SEGREGATE

(to cause or force the separation of)

§

 

You snap into consciousness suddenly, and for a moment you just lay perfectly still, eyes closed, and wonder what could have woken you up.  Then you shift your weight and realize that it’s leather underneath your body, not the linen of your bunk like you’d expected.

 

Upon opening your eyes, you realize where you are and curse to yourself.  You’re in the back lounge of Bobby and CC’s tour bus.  Shit.  You hadn’t intended to fall asleep there.  A cursory glance around reveals that Bobby is asleep on the couch across the room, face down, one arm dangling over the side.  He is wearing only a pair of jeans, and when you turn your eyes to your own body, you see that you are similarly dressed.

 

You sigh and pull yourself into a sitting position, your back groaning in protest.  The burning in your eyes tells you that you haven’t been asleep for very long, and a peek at your watch serves as confirmation.  It’s just about nine a.m.  You couldn’t have been asleep for more than two hours.  Yawning, you grab a cigarette from the pack on the table and light it.  For a few minutes, you just smoke silently and watch the bassist’s back slowly rise and fall as he sleeps.  You really hadn’t meant to wake up here.  Hell, you hadn’t even really meant to end up back on their bus at all last night.  There was simply nowhere else to go.

 

You sigh to yourself, feeling guilt creeping in around the edges of your mind as you slowly become more awake.  You hadn’t meant to be quite so cold to Rikki, but you were angry, and the coke hadn’t helped.  Angry.  You almost laugh.  The act you put on for everyone around you doesn’t stop at yourself; you lie to yourself even now.

 

The fact of the matter is, you were hurt.  Are hurt.  You thought that what you had with him was enough for him.

 

It was enough for you.

 

But that was all over now.  You couldn’t let yourself do it anymore, not even if you wanted to.  And you did want to.  You wanted to more than anything.  But you were Bret Michaels, and your word was final, and the last words you’d spoken to him were, “You disgust me.”  It doesn’t matter that you didn’t mean it.  It doesn’t matter that when you saw him crying, you wanted to lick the tears from his face and tell him that you loved him back.  The only thing that matters is what you said. 

 

But still, you feel a need to let him know that you’re still his friend.  You always had been his friend, and you always would be his friend.  Maybe it’s true that this is the worst thing that’s ever happened to the relationship you’ve shared with him for years.  Maybe it’s true that part of you hated him for how this all makes you feel. 

 

But it’s also true that even if you have to kick him out of your bed, you don’t ever want to kick him out of your life.

 

You stub your cigarette out and pull yourself slowly to your feet.  You don’t want to wake Bobby.  You have nothing to say to him at the moment.  All you care about is getting back to your own bus, going back to sleep, and then waking up and figuring out what the hell you’re supposed to do to make things better.

 

You make your way out of the back lounge and past the bunks where CC is snoring loudly.  When you reach the front of the bus, you see through the window that the sky is overcast, and you’re grateful for the lack of sunlight.  Two hours of sleep and a sunny day might just be one of the feelings you hate most in the world.

 

You stumble off of the bus and into the parking lot, which is completely deserted.  You curse your lack of organizational skills; perhaps if you’d prepared better, you’d be waking up in a nice, soft hotel bed instead of in the parking lot of the venue you’d played at the night before.  Wasn’t that supposed to be someone else’s job, anyway?  Where the hell was Smoothie?

 

You walk quickly across the parking lot to where your tour bus is parked, and silently pull the door open.  There is no sound from within, not that you expected there to be at such an early hour.  You’re surprised to find that Rikki’s not in his bunk, but then, he seemed pretty drunk when you were here a few hours ago.  Or maybe he’s in there playing with that damned computer.

 

Your stomach clenches involuntarily when you realize that no, he’s not playing with his computer.  He’s not playing with his computer because you’d shattered it into a million pieces the night before.  Fresh guilt wells up inside of you.  To you, it’s just a computer, just another piece of machinery that you don’t really feel one way or another about.  But Rikki loves the stupid thing.  Spends hours on it every chance he gets.  It’s his favorite thing in the world besides his drum set, and you feel a surge of shame when you have to admit to yourself that it’s his drum set you would have destroyed last night, if you had been anywhere near it.  Thank god you hadn’t been.

