Part 43: Xander

The tour bus was scheduled to leave at 5 AM on Sunday, so Xander went to bed early Saturday night. It was the most Alex Krassner thing he still did. Even though he could sleep on the bus, even though he could sleep in his dressing room in whatever new city they were going to (he kept a tour T-shirt in the front pocket of his luggage so he could check where he was before going onstage, usually five or six times before it stuck), even though he could sleep up until the minute he strutted onstage as far as anyone cared - there was something about crawling into bed at 9 PM that felt comforting. He did it every night they didn’t have a show or other Professional Obligation; but when there was an actual, objective reason to do it, it was even sweeter.

But the bus did not leave at 5 AM, because only Xander and the bus driver were on the bus at that time. At 5:03, the lead guitarist for Our Beautiful Misery arrived, looking harried and apologizing profusely. 5:10 brought the drummer and the few roadies who made up his group of friends. But it took until damn near 7 o’clock, and countless texts, phone calls, and exasperated sighs before the bassist arrived, without a word, just stumbling onto the bus and collapsing into one of the seats, hoodie up.

The other band members exchanged looks as the driver started up the bus (for the fourth time, to anyone who was keeping count -  only Xander.) This was the sort of behavior you would expect from a lead singer, tolerate in a guitarist - but in a bassist, it was unthinkable. Didn’t he know how easily he could be replaced? Hell, Xander figured he could probably play bass and sing his parts to all the OBM staples at this point, and that would maybe even make the whole thing pleasantly challenging again. But Bobby would never go for it. It would detract from his image.

Speaking of Bobby, how did Bobby get from city to city? Was there a separate bus for the record label people? (Were there other record label people who toured with them? Xander only ever dealt with Bobby, which made him think that maybe Bobby was one of those shadowy terms, an agent or a manager.) Or did he fly? Have his own vehicle? The man was an enigma in everything except how he related to Xander and OBM.

For instance, who had known he was actually a decent creative writer? It made sense in a way, since he was an expert bullshitter, and what was fiction if not a form of lying? But there had been a few lines of The Letter that Xander actually found himself wishing he had written, and at one point had even considered the idea that he had written it and had merely forgotten. But that was probably just wishful thinking.

Xander realized he was still leaning forward, elbows on thighs, and sat back. Now that the bus was moving, he could relax: he was no longer responsible for their progress, no longer required to give annoyed sighs and tuts and comments about what time they’d get to the next city if they left right now. He gazed out the window. Highway, tree, building, in various combinations. Just like everywhere else.

But this city had been different. He would remember this city (though not necessarily its name, which had already slipped into the abyss, all the more easily because it was on the t-shirt) because this was where he had experienced his moment of doubt, where it had really seemed possible that he would never write another OBM album. But now the story was written for him, in two senses. Already he was calling it a moment of doubt. God, he sounded like Bobby with all his palaver about rehab and relapses. Maybe he had a point there. Broken clock, twice a day; throw enough at the wall and something’s bound to stick.

A real rock star would have marked the occasion by sleeping with some random woman, he figured, but all he had was a small wooden owl, tucked in his backpack next to his tour t-shirt, still in its paper bag. Why hadn’t he taken it out of the paper? What would it signify when he did?

“So new album’s some concept thingy? Concentration camps and whatnot?” the guitarist said, breaking the silence that had reigned since they started moving. The seats in the tour bus all faced each other but conversation was rare. 

“Soviet labor camp,” Xander corrected.

“Right, right, sorry. So like a combination story-album type of thing?”

“Something like that. Did you read the story?”

“No, no, not yet. I’m going to, though, just haven’t had a chance yet,” the guitarist said hurriedly, apologetically. “I’m sure it’s great.”

It occured to Xander that this was supposed to be flattery. “Oh, I didn’t write it.”

“Oh, shit, right. Sorry.” He and the drummer exchanged conspiratorial glances, apparently thinking Xander was too far gone to pick up on this. “Just let us know when the instrumental parts fall out of the sky or whatever, then.”

“No, really, I didn’t write it,” Xander insisted, making eye contact now. “Bobby did.”

“Bobby? Bobby Melrose?” the drummer interjected. “Yeah, right. Melrose is a talker, not a writer. You can’t be both.”

“Sure you can, look at . . .” Xander groped blindly for an example.

“See?”

“Give me a minute.”

