More Things I Don’t Understand

Out of all the drunken, misguided people Vanessa introduced me to in the fall, Miles felt the most far-gone.  For starters, he wore a pair of dark sunglasses to an already barely visible house party.  Something had happened to him.  Something beyond the world’s ability to wave a magic wand and turn him into something.  In the darkest corners of her mind, Vanessa felt so drawn to him for the exact quality I sensed. 

            As he approached me, the arrangement became clear.  Someone approached him half-way through the room asking for the glasses back which Miles made a chore when taking off his face. 

            “You have to give me the glasses back,” someone had said to him with outstretched palm.  The man talking to Miles looked of a slight build but sober enough where he could handle Miles should he disagree.  Even in an inebriated state though Miles didn’t strike her as a fighter.  Maybe a wrestler—but could Miles throw a punch at someone?  She shook her head.

            “Yeah, man,” he laughed a little too loud.  He handed back the sunglasses and the other person stormed away.  Girls around him gave a strange look as if to condemn the person who let Miles in the party.  Vanessa grabbed him by the wrist and trudged him towards me.  The only reason Vanessa knows anything about music—I, her little sister--- taught her.  Everything from the difference between a minor and major chord to basic chord progressions, she has me to thank.  

            “Hey, Iz, meet Miles,” Vanessa said towards me.  I poured myself another shot into a red plastic cup and stuck out my hand.  I could tell Miles sobered up the second I offered to shake. 

            “Miles,” he said, introducing himself to no one.  “Enjoy the party?”  his drunken eyes floated away as I opened my mouth to respond.  Looking back, I don’t even remember what I had said in response to his innocuous inquiry.  For a moment, I felt a connection to him. 

            “Come now,” Vanessa said, pulling on his wrist once again towards the kitchen.  I didn’t understand the situation, considering Vanessa had told me only a few days ago about another boy whom she liked—not Miles.  Someone on the club basketball team who served as the social chair of another frat.  Miles didn’t belong with the college folk.  He went to college for two years if one could even believe such a thing.

            “Can you act sober… around my sister for two goddamn seconds?”  she looked up at Miles in something past anger and before disappointment.  Only Vanessa had such strange states of emotion where one could regard her as both vehement and downtrodden at the same time.  She looked him dead in the eyes. 

            “What did you want me to say….” Miles said.  I approached the kitchen but over the rest of the noise in adjacent rooms I couldn’t hear much of their conversation.  The kitchen had an old wooden door which Vanessa’s friends had kept three quarters shut in case anybody besides her got the fun idea to sneak around the party house.  How had I found myself in a party house again? I should practice my guitar or write songs.  I stared at my cup once again, realizing I had to relish the opportunity of getting drunk away from the house.  When I later went to college people would regard me as the only person to have never gotten drunk—which I didn’t mind.  Vanessa brought me to places, hoping I would assimilate.  She brought me to places, hoping people like Miles wouldn’t show, so she wouldn’t have to introduce them.

About thirty minutes later, I saw Miles leave alone after saying something to Vanessa.  Neither of them looked mad at each other.  In fact, I thought I saw Miles kind of waltz out of the door after saying goodbye.  I said a small prayer for the person who had to pick him up.  All the sudden, one of my bandmates, Belle peered around the corner.  Besides myself, Belle and I only attended Vanessa’s weird parties for the sake of getting drunk.   

            “Want to go back to my place?  My parents don’t come back until tomorrow and we can watch something in the main room,” she asked me.  Belle had blue eyes and wore a short black dress which showed off the small tattoo of a witch’s crystal ball she had on her shoulder.  At the tender age of 18, Belle had multiple tattoos. 

            “Have you ever met the Miles guy?”  she asked Belle as Belle stuck her keys into an ignition.  The 2009 Toyota Rav 4 purred into gear.  “The guy Vanessa brings around sometimes.  I just don’t… like know what to think,” she said.  Belle stared at her before backing the car around a traffic cone.

            “Miles Lerner.  Pretty cute.  My older friends tell me your sister only hangs with him because next year he has a new album coming.  I think her kind of gets around, Iz,” Belle said.  I just know noticed how people only referred to me as Iz.  The night went on the normal way things happen as she fell asleep in a quiet way on somebody else’s couch.  Around noon the next day, I would meet Vanessa for coffee and the whole weekend shenanigan would perhaps start again.  The days Vanessa had work; she didn’t talk to me much the days she worked. 

            Two years go by, before I ever hear from the Miles guy again.  Most people know him now as the artist Miles Lerner.  However, the night Vanessa introduced us lingers.  I felt a darkness in both.  He had a sort of uncontrolled side which he tried to hide more around her yet failed to every time.  She had a desperate attachment to his negative qualities because she wanted to cultivate a brilliance.  I wonder how far Vanessa had come going for a guy who didn’t care about her safety—much less his own. 

Miles had his faced plastered on every Instagram indie page and even a full page spread in the L.A Times Sunday edition.  The day we interacted again (on Instagram), marked the two-year anniversary of my band: Cardigan of Carl.  We had a special show planned in my home neighborhood at my home theatre.  $10 tickets, and we had a band after us.  Vanessa, as my sister, got two people she could invite free of charge from the venue.   

And not like she would want to, but she could with ease bother us backstage and take our booze.  The booze I had more started to enjoy before gigs to cure my terrible stage fright.  None of us could get too drunk though because my parents would show up somewhere around our third song of the night.  They would come in separate cars and while my dad would hang in the front my mom would look sullen in the back.  I liked them both in different situations after the divorce a year ago.  Vanessa shouldered much of the strain of the breakup (like any big sister would try).   

            Miles Lerner with a small blue check next to his name had enjoyed a piece of content I put out about my show.  The whole thing came not as a certification but more as a warning.  I told Vanessa with a screenshot of the exchange.  She responded, LOL.  Sorry.  and from the day forward I never heard from Miles again.  I wonder what she had said to him.  What kinds of harsh things she could have not already said to such a manic person.  For the first time in my life, I got the sense of my sister as a kind of evil.  However, I don’t believe in evil because like most philosophers would suggest, the belief in an evil implies the belief in an inherent good.

            After the show and brief mention of the Miles incident to Vanessa, I added the relationship he and she had shared to a list of things I didn’t understand.  I continued to see Miles name in the press and he even did an interview about a sobriety retreat he had attended in Mexico which “changed his life”.  I needed a sobriety retreat after just being around him the night we met.

            Another summer passed before Vanessa talked about the night again.  She asked me a series of questions about what had happened.  She interrogated me about the exchange as if she herself had not orchestrated the whole thing.  I wondered if she had forgotten the whole situation.  Vanessa had graduated in the Spring and had begun her new job downtown at the law firm as an administrative assistant.    

