2005-02-22 - 1:06 p.m.

Chapter 3

Since I've been kinda prolific lately, I'm gonna go ahead and post ch.3. If you're not up-to-date on my book, here's where you can find ch.1:http://rladyofpunk.diaryland.com/050218_34.html

And ch.2:http://rladyofpunk.diaryland.com/050222_93.html

Oh, and as a footnote, I have every intention of giving the chapters clever titles, or at least putting having a sketch of the narrator on the first page of the chapter. I've already begun those but you *alas* are not priviledged to my lovely doodles because 1) my scanner is broken and 2) I don't pay for image hosting here anyway, so the scanner thing is moot. But I babble. Here's Chapter 3. It's narrated by August, a girl after my own heart (but I guess that makes sense scince I came up with her):

�You smoke too much.� Sandra tells me over breakfast.
�You bitch too much,� I reply.
Sandra glares at me. She has the cold intensity of Sharon Osborne and every bit as much faux cuddliness. If she were a character on television I would find her amusing, maybe I would even identify with her. But she�s not on t.v.- she�s our manager and she�s around 24 hours a day, ranting and nagging and acting like we�re friends when we�re not.
She thinks it�s fabulos for PR that we have a female drummer in an all male band. Sure, there have been female drummers before- like in Hole or The Donnas, but those were girl bands. We�re a guy band with a female drummer. She talks about it like we came up with this exclusively for PR. Like I didn�t see my dad playing the drums when I was little and really want him to teach me. Like we�re some fake manufactured band. Chupacabra may be a lot of things, but we�re not fake. We are four people who really like one another, and if the world can�t buy that they can suck my highly marketable ass.
�Am I alive?� Simpson asks, pushing his pancakes around.
�Probably not-� I tell him. �if you were you�d need to eat food instead of just sculpting with it.�
�Hey, I�m making the Devil�s Tower- you know, the aliens told me to. But seriously- anyone else feel like this isn�t for real?�
�Um, dude,� Alex replies, �weren�t you the one gloating to me the other day? You were all like �Alex didn�t think we�d get signed and blah blah blah and all.�
Simpson sighs heavily. When we leave he still hasn�t eaten anything.
�Oh, Simpson,� I say, putting my arm around him as we board the bus �don�t worry. You�ll be okay.�
�You know what amazes me about people?� Drew interjects �that they can be unhappy when everything is going like the most perfect it ever has.�
�Like you�re not a people?�
�I�m just sayin�.�
Drew has a point, though. Simpson�s moods are, shall we say, a bit unpredictable? He gets sad when things go well and happy when they go to shit. I think this has something to do with him being bipolar. He doesn�t like to have it brought up now, but this diagnosis came about after an unfortunate �incident� when he was 16.
You see, it was the fall of our junior year of high school, and I was the only one of us who has a car. It was a �77 Ford Courier, but that�s beside the point. What matters is that it ran and I had the liscence to drive it, so I became the ride whore. I stopped by Simpson�s house and honked a few times. Finally I got fed up and went inside. Simpson�s mom had already left for her job at the supermarket. David, Simpson�s twin brother came running down the stairs apologizing for being late. His flannel shirt was unevenly buttoned.
�Where�s Simpson?�
�I dunno- I think he�s sick. He�s been in the bathroom all morning. Can we stop for coffee on the way to school?�
And right as he said that I got this awful sinking feeling in my stomach.
�Did you check on him or anything?�
�Well I asked him how long he was gonna be in there.� David said, �but he didn�t answer so I just peed in the back yard.�
I knew exactly what was going on. I left David standing there and bolted up the stairs.
�Simpson?� I said, pounding on the bathroom door.
No answer.
So I threw myself against the door.
David was behind me.
�What the hell are you doing?�
�Gimme a hand.� I demanded.
So he did. Fortunately their home was quite old and the door not very strong, so it came off its hinges with little trouble.
And there he was-
He was barely recognizable, but it was Simpson, red hair, white t-shirt, blue jeans, collapsed on the floor... and all soaked in blood. There was red on the sink- on the walls- on the floor.
We shared a few seconds of silent horror.
�I�m gonna be sick.� David whispered.
But no- no time for that... there was so much blood I wasn�t sure where he was bleeding from. So I just plunged onto him. I flipped him over- his blank face turned up to the ceiling. I grabbed his arms- that was it- of course that was it. He hadn�t just slit his wrists- he had discected them. He had torn them open. More and more blood was coming. I stripped off my Everclear concert shirt and tore it. I was a lifegaurd the summer before and part of the training taught me how to deal with someone who was bleeding profusely.
