To Love/Hate the Spotlight

Ever woke up, unsure if you were ever asleep to begin with?

My eyelids receded in snap instinct. Less than fresh yet gravely alert. I was only lying still to notice my body was a groggy knot. Lifting my head a mere inch off the ground proved painful and dropped like a dead weight.

"Looks like someone's up. Done at the bakery already?"

"You smoked the last of my stash, thanks." A clear plastic baggy swayed in front of my face. "The point is to get high, not pass out."

Shifting onto my back in an attempt to break loose the knot, I rasped, "Thanks for the cannabis lesson, Tre." A blanket was wrapped around me like the latest fashion in a padded room.

"I can't believe it's all gone," Tre whimpered as he pathetically squinted into the bag. Only he would mourn over pot. And only Mike would look down at me from the sofa with disapproval and curiosity. I must look like a hypocrite; I'm the same girl that would have no part in smoking such a fattening drug. I'm just not a smoker.

"1) Mike, Tre, I know. I'm sorry for my greediness-"

"Damn right greediness!" Tre interjected.

I shot daggers straight from my eyes before continuing, "and I won't ever do this again, so spare me the concern when you're in no position to speak. 2) Where's Billie Joe?" All that came out in one strained breath, and at the end I felt exceptionally lonely.

Mike seemed to repel from my hostility. "I had no intention of giving you a speech. I just never saw some one flip out so much sleeping."

"Yeah, it was very... Freddie meets Exorcist," Tre commented with total disinterest. He scraped at the bottom of the bowl to find any my lungs had missed. What was left to care for when the weed was gone? He rose -crumbling the bag into his fist- and marched out the door, slamming it behind him. My neck cracked an angle -terror-stricken- upon seeing him go.

"The bus is stopped, stupid." Yet the motion of 65 mph still rocked beneath me. I squeezed my eyes shut, cursing myself. "Mike, where is Billie Joe?"

"Didn't you hear me seconds ago? Bec, are you okay? That was just..." He shook his head, slack-jawed. "Intense. Do you need to talk or something?"

And here I thought I got at least an hour's worth of peace of mind. Silly me.

"No, I don't need to talk or something. It was just a bad trip. Am I not allowed to have those? Now where is he?"

A fragmented image of Billie Joe dead -wind pipe crushed, face broken- rang clear in my mind. That nightmare I can remember.

I am never touching that shit again.

"He's in the gas station fetching some food, because he figured you'd be starving." The guilt of being a total twat was laid on thick. An apology waited on the tip of my tongue, but it wasn't ready. All of my confusion would have to be null and void before any sorries I had to say would sound halfway like remorse.

"We've been on the road for hours. Where the hell are we going?" I really should bring myself up to speed.

Tossing his gaze up in the air, he thought rather long for Mike terms. "Let's see... the fifteenth-"

"The fifteenth of August?"

"Yeah?" He eyed me like I was the morning after of a modern day Scrooge. I'd explain to him but Fuck!

Busting out of my woven confines, I gritted my teeth through the stiff punishment of green morning stupor and clamored to shove on my copper flats. "And he's just outside?" I grunted, climbing to my feet and straightening my lack of clothes: Yesterday's beater and plaid Joe Boxer shorts. The sudden rise in elevation rattled my balance.

Mike nodded despite my random behavior. He should be used to it. Maybe if he didn't look at me that way, my head wouldn't be pounding so much. "Don't you want to throw something on first before you rush out there?"

"No, only a small margin of the population has yet to see me in the buff, so why be shy now?" I wasn't even thinking before speaking anymore. That portion I left to a mystery in my brain because it knew all the right things to say. That left me to stress every second I was wasting here. The guilt and snickering just piling up.

Images of the next Thanksgiving had me cringing out the door. I lept from the tops of the stairs -no cushioning for my ankles slamming on asphalt- and landed in a sprint towards the station. The buses were stopped at the edge of the lot, waiting for the line at the pumps to finish. I darted between cars, pick ups, and RVs frozen in the wait. The sun beat down on my back as horns blazed in accordance to cat calls and vulgar invitations. Must be for someone else. I'm a fat cow in her PJs. I had to slow once I made it under the perimeter roof: The vibrations of the run dragged on longer in my senses, scaring me dizzy. My breath wheezed shallow. I wanted to throw up.

