but this functioning like a doughy, middle-aged man shit isn't gonna fly. I've just been bitch slapped by poor choices and I don't like it. Guess who's getting back in shape? This fat ass, that's who.
Three more weeks and I'm home. I can surf again.
Every.
Damn.
Day.
For now, I'm sticking to long walks.
Saturday, June 10
(Scout)
I talked to Audrey again this morning. I'd be lying if I said I didn't have my heart set on this job. I want it more than I've ever wanted anything else in my life. It's a dream job. And not only is it a dream job, but it's a dream job across the country from home. I need that.
I also know better than to get my heart set on anything, so I try not to dwell on it. But Audrey's so personable and welcoming. I feel like I click with her. And I don't click with many people.
I also know Audrey is Gustov's mom. I did some research online after I talked to her the first time. When I saw her photo on the company website there was no denying that the last name wasn't a coincidence.
Which means Gustov had something to do with facilitating this opportunity for me. An anonymous favor. Which is incidentally my favorite kind. When someone initiates kindness anonymously, you know it comes from the most pure, kindhearted part of them because they'll probably never be singled out and thanked. It speaks to his character.
I still feel like I need to keep my distance from him. I don't really belong in his world. Not that he's rock star cliché like I first thought. He keeps to himself most of the time on the bus, but his lifestyle is still something I can't wrap my head around, even though I've been on this bus with him for the past several weeks. While people flock to him, people keep their distance from me. We're opposites. And if this job doesn't work out with Audrey, I know we'll never see each other again. What's the point in even trying to develop any sort of friendship at this point?
So, Gustov and I still don't talk, but, in addition to the sticky notes, I do find myself communicating with him in other ways. It's like subtle charades and he's good at it. His eyes are more expressive than anyone else I've ever seen. Just one look tells a story. And it's never benign. Every wink, squint, stare, widening, side-eye, scrunch, and eyebrow raise means something different and always gets a reaction out of me—an internal reaction that I usually hide, but that I also can't deny. It's a strange connection that I've never had with anyone else.
Tuesday, June 27
(Gus)
There's a sudden pain in my ribs. Both sides. Franco's punching me from the left side, and Jamie's poking me from the right.
"Wake up, ass hat," Franco says, practically shouting into my ear.
"We're on the ground, Gus." It's Jamie this time.
My eyes are sticky and crusted with sleep. And my nose, my entire head really, is stuffy and congested. My throat is sore, like I've been swallowing razor blades. I have a cold. Symptoms started last night before our last show of the tour, but after a few hours' sleep on this flight home, it feels as if the germs have waged an all-out assault on my immune system. Summer colds are bullshit. As I clear my throat and pry my eyes open, Franco punches me again. Hard.
I hold up my hand to ward off any further physical attack. "Stop. I'm up, dammit. I'm up." My voice sounds like sawdust, dry and dusty.
As we wait for those in the front rows to exit the plane, Jamie hops out in the aisle and pulls down our carry-ons. Robbie joins him from across the aisle.
When the semi-orderly evacuation finds our row, my body protests vehemently to standing and walking. Every joint in my body aches. Strike the foolish notion that this is a cold—it's definitely the flu. I trudge behind Franco, Robbie, and Jamie, following their taunts about how slow I am the entire way to baggage claim. I can't say it bothers me at all though. Over the past few weeks, things with the guys are back to normal. The
Three more weeks and I'm home. I can surf again.
Every.
Damn.
Day.
For now, I'm sticking to long walks.
Saturday, June 10
(Scout)
I talked to Audrey again this morning. I'd be lying if I said I didn't have my heart set on this job. I want it more than I've ever wanted anything else in my life. It's a dream job. And not only is it a dream job, but it's a dream job across the country from home. I need that.
I also know better than to get my heart set on anything, so I try not to dwell on it. But Audrey's so personable and welcoming. I feel like I click with her. And I don't click with many people.
I also know Audrey is Gustov's mom. I did some research online after I talked to her the first time. When I saw her photo on the company website there was no denying that the last name wasn't a coincidence.
Which means Gustov had something to do with facilitating this opportunity for me. An anonymous favor. Which is incidentally my favorite kind. When someone initiates kindness anonymously, you know it comes from the most pure, kindhearted part of them because they'll probably never be singled out and thanked. It speaks to his character.
I still feel like I need to keep my distance from him. I don't really belong in his world. Not that he's rock star cliché like I first thought. He keeps to himself most of the time on the bus, but his lifestyle is still something I can't wrap my head around, even though I've been on this bus with him for the past several weeks. While people flock to him, people keep their distance from me. We're opposites. And if this job doesn't work out with Audrey, I know we'll never see each other again. What's the point in even trying to develop any sort of friendship at this point?
So, Gustov and I still don't talk, but, in addition to the sticky notes, I do find myself communicating with him in other ways. It's like subtle charades and he's good at it. His eyes are more expressive than anyone else I've ever seen. Just one look tells a story. And it's never benign. Every wink, squint, stare, widening, side-eye, scrunch, and eyebrow raise means something different and always gets a reaction out of me—an internal reaction that I usually hide, but that I also can't deny. It's a strange connection that I've never had with anyone else.
Tuesday, June 27
(Gus)
There's a sudden pain in my ribs. Both sides. Franco's punching me from the left side, and Jamie's poking me from the right.
"Wake up, ass hat," Franco says, practically shouting into my ear.
"We're on the ground, Gus." It's Jamie this time.
My eyes are sticky and crusted with sleep. And my nose, my entire head really, is stuffy and congested. My throat is sore, like I've been swallowing razor blades. I have a cold. Symptoms started last night before our last show of the tour, but after a few hours' sleep on this flight home, it feels as if the germs have waged an all-out assault on my immune system. Summer colds are bullshit. As I clear my throat and pry my eyes open, Franco punches me again. Hard.
I hold up my hand to ward off any further physical attack. "Stop. I'm up, dammit. I'm up." My voice sounds like sawdust, dry and dusty.
As we wait for those in the front rows to exit the plane, Jamie hops out in the aisle and pulls down our carry-ons. Robbie joins him from across the aisle.
When the semi-orderly evacuation finds our row, my body protests vehemently to standing and walking. Every joint in my body aches. Strike the foolish notion that this is a cold—it's definitely the flu. I trudge behind Franco, Robbie, and Jamie, following their taunts about how slow I am the entire way to baggage claim. I can't say it bothers me at all though. Over the past few weeks, things with the guys are back to normal. The
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