Part 68: Xander

They were almost in Pittsburgh - rural ugliness starting to blend with urban ugliness, the sky turning faintly pink at the horizon, one of those disappointing sunsets that you get on cloudless days - when Xander’s phone buzzed.

“You were in Philadelphia last night.” An accusation.

“Yeah,” Xander admitted. “I was. How did you know? I thought you didn’t pay attention to OBM.”

“I don’t,” Kaitlyn said emphatically. “I mean, I don’t intentionally. But when it falls into my line of sight, I’m not going to look away. And your stupid speech last night is blowing up on the Internet.”

“It is?”

“Yeah. And every single time it’s labelled with: Xander Cross in PHILADELPHIA last night. Listen to what Xander said to this PHILADELPHIA crowd. Xander Cross starts beef with manager Bobby Melrose at PHILADELPHIA show. And it’s kind of a slap in the face.”

“Sorry. I was going to call, I was just . . .” How did that sentence end? “Busy” was too vague to be believable, and she would call him on it. She knew his natural inclination towards early to bed, early to rise.

And "busy" also wasn’t true. He hadn’t called before the show because he thought he had a fawning fan session to endure, a twenty-minute encore of being in character. But then right after the traditional Encore, he found out - through an intermediary, an intern - that Bobby had cancelled it. “In a huff,” the intern said three separate times. And calling Kaitlyn after the show had simply not crossed his mind. He couldn't control what crossed his mind.

“You changed the rules.” Another accusation.

“Rules? There were rules?”

“Yes, there were rules. There are always rules. Or else things would be chaos. But it’s nice when everyone involved is playing by the same rules.”

“I’m sorry?” Xander said, not sure what he was apologizing for.

“Our relationship was so simple. It made so much sense. You could set your watch by it, so to speak. Not that anyone wears a watch anymore now that we’ve got cell phones. But still. You’d call me every time you were in Philly, we’d sleep together once or twice, you’d keep calling for a little while, we’d talk about your problems, then you’d stop calling once you solved them. But I suppose you’ve found someone else for that now.”

“No, no, no, I haven’t. In fact, speaking of problems, that’s kind of one of them.” He looked to make sure the bassist wouldn’t be able to hear him; he was playing cards in the back, what looked like but couldn’t possibly be Go Fish. “I feel like I’m having the same conversations over and over again.” 

Kaitlyn groaned audibly. “Oh, great, so now I get to still do this part without even getting to do the fun part first. Well, I guess I asked for it. Go ahead. What do you mean, the same conversations?”

“Well, it’s like everyone I talk to, they’re just trying to get me to write this damn album, you know? Like, first it’s Bobby, and he’s saying, you’ve got to start writing it because the label wants it, like he’s got nothing to do with it. And then I guess I’m not doing it fast enough so he goes and writes the damn story himself and posts it, and tries to gaslight me into thinking I did it, so then it’s, well you’ve got to write it ‘cause the fans are expecting it. Dance, monkey, dance, make me some more money, Daddy needs a new three-car garage.”

“Yeah, well, isn’t he . . .”

“And then,” Xander continued, the floodgates opened, “the bassist from the band comes up to me earlier and he starts this whole bit where, like, he’s throwing all these pretentious theories at me, just trying to impress me with his intellect or whatever I guess. But then at the end of it, the take-home message is supposed to be like, I’ve got to write the album because it will give me a purpose, it’ll make me less bored. Coming at it from a different angle, saying it’s for my own good, but saying the same thing. And it feels like I’m in one of those movies where the guy’s in a coma and everyone’s telling him wake up, wake up, but he doesn’t know what it means.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, Xander, but you’re not in a coma.”

“I know I’m not in a coma. I was saying that’s what it felt like.”

“Hasn’t it occurred to you,” she said hesitantly, “that maybe there’s a reason why all your conversations feel the same?”

“What’s that?”

“They’re all about you. I mean, honestly, Xander, think about it: when’s the last time you had a conversation with someone about something other than yourself?”