"I am out of shape." A gasp for oxygen was ultimately shaming. The fact that I was more lightheaded than the daily usual threw off my coordination upon reaching for the Pull handle. As sad as it was, both hands had to be used. I then scanned over the compact aisles and singled out a row of fingers -one in particular sporting a silver band- mindlessly running through the same dark locks over and over again. Concealing my ragged breaths, I trotted over to the back wall fridge. Of course my balance was destined to stumble away from the magazine rack. And of course I had to smack right into The Original, because I have the best fucking luck.

"Gotcha," he replied with a laugh. Face-to-face with sparkling hazel irises, bony fingers holding me up from my clumsy feet, I know a colder touch to this. It didn't make the two dents in my heart any smaller though. "Where's the fire?"

Tre strolled past, shoving a twizzler in his trap. "The sun's up. She can't be out too long or poof!"

A growl tore through my chest, rushing through my limbs up to the middle finger I aimed at him. Murder's illegal. I eased away from The Original, never wanting to see his reaction to another vampire jab. "Sorry," I said quickly and took special care in gliding over to Billie. He hung out in the alcohol section, calculating our bad habit. "Billie Joe."

His eyes left the Guinness stash and lit up. "Hey there's my stoner cutie!"

"I need your phone."

"What's wrong?" He fished his phone from his pocket and handed it over. "Did you kill Tre?"
I was out the door before he could finish the thought.

The deserted side of the station possessed wonderful shade and an ice cooler with that happy polar bear in his dark specks appearing oh so happy. Pacing back and forth in front of it, I screwed up the number whenever the chipper ad caught my eye. An obscenity exploded from my pursed lips when I once again forgot to punch in the area code. It had to be said: "Why do they make you look so fucking happy? Your home's melting and you're a bloody endangered species for christ sake!"

The bear upheld its cheeky smile, unperturbed by my outburst.

"Yelling at a cartoon polar bear on an ice box is completely normal behavior. Nothing crazy about that."

Focusing on calming my fevered anxiety, I dialed the number in once more and pressed, "Talk."

"Please pick up. Please-"

"Hello?"

I threw on a cheek-aching smile as if hundreds of miles away it could be seen. "Hi, Mom!"

"Oh hi, sweetie!" The sheer glee in her tone automatically deemed me the worst daughter. This is what the fuss was about.

"Happy Belated Birthday! I am sorry for not calling sooner. My head has been somewhere else."

"Don't worry. It was only yesterday."

"So what'd you do?" I walked along the curb like a balance beam.

"Well... Yvonne took me out to brunch and then we went shopping." -I was already bored- "I got a call from Gloria and your grandfather. Rachel took me out to this really nice dinner."

"Of course she did--- so you had a good day then?"

"I missed having you here but yes. Enough about me though, tell me how you're doing, how's Billie Joe?"

"Oh golly gee swell! I had a kid, gave up the kid, was found nude on my hands and knees in front of strangers, and -you're gonna love this- I mutilated a girl."

"... we're both doing great. On tour, so -uh- that's new."

"Tour for what?"

"Mom, Billie's in a band. He told you this a story ago."

"Really?" I could hear the frown in her voice. "Sweetie, you know me when it comes to your kind of music. I'm brainless. Either way that's fabulous." If my ex step-dad ever left a sickening, last impression, it was inflicting country music on my mother. "... does that mean you'll be home soon?"

Home. My throat tackled the impulsive correction to tell her home isn't in Illinois. It's wherever Billie and I are. Deep down she would hate to hear that.

"Um, I'm not particularly sure. I think if you look online..." Visiting at this point would be evident. I try to impress, and I get strapped with a visit. Bartlett is a curse when it comes to Billie Joe and I. "Mom..." Desperate avoidance disguised my voice into a despondent sigh. "I don't think we can come for awhile, because we'll be going south to Virginia, Florida, North Carolina-"

"That's perfect!"

"Perfect? Perfect how?"

"You'll be stopping in North Carolina. You can go see the family! They've been asking about you. I'm sure they'd love to have you come and stay."
Now review the statement above. No questions there. Only solid statements. I couldn't argue with my mom after all I've done to her but visit them? The Southern Roots that run so deep that I've hidden it from everyone I know? They reminded me of the shame of my unfortunate upbringing as a Yankee?

Oh no. No. No. No. "Yeah... Mom that sounds just... yeah, but I can't go and make any promises. Everything has been so hectic. It wouldn't be polite to come and just leave.

"According to Ticket Master, you're there for two whole days." Dammit, she lives on the computer. "Can't you spare some time for your own family? Some of those members, I might add, that have helped raise you and are getting on in years." I ran thousands of miles away, and I could still hear that underlying loneliness in her voice. It has a name, Desertion.

