Narcoleptic
~Stefan~
Memories flooded me as I sank down onto the
ice-cold bench of the tube station. I’d avoided this particular stop for
years, ever since everything fell apart. But adverse weather and a twisted
ankle kept me from walking to the next station to catch my train, forcing me to
face my past.
With a shiver, I noticed this was the same bench. I considered moving to a
different one but my body had already been gripped with reminiscence. I
turned my face to the empty spot next to me and could almost see Brian there,
curled up with one leg tucked under his body, his head tilted slightly to the
side as he waved his cigarette around and ranted about the state of decay in
modern music and how it desperately needed a ‘facelift.’ “Music
falls into a pattern of repetition until someone comes around to shake things up
a bit. The Beatles saved us from Elvis. Bowie saved us from the
hippie lullabies. Nirvana saved us from the onslaught of bad hair metal.
Right now music’s looking for someone to save it from the misogynistic
rap stars and the frightening popularity of country line dancing. I think
I could be that person. Once I find the right band.” I thought he
could be that person too. And that’s how it had all began.
The end had been as unexpected as the beginning. During the break before
we started work on our fourth album, Brian had taken a holiday to Amsterdam.
It was there that he met ‘him’. It had started with a late night
phone call. “Steffy darling, I know we’re supposed to start rehearsals
tomorrow but we have to push them back, I haven’t gotten a thing written.
I’m still away, I met the most amazing man! His name’s Alfonse.
Doesn’t that just make you melt? He can do the most wicked things
with his tongue. Anyway, I’ve been on a 72-hour party and we made plans
to see this absurdist play tomorrow evening so I simply can’t be back in
London by then. Make my excuses to Stevie, will you? I’ll call
when I can.” I should have seen the warning signs in that brief phone
call, should have known that Alfonse was controlling Brian in a way that could
only lead to disaster. Brian hated absurdist theater and the only time he
didn’t call Steve personally to make his excuses was when he knew he was doing
something wrong and didn’t want to be found out. Steve was much better
at seeing through Brian’s masks than I was.
The rehearsals got pushed back and pushed back and pushed back until the
deadline came when we had to start recording. Brian promised us he’d be
back from Amsterdam in time and he was, with Alfonse in tow. Alfonse, it
seemed, planned on making himself a permanent figure in the recording sessions.
He was always hanging around the studios, often stopping us in mid-song to
give Brian a few ‘tips’ which Brian lapped up eagerly and insisted on making
the proposed change, no matter how terrible it was and how much Steve and I
protested. We nicknamed Alfonse little-Yoko Ono because of his constant
meddling.
The sniffing and rubbing his nose made it obvious Brian was on coke pretty
heavily. His eyes were always tired and bloodshot. Every morning he
had a new story of some wild time he and Alfonse had the night before. We
wasted countless hours of tape starting over because he couldn’t stop yawning.
This was the man who’d been preaching professionalism to us for the past
few years and he was ruining the album over some fling. Steve and I had
finally had enough.
We called a band meeting at my flat the next morning. Alfonse, of course,
tagged along and when we asked him to leave everything blew up. “You
guys have been treating him like shit ever since he showed up!” Brian’s
fists were balled up on his hips and his eyes were blazing fire. Despite
his small frame, he always seemed to tower over us when he got this angry.
“Alfonse and I have been talking and he opened my eyes to a few things.
This is MY band and MY music. You two don’t do shit but play the
notes I dish out! And now all of a sudden you think you can control my
artistic vision? Christ, you’ve had something bad to say about every
song we’ve recorded so far. Alfonse is the only one who’s made any
helpful suggestions. And you know what, he’s right, you two are NOT
musicians because you don’t write the music, COULDN’T write the music even
if you tried. You’re nothing but a couple of trained monkeys playing
along to my beat and I need to find band mates that appreciate my brilliance.”
The smile on Alfonse’s face as he followed Brian out was so infuriating
I had to place a hand on Steve’s shoulder to remind him not to attack.
“It’s just the coke,” I’d said. “When he comes down and gets a
good night’s sleep he’ll come to his senses. You’ll see, he’ll be
knocking on our doors first thing in the morning with coffee and danish and
begging our forgiveness.”
The apology never came. He went off to start a new band with his lover,
who couldn’t even play an instrument. That’s the way it was with
Brian. When a thought struck him he made up his mind quickly and acted on
it, sometimes before the rational part of his brain could get a word in. He
barreled out of our lives with the noise and speed of a tornado and left Steve
and I choking on his dust.
