Punk and Zen (55 page)

Authors: JD Glass

BOOK: Punk and Zen

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Okay, the presents were cool, because,
hey, who really thinks of buying towels or dishes, right? And you know,
everyone needs a Crock-Pot and a steamer (okay, I’ve never used either one, and
personally, I really liked the Gumby and Pokey cookie jar, and Samantha was
into the silverware. Someone had to be, right?). Okay, I’m being an ass—it was
all kinda cool, until Candace walked in with Enzo and handed Samantha the
toaster.

She favored me with one of her brilliant
smiles, kissed me, and told Samantha, “I wish you both a ‘happy domesticity.’”

“If you let go of my intended, it will
be.” Samantha grinned back and put her arm around my waist.

I was grateful for her interference,
because I admit, I stood there like a dummy—this wedding stuff was making my
brain soft!

“Ah well, can’t blame a girl for trying,”
Candace joked back, her green eyes glittering.

“But…it’s the women who succeed,” Dee Dee
said, coming up behind her with a tray of drinks.

When Candace looked at her, I could almost
feel the shock of electric connect between them. Cool, and…not, because I’d
have to deal with both of them if they got together. Okay, I could live with
that. In fact, I was totally fine for the rest of the party—until the
strippers.

Yeah, strippers as in the plural, more
than one (and one was far too many). They were Graham’s idea. Wonderful. Great.
Thanks again, Graham. In front of my mom and my little sister—just ABC Page
280awesome.

I covered my eyes the third time my mom
stuck a dollar bill in a dancer’s g-string.

The night before the wedding I went back
to my apartment and tried to settle myself into sleep, but it wasn’t working. I
tossed, I turned, and finally, I gave up.

I switched the lamp on and lay on my back,
arms behind my head. I was going to get married the next day. How weird was
that?

It was weirder when the phone rang. I
jumped, because it had been so quiet it cut through the silence like lightning
slashes through the sky in the heat of summer.

I got it on the second ring.

“Hello?” I answered.

“I need to see you,” Samantha said urgently.

“We’re not supposed to do that,” I said with a smile I
thought she could hear, “and you’re too far away.”

Her voice was soothing to my jangled nerves.

“Don’t be so sure,” she returned.

I snatched the blanket and wrapped it around my
shoulders before I swung my legs off the bed and walked to the window. I
laughed when I saw her in the same overcoat I’d seen her in last time she’d
stood there, her hair gleaming under the streetlight.

“Come on in,” I said into the phone, and that smile in
my voice must have been unmistakable, “you’ve got the keys.”

She walked in seconds later, and I greeted her at the
door with a very hungry kiss. “I couldn’t sleep without you,” I whispered in
her ear before I scraped it with my teeth. I shoved her coat off and let it
fall so my hands could roam her freely.

“What makes you think,” she said against my throat as
we half walked, half stumbled to bed, her hands firmly on my ass, “that you’re
going to sleep?”

We didn’t make it to the bed.

∗ ∗ ∗ ∗

The wedding itself was a blast. I’d never had so much
fun in my life—well, at least not with that many people at the same time. I can
honestly say it was probably one of the
best
things I’d ever ABC Page
281done.

I got teased a lot, but all things considered, I kinda
expected it. The most important part was that I got to marry my best friend in
front of my other friends and family, and I did it with my backup standing next
to me: Nico and Stephie and Jer.

I was really nervous about that kiss part in front of
the whole world, but it ended up being the easiest bit and something everyone
at the wedding called for about every two minutes. I’m surprised more glasses
weren’t broken.

I smiled so much my face hurt.

It’s been a few years now, and if you tell
me what time it is, I’ll break it down to years, months, weeks, days, and hours
since that day. Samantha always laughs when I do that, but I’ve caught her
doing it once or twice herself, and it always makes me smile, too.

I can tell you that it’s been two albums and
two tours and this will be our third album—the last we do for Rude Records,
because after a long discussion, lots of paperwork, and a few of those horrible
shot-things that Dee Dee says are good for you, we’ve opened our own studio.
Now we’re going to launch our own label.

Dee Dee and her brilliant business mind is
going partners with us—Fran, Sammy, and I. Candace had given up the label for
the camera and ad-campaign work. We’d contract her when we needed to.

Originally, Samantha’s Uncle Cort had
wanted to just give us the money for it, but I didn’t want that. I didn’t want
anything I didn’t earn, and I’m sorry to say that it was the biggest argument
Samantha and I had: she said I was stubborn and I told her I was free.

We finally understood each other. She saw
it as a gift and I saw it as something that could never be repaid. My concern
was that the label would never feel like it was “ours,” as in the team’s; they
might see it as belonging to Cort, that he’d funded it to Samantha, since he
was her uncle, and not to all of us.

We worked it out. Fran’s West Coast legal,
Mrs. J is East Coast, Dee Dee’s the head of general operations, and I’m
creative development. Sammy will handle A&R and will fill in for studio
sessions on bass (she doesn’t like to tour as much as I do), and you know for
sure who our engineer is—Mr. Jeremy J. “Bear” Jenns himself. Stephie has
handled our schedule from flights to fittings to interviews for years; she’ll
be the general office manager, while her husband, John, is the studio drummer.