Simpson blinked.
�Can you hear me?� I asked him.
He blinked again.
�Simpson?�
Then David came into the room with the cordless phone, crying, breathless, he asked if his brother was concious.
�I don�t know.� I said.
�I don�t know.� he repeated to the dispatcher. Then, after a pause, �yeah, she did that- trying to stop the bleeding... yeah� then, turning to me he said �they�re on their way.�
�Simpson?� I whispered to him again.
His eyes were open, but dark. I don�t think he saw- he just stared.
I heard sirens.
They got closer.
David was still sobbing, still being talked through this by the dispatcher on the phone.
�There�s so much blood...� he whispered.
There was a banging on the front door.
�Go-� I told him.
He went.
Then he came back. There were men with a stretcher and a lady with bandages. I heard her swear under her breath.
�We�ve gotta get him to the CTMC.� she told me. That was the nearest hospital- 20 miles away.
�Will he be okay?� I asked as they loaded him in the back of the ambulence.
�We�ll see,� she replied.
I didn�t like that answer at all.
�C�mon.� I told David.
The ambulace rushed off as we climbed into my old truck.
We rode in silence for about 20 minutes. I was driving far above the speed-limit but I didn�t particularly care.
�I just realized,� David said, �that you�re not wearing a shirt... you�re in your bra and you�re covered in blood.�
I glanced down. Somehow I had forgotten about that.
�Here,� he said, unbuckling his seatbelt and unbuttoning his flannel shirt. He threw it on the floor and pulled off the white undershirt he was wearing. Had I not been in a mild state of shock I never would have touched the thing, but desperate times called for desperate mesures. He buttoned his flannel shirt back up as we pulled into the hospital parking lot. I got out of my little truck and tugged on the smelly, sweat-stained undershirt as we ran into the emergency room.
A very alarmed woman asked how she could help me.
Oh, yeah, I was still soaked in blood.
�Don�t worry-� I told her- �this isn�t my blood.�
This made her look even more alarmed.
�No- it�s not like- look, it�s my friend- the ambulance just brought him here. He slit his wrists. Is he okay?�
�Umm, I�m gonna have to look into that.� she told me.
�Look into that? How many teenagers have attempted suicide this morning?�
�Look, I�m just the receptionist-� she said as she typed.
I realized I was letting the stress get the better of me.
�Here, you figure this out,� I told David, �I�m gonna go clean myself up.�
With that, I walked to the nearby bathroom.
I remembered in fourth grade there was an urban legend. You would go into the girls room and turn off the lights and chant �Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary.� Supposedly the mirror would begin to bleed and then the evil queen would apear before you. Once we thought we made it work- the mirror began to throb blood almost as soon as we turned the lights out. We ran screaming out of the bathroom. Later, when we returned to the dreaded �girls room of doom� we realized that the red, flashing EXIT sign was directly oposite of the mirror. It wasn�t Bloody Mary- it was a reflection.
Now, once again, it looked like I�d made the curse work, but once again, it was only a relection
I touched one bloody hand to my face, just to make sure the girl in the mirror mimiced my gesture. Yes, it was me. Yes, it was tall and blonde and strong-chinned.... just really bloody.
�I am the evil queen.� I said to myself.
So I began washing my hands and arms. I splashed water on my face but some of the blood had dried in my eyebrows. I scrubbed and scrubbed.
I looked in the mirror- there was still blood in my hair, soaked through the once cleanish shirt, on my jeans.... everywhere.
�Out, out, damned spot,� I whispered to the mirror, �Will these little hands never be clean?� Perhaps I was not Bloody Mary, but Lady MacBeth.
I kept scrubbing and scrubbing, and then it dawned on me to cry. I hadn�t given in until then. I was strong- I was an amazon.
But then I realized that this wasn�t just blood. This was Simpson. This was my best friend. This was his body. This was his life, all over me. I colapsed to the floor sobbing. I left a wet pinkish streak against the wall as I slid down. I cried more than I knew I could. Probably more than I ever will again in my life.
�Augy?� David knocked on the door.
I opened it.
�I�m sorry- I�m crying.� I told him.
�Don�t worry,� he said, putting his arms around me. �Don�t worry. I know... just don�t you go locking yourself in bathrooms now.�
�Is he...?�
�Unconcious.� David replied, �he�s lost a lot of blood. We�re the same type so I�m about to go up and help him out. I wanted to tell you what was going on before I went.�
�Thank you.� I sniffled.
�It�s okay,� he sniffled back.
