Besticles
I've been home from the studio for an hour. I am sleep deprived and hungry, but I can't sleep or eat. I don't want to. I'm reading 'Salem's Lot for the eight-hundredth time, but even though my eyes are moving across the page, I couldn't tell you what the last sentence I read was. My mind is in a million different places and only one all at the same time. I wish I could get drunk, but there's nothing in the house. And the thought of actually going outside again is a little much for me right now. Even Thorn is with Bailey, my assistant. I can barely take care of myself; how can I take care of a dog? I flick ashes from my cigarette on the pages of the book, toying with the idea of burning holes into the paper. Just to see something else destroyed.
A knock at the door.
I turn quickly from my spot on the couch, staring at it. My manager and roadie, two of the handful of people I call friends, aren't in the city. My songwriting partner and I had a fight in the studio and he's not one to come over for apologies. My other bandmates don’t ever just pop by. Could be Bailey, returning my terrier. She probably shit in her shoes again. The dog, not my assistant.
I contemplate calling for them to just come in, but in the end, I get up, shuffling bare feet over the hardwood floor before opening the door. And my entire body freezes on the spot.
Familiar brown eyes. A gray knit hat that can't cover the over hairsprayed brown hair that pokes out the edges and covers the forehead he's insecure about. Folded arms sport a vintage gray Glamour Kills hoodie under a denim jacket.
His cheeks dimple as he flashes that grin and says, "What's up, Chesticles?"
And in the next second, I am flinging myself at him, squealing like a retiree on The Price Is Right. "Testes! What the fuck are you doing here?"
He lifts me off the ground, laughing. It feels good that his hugs are just as tight as mine. "What do you mean what the fuck am I doing here? I fucking missed you, you pantless little shit."
Even his swear words are comforting. A mouth as dirty as mine.
I finally let go of him. At least with one hand. The other is pulling him inside. "Yeah, I missed you too. Two years with no best friend contact? That's fucking torture. But I meant last I saw on your Instagram, you were eating sushi in front of Mt. Fuji or something."
"Yeah that was a while ago." Laughter surrounds the words. "We're back in the States for a little bit."
I give him a suspicious eye. "And you decided to come to my city and not your own?"
He laughs and drops a duffle bag by the door. "You want me to leave or something?"
"Not leave," I amend. "Never want you to leave. But, well, again, two years. It just begs the question of why now?"
And he gives me a look. He's still smiling, but it's a sad smile.
I'm smiling too. But it's a little stiffer. And I'm shaking my head. "I'm not talking about it."
"We don't have to," he says, holding up his hands in surrender. "I just want you to know we can. You always listen to my shit."
"Yeah, 'cause what else were we supposed to talk about?" I laugh. "You're always ass-deep in girl drama!"
"Ah yes," he says, a distant look in his eyes and I could swear he’s getting nostalgic for his heartbreaker past. "Good times. All right. We won't talk about it." He bends over to his bag and pulls out a bottle of red wine. "Tonight, pure cliché besticle hangs."
That stupid word we made up fills me with warmth. I don’t even remember which one of us came up with the phrase, but the absurd play on the word testicles seemed to fit our equally absurd friendship.
He hands me the bottle. "I will scour Netflix for something in the Kevin Smith genre, and you will get us some classy wine glasses and order us a pizza. An extra large with lots of cheese because, damn girl, have you eaten fucking anything since I last saw you? Oh, also? Love the haircut."
And that's how it goes. We watch Clerks II and recite all the lines. The pizza comes and we each eat half of the pie as we drink glass after glass of the wine. All my smiles are genuine. All my laughs are hearty. I feel full and warm and more healthy than I have in weeks. We start to watch Dogma, but halfway through, we're not even paying attention to it anymore. We're not even catching up. It's like we don't want to think about our time apart, only relive the few chances we got to hang out in person.
We talk about Italy and he reminds me how I wore nothing but a leather trench coat on stage with braids in my hair and sunglasses on my face. I remind him how I was the awkward third wheel at his (now ex) fiance's vacation home after the festival. We talk about Tokyo and I prove that I still have the dorky tourist t-shirt that I can't read and we laugh over how we were almost arrested on the plane ride to Australia. He talks about the birthday where he rented a bouncy castle, forcing me to feel like a kid again, when all I do is act like a hardass forty-five year old at the age of twenty-one. I complain about the Halloween where we accidentally crashed a gay bar and he got more phone numbers than I did. By the time we're reminiscing about his bachelor party, where he insisted I come along, the bottle is almost empty and we've traded Netflix for my music library.
