The World Was Big (2024)

The guitars were gone. The new mustang, the strat, the 20-year-old telecaster. Each swiped from the van in a matter of minutes while we were interrogating Rob, wondering where the speed had gone. The hot Arizona air snaked through our clothes, and beads of sweat began seeping into my unbrushed, bleached hair. We stood there, red-faced and panicked, as Earl began kicking the van. He’d only just finished yelling. 

It was a pattern with Earl, at least that's what Miles and I thought. Each tantrum would be followed by a violent outburst, which would conclude with a high that would last through the show. The fans liked it. They liked the dysfunction. They liked it when Earl would lean on the mic because he couldn't stand, and they liked when Rob would knock everyone over, too high to see. They liked the pills and the smoke and the butchered skin and greasy hair. The lifestyle, and all the bullshit. They wouldn’t like this, though. They wouldn’t like standing at the barricades with non-refundable tickets to see an instrument-less band. The press really wouldn’t like it. Or maybe they’d eat it up. It’s hard to tell with them, or anyone.

Lately, I seem to be the only one worried about the news. The guitars were a long time coming. We never locked the van, and nothing about it was discreet. The back was covered in stickers from venues and ones we’d made ourselves early on. There was another thing the press wouldn’t like. That we weren’t always like this. That Rob was supposed to go to veterinary school. That Miles was bound for MIT. We knew they would find out soon. It was strange how fast it happened. The song blew up, and the one-week bender turned into the year spent without a sober day. You breathe for a second and realize you’ve been touring for six months. You sleep with a different girl every night, never your girl, and then you shoot up with groupies who are gone in the morning. You think for a moment about how you were supposed to go to community college. You were supposed to major in education. You weren’t supposed to be a guitarist in a barely successful band. You were never supposed to throw it all away. None of it was supposed to happen. But maybe the guitars were. Maybe, for once, something was meant to happen. 

“Why are you still looking?” asked Miles. He didn’t say it like he was judging me; he was just genuinely curious.

“There's nothing else to do, really. The meth is gone, the guitars are gone, the show isn’t for another two hours. I don't think I need to find anything, but I don’t know what else to do with my hands” I responded mellowly. The remnants of a high seeping into my dialect.

The distortion of Rob and Earl’s yelling voices overshadowed Miles' soft-spoken, careful words. Everything with Miles was careful. The way he sat at the drums, looking up, always anticipating. The way he handled the gear, the way he held cigarettes with his fingertips, all of it was somehow almost feminine. There was a time over the summer with just me and Miles. We were up on the roof with two packs of American Spirits and an acoustic guitar. The songs were slow, and written to impress. The cigarettes burned too quickly. I looked over at Miles, a cigarette balanced perfectly between his index and his middle fingers, and I started to believe that there wouldn’t be a moment more perfect after that. And part of me always knew I was right. We all changed too much. A small part of me began to pray that we would never find the guitars. I knew that even if they weren’t found we’d go out and buy new, better ones the next day. But I started to hope. Maybe the press would paint it as a scandal and we’d get cast off the bill. No more openings, no more shows, no more drugs or girls or cameras. Just a split second of new peace. 

I like my life to be momentary. I like my people to come in strong, to leave violently. To leave a mark, to beg me to stay, to linger, but never to permanence. I like to leave quietly. I leave nothing behind. I won’t kiss you on the forehead the morning after we sleep together. I won't leave you a note next to the coffee pot. I won’t smile at you through the doorway. I won’t be rude, but I won’t stay. I won’t sign the bottom of the bar at the venue. I won’t get a tattoo with you, I won’t give you a nickname. We will never share anything. I’m friendly, I really am. I'm interesting, too. But I like to keep my life fragmented. Once I leave, I’m gone. And I like it that way. Miles, I guess, is the exact opposite. Everything with Miles has to have an ending. There has to be a goodbye, there has to be a forehead kiss, a note, a ring, a tattoo, a signature. The permanence of Miles is the permanence I accept in life. 

We were the ones who first got the band together, and in the beginning, it was just us. Just me and Miles. Drums and guitar. It was momentary perfection to me, endgame to him. You’d have a good day, you’d end it nicely (quickly), and you’d watch as he drove home. You’d wake up and feel like shit, but not shittier than usual. As you ate your breakfast, you’d think about what your girl was doing, what song she was listening to, what she was thinking about, but you wouldn’t care enough to ask. There was no need for her to know you were awake yet. You’d pull out your phone and see the string of good mornings, and I love yous, the “text me when you wake up”. And you would. You’d text her when you were awake enough to tolerate her. You’d feel like you loved her sometimes, and other times not so much. You’d let her know. She’d stay. You’d accept her company, even though all of it was lost time. But whatever. Girls are Girls, and Girls aren’t Miles. Miles makes you think of how your mind was before the world was big.