Gray (5 page)

“I love you,” she says, sniffling again. “And I want you to be happy.”

She cocks Her head and looks at me with those big, sad eyes, still red from the tears. She’s waiting for me to say something. Anything. All that comes into my head is this bit of psychobabble she had once told me, back when we
were first dating:
Freud suggests that in order to love someone else, one must love themselves; it’s a classic “needs before other needs” argument. Unfortunately, no one really loves themselves. And, if they do, they need to get to know themselves better. Unfortunately, no one is really happy.

Of course, I don’t say any of that. Instead, I just mutter, “It will be okay. I promise,” and I rest my head on Her shoulder. We sit that way for what seems like forever, in complete, exhausted silence, neither of us daring to let go of the other. Her roommate is washing the dishes. The radiator exhales with a dusty sigh. We fall asleep sitting up.

We leave for tour a couple of weeks later, on a cold, gray morning, the van and a tiny trailer loaded and rattling. Unsafe. I kiss Her good-bye, hold Her tight, promise to call when we get to Davenport. As we head west on 88, it occurs to me that she never actually said she was
okay
with any of this. We press on anyway, Dekalb and Dixon and Sterling fly by, ghost towns filled with sad people who settled for what life offered them. The road unfurls before us. Everything is possible. I feel sick to my stomach.

D
es
Moines. Van Meter. Neola.
I want to disappear with you forever
. Omaha. Percival. Sonora.
I want to run away with you and never return
. Kansas City. Bates City. Wright City.
I want to fold you and put you in my pocket and have you with me always
. St. Louis. Teutopolis. Indianapolis.
I don’t know what else to say except I miss you and I love you
.

I write Her e-mails from the business centers of hotels. That’s the reason they’re there, after all. Sometimes we’re even
staying
at the hotel in question, though usually not. Most times the person at the front desk takes pity on me, lets me type messages to Her without much harassment. One time, this woman at a Holiday Inn in Iowa eyed me up real good and asked me, “Son, are your parents staying at this hotel?” and I lied to her and said, “Yes,” and then not only did she let me use the business center, but I got the free continental breakfast too. It was a highlight. It’s usually just me and maybe some business guy in there—it
is
a business center after all—and he’s always looking at sports or maybe reading some e-mails from his boss or
wife or girlfriend his wife doesn’t know about. There’s always so much mystery in other people’s lives.

I write Her e-mails because I’m no good on the phone. Never have been. And that’s bad when you’re out on tour, and the only time you have to talk is after shows, or while driving to the next city, crammed into a van with three other guys who haven’t showered in a few days and make fun of everything you say. Needless to say, we haven’t been speaking much. When we do, it’s short, strange. A few minutes here and there, updates on Her classes and the latest drama with Her family. Tour is going good. I’m behaving. Gotta go, love you. We can’t get off the phone fast enough. It’s like talking to your aunt on Christmas morning, when all you want to do is dive into the mess underneath the tree. It feels like an obligation.

•   •   •

The funny thing is, when I’m not sneaking into business centers, I barely think about Her. There’s no time. We are hitting the road
hard
this time out, something like twenty-five shows in thirty days, in big cities and college towns. We are sleeping on floors most nights, in people’s apartments, and I wake up most mornings with my head next to a litter box. I have an uncanny knack for this, it seems. One time, I woke up damp with cat piss. It was another highlight.

•   •   •

I read something in a magazine today.

They did a study and found that countless men would choose
gambling over love if given the chance. Even more would choose pornography over love if given the chance. We are cavemen; and it seems like that will never change. I wonder if the men they studied have ever really been in love? I wonder how corporations will use this information to their advantage? “Hallmark cards and boxes of Fanny May chocolates will save humanity,” or something to the effect. It depresses me to think about it.

I am writing Her an e-mail from a Super 8 hotel in Muncie, Indiana (they don’t have continental breakfast, in case you were wondering), because I’m feeling guilty. Guilty for all the fun I’ve been having, guilty for the close calls I’ve had in darkened corners. Guilty for forgetting about Her and letting my life run free. Guilty for feeling good.

For whatever reason, it seems like we’re against love. Everyone. People think love equates to weakness, or gullibility, or an unwillingness to deal with reality, so they try to ruin it, the social scientists and the admen, with studies and lingerie shows and boxes of candy. They try to invalidate it, dirty it up, but they can’t, because people in love know the
truth
. They know love is good and pure and really the most beautiful thing in the world. They know love is greater than anything, greater even than
God
. At first, I didn’t believe it, but I do now. You have made me realize it. Being away from you has been the hardest thing I have ever done. I am shaking and sweating. I am going into withdrawal. I
need
you. You are my withdrawal. You are my blood.

I want to protect you from all of this. When it’s all over, I want to run away with you and never come back. I want to be buried in the ground with you. It’s the only way we can keep this pure and beautiful, I’m afraid. We have to stay away from this
whole life. We have to be normal. We have to get married and move to Berkeley. Our love can’t survive like this, no matter how hard we try. I’m quitting the band. I’m coming home. I
need
you.

I stare at the e-mail for a while, then I delete it. We’ll be back in Chicago in a few days and she’ll never know the difference. My conflicts of conscience are about the only battles I’m fighting these days, and I’m willing to fight until the end. There is something freeing about this life, about living out of a single backpack and disappearing into the night. About smelling terrible and never remembering people’s names. About never having to say you’re sorry. We exist outside of society. We stay up late and sleep even later. We are bandits, pirates, serial killers. The dregs. Someone should lock us up and never let us out again. But instead, they give us their money, they offer us their beds. We are not going to pay for the beer. We are not going to be back here for a good, long while. We have prior engagements. We have the money in a duffel bag. We have no shame. Fuck guilt. Back to life.