As a sister, I worried about Vanessa’s mental health.  She had a diagnosis and medication but only I and my dad knew the exact lengths things went.  Vanessa scared people off in a way she didn’t mean because of how scary emotions came and left her.  Some of her energy had rubbed on me over the years, but I used the passion to pursue music and the band.  We had made a name for ourselves, and with everyone I knew at the time playing didn’t feel like work.  Playing the band felt like a vacation.    

            “Did he say anything to you during the party… anything off-putting?”  she asked me point blank.

            “Vanessa, you introduced us.” I laughed at her.  The whole exchange took place at one of our normal coffee dates.  Vanessa treated me every week or so, and as of late I would bring her little gifts like a vinyl record or a candle.  She looked at me more serious than she ever had when things came to boys—romance.  Romance with boys.   

            “I don’t get the joke,” she said, taking a sip of her matcha latte.  She continued with the questioning as I explained to her how I had watched Miles leave after they talked.  He looked happy in his drunkenness I explained.  Vanessa had no reaction.  She looked at me for five seconds with a blank stare. 

elsewhere.  Like she had painted a house in the 80s and just now felt the effects.  After a while of us sitting in silence, drinking coffee she chimed in: “I have to go,” she said.  Before, I could respond at all I watched as she strolled down the sidewalk and put her head in her hands.  I looked out the window harder in another direction as Vanessa walked two streets over towards her car. 

            “Can I have another espresso, please?”  I turned towards the barista wiping the table next to me in a now empty café.  Vanessa and I’s favorite café for the past two years because in the back they had a whole record section and old playboys to look at while drinking coffee.  All the sudden, I heard one of Miles’ songs on the store radio.  He only had about 7 songs and the lady wiping tables had chosen his most popular: Anybody else?  I gestured towards the ceiling speaker, “I used to know Miles,” I said.

            The barista put in extra effort to bring me the single espresso shot with ice and a little seltzer water as quick as possible.  “8.75,” she said.  I tapped my card.  As soon as the card reader’s beep stopped, she began to address me again—as if the transaction between us had broken a spell.  “He comes in all the time,” she said to me. 

            “You don’t say?”  I followed up—more than horrified.  “Tell him I said, ‘hi’ then.”  I darted out of the small café and never returned.           

How to Start a Fire

At night, William Butler lay awake thinking of all the ways he could tell the world how much he hated people.  He hated the way they talked towards him.  The damage they had done by just existing in his presence.  He wish he could live in some desolate area of the globe where humans didn’t existed.  He didn’t mind animals because he liked to hunt.

At the start of each day, Will slept through four rings of his alarm until the light peeking through his window reminded him so much of meaningless existence his body hurt.  When his body started to hurt Will reminded himself he must medicate.  Picking up a small bong from a bedside table, Will indulged in the daily ritual of waving a lighter over a glass bowl and sucking air until his lungs hurt.  For a brief moment, as he took his head away from the bong the world felt still.  The world felt like people had frozen forever. 

“The sun should set around 6:30 today with a temperature at sunset around 71 degrees,” a white television host smiled into the camera.  Even at 9:30 in the morning, Will step-father had nothing better to do than plop himself in front of the television.  He sometimes brought a newspaper and sometimes he did not.  Every morning he listened to the sound of Will’s alarm and took a mental account of the likelihood Will would wake up.  The account involved betting against Will until about the second ring whereabout Will, Wednesday.

“Hello,” Will’s stepfather greeted him as he walked down the stairs in his work uniform of apron, hat, and stained dark-blue jeans.  Will never responded both because he hated everyone around him and also because if he did have the urge to talk such an intuition wouldn’t take place until much later in the day.

As he unlocked his bicycle in the front yard, Will pondered Camus and Nietzche quotes about suffering and existence.  The philosophers by all accounts had not seen his day to day habits.  If they had, they would rethink the bearings of existentialism and perhaps change the name to survivalism.  Survivalism by means of cannabis, caffeine, and rampant media addiction.  From the time Will gets to work until the final close, the day passes before him in an almost brutal manner. 

Before getting the chance to ponder his own survivalism, Will finds himself back on his bed.  No step-fathers around and no distractions.  The observation compels him to open his computer and begin typing away at his only hope of finally escaping the economic and political realities in which he finds himself.  He can finish a story today.  The longest story of all time.

The story of life time, Will considers.  Of course the story does not use any real names including the author but the figures feel as real as anything gets.  As Will types away in the solace of his bedroom he feels the catharsis.  The release of tension as people die and the world shuts down.  

“The Pink Cowboy,” he mutters to himself as he types the words into the heading of a blog post.  What makes a cowboy “pink” not even he knows.  Will never had a natural talent for writing, but he had a natural talent for words.  He felt if he spoke or wrote things people could change their minds around him.  The urge to write only lasts Will about 15 minutes. 

Closing his computer he thinks about a day where someone in the far reaches of the world would read his prose.  He thinks about the day where he would find a girl named Vanessa still frozen by the world and find a time where they could live in harmony.  He thinks about his wild, nomadic nature which causes him to live alone.  The similarities strike everyone else but Will when things come to his writing.  He doesn’t mind people talking about him--- if he did, he’d have acted in a different way by now. 

Years later, so the story of W.B Teller ends.  Will has written “The Pink Cowboy” and someone else will discover his genius.  His lack of marketing savvy has driven him to a point where he can’t wait for the prospect of death to bring notoriety to his work.  Will can’t wait for people to come to their senses about how they wronged him in every way.  In the distance, he hears the footsteps of his step-father up the shaky staircase. 

“Will, you need to take out the garbage,” he says in an almost too calm manner.  Will acts asleep.  He opens his computer a final time before completing the task and writes a note at the top of his blog.  The note reads something along the lines of… The Collected Works of Will by W.B Teller.  He thinks how brilliant the title sounds in his mind and the thought gets him excited for other’s to read.

Months pass by before Will ever looks at The Collected Works again.  The day comes where he thinks about perhaps starting again, but he can’t bring himself to do anything.  He can’t bring himself to a level of sadness he felt when writing the Pink Cowboy.  His Vanessa hasn’t reached out to him and the lack of romantic prospects makes his thoughts dull.

Looking back on the works, Will considers their compilation his life’s work.  He felt if his words could reach said audience around the world he could die a happy person.  Unlike a famous musician or painter he could live in an anonymous life.  So the story goes, he would somehow now have an endless supply of money without the harsh realities of fame. 

Will could go to Los Angeles.  In his mind, he dreamed of the place as a kind of mythic land. When he fulfilled his romantic life in L.A he could become a better writer.  Like the rest of the rich anonymous people in L.A, he could go on wild dates where the girl would ask him questions about his what he did for work.  She would ask after how he could afford such a fancy dinner.

After years of the casual dates and his new life, Will would reveal to his partner how he took up the persona of W.B Teller and became one of the world’s most famous authors in complete secret.  She would marvel over his accomplishments and the two would spend the rest of their lives together supported by his writing.  Will snapped back to his own reality.

