To Love/Hate the Spotlight

My POV:

That... that has never happened before.
Did I do something wrong?
Maybe I was too forward?

"Or maybe he needs to take a little blue pill to get a twitch."

You are just a voice. You're not Jimmy.

"Just to clarify: Do you mean your ill-begotten son or John Doe #1602?"

Maybe it was my fault?
Maybe I shouldn't have walked out like that. He didn't flat out reject me.

"Oh so what would you call that?"

I was unreasonable.
Why did I do that with Frank right there?
All the sudden I had this... urge.

"Dear God..." Cradling my head in my hands, I stopped walking when I didn't even realize I was. My pupils were huge on the sidewalk. "Am I becoming a nymphomaniac?"

"Sup, momma?" I looked towards the curb to a sickening duo of puberty-stricken skater boys. The one closest was giving me the pick up line eyes. Gross.

"What do you want?" I spat. At least a six year difference. I swear there are too many raunchy teen films to the point where boys like him think older girls are into that. In reality it's creepy and an act of desperation.

"Don't you think that same disgust applies to a girl whom allowed herself to be pursued by a man nearly twice her age?" His high pitched greeting turned eerily critical. It filtered whatever frustration I held between them and Billie Joe into shock and self-doubt.

"What did you say?" I understood the words but not the speaker. Okay, not so much the words either. I hate when my brain does this. "What. Did. You. Just. Say?"

"Babe, wait." Billie Joe bolted out of the store and tripped over himself in order to stop. If not for these two pervs, I'd be a block away, and he knew that. I'm surprised after all these years he still chases after me. My insides turned and twisted. Things only get worse when it has something to do with Billie Joe.

The tweens caught in the middle inched farther into the street. Skate boards ready. This was all incredibly awkward. I blame myself for that. Billie Joe becomes tantalizingly intimidating. It's definitely scary if you don't know him like I do. It helped me a tear drop to forget my own rejection moments before and feel closer to him.

What about me trigger-pulled his confusion to furrow his brows and spit venom at the tweenie twins?

"Are you two going to a concert tonight?" His steps towards me were only seen as stomps. Billie Joe's eyeliner clung to his bottom eyelids, adding to the effect. If you go through society without learning of civilized survivalism, know guy-liners mean business.

The boy's words faded from the repetition in my head with its own rhythm as the anxiety neatly written on their pimpled faces tensed deeper creases. The mute of the couple shook his head and squeaked a, "No."

Billie scooped me into his arms for I didn't know why. I'm just annoyed... and scared shitless. Securing me closer to his rapid heartbeat, he growled, "Get the fuck out of here then!"

The rolling grind of skate wheels speeding away rattled in my ears. It's my brain's fault. He should be mad at me. Nowadays I think no matter what I do, he reserves his anger for those he believes hurts me. That's not fair.

"Are you okay? What happened?" His firm grip around me made me think of my Gerard: He held my face. Billie gives me a choice. I don't know which I love the most. I'll always be staring intotheir his endless green eyes, even if they reject me. They scoured my face for something I wasn't making obvious. His unwaivering concern settles the rattles right down to my core. Then I forget, everything. An ounce of euphoria takes me at this.

Confusion is perfect sense.

"... why was I ever mad at you?" I asked at the tail end of this dreamy state.

A grin shone through his worry. Adoring. "New rule, okay? Never ever be mad at Billie Joe. Life will be a whole lot easier for the both of us."

"Easier for him. See how insignificant you are? Might as well wake the fuck up, because I'll always be here."

"Baby, why are you crying?" The pads of his thumbs swept across my cheeks, smearing drops of battery acid on cold flesh.

This all works with an, "I don't know."

"Is it what I did, back there in the store?"

Yes.
For once I'd like to go through a day without humiliation clinging to the bottom of my shoe like a strip of toilet paper.

"You know it wasn't about you? You know that, right? At the meeting, Mark suggested that I let this" -The color of beets and eggplant painted his neck in graphic detail- "clear up some. Public relations or something. It's that or I wear more make up."

"I'm capable of staying away from your neck." I recall finagling his zipper.

"Yeah..." The vowel stretched, giving him time to think. Don't bother. It's me; I'm fat; Case closed. He wouldn't admit it. "I didn't want to make the old bags jealous also."

