Something About Sam

Chapter 26

It's shortly after Christmas, and I'm in Nashville. I'm still turning my music into electronic crap. I know it's not me, but the normal album still isn't me either. I don't know who I'm turning into. I'm turning into the guy that my mother wouldn't let me hang out with because "he listens to music with the F word in it." Better yet, I'm turning into the guy who sings the music with the F word in it. But hey. Sometimes there isn't a better word.

I'm about to start my 12-4 pre show nap, but then Taite calls me. And I don't ignore it.

"Hey man," I say being extremely friendly and feeling strangely okay with it.

"Sammy," he says my name with excitement in his voice, and he's calling me Sammy again. I feel my stomach tumble in circles. "I have a sort-of surprise for you."

I laugh. "A sort-of surprise? How can someone sort-of surprise you?"

"Well, It's not a surprise now that I'm going to tell you," he sounds frustrated with me, but he's still chuckling. "So remember how my parents got me a vacation for Christmas?"

"Yeah. Mexico with the bros. Sounds enchanting."

I know he's rolling his eyes. "Yeah. Well. Not anymore."

I sit up. I had been laying in the hotel bed, getting ready to hit the sheets. "Where is this going?" I ask. I have a feeling I know where it's going. I know Taite well.

He laughs, slightly, but it's the kind of laugh you use when nothing is funny. "I've never been to Nashville. That's kind of a crime."

"NO," I say because Taite is coming to my show tonight. "No, Taite. Don't."

He laughs the non-funny laugh again. "Yeah, I knew you'd say that. That's why I called now."

"Stop." I know he's here already.

"Michelle picked me up. I'll be at the hotel in 15."

"Oh, you mother fucker."

He laughs a real laugh. I imagine his chest shaking like it usually does. "You'll thank me later. See you soon."

And then HE hangs up on me.

I look down at my naked body. I sprint to the bathroom, pulling on the jeans I left on the floor as I go. I stand in front of the mirror and I want to smash it. I'm a wreck.

My hair hasn't been brushed since 2009, the bags under my eyes are so not designer, and my skin is so pale my mum has been giving me Vitamin D supplements because she thinks I can't absorb the sunlight.

But despite all of that, I smile. I smile so big it takes up half my face. And then I go batshat crazy. I brush my teeth like my life is hindering on the edge of this cleaning. I try on seven different plain white t-shirts, but none of them are falling on me correctly. I choose a light grey sweater instead. I've always liked it the best. It's the same color as my depressing snowstorm eyes.

I run my fingers through my hair 17 times. I lace up my high-tops and I change my jeans to the black ones. I pull off every single piece of jewelry I'm wearing, except the cross. I change my mind and put everything back on. Then I take it all off again.

The next minute I'm pounding on my mom's door and she's not answering. She must be in the lobby, knowing who's about to walk through the double doors. I take the stairs from the seventh floor down, just so I can shake all of my nerves out. For a solid minute, I debate sprinting back up and swallowing three bars of Xanax. I don't. But then I start climbing back up. I stop. I decide enough is enough and I sprint the rest of the three flights down, barging into the lobby and running smack into my mother.