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“Riot.” I say after a long moment. A smile spreads across his lips, and I would do just about anything to see his full lips and straight white teeth on display for me.
“Riot? Like ‘start a riot’? R-I-O-T?” he asks, the smile still holding steady.
I think on it for a moment, he can’t be Riot with that spelling. It wouldn’t fit, and it sounds childish, like a name he gave himself.
“Rhyit. R-H-Y-I-T.” I say with a smile, the name fits him perfectly. He’s a summer storm, the thunder on a hot day. His face twists as he ponders my new nickname for him. He mouths the name several times before he turns back to me.
“Rhyit and Pistol.” He says, knocking my shoulder with his. “Sounds like chaos.”
Chapter 9 Rhyit
PRESENT
My feet land on the tarmac of the Portland International Airport, the private jet Boston and I took sits behind us, waiting for the taxi to cart it back to the hangar. I haven’t stepped foot in Oregon in at least three years. It’s not that I don’t like coming back here, I do. I just don’t make the time necessary to visit this place. My hometown sits about three hours south of here, the place where Alex will be buried tomorrow. His final resting place. The crisp Northwest wind whips across my face as I stand on the tarmac waiting for the car to arrive.
“Fuck, it’s cold here.” Boston exclaims behind me. He pulls the soft pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and offers me one. I take the stick from the pack and place it between my lips. Boston zips his jacket after reaching for the lighter and lights his smoke before handing the lighter to me. We stand in proverbial silence, neither one of us having anything to say to the other, all the words gone after the media frenzy, the press conference, and the flight here.
“Where are we headed first?” I ask as the car approaches. Boston shrugs as he exhales the smoke into the misty air. The only place I want to be right now has liquor bottles on the walls and a stale cigarette scent. Just the thought of a double shot of whiskey has my mouth watering. I’d do just about anything to numb this ache sitting on my chest.
“Watering Hole?” I throw out on a whim. Boston isn’t a partier, that was Alex. He was my anytime, any place, friend. Where Boston is known to be rowdy on a Friday night after a gig, he’s no Alex. The thought brings me pause. No one is ever going to be Alex. I pull my bottom lip into my teeth and pick at the dried skin in hopes of squelching the tsunami that’s threatening to swallow me whole.
“One drink,” Boston says, throwing me a life preserver he has no idea I need. Grief is perspective, it can be an ocean to one person and a rain puddle to another. You can’t judge someone by the way they grieve, and there is no way to know how deep the loss is going to cut someone. Me, I’m drowning and bleeding out. I’ve never felt this level of pain before, not just emotional but physical. My heart physically hurts. Being back here isn’t helping, and as the car whizzes down the freeway, it makes me remember everything I’ve blocked out.
“How do you think his grandma’s holding up?” Boston says from the other side of the town car. His head is turned out the window, and I don’t know if he actually meant for the question to be answered or if he was just thinking out loud. Alex’s grandma is one of the nicest ladies in history, she raised Alex after his parents split when he was a baby. They got really wrapped up in the 60’s, and no one has seen them in a long time.
“I don’t know.” I reply after a long silence. Margie Simpson is a saint, and the thought of her thinking anything less of Alex because of his drug use feels like a hot fire poker going through my chest. I imagine her sitting at her tiny kitchen table surrounded by photo albums, telling anyone who would listen, the story held in each picture. My eyes well up thinking about her, and I use my thumb and forefinger to wipe the tears before they crest. Boston and I sit in silence for the remainder of the trip, both of us lost in our own sorrow.
The car comes to a halt outside the rundown bar. I must have nodded off at some point as my eyes adjust to the gray lighting. I sit up and stretch my ink covered arms above my head, shaking off the sleep I didn’t know I needed. I yawn as the rear door opens, the driver holding it open for me to exit. I’ll never get used to people waiting on me, it’s still surreal even six years after we hit it big. The fresh sea air slaps in the face as I exit the car and tip the driver.
“You boys be good.” Carlos, the driver, says cheekily.
“Will do.” I reply with a two finger salute. Boston follows behind me as I push open the wooden doors of the bar that gave us our break. The place that started it all.
