His voice has invaded me. I'm not just hearing it. I'm taking it in through all five senses.
 

It's intimate in a way I can't even begin to explain.
 

It's not the tactile sensation normally associated with intimacy; it's cerebral. All in my mind. It's steeping and brewing within me.
 

It all morphs and evolves into an entire song within a matter of hours. And when the music finally descends into silence, I feel so lucky that I was here to witness this, to experience it, to share it with him. Even if he had no idea.

I glance through my door at the clock on my nightstand, and the glaring red numbers tell me it's almost three in the morning. I need to go to bed, but I don't want to let this moment go. I want to curl up right here on the floor next to his door just so I can be close to him. So I close my eyes and I give myself another few seconds to linger in the dissipating magic before I stand.

Before I walk back to my bedroom, I walk to the kitchen. There's something I need to do.
 

I return to Gustov's door and set a sticky note on the floor, along with a plate and glass. I knock and then take the three steps required to put me behind my bedroom door.

I hear his door open just after mine closes.

(Gus)

I open my door to find a plate filled with saltines slathered in peanut butter and a glass of grape juice on the floor in the hallway. My stomach growls in demanding appreciation at the sight of them. I haven't eaten since lunch. When I pick up the plate, there's a sticky note stuck to the hardwood floor underneath it. It makes me smile.
Eat this. You didn't have dinner. And thank you. That song filled my soul tonight.

She was here, listening, the whole time. I want to knock on her door. I want to hug her. I want to thank her for sharing the past few hours with me.
 

I don't know how to explain it, but the way the song came together, I knew I wasn't alone. I haven't written like that since Bright Side was around. I always feel her in my heart these days, because that's where she lives. I walk around with her inside me every day. And it doesn't hurt anymore. But the presence I felt tonight wasn't internal. It was physical. Tangible. Like someone was in the room with me,
feeding
me. Little did I know, she was just on the other side of the door.

Filling
my
soul.

Friday, December 8

(Gus)

I've been writing nonstop this week. Going through Bright Side's stash on her laptop has started my creative juices flowing again. I've even used a few of her melodies and choruses as a springboard to get me started. Other songs have grown out of the feelings she conveyed in lyrics she'd written. Not the words themselves necessarily, but
the emotion behind the words
.
Those are my favorites. I'm also drawing inspiration from the sticky notes Impatient's been leaving on my door—I find them every morning. Most mornings, she's already left for work or gone for a run by the time I open my door. It's never more than a couple of words but it lets me know she's been listening. That I'm not alone. That she digs what I'm doing. Or that sometimes she doesn't. I should probably just invite her in at night when I'm working, but half of me is scared it will stunt my mojo. The other half is scared I'll choke altogether in her presence, because she's one of the only people I find myself looking to for approval, probably because it's so damn hard to earn it. She doesn't fling compliments freely in the direction of everyone around her; she picks and chooses, and when she says something, she means it. There's no bullshit with her. For now, I like knowing she's just on the other side of the door, listening. Her presence is a palpable force in the room, driving me to dig deeper. To do better. To do epic. I haven't felt that in such a long time. So for now, I've got two of my favorite girls pushing me, bullying me, cheering me on in their own physically non-existent, but emotionally so-fucking-present way. It's eerie, but it works. It more than works. It's fueling me.
 

Music is a visceral experience if you're doing it right.

I'm doing it so fucking right this week
.

Impatient's note this morning reads,
Song 2. Chorus. Perfect now.

I grab a pad of sticky notes and a Sharpie from my nightstand, because that's where I keep them now, and write back a reply.
Thanks. It's getting there.

Saturday, December 9

(Scout)

It's early. The sun's coming up. I'm headed out to run. When I open my bedroom door, Gustov's door is open, too. I peer through the doorway, but he's not inside.

Then I walk into the living room and I find out why. He's outside, pacing the deck. I see him through the sliding glass door. Back and forth. Back and forth. And his lips are moving. He's talking to himself and he looks tense, distraught. As I approach, I can hear his words through the glass door.

"You don't need one. You don't want one. You don't need one. You don't want one." That's what he's muttering to himself.
 

Confused, I open the door. "Gustov? Everything all right?"

He's startled out of his internal conversation. He raises his head to look at me, but doesn't say anything. He's fidgety. He's never fidgety. He's always laid-back and fairly calm these days.

"What's wrong?"

He stops pacing and puts his hands on his hips. He inhales deeply once and then drops his chin. "I quit smoking a few days ago."

"That's great," I offer.

His eyes flash to mine and he looks a little irritated and a little helpless. "It is
so not
fucking great. I want a cigarette so bad.
So
fucking bad." And he's pacing again.

"Maybe you just need some oral stimulation." And as soon as the words are out of my mouth I know how bad it sounded. Really bad.

The pacing has stopped and he's smirking at me now. "Jesus. Did you just say what I think you just said? When did we segue this conversation to BJs?"
 

Well, at least I took his mind off his withdrawal. My cheeks are burning. "Gum. Toothpicks.
That
kind of oral stimulation. Like a substitute. When I quit smoking, I chewed a lot of gum. I know it sounds stupid, but it helped. I've got some in my purse. I'll go get you a piece."

When I return, he takes the piece of gum, unwraps it, and pops it into his mouth. "Thanks. Though unless this is jam-packed with an intense fucking amount of nicotine, I don't think it's gonna do shit for me."

I raise my eyebrows. "Suck it up, buttercup."