I shook away my thoughts only to realize my train had just passed. Checking
the schedule, I saw I had a few minutes to kill before another one would be
coming and got up to find the loo. By the time I was done all thoughts of
the past had been pushed from my mind and I was once again focusing on the movie
soundtrack I was helping record. Leaning against the entrance to the
restroom as I watched the trains rumble by, I started humming a chorus that had
been bothering me and tried to figure out how to fix it. I stopped to take
a breath and was surprised to hear the humming continue but the notes slightly
different, fixing the problem that had been vexing me for weeks. I looked
around to find the source of this muse and saw a small figure lying against the
wall beside me, his body curled in a tight little ball and a too big coat
covering most of him. Digging into my pocket, I found a few bills and
stooped down to press them into his hand. As I turned to go his voice
drifted up to me. “I guess this is the part where I’m supposed to say
‘bless you’? Fuck that. And fuck pity.”
“Brian?”
The body turned, rolling back on the dirty ground. Huge eyes blinked up at
me, shimmering with tears he was refusing to let fall. “Steffy?”
I fell to my knees beside him, a shaking hand touching his dirty face.
He turned away and hid it from my view. “No. Don’t. Don’t
even look at me. Just keep walking. Brian doesn’t exist any more.
Just his withered corpse that refuses to die.”
I slid my hands beneath his shoulders and lifted his torso. He was so
light I had to choke back a sob. I could feel his bones pressing into me
despite the layers of bulky clothing trying to keep out the London cold. Cradling
him against my chest, he couldn’t hold on any longer and a spray of tears fell
onto me. “He left me Stef. He snorted up everything I owned then
he left me. I couldn’t make rent, I couldn’t buy food, it was all
gone.”
I rocked him gently, petting his hair, which had grown back to it’s natural
chocolate color and was now hanging past his shoulders. He shuddered, his
sobs growing so loud they got us a few stares, letting out everything he’d
been holding in for so long. Leaning back, I turned his chin toward me and
wiped his cheeks with my thumbs. His bottom lip quivered as he controlled
his tears, making him look like a child desperately in need of love. “Why
didn’t you call me Molks? I would have helped you. Steve would
too.”
“You both hate me,” he turned his face away, denying me the beauty of his
eyes as he focused them on the stained floor. “I don’t blame you.
I hate me too.”
My fingers brushed lightly over his lips, feeling their chapped surface, then
traveling down across his neck. “I don’t hate you. How could
I?”
My train came to a stop and I grabbed Brian’s hand, ignoring his protests as I
paid our fair and pushed him on board. We traveled in silence, him huddled
in the last seat and glancing around nervously, frowning at the looks of disgust
he was receiving. Despite all of his masks, he was always so sensitive to
what other people thought of him.
My stop came and we left, Brian blinking in surprise to find I still had the
same flat. I dragged him to the shower as soon as we got there, ignoring
his protests about not wanting to be a bother. Even through the closed
door I could hear his happy sigh as the warm spray hit him. In my bedroom,
I opened the closet and took down the box on the top shelf. Steve always
teased me for being such a pack rat but it seems that personality trait would
come in handy now. The box was full of random items and some neatly folded
clothing, all of them things Brian had left over here years ago. I sifted
through the jewelry and gumball machine toys, finding a pair of worn black jeans
and a t-shirt. Unfolding it, I saw the famous Stunt Girl logo and had to
fight off more memories as the past nudged at me. Gathering them in my
arms, I set them silently on the low cabinet just inside the bathroom door
before slipping away. After a few moments of indecision I picked up the
phone and dialed. I was greeted by the sounds of a crying baby and a
frazzled but polite female voice. “Hi Jessy. Is Steve there?”
~Steve~
“Brian’s in my shower.”
That’s a sentence I thought I’d never hear again. I set the phone back
on its cradle and glanced out the window, reflecting on the short conversation
Stefan and I just had. It’d been four years since the break-up and three
and a half since Brian and I last spoke. The last time had been at a party
held by some snotty record execs. Stef and I had just joined up with
Darren Hayes to work on his solo album and were there with him. Brian was
there desperately trying to promote the demo he and Alfonse had recorded. After
a steady stream of rejection he’d locked himself in the bathroom. I
didn’t have to press my ear to the door to know I’d hear snorting on the
other side. Thinking he’d left, one of the execs shouted to the room,
“Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Brian Molko”
“Brian Molko who?”
“Exactly!”
The laughter died as his slight form came from the bathroom, cold eyes surveying
the crowd slowly. His mouth opened, but for once it seemed like he
had no reply. His head lowered as he pushed through the crowd, clutching
the cases of the demos to his chest. I’d grabbed his arm before he could
get out. “Brian… I…”
“At least have the decency not to gloat to my face, Steve.”
That was it. The last words we spoke had been laced with malice and
misunderstanding. I watched him leave, his shoulders slumped in
uncharacteristic defeat. Stef had put his arm around me, laying his head
against mine, and we stood staring at the door for countless moments. No
words needed to be said, we both knew what the other was feeling.