There was a TV in the waiting area. Jerry Springer was on. I endured it until a doctor came up behind me.
�Are you the young lady who came in with the teenaged boy who slit his wrists?� he asked.
�Yes.�
�Well, there�s been a bit of a complication.�
�Oh no...�
�Nothing severe- the fellow who was all cut up recieved a transfusion from his brother and is doing better. The problem is that the one who gave the blood fainted shortly thereafter... we have him under observation. He told us there was no reason he should have been prevented from donating- do you know of anything? Previous medical conditions perhaps?�
It dawned on me that there was a 99 percent chance of David having toked up before getting ready for school. He always said he couldn�t think straight till he smoked a bowl. It was like his coffee. Then he didn�t eat breakfast, so he was probably a bit light headed. I�ve heard before of people who are stoned and hungry passing out when getting tattoos, so getting blood taken could probably do the same thing.
�Uh... no,� I replied.
�Well then it�s probably just the stress of this all. He�s concious and lucid now, we were just worried. As for the first brother. I wanted to ask a few questions about his mental health. Would you mind coming to my office?�
�Not at all.�
He led me down a corridor then gestured me into a too sterile room. The doctor removed some papers from the desk as I sat down in a sea-foam nogahide chair.
�Now the brother who fainted-�
�That�s David Simpson.�
�Yes,� He replied, checking something he had written previously �And other... David didn�t give me a full name for him.�
�That would be Christian Albert Simpson Jr.- spelled the way you�d expect.�
�And their ages?�
�Sixteen. They�re twins. Christian is the older one, but only by 5 minutes.�
�Well that�s a bit more than I needed... Now is there a family member, a parent or gaurdian?�
�Crap! Their mom- we have to call their mom!�
The doctor handed me his phone and I called the house. Fortunately she was home. She began sobbing. She said she was on her way. It dawned on me to thank God that she hadn�t tried to use the upstairs bathroom. It further dawned on me that it was going to be a bitch to clean up.
After I hung up the doctor began to question me again.
�Has Christian previously shown signs of mental distress?�
�Well, yeah, but never like this.�
�How so?�
�He�s really- you know, angsty. He plays guitar and writes songs about Jesus hating him and stuff. He gets angry pretty easy and he cries a lot, but a lot of the time he�s really laughy and jokey so I didn�t think he was depressed like this.�
�Uh-huh. Has anything stressful happened in his life recently?�
�No more than is normal in high school.�
�Is there a family history of this sort of thing?�
�I dunno. It�s just him and his brother. Their mom drinks a lot, but she�s not really crazy.�
�Uh-huh, and is there a father?�
�Well he wouldn�t have been born if there wasn�t.�
�But is he present?�
�No, he never was, from what I understand.�
The doctor duly noted all of this.
I returned to the waiting room and comforted their mother when she arrived. After a little while David returned to us, scratching the little prick on the inside of his arm.
Finally, finally, Simpson woke up.
Finally, finally, we were allowed to see him.
We all hugged him and kissed him and told him we were glad he was alive. No one was asking the million-dollar question.
He told us he was tired and needed to rest. His nurse agreed.
I paused at the door.
�Why did you do it?� I asked him.
He turned his eyes away.
�Why?� I repeated.
�Fuck you.�
I glared at him until he appologized.
�Sorry.� he whispered.
�You know you scared the shit out of us.� I told him.
�Scared the shit out of me too.�
�Are you kidding?�
�I think I died.�
�Died?�
�There was a tunnel and a light, just like they say. Then there was darkness. Then I was here.�
I sighed.
�At least you�re okay.� I told him.
�I wish I had stayed dead.�
�Please, no...�
�You don�t understand.�
�No I don�t. But I do really care about you,� I told him. �I will never, never, as long as we live, understand you, but I will always care. So please, please don�t do that again.�
�It�s not that simple...� he replied.
�I don�t understand.�
�You just said that.�
�But what do you mean it�s not that simple?�
�You ever feel like it�s a crushing effort to just stay alive?�
�No.�
�Then you�re right, you never will understand.�
I stood there for another second, my blue eyes locked with his green ones.
�August?�
�Yes?�
�I really didn�t mean to hurt you.�
�How would I not be hurt? We�ve been best friends like, forever.�
�What about Alex?�
�Yeah, you, me and Alex. We�ve been best friends as long as we can remember, right? We just called him on the phone. Tomorrow we�ll all be back- David and me and him.�
�August?� He said, reaching out one white bandaged arm.