I wanted to smile. I did, but the latest mental scare paralyzed positivity with a good, swift kick in the head.

"How about we all go out tonight? You know, to celebrate? After last night's concert, we sold out on CDs."

"Aw, that's great." Could I sound any less enthused? I'm such a fuck-head. "Is that what all your meeting was about?"

"Someone mentioned something about band tees, but I doubt it. Then again you know me when it comes to listening."

"He listens to what he wants to hear." Its stronger comfort in my skull, this nervous bleeding in my brain, there must be medication for this.

"Where do you think we'll go tonight?" If it's something I don't care to do, I have enough time to muster symptoms of illness to avoid suspicion.

"You should die. That's believable."

"Hmmm..." His pouting lips fell against my forehead. It forced a giggle out of me as naive as it sounds. I'm desperate for his kisses to take away this defect in my brain, to fix me. Billie's unshaven cheek rubbed at my temple as he mused. "... there must be a bar somewhere in this town."

A drink would work faster than kisses.

*

"Another?" Billie Joe offered me a fresh beer as if I would turn it down.

"Thanks." This was my fourth, and the only thing I was feeling was each of my pitiful attempts to twist off the cap with my bare hand. Like a good husband, he opened it before I shredded more skin. Gulps evolved from modest sips until I was comfortable in this pub, but really there was nothing to worry about. When I'm hanging out with older guys, naturally I'm at least twenty-one. When I'm with the bands, no one questions my age.

The show was amazing, like there was ever a doubt. No fights so kudos to me, even though I was facing similar bitches to get here. Fans congested the streets and put the security to good use, but thankfully only a quarter of them could follow us in. The regulars cleared out; the music was cranked up; and I dissolved into the crowd. Billie's trying to keep me near but I rather stay out of the way. I'm on a good, passive roll right now. It's so much safer watching each of my boys and My Chem getting mauled with cameras and autographs. It all was rather cute. Never before had I seen Billie so in his element and Mike so out of it, nor Tre so fucking happy to be in it.

Automatically I went to take another gulp, but extreme tilting only produced a drop. He gave me a full one though. How did I finish that fast and not notice?

"Wow, bravo," came from my left. A man definitely in his late twenties -not bad looking but age defined- wore a kind mask over an arrogant smirk. I hated him already. "I bet you go through vodka like water," he complimented, if you could call it that.

As a polite brush-off, I tossed him a chuckle and went back to watching other girls -women- discovering just how gorgeous Billie Joe is. They tore at him -all wanting to be seen- and I laughed at the similarity of a zombie attack.

"So can I buy you a drink?" This guy was unrelenting. Do I look easy?

"Yes, but didn't you listen in Drug Prevention? Always accept alcohol from strangers."

I thought it over: Despising his generosity with its ulterior motives and weighing it against my disdain for hops and Nascar sponsors. "... sure, vodka," I replied smugly and flipped my hair in good measure. I'll treat this as a diabetic scenario: Billie Joe is my Diabetes and the guy buying me exactly what I want is like seeing how many licks does it take to get to the center of a tootsie pop before the ass wipe suggests to show me the tootsie in his pop where I will gag in refusal.

"Two Absolutes," he said, signaling the bartender at his wit's end. My back was to them both. "So what's your name, sweetheart?"

"Becca." That's the most enticing version of my name. It's sad but true.

"Sean." His hand shot out. Dry and well manicured. He doesn't expect me to touch it, does he?

Oh Vodka, my savior.

The shots arrived just in time since I was considering the handshake. Gazing at its small serving, I smirked, remembering the last time I sat at a bar with a colorless beverage. At the moment I truly have no intentions of whipping it at the wall and verbally castrating everyone in this room in the name of punk loyalty.

Behind my thoughts, it went down terribly: Stinging my eyes and testing my gag reflex with its fumes. Nails dragging down my esophagus. I wonder if I threw it up close to a lit match, it would shower to the floor in flames. That would get a thousand views on You Tube; Ten thousand if it caught this douche bag's designer jeans on fire.

Four more shots later and this ass has yet to stop talking. Topic of discussion: Him. Tuning out his conceited drabble was effortless. Spikes of the highest volume in the room were quiet and blurred, but I took no incentive to listen. My eye sockets stretched to capture everything all at once: Black clad zombies bared down in droves. My grin went crooked. I was feeling this.

