Thanks to Nicole for beta on the first version, which was written in third person. Thanks to Mouse who beta'd this in its current form. Thanks to Maygra who suggested the change.
Summary/Notes: This started out as my 'Billy in LA' story, but it became
a chance to work out a couple of things I left out of Sparkle & Shine.
Takes place right before the film--no spoilers. Billy insisted on
the title-- I had something less melodramatic in mind.
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L.A. glitters through the window like Christmas lights, and sometimes I feel just like a kid who's walked downstairs and found that Santa Claus has left him every single thing on his list. But most of the time, I'm all too aware that something's missing, some critical piece.
Is Joe the missing thing that leaves me feeling incomplete? I hope to hell that it's not that simple. Joe's part of it, of course, but it's all much more complicated than just an absent (ex?) best friend and a tinge of homesickness.
I left Canada with little regret at the time, so I'm not about to start now. I've finally got a career that pays more than subsistence wages. I don't drink or snort up whatever's left after the essentials are taken care of--not *often* anyway. I've actually got a little money in the bank--not a lot, yet, but it's going in pretty steadily. Maybe in the not too distant future I'll be able to move to a new place, somewhere that I can see the ocean without sticking my head out the window, craning my neck, squinting through the smog, and wishing real hard.
Maybe L.A. isn't the paradise that everyone thinks it is until they actually get there, but it's been good to me so far. I haven't been carjacked, mugged, shot at, or murdered yet. I've been lied to and taken advantage of, but that's barely a blip on my radar. Nothing new, to be lied to. Nothing new at all--hey, I still work with Ed Festus, don't I?
In fact, I find the pervading culture of deceit I've stumbled into somewhat amusing. All the people I meet have agendas--some are simple and obvious, and some are more complex and obscure--but each and every one would sell his grandmother to get what he's after. They're all trying to get over anyway they can. Success at all costs, and it doesn't matter who gets stepped on as long as it's another boost up the ladder. I'm willing to play the game as long as I have to, because I do see them for what they are. I constantly remind myself not to take anyone or anything at face value, no matter how tempting it is, especially when the fuckers say exactly what I want to hear.
I knew I had a talent for music--I hear it, *feel* it. I've known it as the one constant in my life from a young age. My years with Joe reinforced two things-- that some people will want that talent and that others will be jealous of it. And sometimes those who want it most are also the ones who resent it most.
Part of the problem with Joe--maybe just a small part in the grand scheme of things--was that combination of need and resentment. Joe needed me, and he resented the hell out of that fact. The need between us was deep and twisted around many things, both musical and personal. The musical was of little consequence, easily argued and then ignored. The personal needs were of every consequence. They consumed us both and were never, ever ignored for long--no matter how hard I tried... not that *Joe* ever tried.
Nothing was ignored until I left for L.A. Even since coming here, I've never forgotten about Joe, just rearranged things until he's not the burning need that he once was. My anger and betrayal made it easy to shove Joe, and everything he's ever been and done to me, into a little box in the back of my mind, not to be opened until I'm drunk enough to handle it. I think I'm just about there tonight.
Liquid courage got me on the plane in the first place. I'd been told a few times through the years that I was too good for Hard Core Logo, that Joe and the boys were holding me back, that I could be more and go farther. A well placed punch or a simple "fuck that"--either from me or Joe, okay, mostly Joe-- had been enough to stop that idea from being nurtured into a dream. I actively avoided dreaming of more because dreams have a way of dying just when they look most likely to come true. Dreaming hurts, and so did leaving. I had to get drunk enough to dull the pain while still being able to function.
I can still remember the expression on the flight attendant's face when she took my boarding pass and got a whiff of my breath. Her professionally plastic smile froze even more and her eyes pleaded, "please, don't cause trouble on my flight". If she'd had any idea how fucking terrified I was, the thought of trouble never would have crossed her mind. I was truly alone for the first time in my entire life, and it scared me nearly speechless every time I thought about what I was doing.
Oh yeah, fear had to be the overwhelming emotion, but there was also a bright streak of exhilaration in my first taste of freedom. I was standing on my own two feet and no one was going to tell me what to do. I didn't have to take the blame for anyone's fuck-ups but my own. I didn't have to play the diplomat in Joe's personal little war with the rest of the world. I didn't have to explain or argue or seek permission for anything.
If I'd bothered to analyze it at the time, I'd have noticed what I can see now, that the parts of leaving that made me happy were the same things that scared me. I didn't have Joe to blame or hide behind. I didn't have Joe to watch my back or keep me from falling too far into myself. I didn't have Joe to bounce ideas off of or write songs with or play stupid games with. I didn't have Joe to.... I didn't have Joe.
But that's what I'd wanted, right? To get far away from Joe and everything that he was a part of and that was a part of him. I was willing to come to another *country*, with all the attendant hassles and paperwork, to get away from Joe. I wonder if Joe really understood that one night wasn't enough to make me leave. It had taken about twelve years' worth of nights to make me see that nothing would ever change, not as long as I kept doing the same thing, day after day, night after night. Same night, different town, over and over, the good and the bad never changed much.
I can credit Joe's betrayal with finally making me angry enough to take the step over the line that I'd been balanced on for so long. It was the line between just accepting another indignity that I'd probably asked for or finally telling Joe to go fuck someone else for a change. That's what I did all right--"Go find someone else to fuck, Joe, I'm resigning from the position." Didn't say it out loud, but that's what I was *thinking*.
Turning away from the window, I can't help but experience a bit of deja vu satisfaction remembering how I flushed Joe's stash that last day. The look of utter disbelief on his face was worth all the rest of the fight. Joe never expected me to want to get back at him...for *anything*. My job in the relationship was to either get out of the way or take what I was given. Most often, I'd been smart enough to get out of the way, but I could generally take the consequences of not moving fast enough. If I had to, and I usually did.
Twisting the top off a fresh bottle of Jack Daniel's, refilling my glass, I wonder if I'd still be in Vancouver if I'd just been a little quicker to leave Joe alone in his fucked up little hell that night. What does it even matter anyway? I stayed with Joe and regretted it later, but I didn't regret leaving. Now with another plane ticket in my hand, I wonder if I'll regret this trip back.
I suspect I'll regret being reminded--even more vividly--of what all I left behind and what could have been. Not so much because I wish things were the way they used to be, but because I can see how easily they might have stayed the way they were. Turning that thought over...there's a faint realization poking at me--I should either quit drinking now or keep going until I can't string two words together--which I expect won't be too much longer. Joe'd laugh his ass off at what a cheap drunk I've become, but on the whole, I appreciate waking up in the mornings without a headache.
Unfortunately, tomorrow's not going to be one of those days. I'll
be good and hung over--self-imposed suffering for that long flight back
to Vancouver. Back to my old life, but... not. Back to Joe...more
or less. I'm sure there's something funny in that, if I could only
find it. Maybe I'll look for it someday.
The End.