W
e
are reunion sex. We are a freeze-dried wet dream. That’s it, like an old song with a great chorus that never dies. Reunion sex is like Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’.” It’s like AC/DC’s “Hells Bells,” only with foreplay. The hits last forever. It’s confidence. It’s an ego boost. It’s my best summer crammed into a stacked, five-foot-three-inch brunette. It’s old hat. I know Her better than I know myself. I know Her better than anyone should know anyone, ever. I whisper this into Her ear, and she moans. I push all the right buttons, watch Her rib cage jut out as she gasps. The hits just keep on coming.

I’m only back in Chicago for the weekend. Come Monday, we’re off to Madison to start work on the new album. But until then, we’ve decided that it would be best if neither of us left Her bedroom. We’ve turned it into a political endeavor: we’re staging a Bed-In, for love. We’re a modern-day John and Yoko, and Her tiny apartment on the North Side is our Amsterdam Hilton. All we are saying is give love a chance. We will strum guitars and sing.
We will mail acorns to various heads of state. We might even invite members of the press, we’re not sure yet.

We are joking about it, naked, wrapped in sheets and each other, when I realize that this is the happiest moment of my entire life. I want it to last forever. I want to be fixed, but, for the first time, it’s not because I’m broken. I want to be fixed like a cat, so I never go and screw this up. She is all I could ever ask for, she is perfect, and right now, with those big, green eyes and pillowy lips and alabaster thighs, the idea of doing this for the rest of our lives doesn’t seem all that daunting. She’s the last reprieve. The stay of execution. She gives me hope.

But times are tough for dreamers. And even if my dream is a simple one—all I want is for Her to be in love with me forever—I know it’s still a long shot. Life ruins everything. So I’m determined not to leave Her bed, because in here, life can’t get at us. This is a restricted area. No trespassing. Which is why I don’t tell Her about the parties and the girls and the notes stuck beneath the windshield wipers. I don’t tell Her about feeling
alive
on the road . . . that’s all life, the bad, dirty, savage kind. The kind I don’t want spoiling this, the kind I have to keep separate from love. It’s apples and oranges. Zoloft and Ativan. Church and State.

“What do you want?” I ask Her.

“I want this,” she answers.

Exactly.

I’m a lifer, sweetheart, I’m here till the bitter end. I’m the floor covered in trash after the last dance, the remnants of the night that was. I’m real, I’m the tangible part
of the memories. I’m the proof. You make me want to be this way. It would be easy to disappear into the darkness, to pile into myself and sail on to the next port. It would be easy to not give a fuck. But our love isn’t easy because it’s not meant to be. It requires work and sacrifice and protection. And I wouldn’t want it any other way, not right now, with the morning sun making the curtains glow and Her arms around my neck and the sounds of the street so far away. I’m in it for the long haul, I’m not going away. Not until Monday, at least, when we must go on, when we are required to let life back in. Not because we want to, but because we
have
to. Life always wins.

“I don’t want to go to Madison,” I tell Her. “I don’t want to leave you again.”

“You don’t
have
to go,” she whispers, as she begins kissing my neck. “You can just stay here with me. Nobody knows you’re here, not even the guys. You can disappear. We can hide out. Stay with me. . . .”

She keeps whispering
stay
as she kisses my body. She whispers it as she slides on top of me, wraps Her thighs around my waist.
Stay
 . . .
Stay with me
. It’s not fair, and she knows it. But I’m not going to object, at least not right now. She moves Her body up and down slowly, and things go electric. Neurons fire and pop. We play “More Than a Feeling” again. It’s a great song.

After, we lie in Her bed and she asks me if I care if she smokes. I’ve only been gone for a month, and she’s started smoking. It’s because of school, she says. The stress. I laugh and tell Her I don’t mind, even though I do. She fishes a Marlboro out of the pack, lights it up. I watch the smoke
rise to the ceiling, drift over to a corner, and hide there. My mom smokes. The girls who hang around after shows smoke. The room feels different now, as if there were a window open, and life were pouring in through the crack. Things have already changed, just as I feared.

That’s the problem with all of this. No matter how hard I try, I can’t make it perfect. I can’t keep it in a bottle, can’t ignore reality. Chemicals are involved, the kind scientists try to synthesize and put into pill form, and they’re making tremendous advances every day. They’re winning the war against love. It’s probably inevitable now. There are only two ways to see the world: either no one and nothing is connected to anything, or we are all a random series of carbon molecules connected to each other. Tell me if there’s room for love in either of those scenarios.

I suppose there’s no point in even trying anymore, so I let life back into our bed.

“I have to go, you know,” I say, watching Her eyes for a reaction. “I can’t stay here. We’re booked in the studio and there’s money involved and—”

“Oh, no, I know,” she lies. “I was just kidding when I said you should stay. You can’t
after all.
”

She added emphasis to that last bit just to let me know how ridiculous she thinks it all is. Suddenly, life is lying between us. She rolls over and lights up another cigarette. Here we go.

“You can’t just say something like that, it’s not fair,” I sputter. “I mean, do you think I
want
to leave you again? Do you think I
enjoy
doing this?”

“Of course you do,” she sighs, blowing a column of smoke skyward. “Why else would you be doing it?”

“I’m doing it for us, for our future.” I sit up. “I want to do this so I can take you away from here. So we can go to California and be together.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. How are we supposed to stay together if you’re gone all the time.” She laughs. “How are we ever going to move to California if you’re not here to begin with? I mean, you’re not even
living
here, really. You just blow into town from time to time. And that’s
now
. What’s going to happen six months from now? A year from now? Have you even
thought
about any of this?”