April is our resident cutie until she
starts school. It’ll be another year or so before she can start guitar lessons,
but John’s had her on drums for a few months now; the kid’s got some chops for
such a bitty thing! She’s gonna be some talent some day, though, and that’s not
just a proud godmom talking. This kid has got
it
—in spades.

And yeah, Aunt Nina wrote some very silly
songs for her, ABC and I have to sing them to her whenever I see her,
which is almost every day I’m in the studio. It’s cool. It’s fun to sing and do
silly little dances about monkeys and chocolate soup.

We’re signing Graham as a solo artist.
Three guesses as to who our head of tour security is, and you’re right if you
say Jen.

You repay loyalty with loyalty. It’s a
solid start, and everyone has worked their asses off—and there’s even more
sweat ahead. All I know is, I’m not going to let them down: I still eat my
Wheaties in the morning (but I still hate Tang).

I’ve learned that I won’t say never. I
keep myself open to all the possibilities, the good and the bad—I try to live
them as they come. Fran’s sunny and warm on the West Coast, and that’s exactly
what she said she wanted. Samantha and I stay at her place when we go out that
way, and when she comes to New York, even though she finally bought her old
apartment, she stays in ours—it works.

Don’t misunderstand. Samantha and I don’t
share our relationship; it’s her and me all the way; we belong together. We
fit, lock and key, just like Fran said.

But when we see each other? Well, if we
hold each other just a little too long or Samantha’s hands linger a little
lower than an observer thinks they should, well, honestly? I don’t care—and
neither does Samantha.

Now that I have a better understanding of
the whole thing, I can honestly say that loving her was probably the sanest
thing I’ve ever done—short of marrying Samantha, that is. I will never ever
refer to Fran as my ex, because we still love each other even if it’s different
now. And we will, always.

You know, it’s kinda nice to know that
there’s someone out there that loves us both, exactly the way we are, exactly
the way I am. If someone asks me about her, I introduce her as my friend, my
friend and Samantha’s friend.

Here’s a weird observation. At times with
Samantha, if I really take the time to notice, I see bits and pieces of other
people—Fran’s gentle fierceness, Candace’s abandon, Trace’s sadness—that, and
Trace’s lips always reminded me of Samantha’s—baby soft. I even see some of Dee
Dee’s good-natured dry humor and some of Jer’s pretend dopiness, because who
would have thought it; my so-serious Sammy is one hell of a prankster. I know
it sounds odd, but it’s what I see, sometimes.

There are things I see now about myself. I
could have been a lot like Trace, more than a lot, honestly, and I’m very glad
I’m not. I also know that whether I like it or not, I
am
a lot like my
dad, both the good and the bad. I don’t like accepting that, but I have to or
I’ll do and say things that aren’t right. And you know what? I like being the
good guy; I don’t want to wear another hat.

Samantha says she never, ever, sees anyone
else but me, and it makes me feel a little guilty sometimes, because while
99.9% of the ABC time it’s exactly the same for me, so help me, green
eyes still slay me—I can’t help it—but I would never betray Samantha’s trust in
me, I would never betray this very special “us” I love so much.

I know a whole heck of a lot more about
what Samantha does when she’s not with me, what her “real” work is. For the
record, she’s not a government assassin. And when I think about some of what
she had to do during the weeks I didn’t see her, my heart shakes with the
knowledge of just how close I came to losing her. But…that’s not my story to
tell. It’s hers, and maybe she’ll share it someday.

That would be really cool—my beautiful
Goth. She scowls when I say that and says, “I am
not
a ‘Goth,’” and I
laugh while I disagree.

My beautiful, beloved Samantha, with her
scars and brands, her storm-tossed eyes that hold sorrow and clear only for me,
in her black clothes and silver charms, and her deadly smile that only
brightens to sunshine for the same reason her eyes do.

“Samantha, love?” I tell her. “You…are
Gother than fuck.” She shakes her head at me, but smiles anyway because she knows
I love her.

This always ends with a laugh and a kiss
or, better yet, just the kiss.

There’s more to this story, of course;
there always is because I’m not done growing, not done evolving yet. I don’t
think I’ll ever stop, and I don’t think any of us ever should, but that’s just
my opinion.

Some things you never get over—they leave
a mark, a scar, a souvenir of some sort that becomes a part of who you’ll
be—forever. If you’re lucky, if I’m lucky, we learn to live with it, to grow
around it, maybe even make it a valuable part of our own foundations. I’m not
saying I’ve done that yet; I’m just saying that maybe I’ll get there, too,
someday—when I grow up or something.

For at least a little while I’ve achieved
my own sense of peace, of self, of balance, and if it’s not ideal, well, what
peace is?

Everything I’ve been through and felt and
thought and become is with me now and forever in the studio. I briefly touch
the charm around my neck that I never take off, and I inhale again. This is
what I sing over the opening guitar riff I recorded earlier:

You
and me together—we walk the longest mile

And
falling down forever, we stumble, stand, and smile

Look
at us—two crazy dreamers

We
live on hope alone

But
we are such as dreams are made of

Fire
and wind and bone

Don’t
give up on your love

We’ve
lived with misdirection—almost torn apart

But
in the introspection, we got down to the heart

Look
at us—we’re still together

Though
often thrown off stride

Take
my hand, we’ll make it happen yet—I swear