Some time later, after everyone else was asleep but before dawn, I found myself sitting on the windowsill, tired, very tired, but not ready to lie down yet, rubbing my left thumb in my right hand and thinking. Bart was asleep on his edge of the bed and I wasn’t quite ready to get under the covers yet myself.
In less than a week we’d be home. Remo had told me over ginger ale about another movie he’d been hired to score; he wanted me to come out and play on it. And then the summer tour, and then probably Europe after that, and Asia. It would be a year before we went into the studio again. If we went into the studio again.
It could be over in a year. That thought was weirdly comforting.
Equally comforting was the thought that we could keep changing, that in a year’s time we might be ready, all four of us, to go in some new direction. There was no predicting it. I was looking forward to arriving at that moment, at being in the moment, and doing it, whatever it was.
My next fight with Ziggy, could be tomorrow, could be next week, I was sure something would come up and I was eager to meet it head on.
I’d told him it was over. I had a vague sense of loss now thinking about it, remembering that time of getting to know what he liked, and having someone who knew me as well. But I suppose everyone wishes for the perfect match.
He’d asked for a second chance. I had to decide whether to give it to him.
I wondered if Digger was lonely, or if Remo was.
I did not feel lonely at that moment, staring out over a dark city where sex workers and club dancers and cab drivers were on their way home. I had the slight urge to take out the Takamine and play, but that would wake Bart and aggravate the thumb. I felt alone and that felt strangely good, a feeling I could not come up with words for, a feeling like the moment when the soloist takes off from the orchestra, into the bars the composer left blank, a feeling that could not be expressed with the written score and could only be stated with a fingerprint personal sequence of notes, flying from fingers moment by moment, each one truer than the last.
(Thus ends this arc of Daron’s story! From closeted college student struggling to pay his rent, to one foot firmly out the closet door and a slot in MTV’s heavy rotation. It was a crucial three years in his life. We’ll pick up the story with new posts after a story from Remo’s point of view, some art, and such. Then will come all-new material and all-new story arc. Thank you all for reading and for your support! Keep clicking through to catch up to the next new chapter!)