“Well,hey, I can sign something now.” I took a Sharpie from my pocket, as theyscrambled to open their backpacks, both of them revealing one of my books.
Iasked their names and learned that Chris was the outspoken one while Rob wasstill silent and possibly star-struck (the two non-fans were apparently Drewand Matt), and I set to work signing their books.
Veryrarely was I given the opportunity to personalize autographs; my signings weremore often than not hectic cluster-fucks that required heightened securitymeasures and a strict time table. It was often done as an assembly line – shakea hand, take book, scribble name in book, hand book back, next. I rarely got toeven ask their name, let alone take the extra two seconds to scribble a nicepersonalized message along with my signature. Nick always told me it was betterthat way. He said that personalized messages caused the book to depreciate invalue. “And besides,” he would say, “what if it’s a gift?” I had alwaysunderstood his point, and as my agent, I normally listened.Butfuckit, I thought, as I scribbled into Rob’s book.
ToRob – I like the strong, silent type. – B. Davis
Theseguys would have a fun story to tell their buddies and have a message in theirbook to go along with the memory, and if they could only get a couple hundredbucks off of it on eBay, so be it. I handed the book back to Rob, and tookChris’s from his shaking hands.
Chris– The honor is all mine, man. – B. Davis
AsI passed Chris his copy, I noticed the elevator was just about to arrive at myfloor, I announced that it had been fun, and meant it. They asked if they couldget a picture, and while normally I would have been anxious to get the hell outof there and back into my room, I reminded myself that this was a whole lotbetter than worrying about a drunk girl named Tracey. I took one of theirphones, extended my arm and angled the camera lens down at the five of us, andsnapped the shot just in time for the elevator doors to open. I wished them alla pleasant night and listened as they all tried to get their “thankyou’s” in before the doors could close and muffle theirvoices.
Inthe silence of the long repetitive hallway, I held my breath and shut my eyes,taking in the nothingness that surrounded me for the first time that day.Somewhere further down the hall came the therapeutic hum of an ice machine, andI listened intently through my meditative state, just enjoying the lack ofvoices. The lack of grabbing hands. The lack of every semblance that made me B.Davis. It had been a long and tiring day, and although I had another couple ofweeks before the conclusion of the even more long and tiring tour, I was readyto cross the New York state line and head back to my small-town life and thehouse I managed to call a home. I was ready to return to my life, where nobodybothered me.
Iwas ready to beme.
Thequiet was broken by the opening of a heavy hotel room door. With a jolt, Isnapped my eyes open, hoping whoever it was hadn’t seen me standing motionlessin the hallway, only to find my best friend slumped against the doorframe. Hishair was mussed in a way only sleep could accomplish and his eyes, without hisglasses, squinted in my direction.
“Welcomehome,” he said in a drowsy mumble.
“JesusChrist, Nick. How the hell did you know I was coming up?” I asked, startled byhis apparent telepathy.
Hegrumbled, scratching at the fine hairs on his bare stomach. “I had gotten up totake a leak and heard some kids yelling in the hallway.”
“Andif it hadn’t been me, you would have scarred someone for life with this wholeSlendermanthing you have going on here,” I said asmy hands gestured toward his pale, lanky figure.
“What’sa slender man?” Nick squinted at me before his face was taken over by a yawnthat was indeed contagious.
Afterthe reminder that I was running on fumes, I pushed him back into the suite,afraid that someone else would enter the hallway and be blinded by hispastiness. The door had barely clicked into place before I dropped myself ontoa couch. Nick sat down at the other end and ran his hand back and forth overhis short hair.
“So,you hooked up with someone?” He spoke with clarity, the sleep leaving hisvoice. I shook my head at the question, glaring at him through the strands ofhair that had fallen out of place. “Oh, yeah? Then explain that.”
Ifollowed his accusing gaze to the lipstick on my neck, a temporary souvenirfrom Tracey. I hoped she had gotten home without decorating the backseat of thecab with the night’s fruitless adventure. “One of the girls from the bookstoredecided to get bold and drank herself into coming down here.”
“Shegot past security?” Nick raised a concerned eyebrow, and for good reason. Itwas a wonder there hadn’t been others getting into the hotel to track me down.
Ishrugged, too tired to care. “I guess so.”
“Humph.I’ll have a word with the hotel manager.” Nick sighed, tracing the outline ofthe couch’s arm with his twiggy fingers. “Well, anyway, last night here, man.You could have gone with her, or I could have made myself invisible.”
“Shewas akid, Nick.”
“Define‘kid.’”
“Doyou justforgetthat you have three daughters when we’re on the road?” Isighed with a pang of irritation that lasted only a moment as I rubbed thelipstick from the crook of my neck, its tackiness clinging to my skin. “Anyway,how many times do I have to tell you that I’m not going to just whisk them awayto my bedroom simply because they’re willing? What kind of asshole would thatmake me?”
“Thekind who hasn’t gotten laid in half a decade,” Nick said in jest, but quicklyrealized he wasn’t getting a laugh from me. Then it was his turn to sigh. “Hey,you’re right, okay? But it might not kill you to open yourself up to the ideaof actually being with someone. And you never know when one of these girlscould besomeone, you know?”
“Anotherme, another life,” I grumbled.
“Whateveryou say, bro.” Nick continued to manipulate his hair while I wondered if heever got tired of pushing me.
Runninga hand through my hair again, the long strands sliding between my fingers, Istared at the intricate design of the ceiling in the living area, decoratedwith white crown molding against a backdrop of light grey. Just a few feet awaywas the open door to my room; a lavish spread of exquisite furniture, aflat-screen TV, and a bar that was anything but mini. I pictured theensuite bathroom--with its sunken tub and spa-like showerthat could comfortably accommodate an orgy—and I sighed wearily.
Iturned to Nick, my eyelids suddenly feeling heavy. Gesturing out towards theroom around us, I said, “Thisis what they want—not me.” He lookedaround curiously. “Come on, Nick, you’re not stupid.”
“You’remore than justthis,” he tried to reason, ruffling his hairabsentmindedly. His eyes suggested he was ready to go back to his room andsleep before our three-hour road trip the next day.