His mind began plan the actual ways in which he could get to Los Angeles to give his copy of The Collected Works to publishers.  Once they saw his genius everything else would fall into place.  In his small town, Will found the only printer available to print a 50 page document. 

“You want how many pages?” a sullen old lady asked him as she maneuvered a paper jam in the old machine.  The library had a dusty quality which reminded Will how everything hin his town felt almost beyond saving.  If the printer could not even work Will should not show any bit of sympathy he didn’t even have anymore. 

“About 35,” Will lied to her.  She knew, but didn’t care.  She opened the paper tray and slammed the thing shut with the rage of working 30 hour weeks in a dusty library for $14 an hour.  Will wondered in the back of his mind what they would do all day if they did not have people to jam the printer with 50 page documents. 

“$4.00” she snarled with an outstretched palm, reminding Will he had to go to an ATM.  He went and returned fifteen minutes later to another sullen looking white-haired lady holding the paper and looking as if she had wasted the best years of her life reading Will’s stuff.  He concluded she had indeed not read the first page but instead read the dull description embossed before the story even began.  Will looked at her like a schizophrenic looks at the walls of his room.  She handed over the pages to him.

“Thank you,” Will bowed in a kind of royal way.  As he left the dusty library, he noticed the shelves of travel books which filled the place’s “Children’s Section”.  Having worked at a travel agency himself Will wondered what type of child would ever pick up a book about “The Top 50 Things To-Do in Rome”.  He opened the door, found his bike and pedaled home before anyone could see him with the pages. 

As he pedaled, he thought of music.  He thought of his main character Miles.  He peered down at the pages and noticed the fresh pink and printing of “The Pink Cowboy” on the third page.  If Will could learn how to make a table of contents he would have made one.  He pedaled on to a peculiar site at his house.  His step-dad sat on the curb outside, palm to his forehead. 

As Will watched firetrucks pull onto the opposite side of the street, he noticed what had happened.  His step-father, now noticing Will did not say a word to him.  Coming closer to the wreck, Will could smell the smoke and ash.  His beloved books had charred.  The sirens came even closer, causing Will to realize the only thing he had involved his bikes, a backpack, and The Collected Works.

As he surveyed the scene, even more he wondered how much damage the fire had done.  As the firefighters did their job he noticed pretty much everything covered in a black soot and disintegrated.  Will’s whole life in the comfort of one bedroom.  His coworkers would not believe him, the lady at the library would not believe him, and neither would any of his characters.

Will thought once again what his rockstar Miles would do in the situation.  The dire situation Will now found himself surrounded by.  The harsh reality his step-father faced as he screamed into a mobile phone.  Miles chased after Vanessa of course.  Miles loved only music and in the far off universe of Greenlake he felt comfortable a lone wolf.

Will put the collected works in his backpack and decided to pedal to Los Angeles.  He decided to pedal towards Vanessa.  Against the odds, he could make his way to Rooster and build a new life with only The Collected Works to anchor him.  The more Will thought about the fire the harder he pedaled.  He had to escape now before the internal fire became too hot to handle.

After biking for thirty minutes, Will found a place to rest.  With the two dollars in his pocket he walked into the corner store and bought a Pepsi.  Sitting in a quiet corner next to the store, he took his story out of his backpack and began to read.  He could not bring himself past the first few lines.  Tears began to well in his eyes as he realize what must happen now.

Somewhere in Indiana

The band loved to explore local cafes and all types of midwestern diners while on the road.  About 2 hours outside of Chicago one night they discovered Gene’s diner.  The seven band members and tour staff all piled into a booth.  Out of a set of swinging doors came a bespectacled lady well over the age of sixty.  She looked as though she had lived in both a desert and a city.  Miles peered at the outline of a lizard tattooed on her tan forearm and light-pink fingernails.  Black horned rimmed spectacles reflected the bright white light she stood under besides the table.  She struck Pete as so funny he almost burst out laughing.  Sensing trouble, she looked the group over before slowly reaching back for either her taser or her menu pad.  He gathered himself before looking back down at the menu and coughing. 

“Can I help you, gentleman?” she asked.  Staring directly at Miles, she looked expectantly as if out of anyone there he could possibly save them. 

“I’ll take a whiskey coke to drink,” he told her.  Pete quickly followed up to say he wanted one too. 

“Listen… I don’t mind serving you but don’t trash the place.  Some of us have to make an honest living you know,” she told the group.  Miles thought she merely said so to poke fun at the him.  He offered her a fresh cigarette out of his pack which she expected.  Five minutes later, she brought two glasses of coke.  Before they could say anything she took out two airplane bottle of Jim Bean and dumped it into Pete’s drink then his.  Someone else had ordered a shake which she also brought.  They ordered burgers, gyros, fries, and sandwiches of varying kinds.

“Cheers,” Pete said, holding up his glass towards her.  She told them plenty of bands came through here and she used to date a rockstar when she lived in the city.  Which city Miles did not exactly know.  She preceded to take a small bag out of her pocket.  By then normal conversation had begun again and most of the table didn’t notice.  Miles knew exactly what she would do.  Whatever she had in the bag, didn’t look at all like coke because it shined bright pink.  She stuck her long fingernail into it and snorted.  She coughed wildly.  Then she said something about how the whole Chicago scene had gone to crap since she lasted lived there (clearing up Miles’ confusion).    

“No booze, for me… Not tonight,” she said.  She continued to laugh as if drinking had become an inside joke between them.  The table fell silent and the rest of the band looked at her in disbelief.  Equally shocked she reached her finger into the bag and shuddered trying to draw powder out once again.  Her yellow stained teeth grinned at them.  “Let me know, if I can get you fellas anything else,” she said before lighting the cigarette and turning away.  Receding back into the double doors as she did caused a huge crash in the kitchen.  The boys left soon after and ever since Pete would mention “Gene’s” around Miles like some big party both of them had attended. 

On their off days, Pete and Miles would do psychedelics.  Pete would usually take a stem or two then annoy his fellow band mates with conversation which droned on the higher he got.  After a show in North Carolina, Pete had told him they he knew a local man willing to give them even more, so they could trip every day on the tour.  In Los Gatos, they could get the bars pretty much whenever they wanted.  Pete always laughed at how the bars marketed to children with the Wonka name and cartoonish images of someone’s head exploding.  Pete had done acid a few times but Miles had only done mushrooms.  They both followed Reddit pages where people documented their experiences with test chemicals.

“I started violently thrashing and breaking everything in my room.  Police detained me.  I woke up in the emergency room still very high.  I could feel, however, the nurses put me on some benzos to calm down,”  wrote one user about an experience with a compound called ‘TZ6’.   

“Wow man, this guy definitely didn’t take what he thought,” Pete would comment as the two laughed.  Beyond the simple function as a social lubricant, psychedelics made Miles too emotional.  He never did them on stage but always wanted to try.  One night, after one of his best shows, he noticed either a bag of shrooms or half of a chocolate bar.  The exact series of events escapes him (he’d drank heavily to the point).  Grabbing the drugs, he inserted them between two slices of bread and the remaining lunch meet from their pre-show catering.  After 30 minutes the whole roomed flipped upside down. 