I took his hand in mine. The bandages went up past his elbows and down to his fingers. If I may say one thing for Simpson it�s that he doesn�t believe in doing anything by half.
�Yes?�
�Love me?�
�Yes.�
�Thank you.�
With that I hugged him and with that I left. On the drive home I thought really hard. About the way I had started dating Alex at the beginning of the school year. About the way Simpson and Alex- who have known each other since the first grade, didn�t hang out as much as they used to. I thought that it adds up, but jealously has got to be the dumbest reason ever to kill yourself.
I pulled off at the convinience store at the crossroads.
�Gimme a pack of Camel Lights.� I told the clerk.
�How old are you?� he raised an eyebrow.
�How old do I look?� I winked.
Believe it or not, this routine was relatively effective. I�m glad they didn�t have as many cops posing as convinience store workers back then as they do now.
I smoked my first cigarette when I was 14. By the time I was 16 I was pretty well adicted. In all the chaos of my big, hempy family, I never got caught. Now I�m 22. I�m 22 and on tour with my best friends. It�s a sunny summer day, but Simpson is wearing a long-sleeved shirt. He has never fully explained what happened back when we were 16, and I don�t bring it up because it�s such a sore subject.
I actually don�t want to talk about it that much either. I mean, I wonder what goes on in that boy�s head, but reminiscing about it like I was just doing makes me sad. Right now I�m kinda bummed from telling that story, but I think you need to hear it to understand Simpson. I mean, he�s smart and funny and full of shit, but underneath all that, he�s also really unstable and even more hurt.
One thing I am greatful for is that Simpson does wear long shirts. He doesn�t sing about suicide being fun like some musicians do. There are all these people out there thinking a rock-and-roll suicide is the most glamourous thing ever. I don�t think a lot of people who write songs or people who kill themselves understand how really not glamourous it is. There was nothing fabulous or rock-and-roll about the night that Simpson�s mother and I were on our hands and knees, trying to get the blood out of the grout on the bathroom floor. We never completely did. Gallons of bleach and wrinkled fingertips and we never got all that blood out. It turned brown and then the mold began to cover it. Finally she sold the house. I bet the new owners don�t want to know why the bathroom is never clean.
All this reminiscing reminds me that I need to check Simpson�s pills. Sometimes he doesn�t take them, so I check every week or so to see if the bottle is a bit closer to empty, and then, when it is, I check to make sure a new bottle replaces it. Since Simpson and Alex are playing Sega, I figure now is a good time to check. I head back to the wall nook Simpson calls a bedroom. Alex�s wall nook is right across from it, but unlike Simpson, Alex can actually lie down in his. Simpson is about 5 inches too tall for it, so he just stores stuff there. The pills are in the Ninja-Turtles duffel bag. I pull them out, and sure enough, there�s less than there was before.
But wait... there�s not just anitdepressants in here.
I feel around. There are more prescription bottles... there�s Codine and Vallium and Adderall and other things I�ve never heard of. Of course there�s a vial of coke and baggie of weed, but I thought Simpson had quit that. I quit doing every drug but coffee and cigarettes ages ago. I still don�t know why- I just quit having fun with that stuff awhile back, so I didn�t want to waste my money anymore. I had, for inexplicable reasons, believed that Simpson felt the same way.
But wow, deffinately not.
I shove everything back in the bag and return to the front.
Everyone is talking and laughing.
I look at Simpson.
He looks at me.
We don�t say anything, but as I�m staring at his face I think that he looks about a million years older than I remember him being. I think I�m having a Blossom moment. Like where I realize everyone around me is hitting puberty. I know I should have caught on to this years ago, but I think I�m suffering from that suspended adolescence thing we rock stars are so prone to.
That night we play at some phenomenoly smoky club in Boston. It�s small, in that pleasant, intimate, deliberate kind of way. It�s just the right size to say �Okay, you got four stars in Rolling Stone, but if not for that, no one would be buying your album. Thus, this place only needs to be big enough to fit the people who scincerely believe themselves to be hipper than everyone else EVER, and absolutely no bigger.�
After the show I get up to take a bow at the front of the stage. The whole band and the two roadies on either side of us stand up, link hands, and bow simultantously like the cast of a big broadway musical. At this moment it dawns on me: I am at the epicenter of something huge.
We go backstage. There are some kids who have won all access passes from one of the local radio stations. Right as we walk into the room where they are, a sweaty Simpson strips off his drentched cardigan. As he does his white undershirt pulls up and you can see his tattooed abdomen and his protruding ribs. He has a stretched, aneorexic, sinewy body. He looks sad. He throws his cardigan asside.
