Vegas Boys

Brendon's new apartment consisted of only three rooms: a bedroom, a bathroom, and a big living room/kitchen that made up over half of the entire apartment. But the rooms were spacious enough, and the apartment was in decent shape, and it was plenty for a seventeen-year-old kid striking out on his own with less than two thousand dollars in his pocket.

After school on Friday, Brendon and I drove out to Ryan's garage--where Brendon had stowed all his furniture and appliances over the past couple of days--and packed as much of the furniture into Brendon's car as we could manage. Ryan hooked a trailer onto the back of his dad's truck and strapped the rest of it onto that, and he and Spencer (who was over at Ryan's house anyway and decided to come along to help) tailed Brendon and I all the way to the new apartment.

It took a while just to get everything inside, and then almost all of the furniture had to be assembled. Spencer and I were given the task of putting all the wooden furniture together while Brendon and Ryan carried in the couch, the arm chair, the refrigerator, and Brendon's old mattress (Ryan may have looked frail, but he was surprisingly strong).

Once everything had been assembled and put in its place, the four of us stood back with our hands on our hips to admire our work. The apartment looked incredibly bare and sparse, as it was only furnished with the most neccessary items, but Brendon seemed pleased enough.

"Now all I need is a TV and a stereo and I'm good to go," he declared.

"Yeah," agreed Spencer in a monotone. "And maybe some potted plants."

-----

It took over three hours to get all of Brendon's new furniture moved into his apartment, so it was almost dinnertime by the time he drove me home. I convinced him to stay and have dinner with us which he reluctantly agreed to (he was still nervous around Dad). Then after dinner, I went out to the shed behind our house and got a big brown box.

"What's that for?" asked Brendon as I threw the box down on the floor in front of him.

"Well, you're gonna need something to take all your stuff home in."

He frowned in confused. "My stuff...?"

I nodded and grabbed a lamp sitting on a little table in the corner of the atrium. "How about this?" Before he even answered, I put it in the box and wandered into the kitchen in search of more furnishings.

An hour later, I had picked out two or three lamps, some pictures, a set of dishes and silverware, a couple of plants (as Spencer had suggested), several small tables, and an old TV from the basement that no one ever watched anyway. I put all of this in Brendon's trunk, ignoring his protests in the process.

"I can't take this stuff," he insisted, moving to take the box out of his trunk--I blocked him. "Really."

"Yes, you can, and you will," I told him stubbornly. "We never use this stuff anyway. Dad won't even know it's gone."

Brendon just looked helplessly torn. "I can't just take it."

"Sure you can."

"No, I can't!"

"Hey," I told him seriously, taking a step closer and kissing him reassuringly on the nose. "I owe you anyway."

"For what?"

"You know what," I said darkly, and went back into the house.

He followed me. "Seriously, Kels, I really don't want to--"

"Do you even have sheets and blankets?" I asked him suddenly. "I didn't see any in the apartment today."

"Er--no, I forgot..." he admitted sheepishly.

"Well, that's easily fixed." I hurried upstairs and returned with sheets, a fleece blanket, a comfortor, pillows and pillowcases, and a set of towels.

"Kels," he sighed as I shoved the pile of bedding into his grasp, "I don't want to--"

"I want you to," I said. "Please, Brendon. I can't sleep at night knowing you are without clean towels and a cactus plant."

He looked down at the things I had just given him, sighing miserably. "I can't just take all your stuff."

"You're not taking it, you're borrowing it," I told him, for his sake. "You can give it back when you get your own stuff. And I promise, Dad won't miss it."

"What if he does?"

"He won't. Trust me, it's not a problem." And with that, I kissed him briefly and made him take all his new things home with him.

-----

"Good job, guys," said Ryan, grinning, as Panic! at the Disco finished up "Camisado" on Saturday.

Spencer rose slowly from his seat behind the drum kit, staring wide-eyed at Ryan in shock. "Did...did Ryan Ross just express his approval? Without sarcasm? ...I think this is a first!"

Ryan rolled his eyes as he pulled his guitar strap off over his head and laid the guitar down on the nearby piano bench. "Shut up, Spencer."

"Brent, grab some champagne while you're in there!" Brendon called into the kitchen, where Brent had wandered off in search of a drink. "This calls for celebration!"

"Sorry guys," mumbled Brent in his usual monotone as he sauntered back into the living room with a plastic, floral-patterned glass in hand. "All I could find was Diet Cola."

"That's okay," said Brendon, sucking his abdomen in and puffing out his chest, patting his hips lightly. "I'm watching my figure, anyway."

Ryan, who was perched on the piano bench alongside his guitar, with his long spindly legs pulled up under his chin and his arms gripping his knees, snorted.

"Shut up, Ryan!" snapped Brendon, feigning hurt. "You're fatter than I am!"

"Uh...no, he's not, dude," said Spencer.

"Shut up!" Brendon collapsed into the fetal position beside me on the couch and pretended to cry.

"Awww," I comforted him, rubbing his shoulder, "it's okay, Bren, I think you're beautiful just the way you are."

"Stop calling him 'Bren'," muttered Brent. "I keep thinking you're talking to me."

Brendon raised up just enough to glare playfully at Brent. "Only in your dreams, motherfucker."

"Oooh, catfight," laughed Spencer.

"Are you really gonna let him talk to you like that, Brent?" put in Ryan.

"Uhh..." Brent pondered that for about a millisecond. "Yeah, probably."

They all laughed, and then Ryan unfolded his arms and legs and stood up. "Okay, well, we should probably work on some of those new songs."

The rest of the band muttered their agreements and returned to their various positions. Brendon was setting up the microphone when Ryan said, "Oh, dude--Brendon, hand me one of those picks over there."

Immediately, Brendon fell into his "Igor" pose, complete with the one shriveled-up, T-rex -esque arm, an equally screwed-up facial expression, a hunchback and a turned-in foot that he dragged sideways as he walked. "Yes, Master," said Brendon in a dead-on imitation of Dr. Frankenstein's assitant's voice. He shuffled over to the coffee table, where a pile of guitar picks lay next to a stack of Southern Living magazines, and staggered back over to Ryan with a bright blue one in hand. "I do good, Master."

Ryan took the guitar pick from Brendon, struggling not to laugh. When Brendon kept up the act, he smiled and nodded and patted him on the head.

Satisfied, Brendon returned to his position behind the microphone and cleared his throat. "Okay, so this next one's for Kelsey," said Brendon into the mic, grinning and winking at me, "for being our one and only audience member!"

"Yay, Kelsey!" cheered Spencer animatedly, and then Ryan and Brent joined in half-heartedly.

And with that, they started in on a brand new song that Ryan and Brendon had been working tirelessly on for the past week or two. I had never heard it before, but they were only halfway through the first chorus when I decided that it was about a million times better than half the mindless drivel I'd heard on the radio lately.

And I couldn't decide if I was happy about that or not.

It had never occured to me before that moment, but it was suddenly clear to me that if Brendon continued down the path he had chosen, there were only two possible outcomes: either he wouldn't succeed (and he would spend the rest of his life working at the Smoothie Hut, eternally struggling to pay off his loans) or he would succeed, and they would go on tour and get famous, and the next time I heard them would be on TV or on the radio.

And as much as I cared about Brendon, and as much as I wanted him to be happy and have everything he deserved, I knew that if the second possibility came true, he would forget me and leave me behind for sure. And because I knew this, and because I was selfish, I halfway hoped that his mother was right and this band thing was just a stupid waste of potential.