“Closest you’ll get is, I don't know, Voltaire or something, maybe.  But he wasn’t really a writer anyway. Now you, you’re a writer. Only a writer would pretend they didn’t write something they obviously wrote.”

“And say that’s a form of writing, too,” the guitarist put in.

Xander felt like he was being tag-teamed. He looked around for an ally, but there were only the roadies, who he barely knew, and the bassist, who appeared to be asleep. His eyes were closed, anyway. But a common enemy would work just as well. “Where do you think -” he indicated the bassist with a nod - “was?”

“Went out last night, I suppose,” the guitarist said.

The bassist grunted an affirmation.

“You don’t ever go out?” the drummer asked Xander.

“Go out where?”

“You know. Bars, clubs. Wherever. Or wherever writer types go when they go out.”

“Cafes?” the guitarist suggested.

“I really didn’t write that story,” Xander said. His deflection had failed. “I mean, maybe Bobby didn’t either. He says he didn’t. But he also says me and him are the only ones who have admin access to the website, so.”

“So either he’s lying or you’re lying, or it’s some O. Henry shit and you’re both lying,” the guitarist said. “But whatever, we don’t really care. Just tell us when our parts are ready.”

“You really don’t have any interest in writing your own parts?” Xander asked. They made vague gestures and facial expressions to indicate their indifference; the general idea was they would if he insisted, but with about the same level of enthusiasm that most people bring to, say, taking out the trash. A responsible choice, not a passion. “Don’t you ever get bored? Don’t you ever feel unfulfilled, just playing the same thing night after night? Don’t you want something more?”

“Spoken like a true writer,” the guitarist said. ‘Writer’ was officially an insult.

The bassist grunted again, this time as a prologue to actual speech. He didn’t open his eyes at any point. “Xander, it's a long drive, so I’m going to ask you a question. Let me ask you a question. And it’s a question I want you to actually answer. Why don’t you ever go out when we’ve got a free night?”

“I don’t know,” Xander said. “I’m just not a going out sort of person.”

“But you’re a healthy adult male, you’ve got testosterone flowing through your body, you must have some kind of sex drive. But in the however-many years we’ve been in this band together, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of you bringing a woman home. And that can only be for lack of trying.”

“I’ve had sex in the past three years, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“No, not at all. You’ve probably got some girl in your home town that you meet up with whenever you’re back there, and you’d say you’ve got a complicated or a unique relationship with her. Am I wrong?”

That was precisely what Xander had. “How did you . . .”

“I know your type. So here’s my question for you, and it’s the same question as before, but you’ll hear it a little differently now. Why don’t you ever go out and pick up random women to sleep with?”

Clearly the bassist wanted a different answer, but Xander didn’t have one. “Why don’t you just tell me the answer you want me to give you?”

“Alright, if you want to tap out, I’ll explain you to yourself. My pleasure.” The guitarist and the drummer had lost interest by this point, stopped listening; it was just the two of them, really. “You don’t sleep with random women because you think it would cheapen the act of having sex with the woman you really have feelings for. Yes--” he said, putting up a hand to stave off Xander’s interruption -- “you have feelings for her. We don’t have to say what kind of feelings just yet, but there are feelings there, are there not?”

“Sure, but ---”

“And am I wrong that you see some relationship between having one-night stands and your ongoing whatever-it-is with her?”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is that relationship is only in your head. The two have nothing to do with each other. They’re not opposites, they’re not a contradiction, no more than it’s a contradiction to like the beach and the mountains.”

“I thought we were talking about music.”

“We are, we have been. Music and sex are pretty much the same thing, anyway. They’ve known that all the way back to Plato. So I’m not going to do all the work for you here. I’m pretty exhausted, anyway. See if you can work out the parallels. Like I said, it’s a long ride. It'll give you something to think about. Good night.” And without being able to close his eyes to signify that he was going back to sleep, or to sleep for the first time, the bassist settled for turning his head to the side, obviously a less comfortable position.

Xander looked out the window again: more of the same. You would think they hadn’t moved at all.

An old suspicion: the world as a simulation. It certainly would make sense. Bobby and his mysterious past; a short story sprung out of nowhere; everyone he spoke to hitting on the exact same conversational themes. Not an original idea, unless it was true, in which case all ideas were his original ideas. 

But even solipsism didn’t hit Xander with the same power it did ten years ago. It occurred to him in a flash and then faded quickly away, like a firework.