This is the most dangerous man alive.
Why?
Nothing is more dangerous than a man who is winning a game but never willing to admit he�s won. Thus, he will keep trying and keep winning as the stakes get higher and higher. He has body more muscular yet drained than Iggy Pop. He wears silly button-down sweaters with all the nonchalance of Morrisey or Kurt Cobain, but if you were to ask him point-blank he would say he�s paying tribute to Mr. Rodgers. He looks all sad and whistful, and I know he often is, but I know and he knows that he�s also playing this game. This mix of joy and sorrow, nerdy and cool- this is hip in its very essence. Simpson has conquered this ineffable demon of cool. While hipness still eludes so many young people- even other rock singers, Simpson has got it down to a T. From his glasses to his haircut to his body to his clothes, his tattoos and even his wrist scars, Simpson is the coolest person ever born. We are in a room full of the second coolest people- the kind who care about what Spin said about us and like that we�ve only on MTV2, but never the original MTV. They look at their idol, this tall, awkard man, and practically salivate with envy. We- the whole band- gather around fan after fan to take pictures they can later post on their weblogs. We are everything cool right before it gets there, and I have no doubt in my mind that even if we never write another song- even if we send record stations blank CDs our next record will go platinum.
How do I know this?
Duh- hipness is underground.
Everyone wants to have it- to be part of it.
Thus, it quickly stops being underground and we become the most famous people on earth.
You may be saying �but so many billions of hipply underground bands never make it to the heights you speak of. What makes you think Chupacabra will be any different?�
My answer: Simpson. The most perfect lead singer ever.
Late that night I lean on Simpson�s door.
He opens it up and I fall into him.
�What brings a nice girl like you to a place like this?� He grins.
�Oh, Simpson, you�re so full of it,� I laugh, �which, coincidentally is why I�m here.�
�I don�t get it.�
�I�ve just been meaning to ask you. Are you full of it on purpose, or is it an accident?�
�Totally an accident.�
�And are you aware that no one will get out of this alive?�
�Did you just say what I think you said?�
�Probably.�
�I�m uhhh, pretty stoned, so maybe now�s not a good time to talk about death.�
�Which is exactly what I�m talking about. Do you see it? We�re all so hip and perfect. No marketing guru could have dreamed us up better. We drink the right drinks and smoke the right smokes and do the right drugs. We are the epitome of coolness, and coolness kills.�
�Are you stoned too?�
�No, I quit that shit.�
�Why?�
�Because it doesn�t seem to work for me like it used to.�
�That must suck. This is one of the last things holding me together.�
�That�s exactly what I�m talking about. You realize that�s such a rock-god thing to say.�
�I�m not a rock god.�
�Yes you are, and you know it.�
�I know nothing!�
�Huh?�
�Sorry... still stoned.�
�I�ll be returning to my room now.�
I stay true to my word and leave.
But then, a week later we�re on the beach in Miami. The sun is brighter than it should be. Brighter than it was in California and Texas combined.
�Do you really think,� Simpson asks, shaking the sand out of his hair �do you really think we�ll be famous?�
�We sorta already are.�
�Sorta. That�s the whole thing. We sorta already are. But what if I fuck this up? What if this is as far as we go? Wouldn�t that be pathetic? Wouldn�t that be stupid?�
�You don�t see it, do you?�
�What?�
�You�ve got a gift. It�s how you look and dress and work a crowd. You keep it up and we�ll go far.�
Simpson sighs heavily. Since we�re on the beach he�s not wearing a shirt. His cheeks and shoulders are turning too red. His complexion doesn�t tan, it freckles and burns. My own skin is turning a deeper pink/brown as we speak. I reflect that I should probably re-dye my hair after all the salt water, and today, being one of our rare days off is the perfect time.
Meanwhile, Simpson is still melancholy.
�I just don�t know,� he whispers.
�You don�t know what?�
�I don�t know.� He replies, squinting up at the sun.
�Well I don�t know either if you don�t tell me.�
�I shouldn�t tell you.�
�Why?�
�I don�t know.�
�You are the single most frustrating man ever.�
�And that�s what makes me so loveable, right?� he grins.
I push him in that silly way and he pushes back. We pick up our clothes and head back to the hotel. The sand is hot but my still wet bikini is cold against my skin. I glance over at Simpson.
�You�re getting alarmingly skinny.� I inform him.
�My body�s gross.� he replies.
