Page 2 of A Little Campfire Blues
To the point where Bowie threatened to shove a plug up his ass if he farted again on the long drive between Portland and Palm Springs, that’s how bad he was gassing us out. Over the years, each of us had taken turns designing T-shirts for him touting the extent of his flatulence, which he’d proudly worn on stage.
Fartinator.
Positively Fartastic!
Human Fart Machine.
Not very original, I know, but it was funny as hell every time he put one on and even funnier when someone asked him about it.
He ran that old dive bar with his uncle now and, as far as I knew, hadn’t been back up on a stage since the night K.C. died. A real shame, with the powerful voice he had and his stunning way of delivering vocals. I hoped he still sang, at least. No one should ever waste a gift like that.
I missed his sleep-slurred, rumbly good mornings when he stepped past me in the kitchen, desperate for a mug of tea and a couple spoonfuls of honey after a crazy show the night before. Missed the way he’d sit across from me while I’d been hunched over my plate, hair half hanging in my eggs as I cursed whoever the hell had given me Kamikazes and snake bites the night before.
Even half hungover, we’d start talking about tweaks to the playlist, or adjustments to some lyrics we’d been working on, mornings spent clinging to that rough, wooden surface, like shriveled slugs waiting for rain. I’d alternate between ice waterand apple juice, waiting for the Tylenol to kick in and my head to stop throbbing with the echoing beat of Dues’ drums.
Sometimes I catch a show at the rowdy bar where he’s the house drummer, playing behind a cage because shit tends to get out of control. He’s still as good as ever, but I’ve turned down every offer he’s extended for me to join him.
It’s just not my scene anymore.
I’d rather not have to comb glass out of my hair at the end of a performance, thank you very much.
Maybe that’s why he’s shaved his head bald. It’s a badass look on him. At five foot six, he was always searching for a way to look bigger, hitting the gym until every inch of him was sculpted muscle he showed off by playing bare-chested in just a pair of holey cutoff jeans.
Should have known the drive would send my thoughts spiraling to the past, especially when Roman waited at the other end. When I thought of the way everything had gone with the band and everything I’d thrown away to have that opportunity, my mellow mood shifted to melancholy even as I started tripping over the words that rolled through my head.
Words I’d spoken and never been able to take back.
“Can you just not, for once in your fuckin’ life, Ezzy!” The sharp, short words barked with such frustration he froze, eyes widening in shock while I kept pacing beside the pool table. “This is Eugene, not LA! There’s no fuckin’ reason to walk around painted in glitter or showing off all your piercings with all that mesh. It’s fuckin’ ridiculous. Of course people are going to target you for it. Of course they are gonna say shit, and not just about you, but about me and Roman too! Consider that, at least, before you decide to add more sparkles.”
“There’s nothing wrong with sparkles.”
“Everything is wrong with sparkles; it’s all anyone sees. That and you practically wandering around bare-chested causeyou want everyone to see your nipple rings and belly button piercing.”
“Don’t forget the corset.”
“Who can forget the corset when you have Roman lace and tie the damned rings with sparkly shit too! What’s your plan for an encore, tattooed butterfly wings so you really look like a fuckin’ fairy?”
Unholy silence followed, the kind that came before the winds shifted, when everything was as still as a live wire crackling with an undercurrent of deadly energy. Their fists clenched, jaw working as their lips parted right before they pressed them in a tight line, face pale beneath the shimmer of the makeup they had on.
They were stunning without it, hauntingly so. I opened my mouth to tell them so when they whirled and fled the room, followed by Roman, cutting me a scathing look as he stalked out the door to catch up to them.
That was the last time I was in a room with either of them.
The memory of the moment made my eyes well up, blurring the road until I couldn’t make out the lines anymore. The brown of what I hoped was a rest stop sign was just a streak at the corner of my vision, so I slowed, grateful that no one was behind me as I searched for the pull-off spot.
One mile turned into three, both hands on the wheel now as I sniffled and sucked in a breath, holding it in the hopes of keeping the rest of the tears at bay. I barely got into a spot in the empty parking lot before they fell. Welcoming them, I pressed my head against the steering wheel, allowing myself to feel all the sorrow and regret I’d been living with since I’d let jealousy, and other people’s opinions, color my opinion of one of the people I’d loved.
Not my finest moment, but leaving without telling them and without apologizing for what I’d said or owning up to why I’dsaid it—now that was the worst mistake of my life. All these years, I hadn’t dared to ask Roman to set up a three-way chat between us, though I knew they still talked, the same as Roman and I did. Sometimes he let slip something Ezzy was up to, but I never pressed for more details, because a part of me still felt like I didn’t have the right to know.
Swiping at the tears, forehead sore from where it had been pressed to the Jeep’s steering wheel, I fumbled for the bag on the passenger’s seat, the wire edge of my battered notebook warm against my fingertips as I yanked it out.
Of course the pen I’d clipped to the metal got caught, and of course, I tugged rather than taking the time to untangle it. Patience had never been a strong suit of mine, especially when I was upset. The resulting tussle sent the pen flying straight at my face, cap tangling in my bun when I remembered to duck.
The pen itself landed outside, which was fine; I hadn’t intended to sit in the Jeep and write anyway. Not when there was a perfectly good picnic table several feet away. It felt good to get out, stretch, and let the sun finish drying the occasional tear that leaked from the corner of my eyes.
When Roman had first suggested we meet up for pride camp, I’d balked, because what if the old vibe wasn’t there once we started hanging out again? What if the past eight years had changed us too much? What if I let slip the secret I still carried after all these years? What if I fucked up and tried to kiss him while we were walking around the pond one night, the fireflies flitting in between the reeds, making the whole moment seem magical?
What if that was the moment when my mouth got the best of me again, only instead of something scathing, I blurted that I still loved him?