He not only felt emotional at the time but had some type of revelation about how everyone only wanted to use him.  Everyone around him except Vanessa had somehow tricked him into using his mediocre talents as a way to escape the monotony of their normal lives.  He sat on the floor for hours watching everything pulse.  The toilet water of the hotel bathroom looked like a tidal wave.  Every time he attempted to move felt too dizzying.  Instead of listening to far off voices in the night, he listened to music: the Beatles.  “Living is easy with eyes closed”.  He turned up his headphones and leaned back into his hotel bed.  He tried to close his eyes as tight as possible.  The more he tried the he saw fantastic colors and shapes flash before him.    

He watched the movie ‘Midsommar’ a few nights ago.  After the movie he thought if only he had the same idea, he could make money as a screenwriter.  He would pitch a similar film but instead cowboys attack the village and bust everyone out.  One day, he’d get some fancy software which helps one write screenplays, and he would finally do it.  About halfway through a cigarette he felt the first drops of rain patter his porch.  He could feel the Los Gatos smog in the air, causing the city to turn grey.  Grey, smoggy days it felt as if all the city had gone to sleep.  On days like today, the people of Rosemont would lurk inside playing their instruments, honing their craft, calling their friends.  The gloom gave the rare reprieve from either unbearable heat or chilly nights.

Everything He Left

As she watched the passing traffic, something allured Vanessa deeply about the thought of ending it all.   Not in the way of Miles’ death but in the way her depressions crept in—by unspeakable forces conspiring to torment her.  She pictures a black expanse with soft edges, a sort of canvas with which every person in her life felt abnormal.  A Rothko but with different shades of black.  As she comes closer to the painting a whirring sound in her head becomes louder.  She tries to touch the painting, but wakes up before she can.  The scene reminds of something she has experienced a hundred times before yet never seen in real life.  Gasping for air she awakes to realize she has had the exact same dream two nights in a row. 

A text message pings her phone before takes another step on the rubble sidewalk of East Greenlake.  In the distance, she sees a man with a cowboy hat and boots.  A tumbleweed passes by the man, and she feels in her soul the desert heat of a boomtown like the ones she read about in Arizona.  The man puts his hand to his holster and tips his hat.  Miles always had a fascination with cowboys and the old west.  She feels the first drop of an impending rainstorm. 

She would not make it much longer.  During the day, she decided to go into Miles’ favorite bookstore without him.  A man at the front desk peered over his book to meet her confused expression.  They always looked like destressing people served no purpose in such a place of high society and literature.

“May I help you?” he asked.

“No,” she said, trying to look normal.  The one or two times they had gotten drinks at the adjacent Spanish restaurant, Miles had always insisted to the waiter they get the best seat in the house (in the corner, next to the window).  Even when she went with her family—who knew the owner— she couldn’t get the same seat.  When they enjoyed the rare date, he would never allow anyone who recognized him to talk for too long even if it concerned music.  He wanted to focus completely on her (or at least give the illusion).  He may have felt too paranoid about one subject or the other and had to sneak off the bathroom to throw up.

Taking one foot off the curb now, she looked around.  At the intersection of Greenlake boulevard and Los Gatos Canyon, she saw hot dog vendors peddling their carts up and down the street, men getting off the local metro stop, people parking their energy efficient vehicles.  Deep breathes.  Something takes over her arms now then her legs and they start walking towards the intersection.  Sounds slowly start to fade out or become distorted beyond recognition. 

A man yells at her from a distance but she couldn’t care less.  Cars skid out of the way to avoid her.  Her hair feels the rough pebbles of the pavement as her skull touches the cement.  Floating by her eyeball, a long cigarette gets tossed in the wind as a car speed by her.  Someone rushes out into the road.  Her elbows have bruises just below where her tattoos lay. 

“Lady… Can I help you?” the man yells before calming himself down.  “Are you… a protester?”  He had seen some stuff about stopping big oil by standing in the streets, but he can tell by her clothes she didn’t intend to step into traffic and lay down in front of a red light.  “Call 9-11,” he mouths to someone back in her car.  A young girl watches on as Vanessa remains on the warm pavement for another minute.  

“I’m fine.  Just let me rest,” she says.  She looks down at her toes and wiggles them like a kid trying to test whether you can really move all of them at once.  You can but it hurts a bit if you try too much.  “My name is Vanessa,” she says.  Her eyes start to roll back, and the man shakes her a bit.  His screams go to mute in her head.  The darkness has entered.  “Vanessa, my name is Vanessa,” she says.  A final breath escapes her lips as her fingers gently release onto the pavement.  “I knew him once,” she whispers. 

She found his body laying softly on the kitchen floor.  The few months before his eventual passing, perhaps Vanessa sensed a shift but nothing major.  The lifelessness artists suffer from had taken a toll on one of the greatest yet most nonchalant musical minds of all time.  She had Narcan in the house and desperately tried to resuscitate him.  She pounded his chest in a rush of feeling.  Screaming at the top of her lungs she noticed nothing else in the kitchen which could possibly save him.  Never having done CPR but watched enough films to understand the basic premise, she bent down and for the final time touched her lips to his and she blew air in his mouth. 

Miles entered pure blank space after his death.  In it, a piano with a small ash tray sitting atop it.  Every so often an entity brings him cigarettes and booze as he wants.  He looks down on his life, regretting not what had happened but the way it unfolded.  All good things must end.  Vanessa enters much the same but the two of them never meet.  She sits in a far-off room with her family and drinks coffee.  They discuss art and literature but never love. Miles’ spirits still sits on the porch of the house, overlooking Greenlake boulevard.  The swing which they both spent hours swinging on smoking, rocks back and forth on the busy nights of young revelers.  Music remains the only thing bringing both Vanessa and Miles together.

“Everything happens for a reason, Vanessa,” her mother would tell her as she cried into her arms.  Saturday afternoons with her mother when they would go to a local art shop together—the last time she felt safe.  She would peer up and the large wall of canvases and her mother would lift her up to pick out the exact one she needed on the day.  They would also pick out watercolors, pastels, and all types of colored pencils.  And as her mother tucked her into a car seat after leaving the store, she would peer over at the blank canvasses sitting next to her then fall into a deep restful sleep.

She continued to live at Miles’ house.  The house felt like a shell of its former self– as if a part of it died with Miles’ late presence.  The corners felt more shadowy, dusty.  She could never look at anything too long without breaking down.  It made her remember the faces of Miles’ crying relatives– who visited once or twice and vowed to never go back.  Miles had a sense of purpose but not the right one.  He liked making music and performing but couldn’t see any type of life outside it (like Dave had said).  He couldn’t see himself enjoying any remotely commercial music.  And he knew why.  The grief therapist assigned to her did her a lot of good.  He told her a new medication may help her feel less like a ghost. 

