from a sad ballad to a hard-driving angry screamer. Because I'm outstanding at angry these days.
I know the label will get their way. It's about time to release a new single. What a coincidence.
Saturday, February 11
(Gus)
Clare has turned into a welcome distraction. In between phone meetings, assisting us with interviews, interacting with venue staff, smoothing over the day-to-day fuck-ups I create, and whatever else she does, frequent doses of sex—whenever and wherever—have become routine. I may have to start buying condoms in bulk. She seems happy to do her part in our one-sided exchanges. I know, I'm a huge asshole, getting bigger by the day, but no one's twisting her arm. Aside from taking smoke breaks together we don't spend any significant amount of time in each other's company, which is ideal. When we talk it's strictly business, and that's kept to a minimum since Franco's handling most of that these days anyway.
Sunday, February 12
(Gus)
"Gus, can I be straight?" Franco gives me a hard look, and I know I'm in trouble. I used to hate being in trouble with Franco. Still do a little bit I guess, but not enough to change my ways.
"Of course." I don't really want to hear it.
"Dude, we've been on the road for two weeks now. Though I love the man bun and hobo beard—" I try not to laugh, but it sort of comes out like a snort. "Seriously, you're rockin' the hipster, mountain man, homeless look like a champ," Franco continues. "But you need to shower. Like, every day. This bus is small, man. Hygiene is priority one. You smell like road kill."
I nod. "Point taken, dude."
Nothing is a priority.
Saturday, February 18
(Gus)
Tonight we play our biggest show yet. It's in London at an arena called O2. Twenty thousand people. Twenty fucking thousand . That's a far cry from playing Joe's Bar in San Diego in front of two hundred just two years ago.
Sometimes I wish we were still playing Joe's.
I'm nervous. I never get nervous, but my hands were shaking all through soundcheck. Maybe I need a drink. What am I thinking? I definitely need a drink. I haven't had one since last night. There wasn't any beer on the bus. I suspect Franco has begun his attempt at a passive intervention.
I already resent passive.
And intervention.
With two hours until the show starts, I need some grub. I'm walking back to the bus to grab a pack of cigarettes, when Clare runs up behind me. I don't know how she runs in five-inch stilettos, but she does. She's panting. She's always out of breath, probably because she's the only person I've ever met who smokes more than I do.
"Gustov," she gasps. Even my name is a pant.
I slow my pace but don't stop to wait for her. I turn my head to address her, but not enough to meet her eyes. I have trouble looking her in the eye. Every time I do I see a disappointed Bright Side staring back at me, like a ghost haunting me. I can't face it. Bright Side would've hated Clare—polar fucking opposites. "Clare." That's the extent of my greeting.
"I noticed you seemed a little off during soundcheck," she says matter-of-factly.
I'm not insulted. It's true. "I need a drink," I respond.
She's next to me now, leaning in so her mouth is near my ear. "I have something better than alcohol."
At that I do turn and face her because this woman is insatiable. "Jesus Christ, we fucked an hour ago, Clare," I say, exasperated. "I'm good for a few more hours. Thanks anyway." She irritates the hell out of me and I don't try to hide that fact from her.
She smiles seductively. It's flirtatious. It's also my cue to look away. She giggles. Her giggle is annoying on many levels: it's high pitched, which is in stark contrast to her low, husky voice; it's given too freely when it's not earned, maybe it's a nervous tick; and it's fucking loud. "No, love. Although that sounds like a fabulous idea, I'm thinking of something else."
By now we've reached the bus. I follow her up the steps before I join back in on the
I know the label will get their way. It's about time to release a new single. What a coincidence.
Saturday, February 11
(Gus)
Clare has turned into a welcome distraction. In between phone meetings, assisting us with interviews, interacting with venue staff, smoothing over the day-to-day fuck-ups I create, and whatever else she does, frequent doses of sex—whenever and wherever—have become routine. I may have to start buying condoms in bulk. She seems happy to do her part in our one-sided exchanges. I know, I'm a huge asshole, getting bigger by the day, but no one's twisting her arm. Aside from taking smoke breaks together we don't spend any significant amount of time in each other's company, which is ideal. When we talk it's strictly business, and that's kept to a minimum since Franco's handling most of that these days anyway.
Sunday, February 12
(Gus)
"Gus, can I be straight?" Franco gives me a hard look, and I know I'm in trouble. I used to hate being in trouble with Franco. Still do a little bit I guess, but not enough to change my ways.
"Of course." I don't really want to hear it.
"Dude, we've been on the road for two weeks now. Though I love the man bun and hobo beard—" I try not to laugh, but it sort of comes out like a snort. "Seriously, you're rockin' the hipster, mountain man, homeless look like a champ," Franco continues. "But you need to shower. Like, every day. This bus is small, man. Hygiene is priority one. You smell like road kill."
I nod. "Point taken, dude."
Nothing is a priority.
Saturday, February 18
(Gus)
Tonight we play our biggest show yet. It's in London at an arena called O2. Twenty thousand people. Twenty fucking thousand . That's a far cry from playing Joe's Bar in San Diego in front of two hundred just two years ago.
Sometimes I wish we were still playing Joe's.
I'm nervous. I never get nervous, but my hands were shaking all through soundcheck. Maybe I need a drink. What am I thinking? I definitely need a drink. I haven't had one since last night. There wasn't any beer on the bus. I suspect Franco has begun his attempt at a passive intervention.
I already resent passive.
And intervention.
With two hours until the show starts, I need some grub. I'm walking back to the bus to grab a pack of cigarettes, when Clare runs up behind me. I don't know how she runs in five-inch stilettos, but she does. She's panting. She's always out of breath, probably because she's the only person I've ever met who smokes more than I do.
"Gustov," she gasps. Even my name is a pant.
I slow my pace but don't stop to wait for her. I turn my head to address her, but not enough to meet her eyes. I have trouble looking her in the eye. Every time I do I see a disappointed Bright Side staring back at me, like a ghost haunting me. I can't face it. Bright Side would've hated Clare—polar fucking opposites. "Clare." That's the extent of my greeting.
"I noticed you seemed a little off during soundcheck," she says matter-of-factly.
I'm not insulted. It's true. "I need a drink," I respond.
She's next to me now, leaning in so her mouth is near my ear. "I have something better than alcohol."
At that I do turn and face her because this woman is insatiable. "Jesus Christ, we fucked an hour ago, Clare," I say, exasperated. "I'm good for a few more hours. Thanks anyway." She irritates the hell out of me and I don't try to hide that fact from her.
She smiles seductively. It's flirtatious. It's also my cue to look away. She giggles. Her giggle is annoying on many levels: it's high pitched, which is in stark contrast to her low, husky voice; it's given too freely when it's not earned, maybe it's a nervous tick; and it's fucking loud. "No, love. Although that sounds like a fabulous idea, I'm thinking of something else."
By now we've reached the bus. I follow her up the steps before I join back in on the
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