Dead Boys // Sam Fender

7

"That is absolutely disgusting, you can't be serious," Sam looks at me in disbelief.

"Come on taste it! You're disrespecting my trashy midwestern culture by turning down this sandwich. I'm sure there are things in your hometown that people eat all the time that you love, but outsiders don't take interest in," I try to reason while holding back a laugh at his reaction.

"Yeah, but Gregg's would never make a grilled cheese with a glazed donut as the bread!"

To begin our tour, I started with something that everybody can take interest in: food. I took him around the area of local food trucks to introduce some cincy classics including goetta, Cincinnati chili, and grilled cheeses with donuts as the bread.

"Please! You'll love it if you try it. Plus, you asked me for an authentic tour of my home! This is authentic," I look at him with a pout hoping to guilt him into taking a bite.

Without anymore words, he sighs in defeat, tentatively picks up the sandwich, and takes a tiny bite. Seconds later his eyes light up.

"Fuck me, this is the best thing I've ever eaten. I didn't think doughy goodness existed outside of a chicken bake," as he inhales the rest, "now lets keep walking before I buy them out."

After doing a couple laps around the stages, stopping to listen to a few artists, he convinces me to leave the actual festival to go see more. I take him from the river front parks through the sports complexes and local neighborhoods. Stories flow out of me like I'm a professional tour guide as I reminisce my happy childhood here. I open up to Sam with more stories about my life than I have my therapist. He's also a lot more good looking than my therapist, and I can tell that he's warming up to me based on the stories he shares as well.

After three hours of walking, we end up back inside the festival and agree it's time to get some water and take a break, and plop down in the grass at the back of the moon taxi show.

"I don't get it," Sam tells me out of no where.

"Don't get what?"

"You tell me all these great memories of this place, but you told me you went to college 8 hours away to escape. I don't get it," he repeats with a puzzled face.

I get what he's saying, and look down in embarrassment.

"Not that I need to explain myself to someone I've known for a very short time, but for every good memory that I have here, I have at least one bad."

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. I didn't mean to upset you," he places a comforting hand on my shoulder.

"Remember that old church where my cousins got married? I had to drive my older brothers to narcotics anonymous meetings there when I was in high school. Remember that small park where I played club soccer games? My brother was arrested there after he was found sleeping in his car high. Or the big pretty courthouse with the black lives matter mural out front? That's where he failed multiple court ordered drug tests," I spit the words like acid, and probably had a scowl on my face. I felt gross saying them, but I felt good telling a someone these cooped up memories that I've been trying to forget. "I hated it here because of what it reminded me of. I needed to escape those memories, to breathe again."

I avoid eye contact as Sam and I sit in silence. While the first time I talked to him was based on my brother and his passing, we hadn't talked about him all day. I felt bad for dropping all of the emotionally charged bitterness on him, so I speak first.

"Listen, I know that was a lot. I know there are really dirty associations with families that have drug and legal issues, and I really appreciate you listening, but I get it that that was probably a little overboard. It was awesome showing you around, I hope you come back and play a full show here on tour," I say as I get up to bid Sam farewell.

As I turn to walk away, he grabs my arm, "Hey, you can't run away every time you tell me something raw and real."