Xander humored her, thought about it for three, maybe four seconds. “I don’t know. I don’t remember every single conversation I’ve ever had. I’m not a computer, I’m not a tape recorder, I don’t have one of those didactic memories or whatever they’re called. Besides, it’s not my fault everyone’s always asking me about me.”

“Yeah, ‘cause that’s what you do. It’s called making conversation. I mean, you get on stage last night and announce to a crowd of thousands that you’re writing a new album, and then you’re surprised that today someone says, ‘Hey, how’s the album going?’ It’s like a family party when everyone just goes around and says hows-work, hows-work, hows-work. It’s the default white-guy greeting. You’re not supposed to answer, you’re just supposed to say ‘good’ and ask them.”

“That’s not what it was like, though,” Xander replied, in much the same tone as he had informed the bassist they'd split the atom.

“Then maybe they’re asking, because, you know, their jobs kind of depend on it? Bobby can’t be your manager or your agent or whatever the hell he is if you don’t give him anything to manage - or, you know, age. And the other guys in the band are even more dependent on you! They’re watching you struggle with writer’s block or this third-life crisis, and they’re thinking, am I going to have a job in six months? Can I afford to send my kids to college?”

“They don’t have kids.”

“Do you know that for sure?”

Xander had to admit to himself that he didn’t. He still habitually thought of people-his-age as being too young to have kids, but the mathematics no longer bore that out. So he changed the subject, or returned to the subject. “So why do I have to do everything? Why can’t they pitch in and write some of it themselves, you know?”

“Because you set a precedent. You wrote the last three albums all by yourself, so now that’s the status quo. That’s the base line. It’s like you stuck your hand out to catch a vase that was falling and now you want to pull it away and pretend you never did it in the first place, and say, oh it was just gravity. And besides, isn’t that why you started this whole stupid feud with Bobby?”

“Yeah, that’s what the bassist said.”

“If everyone around you is saying the same thing, maybe you could take that as a sign that there’s something to it. At least consider it?” Kaitlyn felt like she had won. But in the silence, she realized something else, and so, against her better judgment, pressed on: “Xander, you keep saying the bassist, and I feel like his instrument isn’t essential to the story. Is it because you can’t remember his name?”

“Of course I remember his name!”

“If you say so. But still.” She wasn’t done. Momentum had her. “God, Xander, you always treat everyone else like they’re just secondary characters in your story. Like your existential crisis is the main thing going on, and everything else is just some amusing side-plot. Like you don’t owe anything to anybody. Like there’s no such thing as, you know, the social contract, the give-and-take. And maybe that worked for you when you were fifteen. Maybe that’s what got you to where you are today. But it’s not going to work forever.”

“So let me guess. You’re going to tell me the way out is to throw myself into my work, keep my promises to other people, write the damn album.”

“No. I don’t give a shit what you do. I’m done being your therapist. After this conversation, I mean. I realize I’m still doing it right now, but it’s hard to stop once you’ve started.”

“You’re not my therapist. We’ve just got a . . . “

“Don’t you dare say complicated relationship.”

“Why not?”

“We don’t have a complicated relationship. We had a relationship where you only talk about things that are complicated. There’s a difference.”

“I . . .”

“It’s never how are you, watching anything good on TV lately, hey I saw this funny thing that made me think of you. It’s always what you’re dealing with, what you're struggling with. And I put up with it for this long because I loved you, but not anymore.”

“You love me?”

“Loved. Past-tense. Why, I have no idea. But don’t worry, you’ll find someone else to fill this role in your life. Because that’s what you do. Obviously when you alienated Bobby, you grafted upon this bassist guy to be your - what? Your nemesis? Your foil? The person you can look at and say, hey at least I’m not like him?”

“That’s not fair.”

“No, it is. It’s not nice, it’s not flattering, but it’s true. I know you better than you do. Because I’ve been playing this role for so long. The one you turn to when you need to process things. The unprocessed processor. And in case you’re wondering who you’re going to do it to next, just wait and see who you start processing this conversation with. And that’s the last piece of advice I’m giving you. Goodbye, Xander. And go ahead and go fuck yourself.”