Now this phone call. Stefan had been brief, just saying where he’d found
Brian then running off mid-sentence with a hurried “the shower just stopped,
gotta go, come over.”
I wanted to desperately. I wanted to get up and run, not stopping until I
was in Stef’s living room. But another part of me wanted to ignore it,
pretend the call had never come. Part of me knew Brian would just
disappear tomorrow and leave me feeling as lost and rejected as he had the last
time. The pain in losing a girlfriend is nothing compared to the pain in
losing a friend like Brian. He’d been like family to me, and he’d left
without a second glance.
“Steve honey, will you grab the bottle out of the microwave?” My wife
Jessy broke me from my thoughts, the sounds of our crying son once again
drifting to my ears. I went to the kitchen and started getting the formula
ready, testing it on my wrist.
“Do you think men can breast feed? I mean, we have nipples. Why
are they there if they don’t have a function?” It was a conversation
Brian had started my first night in the band. We’d gotten drunk after
rehearsal and I proudly started showing off pictures of Emily. Brian,
already half naked and too pissed to stand, had started a deeply profound
conversation inspired by a glimpse of his own body. I’d never known
anyone to be so narcissistic and yet so utterly brilliant at the same time.
Before the night was over, he had won me as a faithful follower of his
genius. When he started throwing up and I had to carry him to his bed, he
also won me as his adopted big brother, a role that I still felt after all these
years.
Moving to the living room, I handed Jessy the bottle and stooped down to place a
quick kiss on my baby’s head. As I grabbed my coat she asked where I was
going.
“Band meeting,” I called back and slipped from the door before she could
question me further.
The drive to Stef’s place was a short one and I knew it well. We’d
remained close over the years, his flat being like a second home to me. I
turned into the parking garage and pulled into Stef’s designated spot. He
still wouldn’t by a car, preferring public transportation or bumming rides
instead of fighting London traffic. His tenant parking space had been
reserved for me instead since I was usually the one he bummed rides from anyway.
The lift seemed to go up endlessly, the floors dinging by at a snails pace as my
mind raced with what I might find once I reached the destination. What if
it wasn’t real? There were several occasions I’d been summoned to
Stef’s place, told Brian was there waiting for me, only to find out he’d
passed out drunk and had a dream his chemical altered mind couldn’t process as
fantasy. It’d been a couple years since that had last happened but the
possibility was still there.
“You came.” Tears were shining in Stefan’s eyes when he answered the
door and moved to embrace me. He lead me inside and I saw Brian sitting
Indian style on the couch huddled over a ham sandwich and half gone bottle of
beer. He pushed the long hair out of his eyes and turned his face up to
me. The phrase ‘skin and bones’ was an understatement when looking at
him. The Stunt Girl shirt that had always been tight in the right places
was now too big, hanging oddly on his shoulders and swimming around his barely
there torso.
“Hey,” he gave me a slight smile, turning his face away just like Emily did
when she’d done something bad and couldn’t bear to see the look of anger and
disappointment on my face.
“Hey back,” I said lightly, sliding into the chair across from him. We
made chitchat for a while. Stefan mentioned my son and I handed over my
wallet to show off pictures.
“Oh he’s precious,” Brian gave the first real smile I’d seen from him
that day. “What’s his name?”
“Michael. Michael Brian Hewitt.”
His face lit up, his eyes so huge and teary I felt like I could jump in and swim
around. “You really named him that?”
I nodded, reaching over to take the pictures back and letting my finger brush
lightly over Brian’s. “I was going to name him Stefan Brian after both
his uncles but the Swede over there thought it’d get confusing. I think he’s
just jealous of the baby stealing all the attention away from him.” Stef
chucked a sofa pillow at me, getting another giggle from the waif-like creature
seated next to him.
“How long have you been… like this?” I asked, deciding it was time
our conversation got a bit more serious.
Brian shrugged, sinking back into the couch with his second beer and picking at
the label. “A little over a year. When Alfonse left and I got
evicted, I bounced around for a few months. People would take me in for a
couple of days, maybe a few weeks, before telling me to move on. Once I
wore out my welcome with half of London I ended up sleeping in tube stations or
behind buildings.” He shrugged, flipping his hair back again. “It’s
not so bad.” I could always tell when he was lying.
“How did you get along like that?” Stef asked. “Food, clothing,
shelter from the cold. How’d you ever make it?”
“I’d rather not talk about it,” Brian sipped his beer as an excuse to stop
talking.
“I would have helped you.” I pulled my chair closer, pressing my hand
to his knee. “You could have called me, I’m not that hard to find.”
He shook his head, playing with his fingernails like he was picking at polish
that wasn’t there. “I was a prick. I’d made my bed and now I
have to lie in it.”
“Who told you that rubbish? Your mother?”
“No. My father. As he slammed the door in my face.”
“Well we’re not your father.”