 

Suddenly, you want to wake him up and tell him that you’re sorry.  You’re so sorry.  You’re sorry for so much that you don’t even know where to start. 

 

The door to the back lounge is closed and you tentatively knock on it, a knock so light that it wouldn’t rouse an over-protective mother, much less a drunk rock star who only passed out a few hours before.  There is, of course, no response from inside.  You’re about to knock again when you suddenly think better of the idea and pull your hand away from the door.  It’s not the time for this, not when both of your egos are so freshly wounded.  Not when neither of you has gotten more than a couple of hours of sleep.  It can wait until later.

 

You turn back the way you came and climb into your bunk, flopping onto your back with an exaggerated sigh.  You’re exhausted, but your eyes refuse to close.  You try to convince yourself that it’s just your sore back keeping you awake, just the fact that the bunk isn’t comfortable, but it’s all bullshit.  You know it’s your guilt that’s not letting sleep overtake you.

 

Your guilt, and somewhere underneath that, buried so deeply that you are only dimly aware of it, your fear. Your fear that you’ve just made the biggest mistake of your life.  Your fear that you’ve just lost your best friend.

 

Your best friend, and more.

 

Annoyed with yourself, you climb back out of bed and run a hand through your hair, trying to decide what the next step should be.  You want to go to him, but you know that’s not a viable option yet.  You want to talk to someone about it, but that’s completely ridiculous. 

 

An idea crosses your mind then.  You could buy him a new computer.  The idea, at first, seems silly, like buying a girl chocolates when she’s just found out that you fucked her best friend, but you can’t think of anything else to do.  At least this would get your proverbial foot in the door.

 

Now on a mission, you hurriedly exit the bus and wander to the edge of the parking lot, looking around.  You don’t have a car here, of course, and it’s not like you can just drive the bus around.  Although you can’t remember for the life of you what fucking city you’re in, at least it appears to be just that – a city.  Already cars are whizzing by on the streets, little automatons driving their cars as quickly as they could just to live another day in the life of everyone else.  The streets are lined with stores, and you’re sure one of them has to be an electronics store.  Shrugging to yourself, you turn right and begin to walk.

 

Fate is on your side, and you see a Radio Shack just up the street.  In your head, you thank some sort of patron saint of rock stars, even though if he’d been doing his job properly, you wouldn’t have to be doing this at all.  You tug the door to the place open and immediately the salesman looks at you like you’re some junkie who just crawled in off the street.  You realize you’re still not wearing a shirt.

 

“Sir…” the salesman says, walking towards you tentatively. 

 

You wave a hand at him. “Yeah, I know, I know.  No shirt, no shoes, no service, blah blah blah.”  He looks surprised.  “Look, I just need a computer.”

 

Now he just looks confused.  “Well, sir, I’m sorry, but—“

 

You reach into your pocket and whip out a wad of money.  “I’ll pay in cash.”

 

Those are just the magic words the salesman needed to hear.  He looks at you for a moment longer and sighs.  “Well… all right.  What… ah, what kind of computer were you looking for, sir?”  He doesn’t seem to know what to make of you at all.  You don’t blame him.  It’s quarter after nine in the morning, and here you are in his store looking like a homeless person, only with a wad of cash that says otherwise.

 

“I don’t know,” you reply.  “I don’t know a fucking thing about computers.”  You pause.  “A laptop.  The best one you’ve got.”

 

The salesman clears his throat.  “Well, ah, we’ve got this model…” he says, making his way quickly across the floor to a display.  “It’s got a DVD and CD-RW drive, 64 megabytes of—“

 

You shake your head impatiently.  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.  Is it the most expensive?”

 

“Well… ah, no, the most expensive model would be the Evo Notebook N1000c.  That one’s just under twenty-four hundred,” he replies, still looking nervous.

 

You nod.  “I’ll take it.  And whatever fancy accessories can go with it, I’ll take those, too.”

 

He just stares at you for a minute, as if he’s trying to figure out if there’s any reason why he shouldn’t sell you the computer.  “Cash, right?”

