What Nobody Knows

Author's Note- Slowly but surely…

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There's a lot nobody knows about Chris. Nobody except the guys and me. Don't get me wrong, he's not really a woman or anything, but for everything the general public does know about him, there's just as much stuff they don't know. Chris doesn't keep secrets; he's just not an open book. You have to dig to learn, and the further he'll let you dig, the better of a friend he's considered you.

Nobody knows how he, like J.C., gives concerts his all. Some nights, after several closely scheduled concerts, he'll just barely make it on the bus. We sometimes don't even realize he is on the bus until we search and find him fast asleep, head on the pillow, arms out at his sides and ass up in the air. He'll remain like that until morning, unless the bus took a sharp turn during the night and he'll wake up in a puddle of his drool on the floor. There have been nights, although rare, when he makes it five feet inside the door and collapses. Joey is always the one to haul the short body to its proper bunk, where he remains until ten the next morning.

Chris only collapses like that when his blood sugar is out of whack. Nobody knows exactly how much he's got to discipline himself. Because of his hypoglycemia, the guy has medications, shots sometimes, and a strict diet via his mother. We really do have to wrestle candy away from Chris, but he knows as well as any of us, it's for his own good. J.C. enjoys being the mother hen I think.

Nobody knows how moody Chris can be. His emotions run hot and cold as easily as flipping on a light switch. Sometimes the weirdest, subtlest things set him off. If Lance gets homesick and demands too much attention, Chris is the first to get sick of it. We're either abandoned by him or he'll look Lance square in the eyes and tell Lance to, gently, go to hell and grow some balls along the way. Lance always listens.

Nobody knows that Chris gets extremely happy for other people. He loves our birthdays as much as he loves his own, it not more. He gives presents just for the sheer joy of it. Chris lives to please people.

Nobody knows how skittish Chris is with relationships. His phobia, more than heights, is abandonment. Not being alone, because Chris does like being alone, but he fears being hated or denied of warmth. He's puppy-like really, bouncing and yipping around the adult dog, until the adult snaps. Chris throws himself down belly up and pleads for forgiveness and just to be on your good side again. He'd give his life for any one of us and sometimes that's the only good thing I can think of when life's too much.

Nobody else can tell when Chris lies. Chris hates to lie. It doesn't happen that often. But I've watched. He looks at you but wont focus. His answers become clipped, like he's insulted that you think he's lying. His hands usually rest on his hips if he's drawing out his lie. Then, until he's approached you with the truth, he'll avoid you and be snappy.

Nobody knows what Chris was like as a kid. Lots of people can imagine, and everyone knows he was poor, but nobody knows how hard he's had it. Chris has seen numerous men come and go in his mother's lifetime. Not all of them were ready for the commitment Beverly hoped they could take on. She was not a whore, just a young mother desperately searching for a husband and father for her son. Chris had no role model of his own and was repeatedly told he was a worthless piece of trash responsible for scaring off his mother's boyfriends. He's seen his mother abused, and even been on the receiving end of a few blows himself, but those boyfriends were always gone the next morning. Nobody knows that the oldest member of an extremely popular vocal group does not drink, smoke, or do drugs. Sure, he parties, but for the few times he's been memory-loss drunk, he's punished himself excessively to the point where we feel guilty also. Chris has depth, has a soul, and an excellent memory. He has watched the world around him and knows that no one has survived being an alcoholic or druggie. Memories, what we can't see, are what keep him from falling victim to the inhuman murderers.

Nobody knows Chris kisses his dogs.

Nobody knows Chris kisses us.

Nobody knows how Chris needs contact, needs to know there's another body nearby. Many times we've all enjoyed a good movie, Chris squeezed in between us, unaware of the awkwardness but just happy to feel belonging. Nobody knows Chris talks to himself. A lot. He talks exactly like there's another person there; he'll even crack himself up. He dances in his car (or whatever you call a Cruiser). He loves driving, and I love hearing him make fun of other people. He does that when he's alone too.

Nobody knows Chris loves nature. He loves animals and being outside. Chris is constantly amazed by all the places we go and he takes as many pictures of the scenery as anything else.

Nobody knows Chris's heart sinks every time we pass a dead animal on the road.

Nobody knows Chris's scent. Not his cologne, soap, or shampoo, but the subtle scent that always lingers on him. He smells ever so lightly of outside, the wind and the clouds and dirt and trees. He smells a little of his dogs, because he hugs them so tight. He smells sweet, like melted sugar, spicy like unbridled energy, and musky like testosterone. Not that I like smelling my best friend or anything.

Nobody knows just how blessed Chris is. How somehow he sees bluer skies than I do. How he'll be happy regardless of the turnout of his life.

Everybody knows I love Chris.

Nobody knows how deeply.

End

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