Page 104 of Fade into You
“She hid something from me. Dade’s girlfriend is cheating on him and she told Bird and Bird didn’t tell me. I didn’t know what to do… so I said we needed a break.”
He smiles sadly at me, and I can tell he’s thinking it over.
“Why do you think she kept it from you?”
“She said it wasn’t mine to know, or tell, so I guess she never trusted me.”
“You sure that’s what she said?”
“Well she said the first part.”
He drums his fingers on the counter, athump, thumpbeat that I think I recognize but can’t quite place. “Well, if you’d known, what would you have done?”
“Let Dade know.”
“And then where would she be with her friend?”
“Fuck that, she’s cheating!”
“Fair, but she’d all of a sudden be responsible for sharing a secret. Breaking her trust with her friend. Cheating is fucked up, but don’t you think there’s a better way for Dade to find out? I’ll be honest, everyone finds out eventually.”
I hadn’t thought much about the impact to Bird, but Dade wouldn’t listen to me anyway, my word is shit with him these days. He’d think it was another trick to break them up. Regardless, she didn’t even try asking me if I’d wait, if I’d find a different way. She made the choice for me, and that royally sucked.
I shrug and Dwayne waits for some kind of response, but I honestly don’t have one. Then the bell on the door jangles and in walk our first few customers. The stream is steady but not overwhelming, and on some level I’m thankful not to have to answer Dwayne’s question. I don’t have these answers. I sure as shit know Bird didn’t have them when she made her decision to hide it from me, but somehow the hurt of her omission is becoming less bitter than the hurt of her absence. Still, I feel like I have to get my feelings in order before I try to make things work. My head feels fulla bees, and maybe a little hardcore rock might knock them out and make way for Bird.
It’s nearing five o’clock when I decide to head out to the Touchstone show going on tonight. A mix of noise rock and punk as usual on Friday, but they often play some brutal covers of Christmas songs when we get closer to the holiday.
“Jessa!” Dwayne is walking up to me with a bag and hands it to me.
“What’s this?”
“A little show of thanks. And a gift. You’re always welcome here, and I appreciate your help. Honestly, if you want a gig this summer, you know you’re hired, right?”
“Thanks, man, but I think of this as free music education.”
“Fair. Enjoy the stuff, and think about making up with Bird. Haven’t seen you happier than when you’ve been with her. That’s special.”
“Thanks, dude,” I say, and wave to him on my way out. When I get in the car, I look in the bag and there’s the CDandvinyl of the Butchies album, those sepia-toned faces staring back, me looking at them.
Falling’s just a game you play.
My mind is still a jumble, but I know one thing for sure: I do miss Bird. A lot.
The drive to Touchstone is done in my own uncomfortable silence.
I’m in my car hotboxing—for the second time today—then I’m chatting outside with Tuck, then I’m inside helping slice fruit for the bar, then the bartender does a shot with me. I watch the door a bit and Tuck brings back shots. I go blast my ears with noise rock and wander back to the bar, where the pours are dependable and handed to me without a second thought.
I’m not a big drinker, so I’m spinning by the time I flop down on the gnarly couch in the back of the stage area. I know I must be fucked up, because this thing is rumored to have so much old beer, spunk, piss, and probably all sorts of diseases that I wouldnever touch it in my right mind. Jesus, Gwar had a small orgy on it, according to legend. I lean my head back to look at the band stickers and spray-painted symbols on the ceiling, watching them fluctuate with the music, the heavy beats bleeding into the shrieking guitar, a cacophony that knocks out any thoughts, any regrets. I’m filled with the everything-nothing of a raging, second-rate local band.
“Heyyyyy, ladyyyyy!” Natalie arrives and flops down beside me, giving me a side hug. “Didn’t think you’d be here tonight! Don’t you have better shit to get into?”
“Like what?” I say, and can hear the slow slur in my voice. Alcohol. Yay.
“Um, I dunno, like Bird Nardino’s pants?”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“Come on, Jessa, I’m not an idiot.”