"So what do you say if we go back to my place?" His filthy request was hot and sticky on my ear. In artistic disgust, I wanted to cut off my ear and give it to him.

Here, it's tainted.

Hiding my shudder, I shifted to the far edge of my bar stool. "I'd say that wouldn't work."

"Oh and why not?"

"Because you're a douche bag," I answered in sing-song. At the same time someone shrieked The Original's name and covered up my voice entirely.

"What was that?" An excuse for him to lean in closer.

"I said 'because I'm here with someone.'"

Perhaps now he would take the hint. "... well, she can come along too. Double the fun."

All men are pigs.

"Yeeaahhh... I don't think he would appreciate that much. I'm married."

"I don't see him around," he teased like he knew Billie Joe. "And why would he leave a pretty girl like you all by yourself?"

"My apologies. He's the one under that slew of girls. Black hair, emerald eyes, sexy build, the lead of an awesome rock band." Then I really wanted to see Billie Joe, at least catch a glimpse to know the cannibals so far have kept him in one piece.

"But I just spent thirty two dollars on shots alone! Why didn't you say you were married?!" It was like a little troll grilling me. It was worthy of a laugh.

"While you were talking out your ass, you never asked. I just wanted to see if I could go through vodka like water. Now I know." I nodded simply with a shrug. All this talking helped my throat burn more, so sliding off my seat and blending into the zombie batch was a safe haven.

Twenty seconds in I was ready for genocide. I forgot my manners in thirty. Once I maneuvered past one wall of bodies, another -more dense- wall towered in my way. You know what they say, Power in numbers. Unfortunately claustrophobia was kicking into gear, and I abandoned the silly hope of breaking the mold and getting to Billie. Being tossed around, cussed at, feet smashed, I had to get some air.

It was a breeze to fall out to the ghost town. Just before making it past the threshold, I swear I felt foreign hands pushing me out. Every body counts even if it's just me. I thought I was stumbling because of overpopulation, but it was a fixture in my current state. I'd be embarrassed if there were witnesses but everyone wants a piece of of exhausted, sweaty musicians. I'm just the wife of one.

Sometimes, though, I wonder what it would be like if everything was different. Not small alterations but truly different.

Would I be just as crazed as those fans? Would I have been friends with some of them? Loitering in a coffee shop and plotting how to get in the bar since we're underage while popping pinches of blueberry muffin into our mouths every few seconds?
It could have happened. It really could.
If I tried hard enough I can see myself as the completing fourth to the giggly clan stationed by the window for spying purposes, as we sucked down coffee beans for our stake out. Maybe we would be staking claims on which MCR member we would want if by some impossible long shot we had a chance. Not knowing what I do now, I think I would have fought for Frank and without a doubt The Original. Who knows, perhaps it would be fate if I was gaw gaw over that guitar-jeering hottie in the first act.
It could have happened. It really could.
But wouldn't ever.
The past isn't changing nor would I give it up. Change or not, I would always be different... I am different. On the outside, things are working well for me. On the inside... wanna trade?

Life is funny that way. Not the ha ha gut-busting, milk out of your nose funny, but the small changes that could have been that mean so much.

The booze in my system worked quickly at my aching muscles. My fist put a pause to its whining in its purple coloring. I thought it was fractured but vodka fixed that right up. It feels great. I could pound through some faces; Line 'em up.

An aggravating sigh fell out of my chest. Sitting on street curbs and imagining myself in other strangers' lives are not by all means stimulating. Billie Joe is being passed around by his growing fan base, and I am in no mood to rip people's faces off.

Wow, I would give anything to watch a zombie flick. All the similarities in the bar have me hyped. Bring on the flanks of decomposing cannibals. I can laugh in my own morbid solitude when pasting the assholes I know onto the hopeless victims on screen. Something about Ben losing his head to a vicious four year-old girl kills me every time.

But wait, fuck. We don't have any DVDs and cable television rudely takes away from the experience. Maybe I'll just... go back to the bus. Sleep- no, no sleep. I would hate to wake up screaming by myself. Keep myself busy; that's what I have to do.