He shakes his head, but he's smiling. "That's how it is?"

I nod and start down the stairs toward the beach. "That's
exactly
how it is. If I can do it, you can do it."

"I can't do it!" he calls after me.

"Yes you can!" I yell back.

(Gus)

I calmed down a bit after Impatient left and my cravings subsided. I don't think it was the gum, but I was able to go back to bed with Spare Ribs and sleep for a few hours.

When I open my bedroom door around noon there are a couple dozen packs of gum on the floor—every brand and flavor imaginable. And there's sticky note stuck to one of them.
Suck it up.
:)

That damn smiley face is sneering at me.

"Suck it up," I repeat. And then I put the sticky note on my bathroom mirror so I have the reminder.

Wednesday, December 13

(Gus)

"Hey, asswipe, what's shakin'?"

"Come over. I've got sixteen solid songs."

There's a long pause on the other end and then, "Seriously?"

I'm nodding my head dramatically even though he can't see me. "Seriously."

Another long pause. "I'll be over in ten."
 

Ten minutes later, I'm standing in the driveway wishing I was smoking a cigarette, but most importantly
not
smoking a cigarette because I'm fucking determined to kick this shit and it's already been a week, when Franco pulls up to our house. He gets out of his truck and his grin is huge, even by Franco standards. His headphones are hanging around his neck, a pair of drumsticks are tucked into his back pocket, and he's carrying a case of Modelo.
 

I point to the beer. "I see you brought lunch."

"I like to call it inspiration," he says. He actually is pretty damn creative when he drinks, but I don't say anything.

He knows the refinement and fine-tuning that needs to happen now is up to me and him. It used to be Bright Side I relied on. He knows those are big shoes to fill, but Franco hears music with his heart. He gets amped up about it. I need him this time.

We stop in the kitchen on the way through to my room. Franco grabs the Tupperware container of Impatient's homemade cookies from the counter and two oranges from the fruit bowl and places it all on top of the box of beer and starts walking.

I'm staring at the mixtures of tastes he's clutching.

"What, man?" he questions.

"That's fucking disgusting. You're seriously going to eat oranges and cookies while you're drinking beer?"

He doesn't miss a beat. "Yeah."

I shake my head. "Dude, that's a bad combo. That's like toothpaste and OJ."

"No way. Scout's cookies go with everything."

"Sure you don't want a glass of milk? I'm a dunker," I say as I open up the cabinet and pull out a glass.

He laughs. "You're such a fucking rock star." That was sarcasm at its best, but after he watches me pour a tall glass of the cold stuff, he clears his throat. "Pour me one, too."

It's my turn to laugh. "You're such a fucking rock star," I mock. Then I pull open the drawer next to the fridge, looking for a straw. "You want a bendy straw, dude?"
 

His face lights up at the sight of the blue and white plastic straw. And then it fades quickly as he reins it in, because that was a lot of damn excitement for a grown man to exhibit over a straw. He clears his throat again. "Yeah. Sure. I mean, only if you're gonna have one."

I stick one in each glass and flex the tips. "Yup. Bendy straws are the shit, dude."

He immediately takes a drink through it when I hand him the glass. And then he smiles that shit-eating grin of his. "Bendy straws are the shit. Now let's go do rock star stuff."

After milk and cookies we get down to business for the next eighteen hours. The sun sets and rises again before we quit. The beer is gone. The songs are better than they were before. And Franco is stoked.

I love it when Franco's stoked.

He's always straightforward with me, so his excitement is also approval. It means that we're onto something here.
 

I'm so relieved. I've been living under this shroud of my own disappointment and doubt and disregard for almost a year now. I know we're not home free, since we still need to play this for the rest of the band and for MFDM, but I don't feel like a burden anymore. I feel like Gus again.
 

When Franco leaves, I'm home alone. I grab my Sharpie and pad of sticky notes and I write a note and stick it to Impatient's door before I go to sleep. It reads,
Songs are done. I couldn't have done it without you. Thank you.

Thursday, December 14

(Gus)

There are two sticky notes on my door when I open it. It's a long message and it makes me smile.
I didn't do anything. I listened. That's it. You, on the other hand, made me feel. Feel more than I probably ever have. I felt happiness, sadness, fear, and anger, but most of all I felt hope. I've never been so honored to eavesdrop.

I don't need praise. Never have. I've always been more about just giving it my all, doing my best, and pushing myself creatively.
 

But her note? I'd play for her every day to hear that over and over again—to make her feel hope.

Saturday, December 16

(Gus)

I knock loudly, push her bedroom door open an inch, and shout through the crack. "Cock-a-doodle-do! Rise and shine, Impatient!"
 

"What?" is her sleep-scratchy response. "No roosters allowed. Go away."

I push the door open further and peek in, making sure she's covered up so I don't embarrass her. "Not gonna happen. Someone's buying a car today. And her name is Scout MacKenzie." I inhale sharply, a fake gasp. "What a coincidence,
that's you
."

She opens her eyes and looks at the alarm clock on her nightstand. "At seven-thirty in the morning?"

I nod and smile. "Yup. Don't sass me, dude. Get your ass in the shower. You're skipping your run this morning. I found you a car in Carlsbad. We need to get on the road soon. Franco's picking us up and giving us a lift. I'm going to wake up Pax."

The truth is I didn't really sleep last night because I was too excited about this. I'm forcing them to join in on my mission.

"I hate you," she growls. I'm not gonna even lie, it sounded pretty hot, especially since she was smiling when she said it.