�Well it will be if you lose any more weight.�
�I just don�t feel like eating anymore.�
�Uh, little thought: Maybe it�s the drugs.�
�No, I quit being able to eat before the drugs. The drugs are just to try to help me deal.�
�But they seem to be ineffective if we consider how well you�ve been dealing lately.�
�I just don�t know, August,� he repeats as we board the elevator.
�And I still can�t help you until you tell me what you don�t know.�
We go to our seperate rooms. I shower the salt out of my hair and the sand off my skin. It feels good to be really, really clean. It also feels good to know that I�m young and strong and the world is laid out at my feet. I�m in my soft, white hotel robe in the bathroom when I hear a thunk against the door to my room. I know it�s Simspon- it�s always Simpson. I leave the bathroom with my toothbrush dangling out of my mouth. I look like Bogart with his cigarette permanently glued to his lip, only foamier.
Simpson is standing there, still not wearing a shirt but having had the thought to put on pants. His arms are limp at his sides. He looks like he�s about to cry.
�One second,� I tell him �I gotta go spit out this toothpaste.�
I do, and I rinse and gargle and return to where he�s standing.
As the sun sets the room is getting darker and darker.
�So what�s up?� I ask him, flopping nonchalantly on the bed.
�How do you do it?� he asks, twisting his face.
�What?�
�Never worry, never get attatched to people. Never get hurt.�
�That�s how us Amazons are.�
His green eyes are searching mine and getting wetter and wetter.
He turns his face away in shame and quietly asks if I could spare him a hug.
So I do. I wrap my arms around him and pat his back.
�Don�t worry.� I tell him.
�I, Augy, I have a thing I need to say.�
�Shoot.�
�I�m gonna love you till the day I die.�
�And I you,� I sigh.
�No, more than that. You don�t understand.�
I pull away from him.
�Actually,� I inform him �for the first time ever, you�re saying something that I understand and saw coming a mile away.�
�No, for real,� he looks like he�s about to sob �I�m really, really in love with you.�
�I know. That�s what I�m saying. I know.�
He looks confused as I reach for his wrist. I turn it over so the scars face up. The dozens of little white lines stand out more in contrast to his freshly sunned skin, glistening in the half light of the evening.
�Do you remember when you did this?� I ask.
�Yes,� he whispers.
�I figured out then. It was right after me and Alex... you know.�
�Yeah.�
Then, after a pause, he adds �well, there was a lot of other shit right then too- that was just... I don�t know.�
I sigh.
�So you knew I loved you all along?� He asks.
I nod.
�Why didn�t you run away? You shoulda been scared... I�m such a monster.�
�No, you�re a wonderful person- besides, how can I run away from my best friend?�
Now he sighs dejectedly.
Now he takes me into his too-boney arms.
Now he begins to sob piteously.
�I�m so sorry,� he tells me.
�It�s okay.�
�Do you love me?�
�I�ve never dared.�
�Why?�
�Simpson, look at you. Look at us. Look at this. You�re hurt. I�m gonna not only hurt you but I�ll hurt everyone else. The whole band dynamic would get skewed for starters, and what if something happened?�
�I�m sorry. I shouldn�t have said anything.�
�It�s okay,� I murmur.
The next night on stage Simpson is angstier than ever. His voice is remarkably deep for such a pale, svelte man, and he uses it to its maximum effect. He tumbles around the stage like a rag doll in the dryer. He wails and sighs and flips and falls. He smiles all big and banters in the crowd�s direction. A girl a few rows back shouts that she loves him. He giggles all cute. Once again I have no doubt that we have the greatest lead singer ever.
Once again I realize I have a gap between theory and practice.
You see, theory dictates that I am an Amazon. I must not be attatched- I must not be hurt. Theory says that Simpson will only get crazier with the passage of time and that he�s a very jealous fellow and as such one should avoid undue engagements with him.
But then, in practice, I fuck up with some frequency. Like tonight as we leave the stage I�m watching a little drop of sweat roll from his forehead down his distinguished nose. I think that he�s a bit gorgeous, but only for a second. Then I catch myself and quit looking at him. It�s like how I used to look at Alex, and we all know how that turned out.
And yet, when you�re very, very lonely, and completely without a place to call home, human comforts look tempting. Have I, on occassion sought the occasional young male fan for some comfort? Sure. I�ll never see those guys again so it�s cool because I can never get attatched. It�s bad though, because it makes me feel less like a warrior queen and more like a truck stop slut. I hate being lorded over by anything, and that includes my own hormones. Every time I give in to sex I�m giving into hormones, and that�s a sign of weakness.
And yet, it takes a very, very strong creature to ignore when a very pretty boy is looking her way, especially when she�s lonely too.
