V I R G I L

Another show, another show. Another rodeoooooooo-

I don’t get too tired of ’em, but I still get tired of ’em. There is not much to be found in the crowds I call into town. Like birds to bread, most of ’em. Except them birds are not looking for bread- it’s the friend and shoulder they think that I am to them. They hear me singin’, or doing whatever, and they think: it might as well be me, singing that song, playing that tune. ‘I felt that’, that’s what they think, and then they take it a step further and go thinking that somehow I am like them.

Now, I am not saying that to create a… how could I say it…. I’m not trying to create an artificial divide between me, the fans, or anyone else. I’m just saying, if you hear me singin’ about my mama, that’s my mama, isn’t it? I love all of the people who listen to what I create, I do; I love all of you. But yeah, it doesn’t feel the way you would think. It’s thorny, is what I’m saying. At least a little bit, like a rose- yeah.

I must be a bush, a flaming, talking bush because y’all look at me like I’m supposed to be your personal Jesus. You look at me as if gospel will roll from my tongue any moment. Why? Why? Do you know who I am? What do you expect from me?

If I’m playing a yard, and I look out into that yard, I will see a thousand faces shining at me and even more ears tuned to me.

I feel it, I feel it every time, yeah, the pressure is immense- sometimes I don’t know what the hell to say. And those moments, when I don’t know what to say and I spew some drunken garbage to the crowd, in those moments y’all cheer the fuckin’ loudest. If I said to a crowd:

“Fuck the world! Fuck the people! Fuck you!”

I might bring the house down. That’s what I mean, anyway. It’s all confused, them noises that I make, they rile the crowd and their hearts even if I don’t understand what the fuck I’m making.

If I take a stage and drop it into darkness, then I have the eyes of everyone in that room. It’s fucked.

I don’t write that kind of music, anyway, not heavy or dark music- still, yeah, the stage takes me when I take it and no matter what music I’m playing, somehow I always end up cutting my heart to the roars of a crowd. When the blood hits the deck, I hear the people’s fever growing; the sound of applause always swells in my ears if I’m holding back tears…

Man, I need a fucking drink: anyway, where’s Ri? It’s about to be midnight, and I haven’t heard from her all day. Fuckin’…. hrm. She’s so…. fuckin’…. hmm.

I mean, naw, it might be me. I might be the problem. It could be, yeah.

But Ri is so… fuckin’… Christ. Shit- I don’t know what to say about Ri. Yeah, I got my own that I deal with, I’m a real asshole. Ri, though, I don’t understand her. If I’m an asshole, I don’t know what the fuck she is. She’s prettier than one like me, but she still gets the damage done when she wants. Vicious. Capital V.

Well, wait. Naw, that’s not true. Ri isn’t vicious, naw, Ri is more…. emotional. Like, she gets upset even though she doesn’t have to. I mean, why the hell should she get upset with me? I don’t ask for much, yeah, she still gets mad. I mean, I fuckin’ pay… God, I give Ri money every time I see her! What the hell should she ever have to complain about? She shouldn’t ever say something about me or what I’m doing, because I give to her well enough.

I mean, it’s not about the money, yeah, I get that. It’s about the principle, and maybe I’m unfair to her, but yeah, still: she’s not my partner. We’ve both made that very clear to each other. It’s not serious. It’s not. It’s serious, but it isn’t and it can’t be. If that’s the case, and we both agree on it, then she can’t expect too much from me… right?

For Christ’s sake, she is a prostitute! Or, she was, at least. So what the hell does she want: a ring? A candlelit dinner, in public? All the pap and fans get to see who I’m gettin’ down with? Man, she would love that, for the world to see her. She always says she feels like I hide her, and yeah, I guess I do. But, what the hell?

She doesn’t want that attention, not really, and I sure as hell don’t want any more attention on my life-on-the-low. Besides, yeah, she’s a prostitute, or she was: she tells me she don’t do that no more, I don’t know if I believe her, but anyway: people would know her, crazy as that sounds, yeah, people would know exactly who she was if I took her out. They would find out what she’s done before, and quick. I don’t mind being seen with a prostitute, I guess, not really. But damn, I will lose people. Fans. Money, too, I guess. Maybe. It could also work the other way. It could be that the paps and the people don’t care one bit- is that selfish to think about? Is it… I don’t know… kinda wicked? Fuckin’… hrm.

Ah, there she goes. She just texted me:

cnot be there tonight.

Sorry, V.

Hahahaha.

Wow, okay… I mean, yeah, that’s fine.

I’m gonna sit down. Find my way to the living room, try to fuckin’ forget it, I guess.

Wait- naw. I gotta find my way to my fridge, first, ’cause I still need that beer. Maybe might put me to sleep, if Ri won’t. Fridge is just a short walk, anyway. It’s an old fridge, a real fucking beater. It’s huge. Usually makes a deathly sound when I open it, but tonight it’s dead silent.

I grab the beer, and I notice something funny on the counter next to the fridge. A book, or something like that, a little thing, but it isn’t marked. No words on the cover, just a small and leather booklet thing. Probably the size of my hand. I stop ogling it and go to pick it up. It’s not mine. Definitely not. I don’t even write my lyrics down, not ever. This isn’t mine. I open the front page:

Ri

That’s all it says on the first page: just Ri. Well, hey, Ri, I guess. I stare at her handwriting for a while. Kinda weird to see it. Intimate. Not that she’s stupid, but I wouldn’t think she’d’ve written much. I’m flipping through the pages… not reading, just flipping, eyes glazing, no peeping, no guilt, not yet… I don’t know, I’m surprised- her handwriting is precise and practiced. Kinda artsy or flowery. Damn. Is she a poet, or something? Hahahaha.