"Ma, I don't-"

"Your sister was just there for spring break and spent the entire week," she piped, hitting the ace in the hole.

Sibling rivalry, what a kicker. "I... guess it wouldn't hurt to swing by..."

A squeal erupted through the receiver. Was that my 47 year-old mom? "I'll call them as soon as I get off the phone with you."

I wondered how many "them" included. "Do I have to visit both sides?" I cringed when she said, "The full package." My heel/toe along the curb stuttered and dragged me down to the pavement. Landing on left cheek, that same side of my shin writhed and stung. Bits of gravel clung to torn skin. A new pink rawness seeped drops of what else. "God dammit!" the pain hissed acid.

"What was that, Hun?"

Teeth bared and eyes clamped shut through it all, I growled, "I can't wait." I extended my leg, compiling a useless damage report. "I still have to talk it over with Billie. Y'know so he can rearrange his schedule and all that."

Silence wafted into my ears. I checked to see if I had a connection. I did. "Mom, are you there?"

"Sweetie, about that... I think it would be best for all of us if you left Billie Joe to his business and you go on ahead to visit."

Billie not come with me. "Why?" That was like telling me to breathe underwater.

Uneasiness rang clear throughout her explanation. "Well, they haven't seen you in years. With your grandfather soon turning seventy and Aunt Betty and Uncle Leroy in their mid-eighties, they don't need such... surprises."

"... you haven't told them I'm married," I muttered in disdain. Normally I'd be understanding in treating Billie Joe and I's relationship as a unique stress for my mom. Lately, I haven't been normal.

"No, but not in the way you're thinking," she gushed, "I just really think it would be best for them-"

"Best for them or best for you?" I snarled through gritted teeth.

"Becky, please don't be like this. I didn't mean it that way-"

"Admit it-" I struggled to my feet like instinctual intimidation intended. "You're ashamed of us."

Her protests and words were strained and indecipherable. All of it layered in tears and snot. If I had known I had this profound of an effect on her, I would have told her to forget about me and save us both from years of guilt and frustration.

A ticking countdown echoed from the corner of my brain, waiting for her to say something worth hearing. It's so easy to be angry when it's not your tears. "3, 2, 1!"

"Mom, stop your fucking blubbering. If you're so embarrassed, I'll make it crystal clear to your father that you had no part in Billie Joe getting into my pants or putting a ring on my finger. Satisfied?" My chest was heaving. I looked down to my clenched fist shaking to an absurd degree. That empowering but not as thrilling adrenaline rush from the fight searched for a name as it flooded my veins. This was something I would never get used to but desperate for it to stay. I wondered how I could possibly love an emotion.

At this point I couldn't figure out why I was still gripping onto empty dialogue. As her crying flourished, my mind wandered back to the bus: The fridge filled with six packs of cans and bottles all with assorted colors and tastes. The cabinets jam packed with the good stuff. All these hopeful thoughts helped put me at ease. It was pitiful in more ways than the obvious.

I sighed, switching the cell to my other ear. "I'm done with this conversation. Make your phone calls, and I'll see them like I agreed to, but Billie Joe is coming with me."

"Wow, are you even listening to yourself? Get out of it. Don't puss out now. You are stupid, aren't you? That wasn't a rhetorical question either; I really want to know."

In response I smashed the phone shut.

I have to block out thoughts of you so I don’t lose my head.
They crawl in like a cockroach leaving babies in my bed,
Dropping little reels of tape to remind me that I’m alone,
Playing movies in my head that make a porno feel like home.

So this is where I was an hour later: Planted at the table, my legs resting across its smooth cool surface, and glaring out the window with a Smirnoff Black in hand. I was still ticked, only telling Billie we got roped into visiting my southern roots and neglecting to mention it was my fault. He was mildly shocked to find out I had lied before saying my living family was restricted to Illinois. Other than that, he was looking forward to it. Ever since his family turned his back on him, I think he's been eager to have us closely bonded to mine. To him, family is everything. That's why his attitude slit another gash in this cruel joke called a morning.

I had the radio playing in my ear, pretending it drowned out their band discussion. It was helpful to dip into whenever I rammed headfirst into a dead end in my thoughts. Setting aside the emotions and trying to think logically of ways to get out of this trap or either figure out where I could find a flux-capacitor, an '85 Delorean, and a stash of plutonium. It's actually very distracting imagining the Doc Brown fantasy and deciding how far back you would go.

