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October 18, 2007

Fight with the Band

I took the new van down to the studio today. Margo refuses to let me drive her Caddy; in fact, since the other day she won’t even talk to me. We’re in a bad way, she and I, and I’m glad many fans have picked up on this and have sent e-mails, letters, and cards of support. We’ve had many relationship tests in the past few years, but we’ve always survived. She really, really seems to hate Renal, though. I’ve always wondered, if I had to make that choice, would I choose my own flesh and blood, a piece of me—or her? I always thought I’d choose her, but right now, I’d choose me.

I pulled into the small lot beside the Paint Shaker and squeezed the Montana into the only available space. As usual, Carl, Riffs, and Mikey hovered in the alley parallel to Highland, shooting craps.

“Where’s Margo?” Carl demanded. I didn’t like the edge to his voice.

“Educating my daughter,” I said glumly.

“Hey, when are we gonna get to meet her, anyway?”

“Who?”

“Your daughter. What’s her name again?”

“Renal Rojas.”

Carl wrinkled his nose.

“It means something else in Spanish.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

I raised my eyebrows. Carl knew Spanish pretty well, but he was way off-base here.

Carl switched gears. “Come on, isn’t it exciting to know you have a daughter? Wouldn’t you want to show her off?”

I cast a quick but obvious glance at Riffs, whose back was to me as he concentrated on the dice. To Carl, I said, “Now’s not the right time.”

Carl nodded.

Mikey asked, “What’s with the fagmobile?”

“What?”

“Your brown minivan,” Mikey chuckled. “What’s up with that?”

“I need a safe, practical car now,” I said.

“Dude, she’s fifteen,” Mikey said. “She’ll be driving—hell, she could have her learner’s permit right now. You don’t need a—”

“I’m a father,” I said. “Are you?”

Mikey shrugged. “Probably. You don’t see me losing sleep over it.”

“Well, you will when the mother drops your child off one day and leaves.”

“You were not legally obligated to see her,” Mikey said.

“She’s my daughter.”

“And that’s more important to you than the life you’ve established here? Than me—”

“Yeah—”

“Let me finish. Than Abysmal Crucifix. Than your lifestyle. Than Margo Atwater. Everything’s going to change now, Girth. You can’t stop it. You’ve unleashed this…this—”

“Tidal wave,” Carl suggested.

“Thank you,” Mikey said. I made yet another mental note to prevent those two from associating outside rehearsals, studio sessions, and gigs. “You’ve unleashed this tidal wave of change on yourself, on all of us,” he continued, “and it’s never going to stop. Abysmal Crucifix might as well break up right now, today.”

“Why?”

“Fine. Let’s ignore the disaster we called a tour. Let’s ignore that we’re recording the same album a third time and still aren’t anywhere near release. We could even pretend like the band hasn’t gone through more personnel changes in the last two years than most go through in their entire life span. Let’s just focus on you.”

“I often do.”

“This band is your baby. You never had a child—you had this. All this.” Mikey gestured at the dilapidated studio slowly crumbling behind him. “And it’ll die without your nurturing.”

“Fuck you,” I scoffed. “Lots of people have more than one kid.”

Mikey sighed melodramatically. “That was a metaphor, Mr. Masters in Literature from Gudger College. You committed to a lifestyle with Abysmal Crucifix. Now, with Renal, you’re committing to an entirely new lifestyle. A world of minivans and dioramas and school functions. And fuck, you don’t even have to commit to that. She’s practically an adult, and if what Margo says is true, she doesn’t need much in the way of parenting. So, what? Are you just sick of us? The band? The life?”

“Calm your shit down,” I said.

Riffs tossed another roll, ignoring us completely. Carl watched out of the corner of his eye, his interest in our conversation clearly waning.

“Nothing’s changed yet,” I continued.

“Yet,” Mikey repeated.

“What am I supposed to do?”

“God, Girth. Stop letting people prop you up. Figure out your own shit and take some kind of action. This running away, this letting everyone else solve your problems—it has to end.”

“So you do want me to change, but only in a way you want me to change?”

“Huh?”

“Well, who’s to say having someone like Renal around to protect won’t force me to face problems head-on?”

Mikey scowled. “I am.”

“Um.”

“Fuck this,” Mikey said. “I’m outta here. Carl, you coming?”

Carl shrugged. “Sorry, Girth,” he sighed, following Mikey.

“He’s not really your friend!” I shouted after them caustically.

I watched Riffs shoot craps by himself for awhile, then got into the van and drove back to the Valley.

Written by Girth McDürchstein on October 18, 2007 5:17 PM
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