That night Simpson comes to my door crying again. I hug him again before I point out that he�s fucking everything up.
�I know.� he replies.
�As long as you know.� I tell him.
And with that I do the inevitable. We�ve known each other for sixteen years now, and there have been sixteen years of knowing that opposite-sex best friends can be so platonic for so long. Perhaps I�ll call this Mulder and Scully Syndrome. It�s a set of circumstances that conspire to make things like this unavoidable, no matter how wrong they may be.
I take his chin in my hand. He closes his eyes. I keep mine open.
And our lips touch. This is the inevitable, and I must say it�s a relief. I have been attracted to Simpson for as long as I can remember, but unequivocally unwilling to get involved. I know this will probably push him over the edge and he�ll finally be institutionalized tomorrow morning, but as ways to leave the world of the sane go, this is a rather romantic one.
He reaches up and wipes his tears off my face. The downpoor from his eyes has ebbed and now he just looks dryly pained.
So I take him in my arms and cradle him.
�You really are a big child.� I tell him.
�I know,� he whispers. �I can�t fucking control myself.�
�Have I mentoned recently that you should pursue more in depth psychological help?�
�Probably, but you know that�s not gonna help.�
�Well what would help?�
�Nothing.� He whispers, kissing me again.
Pulling his face away from mine, he peers into my eyes.
�You�re not just humoring me, are you?� he asks.
�Simpson...�
�Seriously.�
�Seriously, I�ve always wanted you, but I know you�re nuts. I know you�ll probably try to kill yourself again or something and then we�ll both be sad.�
�But I love you.� He whimpers.
�And I love you too,� I finally respond. I wrap my fingers in his messy red hair and lay him down on the bed. I can feel every rib, can hear his heart beating faster than is probably healthy. I wish, I wish I could make him eat something. I wish I could be Simpson�s gaurdian angel and keep him away from the drugs and make him whole again.
�I wish you weren�t so lost,� I whisper into his ear.
�I wish you didn�t live behind a brick wall,� he whispers back.
�Well I�m obviously sort of letting it down right now.�
�And this is the happiest day of my life.�
�I hate to make an overstatement,� I reply, �but I think this is the happiest day of mine too.�
Then I kiss him again.
And again.
I run my calloused drummer hands down his bumpy body. He runs his boney fingers through my tangled hair. We are so imperfect but so perfect for one another.
As I fall asleep in his arms I realize he�s the only man I�ve ever done that with. Normally I leave or they leave before I can cuddle up and fall asleep. Sure, I get around... but the only other time I fell asleep intertwinded with another human being was six years ago. That was the night we brought Simpson home from the hospital. His mom was working a night shift and David was smoking in his room. I told Simpson I had to go home.
�Please don�t.� He whispered. So I lay down on the twin bed beside him and put my hands on his bandaged wrists. We slept like that- the inches between us frought with unanswered questions and questionable intentions. I had thought then that maybe I would give in. I had thought I would finally kiss him and our friendship would once and for all be ruined forever. I really wanted to, but I contained myself. I knew that having a friend this good is far more valuable than the release of giving in to what you want to do. I�m really very disciplined when you get right down to it.
Well, but I wasn�t tonight.
When I wake up in the morning Simpson is still asleep. I poke his sunburned shoulder.
�Hey,� I whisper.
�Mmummphgh?� he replies.
�Hey, are you awake?�
�Wuh?�
�You awake?�
�I am now,� he mutters, opening his eyes and then closing them again.
�Um, Simpson?�
�Mmm?�
�Are we sill friends?�
�Yeah.�
�And you�re not feeling any crazier than usual?�
�It�s really fucking hard to say first thing in the morning.� He says, squinting up at me.
�That�s an acceptable answer.�
I pull him back into my arms as his breathing lapses back into the quiet rhythm of sleep.
�I�m sorry, Simpson, but I really do love you.� I whisper to his sleeping cheek. He smiles a little and I pull myself away. I go to the bathroom, shower, randomly smear some green Manic Panic on my head, wait 15 minutes, rinse, and get dressed. It�s about time to leave, so before I set out on my quest for that complimentary continental breakfast I poke Simpson again. He mumbles that he�s getting up. I walk out into the hall and see Roadie Jim carrying a trunk to the elevator.
