The Scar Boys

What A Fool Believes

No one stopped us as we sprinted through the student union on the University of Richmond campus, racing to get to WDCE in time for our interview. I can only imagine what we looked like, with our drenched clothing, Richie's blackened cheeks, and my own face, sideshow that it was. I'm surprised no one called the cops.

When we found the station, the actual studio was too small for the whole band, so Johnny and Cheyenne did the interview while Richie and I waited outside. This arrangement was never discussed. It just happened. This was Johnny after all. He was the front man. He was the voice. He was the leader. But this was also Johnny the tourist, the Potsie, Mr. Future College Boy, and it pissed me off.

It's not like I wanted to do the interview. Hell no. I'd sooner have walked naked down a busy street. I just wished we'd talked about it first. The three of them had tried to console me on the ride over to the campus, filling the van with one platitude after another.

"It's only natural, Harry, someone who's been through what you've been through can't help but have that reaction." (Johnny) "We're a family, Harry. We all love you. You have nothing to be embarrassed about with us." (Cheyenne) "Don't sweat it, dude. Lightning never strikes the same place twice." (Richie)

Richie and I sat in the reception area, listening to the broadcast through speakers suspended from the ceiling. I traced a circle on my palm, feeling the outline of where Cheyenne's hand had touched mine during the storm. That only made things worse.

DJ: So why "The Scar Boys"?

Johnny: Our guitarist picked the name. He was struck by lightning as a kid, and it left him with a few scars.

DJ: Struck by lightning, really?

Johnny: It's the truth.

DJ: Don't you think that brings you bad luck?

Johnny: Just the opposite. Like Richie, our drummer, always says, no one ever gets struck by lightning twice.

Cheyenne: Though I suppose he could get electrocuted onstage.

I listened as the three of them---Johnny, Cheyenne, and the DJ---clucked insincere, staged chuckles, laughing without feeling, laugh-track laughter. And I convinced myself right then and there that I was and had always been nothing more than the Scar Boys' gimmick. I was a prop.

The radio interview managed to get a handful of people out to the club that night, which was a handful more than the first gig on the tour. They were with us by the third song, on their feet and dancing. I let the music revive me and felt my emotional funk fade. The alder wood of my guitar vibrated against my stomach. It was the same sensation as feeling a cat purr and it calmed me down. I closed my eyes and lost myself in the groove.

Later, packed, loaded, and ready to go, we decided we needed a night in a hotel. It'd been three nights sleeping in the van, and we were starting to get rank. Richie guided Dino back to the highway and then off the very first exit where we found a sea budget motor inns. With the money my dad had given me burning a hole in my pocket, we booked two rooms. Johnny, Richie, and I retreated to one, Cheyenne to the other.

I dozed off right away, but it didn't take. I woke up an hour later with Richie sawing wood in the bed next to me and Johnny off sleeping in the bathtub. I got up and let myself out of the room with as much stealth as I could manage. A blast of warm, wet air slapped me fully awake.

I closed the door and stood for a moment, leaning on the railing, looking down over the small parking lot. A dozen cars and our van filled half the spaces. I was depressed and I was confused. It didn't make sense. Being on road should've been the happiest time of my life. This was all I'd ever wanted and I was somehow blowing it. I tried to distract myself by memorizing all the license plates I could read from my perch, but I got bored. 

Cheyenne was in the room next to ours and without stopping to think about what I was doing or why, I crept low, sidled up to her door, and listened. 

Laughing. No, not laughing. Moaning.

This is the place in the story, FAP, where I expect you will audibly groan, horrified that the protagonist (me) doesn't see what's coming, and that the reader (you) will wonder how such an idiot got to be the protagonist in the first place. But this isn't a story, and I'm not a protagonist. I'm just me. The fact is, sometimes we just don't see what we we don't want to see.

Curtains were drawn across the window, but they were being blown out and billowed by the air conditioner, allowing a glimpse inside: A partially finished bottle of Coke sat on the nightstand; a TV screen glowed blue; and Johnny moved to and fro, on top of Cheyenne. I couldn't see their faces, only their bodies from the torso down, but I still knew it was them. 

I wanted to throw up, I wanted to bang on the door. At the very least I wanted to walk away. But I could only sit and watch until he was done. Until they were done. I let myself back into my room and stretched out in the tub where Johnny was supposed to be. I shut my eyes and slept the sleep of the dead.