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It was an odd sort of procession as we went to the van, parked in a trident point alongside Seth and Sven’s cars. Like pallbearers without the coffin, bits of my kit distributed between us, the guitar and amps already packed.
“Ride with me,” Seth said.
It wasn’t really an order. There was so demand in his tone, it wasn’t his style, even if I knew full well that it would be best for everyone concerned to do what he wanted.
“I’ll see you guys there,” I said, setting my bass drum into the confines of the van.
Silence rang as I parted ways with my childhood friends. Something was coming. The question was what. Seth always struck as the calm and patient sort. I’d never even heard him raise his voice. Surly enough to think him a gentle soul. A mistake often made; it is usually the quiet ones you need to watch out for.
“How are things with Stephanie?” Seth asked, once we were out on the highway.
“Complicated.”
“I recall the feeling.”
“How so?” I asked, interest piqued.
“Jonna and I didn’t have the easiest start. Not least because of our shared, if unspoken fear, that it was just a fling. Not quite a fear on my end to be fair, I’d honestly thought that was what it was, at least a first. It wasn’t long before I changed my tune.”
“Did you have issues with the age gap?’
“Partly, though there were other considerations. In the end, we just couldn’t live without each other, so we found ways to deal with it. One thing I can promise is, once you’ve made the decision, and are truly committed, to the cause, as well as each other, things get a lot easier.”
I was embarrassed, though not for the reasons I expected. It wasn’t that I was being counseled. I was always open to good advice, no matter what the source. The true source of my chagrin was rooted in the fact that I really should have known better.
No stranger to adversity, the alleged risk to reputation, but being with someone that clashed with my image and lifestyle was new to me. At least on the surface level. Surfaces meaning so much, while counting for so little. Social conventions were basically like Santa Claus, only really existing for those who believed in them.
Just what the frilly hell was I doing? Letting the potential disapproval and even ridicule of others dictate what I did or who I lived? If it was, it was certainly a new development. I would have to take a long, deep look not the corner of my soul to figure out exactly when I started giving a shit about what other people thought of me.
The venue had help, so we didn’t have to set up our own stage. One of the advantages to being the only band. Good practice for the tour when we would be the headliners. I felt bad for our potential openers on tour. Our fans still showed a tendency to be dismissive, at the very best, to any bands that weren’t us. At least on the local scene.
It was possible, and we could only hope, that European fans weren’t quite as intense as those in Seattle. The pre-orders for the album filled up within hours. Not just in town but all up and down in the coast. From San Diego to Vancouver. It was a lot of attention, as well as a lot of pressure. None of which was nearly so daunting as really having it out with Stephanie.
A European tour? No problem.
Opening my mouth and saying the words “I love you” to Stephanie? That was intimidating.
Chapter Ten - Stephanie
Five Months Later
It was the change in schedule that was most difficult. My life had always been planned. Not always fully, emergencies coming up, like as they tended to, but I always tried to have some idea of what I was doing at all times. I had to be regimented, reserved, always on task and knowing where I was going at all times.
Even in the limbo of post-graduation, everything I’d ever known, my dorm, my food card, the rigor of classes, all stripped away in one fell swoop, I knew what I was doing. Or, at least had the strong feeling I did. Anticipating the dark day of personal Armageddon long before it had actually arrived, I’d prepared.
Off-campus housing was at a premium, particularly for a graduate with a degree, but with no job to speak of, I’d contacted the gray-market accommodations and gig economies. Sleeping on couches and in spare-bedrooms in exchange for domestic work. The latter ranting from cleaning, to cooking to what amounting to unpaid babysitting. A lot like what I’d been doing in the years leading up to sowing to college, so no great adjustment was really needed.
But now, even without a plan, at least not one set in stone, I knew how to do things myself, and for myself. And distinct from my post-collegiate experience, I actually had help. Not quite the help I would have expected, but beggars couldn’t really be choosers.
