"Ah, got it. Now you’re a proper outfit?"
"Exactly. Alex is the funniest. More of an idea man. He does a lot behind the scenes. Then there's the aforementioned Levi, or Leo, as we sometimes call him. He used to keep uz all in check, but now he's just sort of a lad."
"I know the type," Joe chuckled.
“And of course there’s Nathan—or Nate. The Welshman. I adore him. He’s my best friend, if I had to choose one. My partner-in-crime, so to speak. Always had my back. Unconditional. Never missed a beat.”
Suddenly, I picked up the bottle and poured another shot. That one went down smoother than expected. I think I was becoming numb. Not just emotionally, I think all the shots had literally begun to anesthetize my throat. After yet another dose of liquid courage, I went on.
"Then there'sRoman."
"Hm...I must say—and I'm just thinking out loud here—but thisRomanfella sounds like a real piece of work already," he chuckled, creases forming at the corners of his downturned eyes.
"Fuck,yes. Tell me about it. Mate, that’s the perfect way to describe him."
"What's the deal with thisRomancharacter anyway?"
"Everything..." I groaned. Rising, stumbling, and pacing. "You nailed it, mate. He really is just a piece of fucking work, and I never say that aboutanyone."
"What is he? Slacker? Party animal? Lothario?"
"No,worse," I joked, "He's thequiettype y'know? And, um...likeannoyinglyclever and self-assured. Vain, artistic...moody. A realaesthete. The kind of guy you just, uh, can't ever figure out, so you're always desperate to get to know him...or, uh, ingratiate yourself or something.” I squatted, staring frantically at the floor. “Really fuckingintroverted. Intimidatingly good-looking. Hard to draw into conversation, but when you crack him, I've found that he hassomuch to say. Good shit too, not the average bullshit people our age
drone on about, y'know?"
"Sure...I gotcha." He ran a hand through his spindly, ginger hair; probably wondering why I was being so neurotic over a bandmate.
Oddly, a sense of ease swept over me. Urging me to unload the ruinous baggage I’d been hoarding the past few years right at his feet. I wanted everything to go. The things I kept bottled up—the mass dragging me down into the asphyxiating holds of secrecy. The mad gospel, unfit for utterance or unsuspecting ears. The fear, the loathing. I was ready to give it all up.
There was something about the night, something about the bar, something about thetequila—something wide open and peculiar about this man that made it impossible to adulterate theplain truth or shut up. I barely knew him and probably never would, but in that moment, he was a confessional priest. The proverbial bottle into which I was inclined to whisper the most furtive details of my life. Hoping someday—maybe years down the road—he’d launder them to the world in one of his brilliant books.
Maybe he'd come clean about a wasted singer he met in a bar one night, and reveal in no uncertain terms just how much that singer loved another singer. I only hoped likehellhe’d tell somebody—anybody.Otherwise, the whole of it would die with me.
I joined him on the seat again, topping off both our glasses. We discussed the origins of the band. How it was formed on a whim one rainy afternoon at Northbridge Academy, a preeminent boarding school for performing arts in London. Boasting an acceptance rate lower than 10% and an elite alumni—actors, filmmakers, musicians. No kidding, he’d said.
I told him how long I’d stood in line to audition. How grueling the bootcamp and annual assessments had been. How we’d all met in the assigned dorm and become fast friends, exchanging CDs and covering songs together. Learning our chosen instruments. Enhancing our vocals. How we’d fallen in love with rock. How we’d agreed on the name Invicta. How long we'd been at it. How we’d vowed to still be performing into our 40s and 50s. Yet, we’d barely made it five years before the seams began to unravel. Five rewarding but brutally draining years.
"You alright?" Joe asked.
"Uh, yeah, I guess. Eh...no, actually. Not really," I gulped another shot, wiping my mouth with the back of my trembling hand. When I offered him another, he tapped out, flipping his class upside down on the coffee table before us.
"That'll do for me. Speak your mind, kid."
"I dunno, mate. I honestly don't know what's going on lately. I, uh…just have an awful, sinking feeling, y'know?"
“What’s going on exactly?”
"I just feel like...for the first time in a while, thingsaren'tgoing to be alright. I was always an optimist before. But…it seems the older I get, the more dismal I become. The more I see how fucked everything truly is and always will be."
"In some cases, sure.” He tossed his hands up. His brow furrowed deeply. He blinked rapidly in the low light. “Reality, in its most unadorned form can be a difficult pill to swallow. Some things that come your way…you simply have to confront and accept. No argument there. But…it’s not all bad. Not always. Not by a long shot. Look, you’re young. That matters because, you’ll have more good days. I guarantee you. It’s just the way it goes. And after a while, what’s bugging you now won’t seem nearly as catastrophic as it did tonight. When you’re as young as you are, everything can feel like a tragedy, until you gain more perspective.”
“That’s fair. But…I dunno, mate…” I pursed my lips. “Seems I can’t catch a break anymore…”
“What brought this on?"
"Honestly?"
"Honestly," he nodded, sitting back in the seat. I turned to face him, resting my arm along the top of the couch.
