Part 55: Xander / Hannah

“Thank you, thank you, thank you, you guys are amazing!” That was fine, routine. “This is why we love coming back to Philadelphia! The welcome that you give us every time, the passion, the energy here, it’s really something special!” Again, boilerplate. “Now, I’d like to just take a moment . . .” That’s where things went wrong, where the train went off the track, and Bobby knew it immediately. You didn’t “take a moment” after two songs. It just felt wrong, like being told to “have a good day” when it’s night time and you’ve already had a mediocre one.

But he was on stage. He was visible. He wasn’t just Xander; he was Xander Cross, the Artist, the Genius, the Visionary. Stopping him was impossible. It would be counterproductive, it would make a martyr of his speech, it would make them hungry to hear it. Nothing more enticing than a No Trespassing sign, Bobby thought, as another part of his mind started to make loose plans for a post-OBM career: maybe something jangly and acoustic?

“I’m sure a lot of you have heard some rumors about a new album,” Xander Cross said, pacing back and forth in front of the stage. There was thunderous applause. “And I’m sure most of you have read The Letter by now.” More applause and screaming. The other members of the band noodled on their instruments, adding to the cacophony. “Well, I wanted to set the record straight once and for all. You know I don’t believe in keeping secrets or lying or being fake or dishonest.”

Someone in the crowd managed to time their “We love you, Xander!” perfectly so that it cut through the din of the other we-love-you-Xanders.

“Love you too, darling,” he said, swaggering like a rock star again. “And that’s why I want to tell you the truth - what’s that they say in court? The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth? Something like that? Well, that’s what you’re getting from me tonight, Philadelphia.” He swung the mic around a bit. “First of all, I can confirm, definitely, that the next Our Beautiful Misery album will be a concept album based on The Letter. And I can also confirm that it will be fucking fantastic!”

The crowd erupted. This would have been enough for them: to brag that they were at the show where Xander confirmed the new album. It would have painted the album gold for them. They would always remember that they heard about the album at that show, even once their actual memories of the concert had turned to gray mush.

It also, Bobby considered, might keep them from buying merch on the way out, because they would already have their souvenir.

That was the problem with Artists: they didn’t get that their art was a means to an end.

But Xander had said “first of all,” and wasn’t one to leave a loose end hanging like that; it was tantamount to dishonesty. He kept going, and made the train careen off a cliff. “And also. It’s time we cleared the air about who wrote The Letter.” Here Bobby wondered if Xander was going to confess to writing it: not ideal, but manageable. “Now, Philadelphia, please believe me when I tell you, I am being one-hundred-percent, swear-to-the-God-who-doesn’t-exist, cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die honest when I say, I absolutely, unequivocally did not write The Letter.”

The fans screamed; it was the only option they had, after all.

“And what’s more, I’m going to tell you I did. Now this is our little secret, Philadelphia, don’t go telling anyone what I’m about to tell you.” Apparently he had forgotten what he had just said about secrets. And dishonesty. “The truth is, the story you’ve all read and loved so much, The Letter, the basis for our next album, was written by a man who’s too humble to admit it himself, but who deserves just as much credit as I do, and that’s our incomparable, invaluable producer, Mr. Bobby Melrose!”

Fuck. Bobby bolted out of the sound booth, determined to hide wherever and however he could until he figured out his angle here. Besides, there was no need to watch the rest of the show now. Nothing Xander could do or say from here on out could possibly wreck things any more than that.

*

9:23 PM: XxXSuicidesXGrace is online.

No one was on. Not Victoria, not James, not even Kelly Castleman. Had everyone really moved on that fast? Did they get new screennames? Or stop using messenger altogether? So much for her so-called best friends. As far as they knew, she had been missing for three days, and they didn’t even care enough to be online. Fine. She was used to being on her own anyway. She had been on her own when she moved to that stupid little town and she would do the same thing here.

But still she needed to close that last chapter of her life. She needed some way to say goodbye.

9:41 PM: XxXSuicidesXGrace has signed off.

*

After Xander’s speech, the message boards exploded. The moderators were busy updating all of the TX threads to bear a [Pre-Phil] tag; the membership of the TB board grew exponentially, which led to the insistence that those who had been active in the TB community before Philadelphia get some kind of badge, which the moderators were not fast enough in creating, so a few members took it upon themselves to create a private forum for the OGTBers, who then abandoned the main TB board, so that when the moderators did introduce a badge for those who were TB before Phil, the only people who were around to claim them were those who had posted on the OB board but hadn’t made the cut for OGTB - that is, former TX trolls and contrarians.

Meanwhile, the TX board turned into a safe-haven for anyone with doubts about taking Xander’s words literally, including those who thought he was too smart to actually reveal the writer’s identity, those who considered him too stupid to know who had written it, and those who still thought the story was actually scrawled on the walls of a Soviet labor camp and were only confused why the author had an English name and a Russian one.

So a REAL TXers board was set up for those who still believed that Xander really had written The Letter, based on the paradoxical claim that he wouldn’t have lied about it unless it was really important to him and it would only be really important to him if he had written it. The moderators tagged this as [Post-Phil] and even added a warning page for anyone attempting to visit the board, letting them know that it was “not representative of the beliefs of the community as a whole.”

The general OBM discussion board, where all discussion of The Letter was prohibited, soon became a proxy war for the different factions. The word “letter” had, of course, been banned on Saturday afternoon, soon joined by “TB” and “TX” - which had the unintended effect of rendering the screenname of one prominent poster (who lived in Austin) as TessFrom*thing i shouldn’t be talking about here.*

But they were still allowed to talk about the Philadelphia show, so “Philly” became a byword until it, too was banned, and the moderators created a separate forum for discussion of the Philadelphia show itself (but still not The Letter.) Then, everyone started talking about the Black Carousel interview until a separate Interviews forum was made (once the existing Interviews forum, which no one used, was deleted), and a banner was added to the top of the GD forum, reading: for discussion of the three existing OBM albums and live performances (except for the Philadelphia show on 5/22) only. NO SPECULATION OF ANY KIND.

*

Dear All My Supposed Friends, Enemies, and Everything In Between:

Yes, it’s true, I am gone. Maybe you noticed, maybe you didn’t. Some of you are probably jumping up and down with joy right now. But there is a quote that has always stuck with me throughout my life: “Show me a person without enemies and I’ll show you someone who never stood for anything.” I’d rather be hated than forgotten entirely. At least that means I’ll have made my mark on this stupid, pathetic little world.

But I can’t help but feel like I have been forgotten already. My old friends, the people I once thought I could count on to be there for me no matter what, are nowhere to be found. It’s not that I need them. I don’t need anybody but myself. I never have, and I never will. But it just kind of sucks when you do so much for other people and then when the time comes, they don’t return the favor.

But that’s humanity for you, I guess: a bunch of greedy, selfish, money-hungry, blood-sucking parasites blinded by our own lust and rage. 

I am no better. I know that. But at least I see us for what we really are instead of hiding behind happy lies, or putting my faith in some bullshit religion, or drowning my sorrows with alcohol.

If you’re wondering where I am writing this from, let me just say that if you are my true friend you already know. Or you should, anyway. I’ve finally realized that this has been my destiny all along. This is where the story has always been heading. It’s like I’m a cow riding on one of those tracks in a slaughterhouse, with no say over where I’m going or when. Maybe we all are. 

I don’t believe in saying goodbye. As Xander Cross put it, “There’s no such thing as goodbye. There’s only good night.” So good night to you all and I’m sure we will see each other again someday.

Love you all,

Hannah