She looked on life’s events as a casual observer and didn’t have the energy to do anything besides sleep all day.  When she didn’t have any obligations—which she frequently didn’t—she would wrap herself in a blanket and walk around the house.  She never responded to people asking her simple questions or asking her to go out.  If she did go out, she only listened to music and just stare at people, haunting the same four Greenlake sidewalks she had all her life.    

She already took a variety of things, which made her feel either too groggy or like a meth addict.  She had seen the same therapist for almost all her life who would complement her on the immense progress she made through various diagnosis.  The person who had always made her life better had officially run out of answers.  Vanessa seriously wondered if she should voluntary commit herself.    

After Miles, she continued to see the two therapists separately.  Vanessa ultimately decided to give the pills one last try with her new guy.  Both professionals convinced her she should enjoy the world more at the age of 25.  Enjoy and experience the city which so longed to have her as an actual part of it again.  She could reconnect with old friends without Miles.  People wouldn’t stare at her and more importantly she could feel like herself going to the places she had kept from everyone (him included). 

She had always dreamed of Europe.  New York perhaps could suit her.  She could visit anywhere really.  She had many friends there who shared a similar sensibility to the finer artistic works, listened to her music and shared her lifestyle.  Perhaps she could go back for graduate school or start her career as a model.  Many of the best models she knew preferred to live in New York.  Being anywhere near the house always transported her back to the day of his death.  It took her a while to stop hyper fixating on the details of his undoing.  

“Miles… Miles!” she screamed at the top of her lungs until her body suddenly gave out.  Kneeling over his back, convulsive sobbing led her to eventually collapse on him.  When the EMTs arrived, they had to sedate her.  She had become so overwrought with her emotions she almost felt euphoric.  In the corner of the kitchen, she cried almost to the point of blindness until suddenly her tears ran out.  She looked up and for a moment before the sound of sirens took hold, a bird flew from a nearby powerline and landed on the deck.  The next few months all she remembers involved staring at the blue paint of an old hospital room.

 She talked to police, news reporters, and family for months but Dave started to fade out of their lives almost completely after the day of the incident.  Dave, Miles’ agent had done everything he could to prevent a tragedy but not enough.  Miles pushed himself too hard, but Dave’s dialogues certainly didn’t help.  Miles could make the whole company millions before anyone even batted an eye.  In another life, they could have worked well together. 

He would watch her from afar and throughout the rest of her life Dave sacrificed his reputation to get her anything she wanted.  She never noticed her complete obsession with Miles until now.  She heard his music in everything.  The best of his work hadn’t come yet.  The best years of their life could have gone so beautifully.  The next album would have set them up for life.  His name forever in the minds of indie musicians around the world.  After she passed, tourists would stop by the house and comment:

“Miles Lerner lived here with his wife Vanessa LaMore!”  Some would know she more than him had lived there but it didn’t matter.  They could both live on the in the lore of the neighborhood forever.  She knew perhaps all of the thoughts had crossed Miles’ mind, but legend status didn’t faze him.  While she wanted to keep everything together, he wanted to keep it separate.  On the rare occasion her and Miles danced or drank together it felt like a dream.  She could tell how much he lived for the moment.  No substance could ever come between their passion for each other.  So much so, many of their friends would remark how much they looked in love with each other at the bar.  She hated the proposition and made sure to distance herself. 

Today, she knows she did so to protect herself but if only she had told him more.  No man in her life had ever filled the role she needed.  Her attachment style would only lead to more heartbreak if she couldn’t change.  Any sign in Miles she didn’t like always meant he had no good left in him.  He couldn’t defend his actions, and she knew just as much.

More than Meets the Eye

Lester woke up most mornings thinking about one thing:  speed and where to find it.  Until he did, his life, his loves, and skateboarding all felt like a lost cause.  He could quit whenever he wanted he told himself, and today—Friday, October 13— he would.  Never mind, the fact he had complete serotonin syndrome with Netflix, weed, and the absence of a roommate he could bear the harshest withdrawals.  

So Lester began.  He took a bong hit in his shower before actually cleaning himself.  Brushing his teeth, tying his tie, and putting on his work shoes, he remarked about the cloudy weather to his cat, Alex.  No one knew about his habit besides his therapist and his ex.  Everyone assumed he had taken things for his ADHD despite never having a prescription for Adderall or anything of the like.  His daily life as a journalist required fast comprehension, something he felt the drugs helped with.   

Stepping into the street, everything became even more dark and Lester began to shiver.  A few blocks from his place he stopped for Dunkin Donuts, before boarding the L train downtown to the office.  His typical before work ritual included an intravenous injection (he decided to make day one of his sobriety today because he had exhausted all his resources).  His blood shot eyes read a text from his dealer, Beau, before looking up to order coffee.  The harsh remnants of a two day bender somehow never stopped him from his responsibilities.       

“Hello, my friend,” the cashier greeted him.  He responded in a jovial manner before waving back with a clammy, sweaty palm— perhaps the first sign of withdrawals. 

“Large black coffee with two shots espresso,” Lester told the man.  As he drifted on with his coffee, he felt his thoughts drift too.  He only had to make things through the day.  Afterwards, not only would he get paid, but he could also rest.  The first few hours of work had a way different soundtrack than the last few: what started as death and destruction, merged to death and acceptance.  He then closed his laptop and headed out at the accepted time.  As soon as he did, the sky opened up with rain.  Sprinting down to the subway from the exposed brick building, Lester stole a news magazine from a stand to keep his face dry.  He considered his dry cleaned shirt a lost cause. 

He came back to his apartment after the roundabout journey, feeling dead.  To dry, he picked up a portable fan and lay flat on his wood kitchen floor towels which he placed a yoga mat on.  His roommate left banana bread with a note saying: Gone upstate for the weekend.  See you on Monday!  In the alley of his building, amidst the sound of rain, he heard ambulance sirens and men running.  He confirmed he locked his door and sat back down on the floor.  Rather than exercise or do some kind of hobby, Lester drank a Gatorade.  

Although he often couldn’t help drinking on speed, he could help not doing speed while drinking something besides alcohol.  Weird thoughts returned as if his body told him once again to get back to work.  Outside, the rain sprayed from gutters and flooded city streets while mixing with trash and other rotten smells.  If he had any strength, he would crack a window a look out over his fire escape.    

“Come out tonight,” Beau, his dealer, texted him. 

“I wish I could,” he took a sip of beer before typing again, “I’m detoxing.” 

“Fuck that.  I know the D.J at Story.  I have some chemicals for you to try,” Lester felt excited again.

“Any more good stuff?” he asked in a breathless way, referring to his usual.

“No, I have something better for you,”  Beau shot back.  Lester hung up after considering such a response for two seconds.  However, thirty minutes later, Lester stood ready at the door to his apartment with an umbrella for wherever the night would take him.  He took a cab to Beau’s place and felt euphoric all of the sudden after arguing at full volume with the taximan about Mets baseball. 