�Mornin� Roadie Jim.�
�Mornin� August. Sleep well?�
�Great. When are we getting on the road?�
�Half an hour. Seen Simpson? I went to wake him up but he wasn�t in his room.�
�Uh, he�s coming. Which way to breakfast?�
�Stop on the first floor and take the hallway to the right.�
So I do. Fortunately there are signs helping me along the way. I get into the lobby/dining area and make a b-line for the coffee. I pour myself a mug- straight and black, and grab a few packaged kolaches before plopping down at the table with Drew and Sam.
�Hey, wanna hear somehting?� Sam whispers conspiratorily.
�Always,� I whisper back.
�See Holly over there?� He points to where she�s sitting by herself, back perfectly erect, ankles crossed, reading a Daniele Steele novel.
�Yeah?�
�See Alex?�
�No.�
�She hasn�t either. She�s in a really pissy mood right now. She came down a while ago and would hardly talk to me.�
�Well you know,� I say, lowering my voice even more, �Alex is a bit wilder than she gives him credit for. Hell, the first time she kissed him he was still dating me, the little scum-bag.�
�I know,� Sam giggles, �so that�s what we�re thinking.�
�Goupies are everywhere,� Drew whispers, �Sammie�s just lucky I�m immune to their charms.�
�Charms? I didn�t know they had charms- I just thought they had pussies. I mean, that�s all they need to have, right?� I whisper back.
�Well, that and boobs.� Drew replies.
�Well thank God you�re not into that shit anymore.� I laugh.
�Actually,� Sam interjeccts, �for the record I believe we�re refering to me as his �girlfriend,� so hypothetically he is into that.�
�Hypothetically.� I reply.
�Could we quit talking?� Drew begs. He�s still not really comfortable with this whole �outwardly gay� thing.
�Never- it�s not in my nature... and hey, speaking of things that are against nature, here comes Simpson.�
He bounds into the room and greets Holly. She grunts and he asks what�s the matter. She tells him to go away and he does. He swings by the buffet, puts a donut in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other, and seeing another donut he wants, bites into the first one and carries it in his teeth to the table.
�Good morning,� Drew says,
�Good morning,� Simpson responds, removing the donut from his mouth.
�Well you seem a lot more chipper than you were the last few days,� Sam remarks.
�Eh, what can I say? A good night�s sleep does wonders for a soul.�
I keep glancing at him as he and Drew keep talking. He doesn�t seem to be upset or weirded out or anything. Hell, I�m acting more neurotic now than he is. I keep looking at him, expecting something to have drastically changed in his countenance.
He seems the same.
I mean, basically.
Something is different but that something is only in my head. It dawns on me that nothing changes your perception of a friend like seeing him naked- particularly in an intimate setting. Yes, he�s still funny and silly and sad and moody and bizarre, but I�m sudenly not only allowed but also entitled to see Simpson as sexy.
Simpson is sexy.
There, I said it.
The next night we�re somewhere else, and the night after is different again. There�s an undending nation stretched out ahead of us, and every night it�s different. It�s different, but a new cycle begins. Each night I lean on Simpson�s door or he leans on mine. This new cycle is lovely, so lovely I don�t initially catch the break in another cycle.
We�re in Omaha when I put it together. I get on Mapquest- how do I get from the club to the nearest Walgreens?
I walk out in the late summer sun. I feel like a rock. I walk to the pharmacy and find the aisle. The home pregnancy tests are right next to the condoms. I grab a test and turn to go, but not before I kick the condom shelf hard enough to send all those little boxes scuttling accross the floor. Stupid condoms.
So I go back to the club. Roadie Jim is setting shit up. Simpson is quite possibly stoned. I check my watch- yeah, there�s enough time before the show. I lock myself in the backstage bathroom. I pee and I wait and wait. Stupid waiting and stupid me.
Blue.
Fuck.
I am so fucked.
I throw my little plastic death-knell in the wastebasket.
I walk up to Simpson.
�Mmoooo?� He says, before I open my mouth.
�No, this is serious,� I say, taking his stoned hand in mine.
�Oink?�
�Simpson, what the fuck are you on?�
�Huh? Nuthin�. Why?�
�Look, I need to talk to you.�
�Meeee?�
�Yeah, you. Look, you know how... how we? You know?�
�Nopers.�
I sigh.
�Just listen to me for a sec-� I say as his eyes begin to wander around the room, �I�m fucking pregnant.�
�Amazons don�t get pregnant!� He grins.
�Well I fucking am.�
�Nah.�
�I hate you so much.�
�No you don�t.� he says with a giggle.
I give up. There is no one to talk to and no one who cares. Stupid Simpson, stupid condoms, stupid me. Stupid universe stupid rock band stupid everything.

The last thing I wrote before this thing. The next thing I wrote after this.