 

You nod, impatient.  “Yes.  Cash.  It doesn’t matter how much it costs, just put everything in a box and I’ll pay you for it.”

 

“Right.  Well.  Okay, then.  I’ll be just a minute.”  He scurries off through a door in the back of the place, and you idly wonder if he’s really just going to call the cops on you.  You decide he isn’t, as the only thing you’ve really done wrong is come into a business without a shirt on.  You just wish he’d hurry up.

 

A few minutes later, the salesman emerges from the backroom with a large box, which he places on the counter.  He quickly ducks behind the register, still clearly wary of your presence, and taps a succession of numbers on the keys.  He clears his throat.  “Your total will be 3,124.28,” he says then.

 

You shuffle through the wad of hundred-dollar bills and are for once grateful that you feel an obsessive need to carry around a disgusting amount of cash with you.  You never know when you might need to randomly buy a computer.  You peel off thirty-two bills, leaving you with less than a hundred bucks, and put them on the counter, then pick up the box.  “Keep it,” you say, and before he can protest, you hastily make your exit.  Idly, you wonder if this will end up in the newspaper.

 

As you walk the half-block or so back to the buses with the large package in your arms, you begin to question whether or not he’ll even accept the gift.  You reason that he will, given his behavior when you tore into him earlier, and the thought saddens you.  How did you ever let it come to this?

 

The first thing you notice upon reaching the parking lot is that the door to your tour bus is hanging open.  Shit.  You had hoped to wake him up with your gift.  You wonder what has him up so early, and you hope he isn’t sick.  He did drink an awful lot last night.

 

With a sigh, you close the distance between yourself and the bus, and then climb up the steps with the computer, not quite able to see where you’re going.  When you reach the bunks, you put the box down for a moment, and nearly jump out of your skin when you realize you’re not the only one in the room. 

 

“Smoothie,” you say.  “You surprised me.”  You pause.  “Good morning.” 

 

“Morning, Bret,” he says in an odd voice.  “What’s that?”  He gestures toward the box.

 

“A new computer for Rikki,” you say, feeling ashamed.  “I… well, his broke.”

 

Smoothie swallows.  “Bret… I, um…”

 

You frown.  What’s his deal?  You’ve never seen him anything short of direct, so why is he suddenly tripping over his words?  “What’s up?”

 

“I don’t know how to say this.”  He’s hovering in the doorway to the back lounge, and you suddenly notice that the bus has a strange smell to it.  Coppery.  Where did you know that smell from?

 

You cock your head at him.  “Well, whatever it is, just spit it out,” you say, getting a little impatient.  “I’d like to give Rikki this thing and maybe get some sleep.”

 

“Bret… maybe you should sit down.”

 

“I don’t want to sit down,” you say, annoyed, but you realize that something’s very much amiss here.  Smoothie looks as though he’s going to throw up.  “What the fuck is going on?” 

 

“There’s… ah…” He absentmindedly rubs at the back of his neck, not looking directly at  you.  “There’s been… an accident.”

 

You feel your heart speed up just slightly.  “What are you talking about?  What did that drunk jackass get himself into now?” You try to laugh, but the sound dies in your throat. 

 

“The… I’ve called 911.  The ambulance will be here soon.”  He clears his throat.  “I wanted to wait for you before doing anything else.”

 

“Smoothie, you’re not making any sense,” you say, and walk towards him, intent on finding out just what the hell he’s on about.

 

He puts an arm out in front of you, looking up into your eyes.  His face is eerily solemn and positively gray.  “Bret,” he says firmly, “you don’t want to see this.”

 

You stand still for a moment, just looking at him.  His tone is completely serious, and it’s scaring the hell out of you, though you try not to show it.  A voice in your head tells you that Smoothie is right, that whatever is behind the doorway that he’s blocking is something you most certainly do not want to see, but you ignore it.  You swallow, then grab his arm and push him out of the way.

 

The moment your eyes light upon the scene in the back lounge, your entire plane of reality changes.  You’d heard the phrase ‘his blood turned to ice’ before, but you’d never actually experienced it.  You have to put a hand up to the doorway to keep yourself upright.  You’ve never seen so much blood before, not in real life, anyway.