“West 57th, sir” Lester handed him $25 and walked past the gate of Beau’s building.  He arrived somewhere on the first floor of the place, forgetting how nice the neighborhood felt compared to his own.  He didn’t get the invitation to come over often to Beau’s.  The relationship between a consumer and dealer of drugs does not often involve genuine friendship.    

Beau came from a good family in the city.  His Dad had invented an insulin replacement (among other things) and they used the money to buy real estate across New York and Miami.  Lester walked up the stairs past someone in a bright yellow rain coat. 

“Fear of death” Lester heard someone say as they walked past him on the stairs.  He couldn’t quite tell how close the person had come to him before walking away.  A few moments later, Lester sees Beau’s bespectacled face at a door and walks in. 

“Welcome to my house of horrors,” Beau says laughing and gesturing him in to the apartment.  The place looked medieval with all the old science equipment like beakers with odd residue.  A mini fridge filled with Bud-light stood in the corner as a confusing bit.  “Here’s what I was telling you about,” Beau said.  In his hand, he held an eye dropper with a clear-light blue-ish liquid.  “It’s my special mix of acid and 2C.  I call it E-den.  Try one before we leave for the club.” 

The two walked out in the night not 15 minutes after swallowing more than a few drops deposited first on the tongue.  The two tested things together sometimes, but Lester never felt proud of his lack of discernment with drugs.  He also did an hour later after his heart stopped in the line for the club.  Paramedics said he hyper-ventilated.  No prior history of medical emergencies.  Beau had stood over him panicked while the situation unfolded. 

In a moment, Beau ran out of the hospital, where Lester lay unconscious, for a cigarette.  He came back two hours later with a note he shoved in the face of Lester, who couldn’t move or talk: I have the cure.  He drew the hospital room curtain and stabbed him with a needle.  Lester’s heart pounded twice, and he rose from the bed gasping for air, feeling fully vital.  Once he realized he screamed.  All of the sudden, Lester finds himself back on the floor of his apartment in the same clothes he had come back from work in (as if nothing had happened). 

He looked at his phone which had a missed call from Beau with surprise and terror.  He then dropped his face down as if he had done something wrong.  Only an hour and a half had passed since he got back from the office not nearly enough time for him to change and meet Beau thirty streets away.  He decided to call Beau instead of texting him.  He picked up on the first ring, sensing Lester thought, his overwhelming fear of last night’s events. 

“I think… I have found myself in some sort of dream,” he confessed as soon as he heard Beau’s labored breathing on the other line.  The feeling of talking to someone felt like a simulation, and Lester couldn’t hold the phone to his face without shaking.   

“I can’t make any more of the stuff.  I just can’t,” he told him.  The two let a certain silence hang in the air as if one of them would say something to break a case wide open.  Someone had done something so wrong and deserved an apology.  “I didn’t want to tell you, Lester.  I considered us friends, you know?”

“What stuff?” Lester asked.  He even if he did consider Beau a friend, what good could friends do an alternate drug-induced reality? 

“The E-den.  People keep having different dreams…  The thing knows your fears.  If you felt like you could overdose on speed then the E-den takes your impression of the event…” Beau couldn’t continue without Lester yelling at him through the phone. 

“You mean to say you gave me the bullshit before?” both understood what Lester had said on a deeper level.  “Did I just go to the hospital or not?”  Lester asked. 

“I don’t know how to explain.  Look at the news, Les.  Everyone knows about E-den now”  Beau responded before hanging up.  Sprinting to the nearest computer, Lester found his backpack hiding across the room under the couch.  He took out his laptop and googled “news”.  Alex, the cat, noticing the commotion, eyed him as he figured out a disastrous high. 

The first article detailed a new designer drug which caused people to jump from windows and assault law enforcement.  Across New York people would wake up in a coma after taking the drug and proceed to either jump from a building or take violent action against society as a whole (violence, crime etc).  Nothing in the article from “experts” talked about Lester’s excursion to the nightclub. 

“Why did I think I had gone to the hospital?” he texted Beau.  He then fixated on the empty fire escape as rain made the metal sound like a futuristic orchestra.  Lester doesn’t remember much from the next few hours, but he did jump 4 stories from his fire escape when he found out.  He survived and police knew why.  The drug built a special pain tolerance among its victims.  Even after everything wore off, Lester wanted more speed.  He became a Christian and moved back with his parents.      

For years after Lester talked about the effect the day had on him.  He posted long social media sermons about God.  He gave the motivational speeches to all and at any point.  Today, he has a private jet to take him from different religious conferences because a “global faith network” he created thrives on tax free donations.  He still does drugs despite faking sobriety.  He hasn’t spoken to Beau in years.

A Self-Pitying Enterprise

The Napa Springs sun mixes with the lights and the make-up, turning Miles into a puddle of eyeliner. He doesn’t know why he feels so nervous. He didn’t have to drink four bottles a night to stay energetic on stage unlike his idols. He didn’t have the constant self-doubt about supporting a family by churning out a poorly reviewed album either. Vanessa looked up at him as he touched the mic again. He played a single c-minor chord on his guitar, looking back at the drummer who cues him with his sticks.

“Napa Springs, my name is Miles Lerner. Let’s party,” he says. He does about 6 songs before the heat overwhelms him. A large bottle of Jack Daniels whiskey sits on his amp. The black and white label looks at him like a self association drawing a psychiatrist would show a troubled child. He approaches and takes a heavy swig, to the fanfare of 20,000 people. It took about 20 minutes in for Miles to begin slurring some of his words throughout the song. Everyone knew he had drank too much. The next three songs go by like nothing. But the energy of the crowd leaves him keeling over for another drink. Miles has overcome his greatest fear. Immediately after his set, he and Vanessa get on a golf cart to some area behind the stage where celebrities eat cheese and drink wine.

“You killed it,” she says leaning over to kiss him. They embrace for five seconds before she pulls away. The lace of her black flowy dress gets caught between the wheels of the cart and dust flies up everywhere. Neither of them could ever get use to the heat and dusty crowds of Napa Springs. You could only tolerate it. Miles says she looks beautiful. “You looked fabulous up there too,” she says. Miles and Vanessa had met at Napa Springs only two years before.

Back then, neither she nor anyone she knew had the connections to get into the festival without help. Adamant as her parents felt about music in general both immediately told the young, eager Vanessa she should wait. Her Dad had gone to a couple of Napa Springs, but the business no longer required him to attend in-person if he could delegate technical instruction.

Sitting on a park bench, Charlotte, her best friend, stared at her and laughed, enjoying a cigarette. She wore a seventies wool coat even though you could get away with just a t-shirt most afternoons (which Vanessa loved). She could blow smoke in through her mouth and exhale through her nose like an angry bull in cartoons. Vanessa told her friends how her parents did not abide, and she would not allow her to attend the festival.