"Bec... Bec..." I glared over my shoulder at the three stooges situated across from me, surprised Mike had called me by that nickname. Now and then Tre wept for his dope. It grated on me so much that all of their contact with me was aggravated assault on my patience.

"Yes, Mike?" My voice was sharp. My diction riding on top of that powerful rage losing steam. All three recoiled, taken by my response. One quarter of me hated how I was being scary; The other three quarters oozed with pleasure. Maybe having other people as afraid as I was gave me some kind of self control. "Yes. Mike?" I repeated, adding more pause and less snip.

Taking a gulp of beer he collected himself. "Just asking your opinion on something..."

"Mike, let her be." Billie Joe twirled a pen in his fingers and looked up from his composition book. "She'll be nicer when she's done pouting," he teased more than warning Mike.

"For your information, I am not pouting. I'm just sitting here quietly and minding my own business." I turned back towards the window and downed some of the sweet taste of five percent booze.

In a whisper Tre asked, "Why is she pouting?"

"I'm not pouting!" I growled, slamming the bottle on the table where my legs had been propped up. Now they were awkwardly bent against my chest.

"Okay." Billie Joe sighed and rolled his eyes. "She's not pouting about the fact we're going to visit some of her relatives the day after tomorrow."

I again turned away from the conversation, knowing Billie Joe would be my mouthpiece. Sometimes I think he enjoys doing that: Having me shut up and him doing all the talking. Maybe life is easier that way. My words are always fucking everything up. Why do I even open my mouth?

"In my expert opinion," St. Jimmy's voice was well distinguished. It was so clear and dead on now, like he spoke through a small speaker in my head somewhere far beyond the grave. But I know better; It's one of my mind's tricks. "--I believe you part your lips and wiggle your tongue about in hopes a juicy, fat piece will be shoved in. I'm in here. It's always on your mind."

"Is not," I muttered bitterly. I tried to let the radio take me and absolve me from the conflicts in and around myself. The song playing triggered recognition, but I couldn't place it or find a name for it. The chorus hit me the most:

We're gonna die like this you know,
Miserable and old.
Really gotta hand it to you,
Really gotta hand it to you.
Are you positive?
Absolutely sure.
Well just get dressed, don't do this.
Just get dressed, don't do this.

"It can't honestly be that bad. Anyone's better than her sister." Mike's interruption was nails on a chalkboard. "What about Southern Hospitality?"

The dragging nail bore too hard into the slate, leaving a crack from its metal spike. A blatant hiss flew from high pressure as my lips pulled back in a scowl. I was ready to do something terrible.

This is where my logic hovers over myth.

"Aw, don't get mad," one of them might have said.

"The wheels on the bus go round and round- such a pathetic place to be made a fool of."

The bus hit a sharp dip in the road as I got up from the table. I tore open the fridge and scanned for my twenty-first birthday. It came in the form of a tall glass bottle with black raspberry jizz.

"What is she-"

"Mike, like I said, let her be." Billie scribbled more on the page in front of him. "She's just being pissy. Once she realizes she's getting herself all worked up for no reason at all, she'll act her age." He sounded like a father, my father if I had one.

"You are only a child after all," Jimmy's voice chided, "You're a child that gave birth to another child. Now that's fucked up."

"Child," I breathed into the cold atmosphere. "Not a child."

There wasn't a plan, at least not one I was aware of. My head was spinning, and everything was moving so fast. Questions thrown at me. My feet smashed into my converse. I barged up front to where the driver nodded on to Blue Grass. With the mood I'm in I could kill him right now. This was the first time I saw him, and he was a huge mother fucker.

"Stop the bus."

His chestnut hair brushed along his shoulder as he glanced, finally noticing me. The driver's bushy eyebrows stretched above his helicopter shades. "Hi there, what can I do for ya?"

"Stop the bus."

"Excuse me?" His sausage fingers turned the god awful yowling to a whisper. "You want me to stop the bus?"

My grip tightened around the bottle's neck. "Yes, I would like for you to stop the fucking bus, or do you need me to translate that into Hick? Stop. The. Fucking. Bus!"

"I can't just stop the bus. We're on the highway."

"What's going on up here?" Billie's presence crowded the front chamber.

"She wants me to stop the bus!"

Billie Joe grabbed me by the wrist, assuming I would follow him blindly. "Don't listen to her."

Right at that exact moment, all of my sensations retreated to the back of my eyes.

It was happening again.