"There was no fucking Burger King crown!" I practically shout. "I found that story from the internet and you insisted to everyone that's how it went down!"
He's laying on his back, laughing at the ceiling, tattooed hand over his stomach. "All right, all right, there was no crown." He pauses. "You still fucked my bass player though."
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Finally, I shake my head. "Okay, yeah, I fucked your bass player."
"Ah ha!" he says, pointing at me.
"I had a lot to drink! And it was a very confusing night, what with the stripper that hated me and you putting on my corset for all of New York to see. Besides. you fucking told me to fuck your bass player!" I cry over him.
"And if I fucking told you to jump off a bridge, would you do that too?"
I finish off my glass and give him a look. "Yeah, I did that once, remember?"
He shakes his head. "It was a koi pond bridge. Doesn't count."
John Mayer's voice croons through the speaker. Our eyes meet and he smirks. "Oh, Chesticles, this is our shit. Come on." He gets to his feet.
I stay on my ass. "I am way too drunk for dancing."
"You are exactly drunk enough for dancing." He reaches out to me. "Come on. Or I'll start dancing with myself and that could lead to me breaking things."
I groan and let him help me up. I go into his arms and we start swaying to the sounds of guitar strings. But the quiet between us is making my mind move again, and I have to talk. "So spill. Anyone new in your life?"
He shrugs. "One or two."
I raise my eyebrows. "Testes . . ."
"Okay, maybe just one. There were two for a while, but we're back to one."
I shake my head. There was usually more than one with him. I'd sat in on more than one vent session of the problems that caused, usually ending with him saying, "I don't know what I want." Even thinking those six words makes my chest hurt.
"I saw your ex on TV the other day."
I look at him sharply.
"Not that one," he amends. "Another one. The old, old one. The fuck was his name . . .?"
"Oh yeah," I said. "He's doing well for himself. I hear he's dating a nice young man now."
He grins. "I love the shit out of you, but you have the worst judgment in men."
Pain flares again. "Not always." My eyes go distant a moment, but I bring myself to reality and smack his chest lightly. "Damnit, Testicles, I told you I'm not fucking talking about it. Nice try, you dick."
"Hey, you brought up relationships."
"And you segued into my past bad choices."
"You're drunk."
"You’re drunk."
He chuckles. "Yeah, I really am." He smiles down at me. "I really missed this. Hanging out. Talking and watching movies and eating. Ah hell, I just fucking missed your crazy ass."
I nod. "Same. I should have called more or something."
"I wish you would. You're, like, the only one I can tell all my shit to without judgment. Even the stuff you don't want to hear."
I snort. "Oh come on, who doesn't want daily updates on what sordid acts you’ve done with your current love interest?" I meet his eyes. "But seriously. Thanks for just showing up. It's . . . it's exactly what I fucking needed."
The corner of his mouth lifts. "I had a feeling."
I lower my head onto his shoulder with a sigh. John Mayer continues to sing to us. The words to “Slow Dancing In a Burning Room” seep into my brain, my heart, my soul.
I pick up my head and look him in the face. I mean for the next sentence out of my mouth to sound annoyed and sassy. Instead it’s a small and weak whisper. "Why can't I ever make it work?"
He stops dancing with me and sighs. He looks like he doesn't know what to say and if I were sober, I'd feel bad for putting him on the spot.
In the end, he doesn't say anything. He just pulls me into him again and gives me a hug.
And I realize it was the only thing I needed. Not a Hollywood fake hug. Not a hug of obligation. Not even the excited hug I gave him in greeting.
A hug from someone who just saw me in a rare moment of vulnerability. A hug from someone who adores everything that's different about me. All my crazy clothes and makeup and inappropriate stage antics and interests and loves and loathes. Who understands every part of who I am and still loves me in spite of it, maybe even because of it.
A hug from my best friend.
I know he can't stay. I know he'll probably even be gone before I wake up tomorrow. He's gotta go and be a rock star and so do I. I wish it were different sometimes. I wish we were teenagers and lived down the street from each and could walk to each other's houses. I wish we could go to movies and get kicked out for being too rowdy. I wish we could celebrate all our birthdays together. I wish when the incident I won't talk about happened, I could have just run to his house and eaten lots of ice cream and had a good cry. I wish he were just always around.
But then he wouldn't be him.
And I need him to be him as much as I need me to be me.
So maybe it will be another two years before we get to eat pizza and slow dance to John Mayer. But when it does, it will be at a time when I need him the most, or he needs me the most. And whether with a long speech, massive amounts of alcohol, or just a strong, warm hug, we'll have just what the other needs.
It's just how we besticles operate.