Gray - By Pete Wentz Page 0,13
to her and said, “Yes,” and then not only did she let me use the business center, but I got the free continental breakfast too. It was a highlight. It’s usually just me and maybe some business guy in there—it is a business center after all—and he’s always looking at sports or maybe reading some e-mails from his boss or wife or girlfriend his wife doesn’t know about. There’s always so much mystery in other people’s lives.
I write Her e-mails because I’m no good on the phone. Never have been. And that’s bad when you’re out on tour, and the only time you have to talk is after shows, or while driving to the next city, crammed into a van with three other guys who haven’t showered in a few days and make fun of everything you say. Needless to say, we haven’t been speaking much. When we do, it’s short, strange. A few minutes here and there, updates on Her classes and the latest drama with Her family. Tour is going good. I’m behaving. Gotta go, love you. We can’t get off the phone fast enough. It’s like talking to your aunt on Christmas morning, when all you want to do is dive into the mess underneath the tree. It feels like an obligation.
• • •
The funny thing is, when I’m not sneaking into business centers, I barely think about Her. There’s no time. We are hitting the road hard this time out, something like twenty-five shows in thirty days, in big cities and college towns. We are sleeping on floors most nights, in people’s apartments, and I wake up most mornings with my head next to a litter box. I have an uncanny knack for this, it seems. One time, I woke up damp with cat piss. It was another highlight.
• • •
I read something in a magazine today.
They did a study and found that countless men would choose gambling over love if given the chance. Even more would choose pornography over love if given the chance. We are cavemen; and it seems like that will never change. I wonder if the men they studied have ever really been in love? I wonder how corporations will use this information to their advantage? “Hallmark cards and boxes of Fanny May chocolates will save humanity,” or something to the effect. It depresses me to think about it.
I am writing Her an e-mail from a Super 8 hotel in Muncie, Indiana (they don’t have continental breakfast, in case you were wondering), because I’m feeling guilty. Guilty for all the fun I’ve been having, guilty for the close calls I’ve had in darkened corners. Guilty for forgetting about Her and letting my life run free. Guilty for feeling good.
For whatever reason, it seems like we’re against love. Everyone. People think love equates to weakness, or gullibility, or an unwillingness to deal with reality, so they try to ruin it, the social scientists and the admen, with studies and lingerie shows and boxes of candy. They try to invalidate it, dirty it up, but they can’t, because people in love know the truth. They know love is good and pure and really the most beautiful thing in the world. They know love is greater than anything, greater even than God. At first, I didn’t believe it, but I do now. You have made me realize it. Being away from you has been the hardest thing I have ever done. I am shaking and sweating. I am going into withdrawal. I need you. You are my withdrawal. You are my blood.
I want to protect you from all of this. When it’s all over, I want to run away with you and never come back. I want to be buried in the ground with you. It’s the only way we can keep this pure and beautiful, I’m afraid. We have to stay away from this whole life. We have to be normal. We have to get married and move to Berkeley. Our love can’t survive like this, no matter how hard we try. I’m quitting the band. I’m coming home. I need you.
I stare at the e-mail for a while, then I delete it. We’ll be back in Chicago in a few days and she’ll never know the difference. My conflicts of conscience are about the only battles I’m fighting these days, and I’m willing to fight until the end. There is something freeing about this life, about living out of a single backpack and