Should I be reading this? I think this is probably wrong. Is that my name written there? Yeah, that’s my name, she’s writing about me- it is definitely wrong to read this. I don’t know, but anyway, I stop flipping and I turn to the second page, I can’t fucking help myself. Call it temptation, the devil, whatever, it takes my mind and I give in to it:

5 October

I haven’t written in a diary probably since I was thirteen. I just don’t know what to do anymore. Virgil. Even the name turns my heart to fire. Virgil. I love him. I tell him every day, but he won’t let me say it loud. So, I tell him in little and quiet ways that I love him. Even if it’s only a hot and fresh coffee after a long set, I’ll do for him whatever I can so that he knows. He is a complete emotional mess, and I’m there for him. Always. No matter what, I’m there and as close or as far as he needs me. I love you, Virgil. God, he probably won’t let himself say it- he loves me, I know it- I see it in his eyes. I see how he looks at me. He stops himself from saying it every damn time. He feels it, I think he does, but that’s what confuses me. Does he feel it? Does he just see me as a…? Or is it real when he looks at me with the sea in his eyes?

Um…

Virgil treats me like real shit sometimes. It hurts so bad. I know what he thinks of my past, of what I’ve done, but he just does not fucking understand. Not at all, not even a little bit. He DOESN’T UNDERSTAND where I come from and the mess I have pulled myself out of. I’ve done so much for myself and for the people I love. I’ve made mistakes in my life but if one was made it was with a good, if misguided heart. I am not ashamed about the way my life has gone and I don’t need Virgil to be ashamed for me- still, it makes me feel so little when he talks about my past. It makes me think that maybe he is right. It makes me think that I’m nothing and that all this work has been for nothing. I guess no one should have that effect on me, but he does.

He has it all twisted, thinking that I’m using him. He is able to support me in a way I have never been supported. As mental as he is the man is still there in every way when I really need him. He thinks its the money, and of course, it helps, but its him. He does something for me that I cannot explain. My love for him is real. I don’t know how to get my head straight, not when it comes to Virgil-

What the… what the fuck? I gotta put this beer down. What am I reading?

I guess I don’t really know if I love him or just the fact he can take care of me. I feel in my heart that I love him, but maybe I am confused. Maybe Virgil is right and I don’t actually love him… how could I know? Still, I feel something with him and I don’t want to let that go. It hurts my heart. What the hell?

Shiiiiit… naw, that can’t be right. I’m confused as all hell. I’m an asshole, right? I must be, yeah. Ri seems on the fence about it, too. She could be alright without me, maybe. Anyway, I’m thinking, and I’m flipping again. Maybe it’s God’s grace, I don’t fuckin’ know, but as I’m flipping through the book my finger catches on the corner of a page and I’m stuck with my eyes on more words. Here comes the devil again, so I start reading:

12 October

I worry so much about Virgil. Today, he went out and-

Naw, I really shouldn’t be reading this… I close the book, but place my finger on the page I was just lookin’ at. To hold my spot, I guess. Just in case I decide to read it, anyway. I go thinkin’, for a moment. What am I doing reading this? I just said, yeah, it ain’t that serious with Ri. Yeah, she’s a hooker and in my opinion asks too much, I just said that the girl needs to get up and off my back and that I won’t be wifin’ her. So why the hell am I bringing this book to the couch with a pack of beers in my hand? Why am I sitting down and opening the book right back up to where I was? If I don’t care, if I don’t… what, if I don’t love her, what am I doing right now? The book’s wide open, again, and I’m sat on my ass in the living room. I’m not reading it, not yet. I’m just staring at the way she writes my name:

Virgil

Something falls from my eye. As beautiful as it is, she writes in a quick scribble. When it comes to my name, though- shit, you can see that she takes her time with it: tracing the lines like it’s grade school, taking the pen carefully off the page when the next letter comes, making sure the ink keeps its place. She writes my name so beautifully. As if there wasn’t something wrong with me.

It’s funny, when I’ve finished a show, the first thing I think of is Ri.

I mean, the first person I think of is Ri.

What the fuck is wrong with me? Maybe Ri is kind of like a… I don’t know, maybe it feels right to string her along, and yeah, something about that feels good. It’s power, or something. Feeling it. Powerful. In control. Knowing the outcome. Creating the outcome. I like it- that’s sick, isn’t it? Is it? Fuck.

I put the book back down. I lay it next to me on the couch. This time I’m not holding my place with a finger. This time, I feel sick. Where did I leave those beers-?

They’re right there, by my feet. I go to reach for one but stop just before my hand meets the glass. I’m suspended in mid-air, reaching for a beer, and thinking hard. I’m thinking about something, but I don’t know exactly how to put it into words or feelings. Before I can finish the thought, my hand awakens and grabs a beer. Fuck. I don’t have a bottle opener. Put the beer back in the case. Look at the book again. Feel tempted to open. I don’t. I go to get a bottle opener from the kitchen. Tonight, I’ll sleep on the couch.