“What a shame because Mark’s friend said he’d buy psychedelics for all of us. You don’t want to trip?” She tried to play off the sudden excitement and fear rushing over her because of ‘of course, she did’. The potential of a trip made her think about the ways in the which her brain had not healed only dabbling in other drugs. Nevertheless, she replied saying how she would get the money later and could somehow go after all.

Days later, she held a single tab in her hand, as she peered up at the whirring lights of the indoor festival. They had put the tabs in their socks walking past security, not like anyone really cared as she walked in. Charlotte gave her a kind nod and the first wave of the trip came to her very pleasantly. Then, Vanessa finally put the paper on her tongue and let the tasteless mixture dissolve. While waiting for it to fully kick-in Vanessa decided to scroll Instagram in the hopes of updating herself on some of the more wholesome activities of her friends.

The two of them sat on a small couch within the tent as the band Nicotine Breakfast played shoegaze melodies about breakups and sapphic relationships. The purplish, orange-ish light of the tent wanted to make her throw up. The tent had a cool breeze which she stuck her entire face in front of. She heard someone giggle. As she turned around, Charlotte’s face completely rearranged, looking like a mask of her former self. Vanessa sprinted out of the tent and lay on the grass; everything feeling completely still to her as she just took the time to breathe. Sensing the commotion, a medical personnel approached her.

“Hello. How are you?” the personnel asked her. He looked like a security guard but given her current state the distinction didn’t quite matter. Besides, the man had seen plenty of worse trips throughout the day, knowing she would pull through before he even came over. He adjusted his cap and asked the question again. As soon as Vanessa answered Charlotte came running towards her not wanting to get in trouble.

The Napa Springs grass felt soft and luscious perfect for running towards someone, giving a whimsical sense to the panic. Charlotte and the man talked for what felt like 30 minutes, easing his fears. Vanessa’s head told her all types of things: ‘Who are you?’ ‘Why do you always doubt yourself?’. Her life reflecting some type of game show where rather than a contestant, she found herself in the audience. Light crystals formed strange shapes and the noise of festival laughter enveloped her entire body. A group of three fellow high school aged boys, one wearing a bandanna, the other wearing a soccer jersey, and final one wearing a Blink 182 shirt, stared at Charlotte from a distance. She asked Vanessa if she could go with them and told her when everything mellowed out she would feel fine.

Giving her a hand, she lifted her up from the grass and the personnel walked away. The boys chuckling looked hostile like at any moment they could do or say something to hurt both of them. The moment Vanessa got up, chunks of everything she had ate the morning prior came pouring out of her mouth. Charlotte patted her back and her soft caress felt goddess-like. In moments like the current one, she felt almost like a pet to Charlotte— a pet to all. She thought about her actual pet dog, Boyo. One time the vet gave him several hundred milligrams of pain killers after a surgery from the vet’s. Vanessa wondered if painkillers really worked.

Combined with all of her psychedelic induced trauma, the next few hours compounded Vanessa’s hatred of all men. She watched in disgust as every one of them flirted with Charlotte. She needed someone gentle to build her up. Vanessa had never kissed anyone on a first date let alone, a first meeting. She saw Charlotte kissing one of them out of nowhere. Everything changed when she saw Miles across the field. He started walking towards her. Miles didn’t come off as intimidating or well-dressed in a white t-shirt and jeans. Perhaps a bit handsome but so beyond her type she decided to let him approach. Worse came to worse she could let him know exactly how she felt.

He slicked his long hair back with so much gel it looked sculpted in some places. In other places, white dandruff flakes fell on his shoulders. Below his shirt, she noticed a skinny gold chain with nothing at the end. When she looked in his eyes, the instant high she had achieved all began to fade. He had an untamed look. Every once in a while, he looked far-off like some loud voice in the back of his head had spoken.

“Hi,” Miles said, as he stuck out his hand for her. “I don’t like anyone else here either,” he added. Charlotte looked back at her, interrupting a conversation. Vanessa took out her hand to meet his, and Charlotte smiled, wanting the interaction to continue. Flash forward to today, Miles makes conversation in the same awkward manner and the two realize nothing has changed.

“I need a bathroom,” Miles says wiping sweat from his face. He peers into her loving eyes. She points out the reserved area of bathrooms just for performers. He coughs before hitting her vape which he wipes on his sleeve before smoking. He always knew vaping did his voice no good, but he couldn’t resist the temptation. Vanessa checks the time on her phone before the cart revs down. The two of them jump off. Miles steps left; she steps right.

“Can you meet me back in the artist area by 8:45?” she questions. Miles confirms with her before. In the porta potty, a random musician he had met on Instagram left a singular gram of coke on the seat. The person sent him a message then in the distance gave him a hand signal to pick up his product in the bathroom. Back as a no name he could only pay cash for such a deal, but months of successful abuse had earned him privilege. He ended up sending the guy an extra ten as good faith, and the guy responded saying he should swing by their rental house tomorrow afternoon for a party. Miles had heard of the wild day parties of Napa Springs but only Vanessa had attended.

As soon as he shut the door, Miles dumped the whole bag onto the granite hotel room counter. A few doors down, he could hear some faint music but nothing to suggest a party. After a few lines and manic social media scrolls Miles decided to go to bed. When he couldn’t sleep, he drank as much as possible to calm himself down.

Listening to his heart racing came as nothing to new; he had only changed the location. Tears welled up in his eyes as he began to think about Vanessa although she had escaped to some after parties, dancing in the Napa Springs heat with a cold glass of champagne. They had met at Napa Springs two years ago, so she must have felt at ease. He heard in a podcast about how addiction doesn’t really exist. Something about how it only really exists in your mind and the social conceptions around it.

The show didn’t stop Miles from feeling like a drunk addict. Not like it affected his career, but he never understood ways in which he could live without it— coke and whiskey. He began to cry. Days later, the two return to Los Angeles and their normal life. As Miles peers at the road back into town, he looks at her and asks one question: “do you remember how we met?”

“Yes. Yes, I do,” she replies. Both of them look forward as if she has brought up something horrible. Miles pulls to the left dodging the normal entrance to their street.

“Do you want a smoothie?” he asks. They both search for groceries as another weekend at Napa Springs fades into their memory. How after all the festivals and parties did they still know each other? The relationship betrayed time and reason because both had cheated several times. They could not last but for a brief moment, everything felt right. Miles texted a number in his phone.

One Trip around Greenlake

A few months earlier, as Miles recalled, he and Dave had gone on a hike together in one of his favorite Los Gatos spots.  He thinks Dave picked the spot to get him in a good mood.  They stopped into the grocery store to get supplies, expecting the hottest day of the year so far on the mountain.  The second they embarked they realized their miscalculation.  When they reached a small resting place with a view of the Egyptian theatre, they stopped. 