 

For a moment, all you can do is stare.  He could almost be sleeping, if it wasn’t for the way that all of the color had completely drained out of him.  And if there wasn’t so much fucking blood everywhere.  You feel dizzy.  Suddenly you are aware that there is music playing, and when you hear what it is, the dizziness doubles and you stagger backwards a few feet.  Then you feel yourself falling.

 

And then Smoothie’s arms are around your waist from behind, half-dragging, half-easing you onto one of the bunks, turning your body so you can’t see the horror in the back lounge.  It’s too late.  The image is one that you’re positive will always be burned into your mind.

 

“Bret, I didn’t—“ Smoothie begins.

 

You jerk your head in his direction, a wild, erratic motion.  You can’t imagine what you look like.  “You didn’t what?” you hiss.

 

He sits down heavily beside you.  “I don’t know,” he says quietly.

 

“How…”  You clear your throat, trying to keep your voice from cracking.  “How did this happen?”  Answers.  You want answers.  No.  You have answers.

 

You just want them to be different.

 

 “I don’t know, Bret.”  His voice is soft and strained.  “I… I just came here to wake you guys up before we got on the road, and I… found him like that.”

 

You put your hand up to your mouth and press it hard against your lips, then pull it away.  “How long…”

 

Smoothie shakes his head.  “I don’t know.”

 

You have to keep yourself together.  You have to.  You have to, but you can’t. 

 

“I was just…” you begin.  You bite your lip.  “It was just a stupid argument!  I didn’t think…” And then you’re crying, crying like a little kid whose puppy just died, crying like nothing in the world could be as awful and painful and scary as this.  And nothing in the world could be.

 

Smoothie wraps an arm around you cautiously, pulling you against him.  It’s a foreign sensation and it’s clear that he’s uncomfortable, uncertain of how to treat you.  “I know,” he says, although he doesn’t.  ‘I know’ is just what you say in times like these.

 

You press your head against him and feel his shoulder digging into your eye.  “He’s my best friend,” you say, your voice thick with pain. 

 

“I know,” Smoothie says again.  A moment passes and the only sound is that of you sobbing into his shirt.  Then he pulls back, shifts his weight nervously.  “Bret… the ambulance will be here soon,” he says slowly.  “We need to… we have to decide what we’re going to do.”

 

You take a deep, shuddering breath, swallowing back the thunderstorm of tears that’s trying to fight its way out of you.  You have to decide what to do about this, just like he’s said, but you can’t.  You have no idea what to do.  All you want to do is go back six hours and change this.  Hell, you want to go back six months and change this.  “What are we going to do?” you manage finally.

 

He swallows.  “Well… someone will have to tell Bobby and CC,” he replies.  “And we’ll have to call—“

 

You cut him off by rising quickly to your feet.  You rub at your face, run a hand through your hair, force your voice to stay steady.  “I’ll go talk to Bob and CC.” 

 

“Bret, are you sure—“

 

“I’m fucking sure,” you interject, your voice gruff and angry.  “Just… take care of this.  Get him the fuck out of here.  Whatever needs to be done.”

 

Smoothie rises to his feet as well.  “Bret…” he says again.  “Why don’t you just sit down?  I’ll take care of everything. You—“

 

You wave a hand at him impatiently, unable to meet his gaze.  “I’m fine.  All right?  I’m fine.”  You’re not fine.  You can’t remember ever being anything that was so much the polar opposite of fine.  But you’re Bret Michaels, and you have to pull it together, and you have to be fine, because that’s just the way it’s always been.  “Just fucking… take care of this, like you said,” you repeat.  “I don’t want to fucking talk to anyone.  I don’t want to see them take him away.  You fucking got that?”  You’re dangerously close to passing out, and you dig your nails as hard as you can into the flesh of your palms.  That last thought, the thought of Rikki being taken away on a stretcher, was far too much to bear.

 

He nods slowly.  “Of course,” he says.  “I’ll deal with all of that.  Are you sure that—“ 

 

“I said I was fucking sure already!” you bark at him.  “Just fucking do what you’re told!”  And then you’re pushing past him, nearly knocking him over. You don’t know what the hell you’re doing, you just know you can’t be on that bus.  Not now, and not ever again.