Page 11 of Not So Goode

Me more than him—he’d sit here with me a while, but inevitably he’d head out to find where the crew was partying, and there’d always be a few girls, and he’d have some fun. Me? I wasn’t much of a partier, these days. I’d have some fun now and then, sure, but I liked my solitude, my privacy. Myles? He lived for the spotlight, lived to be the center of attention. He just drew the eye, wherever he was. He came alive when there was a crowd around him.

He reached up over his head, blindly opening the cabinet above the window, and pulled down a bottle of sixty-year-old scotch. Handed me the bottle, and reached up again for the glasses. Found them, and I poured us each a couple fingers.

“To another good show on the books,” he said. “Closing in on two hundred and fifty shows, now, you know.”

I sipped. “You in this for life, Myles?”

“What, touring?”

I nodded. “Yeah. This it, for you?”

He sighed. “You know, I don’t know. I’m just milking it for all it’s worth, right now. Dad, Granddad, they loved this shit, you know? They’d be fuckin’ stoked as hell to see me successful like this.”

“They see, brother. They see you.”

He eyed me. “You believe that? For real?”

I hesitated. I didn’t like talking about this shit. But this was a moment you didn’t ignore, a time you couldn’t puss out on saying the real shit. “I mean, yeah, man. You know how I was raised. Who raised me. I didn’t have much to believe in, those early days. Then I went to live with Mammy and River Dog and all that shit. So yeah, I believe our ancestors are watching.”

He was silent. Absorbed. He knew I rarely ever discussed my past. Or myself at all, really. “I like that idea, I guess. Dad and Granddad watching over me. With me on the road, on the stage with me. They never got to see me blow up, you know?”

I nodded. “They’re with you, Myles.”

“What about you?”

I growled in my chest. “What about me?”

“Are your ancestors with you?”

I shrugged. “Yeah, they are. Dad’s are, at least. I see them in the mountains, the trees. The rivers. The road itself, in a way, I guess. My dad’s people lived in all those places and I believe they are still there. Never knew too much about Mom’s side of things. I guess I get that from her—she never talked about herself or her past. Her family, none of that shit. Don’t know jack.”

“She was Native American, too, though, right?”

I nodded. “Comanche. Dad was Apache.”

We finished our scotch, and Myles leaned forward. Took my glass from me, rinsed his and mine, dried them with paper towel, and replaced the glasses and the bottle in the cabinet, secured against the movement of the bus. This, too, was ritual—I worked for him on stage, brought him guitars and tuned them, kept them maintained. Replaced strings and all that. Then, in these quiet moments, he always served me scotch. Reminding himself and me, I think, that we were equals. Brothers.

He eyed me. “Coming out?”

I shook my head. “Nah, I’m good.”

He just huffed a laugh. “Yeah, you’re way too melancholy anyway. You’d kill the mood.”

I kicked at him. “Get the fuck out of here. Go, have fun. I’ll see you later.”

“You riding with us, or riding your bike?”

“I’ll ride the bus till we stop, probably.”

He nodded, exiting the bus. Paused at the bottom of the steps, slapped the doorway. “Crow?”

I eyed him. “Yo.”

“You belong on stage, man. You’re the most talented motherfucker I’ve ever met.”

I shook my head. “That’s your thing, not mine. I’m happy the way things are.”

He sighed. “Waste of fuckin’ talent, man.”