Miles had attended shows at the Egyptian but never realized its proximity to his Los Gatos apartment.  He felt stupid.  Dave sparked a joint and took a deep inhale before passing it over.  Miles would sit in his room for hours with his new record player and smoke.  He would smoke to the point of not remembering things or having confusing sentences come out of his mouth where he himself didn’t understand.  He spent almost $150 a week just at local dispensaries.    

“Have you ever thought about your life after music?” he asked Miles.  Dave peered at him before passing the joint.  Miles paused for a second but suddenly realized he had intended to ask him the question all along.  He snagged the joint and focused curiously on the red seats of the Egyptian.

“My life after music?”  Miles repeated at a loss.  His brain rejected the premise of working hard right now.  He knew the answer though.  Miles would never ever stop making music.  He already did it as a means of survival.  The harder he thought the more clouded his brain became overran with thoughts of having to take up construction.  He could work with a distant cousin over in Palm County.    

He didn’t want to go into his complete history but Dave deserved more than a superficial answer.  Miles began to think back in his mind when he first released “See you soon”.  He met with a group of label executives, feeling like he had tackled some unforeseen goal in his life.  In a white-walled conference room, he signed a 20 page document about ownership of his songs.  They didn’t guarantee full rights but promised something in the future if he kept his current pace.  No one looked like they had time to celebrate with him.    

Mile’s Dad hired a lawyer to look over anything labels sent him.  The lawyer would relay the advice only to his Dad.  Without final approval the day of the meeting, nothing would have happened.  Not because he didn’t feel happy for Miles but because he “couldn’t do it on his own”. Miles felt miserable all of the sudden.  He wanted to walk out and force someone to drive him home.  No amount of money could fix his broken heart. 

The stares everyone gave him as they sat back in a chair would cause him nightmares.  One of the women at the table had bags under her eyes yet a smile glued to her face.  To the right, an older man sitting at the table still dressed like at any moment a basement show could break out in the conference room.  The man folded his hands on the table and peered at Miles like he could read souls.  When Miles told Dave about the whole experience he referred him to his best therapist.

 “I’ll always want you as a part of my team, Dave,” Miles continued.  They had made some progress on the trail after their break.  Dave let out a scoff but realized the compliment.  He appreciated the guidance Dave had given him.  Not only did Miles feel like Dave served as his agent but also his best friend.  The two mixed business and pleasure at every turn.  If the next record couldn’t live up to the hype, Dave may want to leave.

Dave had a wife and two kids.  The family lived in a swank part of Palm County which made it just easy enough for Dave to commute every now and again into Hollywood.  Dave drove a black Range Rover which he treated like a Lamborghini when it came to maintenance.  On the windshield he placed a phone stand so during long commutes he could peak at the screen.  The vehicle already had multiple built in compartments for his phone. 

Dave joined Metro Music Management four years ago.  He promised a move would greatly benefit Miles’ career, giving him greater distribution networks.  The feeling of Dave’s presence became a lot less personal—just like his advice.  Miles could tell he did a good job of balancing his family life with work. The biggest question Metro answered involved which set of eyes consumed Miles’ music most.  Miles wanted his young crowd of music enthusiasts to worship him.  Dave wanted to seek a broader audience.  The two had to recognize their differences at some point. 

Dave’s oldest son, Milo, had Miles’ number and would sometimes text him— most likely when he had too much to drink at a rich-kid school party.  Reading the text from a far-off universe in Greenlake, Miles would smile and show his phone to Vanessa.  Dave’s life had a normalcy Miles didn’t know he fought so hard for.  “Can we change the subject?” Miles asked.

“Yeah,” Dave said. 

“How has Milo done in soccer so far?  I saw you practiced with him a lot,”  Miles followed.

“Well, he loves being a part of something.  The whole object of the sport means no one player can just go and score by himself.”  Miles could see the metaphor from a mile away.  “I think he has made a lot of friends because of the sport,” Dave finished.  “How about you, Miles? Do you ever want to take your kids to soccer practice.”  In a normal setting, Miles would have to take a second to think, but the kind of talk Dave engaged in felt all too familiar.  He knew what to say without incriminating anyone to him. 

“No, not really.  I’ve never really talked to Vanessa about the whole thing…”  Miles could hear the sandy, gravel crunch beneath his shoe.  “I assume she would say ‘No’,” he continued. Dave peered down at his shoes but kept walking.  His swung his arms like he never learned how to walk.  Maybe someone from another planet had taught him how to engage in basic social interaction.

“I hope you two change your mind. I think she really has had… an effect.  On you, Miles,” Dave said.  Now, Miles felt like pushing him down the trail. Vanessa didn’t even know Dave existed for while—always assuming someone at the label magically helped Miles.  Miles explained the role of a person like Dave to manage his tours and concert schedules.  She rejoiced knowing he now had someone else to talk with.  Someone with whom in the late hours of madness Miles could vent. In most regards, Dave felt not at all like a threat to Vanessa’s relationship.

No agent could explain the lifestyle of a musician to her.  She enjoyed his shows only to a mild extent, hating mainly his on-stage persona.  She and Miles always had the same arguments.  She didn’t like the way he talked too much about— to him, miscellaneous figures he had no real attachment to— people she knew.  The only thing keeping Miles afloat came to his drive and artistic sensibility.  He loved to spend time with her (when they didn’t fight).    

They would spend long hours smoking in the park and discussing anything which came to mind (mostly relationships).  Miles acted like a qualified therapist.  His pretention only bothered her to a mild extent, considering he listened to what most people didn’t when she talked.  He made bold inquiries into her problems.  His glamorous outlook on her life definitely helped him see things others could not.  She didn’t want to work for the agency anymore, and dreamed of quitting every time she got assigned something new. 

“I could design better than 80% of the shows I do… If I have to make one more trip to New York or Milan without you,  I’ll quit,” she would say.  Miles took a drag of a joint and leaned in to respond. “I hate the chit-chat, the run around. All people care about doing involves sitting with light wines and judging you,” she added.

“Why do you think you only get assigned things you don’t like?”  She would peer at him like he had asked a dumbest question in the world.  Miles’ stunned face sold his ignorance. The whole thing bordered on a mutual understanding until one of them cracked.

“I don’t get assigned stuff I don’t like… I just know I can do more.  Have you ever had the feeling like you could do more?”  Miles nodded in total agreement.  “Anyway, I just think I need a break.  No one ever gives me a break on anything.  I understand how lucky I’ve become with you or everyone else in my life… I really do,” she paused to rub her eyes (something Miles had never seen her do).  All of the sudden she leaned into Miles and kissed him on the neck.  The shady, late afternoon sun looked like it could set soon. In his head, the two of them go back to his place for dinner. Pasta with pesto but only the darkest bottle, Miles had in his arsenal of wine. She only let him cook for her if she felt like everything else in the world made no sense  

“I love you,” Miles says as he opens the door of his car, and she gets in. He puts on his sunglasses, and they drive away.