“God damn, as I live and breathe. Andrew and Boston…is that you?” Jared, the bartender/owner, bellows from his place behind the bar. The other patrons of the bar turn to see what all the commotion is. I give him a smile and pull the baseball cap down further on my head. I don’t usually go incognito, but everyone knows why we’re here, and I can’t do the condolences right now. I just want a drink and a bump–not in that exact order. We have three hours before the viewing at the funeral home, and I plan to make the most of them.
Chapter 10 Bristol
Present
“Thank you so much for coming.” Margie’s frail voice coos as she pats my hand in hers.
“I wouldn’t have missed it.” I reply, swiping my long hair to one side. It’s a nervous habit, one I’ve tried to break countless times.
“He would have loved that you came.” She says, her vibrant blue eyes clouding with unshed tears. I bite my lower lip trying to hold the tears at bay, if she starts crying, I will too. I have no doubt.
“I wish we weren’t here.” I whisper, my voice barely audible. It’s the same mantra I’ve been telling myself since I saw the news, we’re not here. This isn’t real. It can’t be. But as my eyes find the white casket in the middle of the room, I realize we are here. This is real. This is happening, and there’s not a damn thing I can do to bring him back. I keep my eyes trained on the finite details of the coffin, the gold and silver engravings on the side. The sleek bracketing reminding me of one of his guitars.
The front door of the funeral home bursts open, pulling me out of my trance. I turn slightly, but I don’t need to look to see who it is, my body acutely aware of his presence. Rhyit stumbles into the vast room and sways as he makes his way to the casket. The case in his hand knocks a couple of people who are milling about, but he pays them no mind as he approaches our friend’s final resting place. I watch in wonder from the side of the room with Margie as Rhyit sets the case on the ground. He takes a deep breath, and I don’t have to wonder where he’s at on the sober scale. I can smell the alcohol wafting off of him from here. The fact that he’s shown up to our friend who overdosed’s viewing fucked up shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. The lack of respect almost pisses me off, but then I remember that he’s not my problem. In a couple days, he will be gone, and we will only have to see each other at similar events, even though part of me wishes things were different.
Rhyit opens the case, and my breath catches in my throat when I see what’s sitting in on clear display. Alex’s black and white Fender Stratocaster, the same one he learned to play on, the one he performed with almost every night because she was his favorite, is pulled from the case and a collective gasp is heard from everyone in the room. Rhyit grips the guitar by the neck and holds it up to his face. I watch in rapture as he presses his lips to the head of the guitar, saying a silent goodbye to Alex. He places the guitar inside the casket, and I bite my lip to stop the tears again.
“You forgot this, man.” Rhyit croaks, his voice shredded with the emotion holding him back. “Give heaven some hell, brother. I don’t know that I’ll get to meet you there but keep my seat warm, will ya?”
Tears spill down my cheeks, and I chance a quick look around at everyone’s misty eyes, even the men wipe the moisture away quickly. I continue to bite my lip to stifle the sob that threatens to break free. Rhyit knocks his knuckles against the porcelain casket and starts to walk away. I want to run to him, to hold him and tell him everything is going to be okay. To let him break for me, with me. But I don’t. My feet stay rooted to the floor, and I watch his back as he leaves the room. The door thuds behind him, and I let the sob that I’d been holding break free.
Several hours later, I feel like a wrung-out dish towel set on the side of this sink to dry. I’m emotionally exhausted and the funeral hasn’t even happened yet. I wish I hadn't promised Eve I would meet her at Frank’s diner for burgers and shakes. I don’t want to people anymore today. I want to go home and hide under the covers until I’m required to go back to the studio in six months. Six months is the longest I’ve ever gone without performing, hell, one month seems like an eternity. The need to get behind my kit makes me itchy. I tap out a beat on my steering wheel as I wait for the light to turn green. It's surreal to think I would still be in Hawaii right now if I hadn’t pulled a runaway bride on John. He hasn’t accepted a single phone call from me and for good reason. With Alex’s death happening so quickly following my not so happy nuptials, the press hasn’t really piqued for our event.
I pull into Frank’s Diner, and I’m hit with a wave of nostalgia. I haven’t been here since the night before we left for LA six years ago. It was the last time we were all together at home. The outside of Frank’s hasn’t changed a bit, still the barn-red with black lettering and neon lights around the eves of the building. It’s nice to know that some things never change, even if you do.
