and even though it all went wrong.
Stranger Things Have Happened
Patrick et al. futurefic | 26012 words | 14A | 3/4
Disclaimer: All characters and events in this story--even those based on real people--are entirely fictional. All celebrity voices are impersonated...poorly. The following story contains coarse language and due to its content it should not be read by anybody.
*
Patrick thinks he's actually pretty successful at avoiding Pete for the first half of Joe's wedding--the wedding half, that is. They're seated in the same row, third from the front on Joe's side, but there are Victoria, a couple of Joe's cousins, Andy and Matt, and Pete's date--a tall, stately woman with tiny, immaculate, ebony braids falling down her back--between them.
"Pete looks good," Victoria whispers in Patrick's ear, and Patrick grimaces at himself for getting caught sneaking glances.
It's true, is the annoying thing. Pete looks solid, alive, well-groomed. He's wearing an all-black suit with a triangle of white and black handkerchief peeking from his breast pocket; the pattern matches the abstract flower print on his date's dress. "I don't care," Patrick whispers back.
Victoria rolls her eyes and takes his hand. "You're acting like a character in a shitty romantic comedy, and I think you should know that."
"You can't swear at a wedding," Patrick grouses.
The music starts before Victoria can reply, and they shuffle to their feet as the wedding party comes down the wide path between the chairs: Marie holding baby Aida, Joe carrying Lauren, Juliette walking ahead of them with a big basket of flowers, Joe and Marie's parents flanking the family.
Later, Joe slides the plain gold ring over Marie's finger, and says, his voice shaking, "Behold, you are betrothed unto me, according to the law of Moses and Israel," and Patrick realizes that he's happy for them. Not just intellectually happy, or the happy of friendly obligation--really, really happy. The vague jealousy he felt when Juliette was born, when Joe turned out to be an honestly great dad, it's gone. He sniffs deeply to hold back sudden tears and Victoria laughs quietly and takes his hand while Marie puts a ring on Joe's finger and repeats firmly, "Behold, you are betrothed unto me, according to the law of Moses and Israel."
Patrick looks over at Victoria, smiling, and down the row Pete is looking back at him, his eyes damp too.
The rabbi says, "Joseph will now read the ketubah aloud and present it to Marie for her safekeeping," and Patrick turns away to watch.
While Joe and Marie are having their brief break between the ceremony and the party, Patrick gets to talking with Andy about the tour--thanking him again for the sponsorship. Andy smiles, a little uncomfortably, and tells him again it's no problem, seriously. Victoria and Matt bring over some punch and the conversation gets generic and friendly until Pete brings his date over, holding her hand.
"You remember Andy and Matt," he says to her, and she nods, shaking Andy's hand, and Matt's.
"Lovely to see you again," she says, her voice broadly accented.
"And this is Patrick Stump," Pete says, gesturing at Patrick. "Patrick, Adelie Juma."
Patrick smiles tightly and shakes Adelie's hand. "Nice to meet you," he says. He puts his hand on Victoria's shoulder. "This is Victoria Asher."
"Hi," Victoria says. She shakes Adelie's hand too. "I love your dress."
"Thank you very much." Adelie waves at Pete. "His design. Who am I to turn down free clothes?" They all laugh politely and she adds, "That colour is beautiful on you, Victoria."
Victoria shrugs and smiles modestly, fiddling with the yellow skirt of her dress. "I picked it up the other day when we had a break. Outlet mall, of all places."
Pete just stands there, smiling blandly at all of them, like this is some kind of reunion: high school or the Marines or something.
"How's business?" Andy asks Adelie, and she grins, starts talking about organic farming.
"I'm going to find a bathroom," Patrick says quietly to Victoria. She nods and squeezes his hand.
He uses the first-floor half-bath and runs in to Pete on his way back outside. Patrick tries to duck around him, but Pete blocks him with an outstretched hand.
"How are you?" Pete asks.
"How am I," Patrick says, dumbfounded.
"The tour is going really well," Pete says, "and I can personally account for about half of your album sales, but for real--"
"Are you serious," Patrick says, frowning. "You're seriously asking me--"
"Well, you never replied to my text," Pete says. "And I could never get through when I called."
"You never called me," Patrick says coldly.
"I did," Pete says. "I tried--"
"I got a new phone after you texted me," Patrick says.
Pete's face goes blank. "Oh."
"You never called me," Patrick repeats. "Before, I mean. You said--" he shakes his head, cutting himself off. He's not having this conversation. He tries to go around Pete again, but Pete puts up his other hand.
His eyes are intent on Patrick when he says, "I said what?"
"You said you'd call me," Patrick grits out. "When you decided what you were going to do. And you never did."
"Is that--that's what this is about?" Pete asks, eyebrows raised, surprised. "Is that all? I didn't call you the next morning? Seriously?"
"Fuck you, Pete," Patrick says, flatly, feeling in his chest the compressed weight of all the things he wants to say, all the things he's thought, all the hurt that was too much to be written down, let alone sung. He pushes Pete's arm out of the way and almost gets past. Pete grabs his shoulder with both hands.
"Patrick," he says, "listen--"
Patrick shoves him away; his shoulder hits the wall. "Three years," Patrick says. "You didn't call for three years, asshole--"
"I'm sorry," Pete says. "I had some shit to deal with, I had to--it had nothing to do with you, or the band, I just--"
"You're fucking sorry? You made me, you fucker, you made me and then you fucking left me," Patrick says, nearly shouts, and Pete takes a step back, puts his hand over his mouth and looks: stunned; apologetic. Patrick breathes in and out heavily, hardly even believing he just said that.
It seems like hours before Pete drops his hand to his chest and says, quietly, "I'm sorry."
Patrick shakes his head at Pete. "Could you," he says; his voice catches and he closes his eyes, tries again: "I can't--"
"Don't," Pete says. "Don't say it. I know you, I know you won't take it back, and I'm a selfish motherfucker, but I need to think you'll forgive me. Please, okay, just don't fucking say it."
Patrick feels his hands curl in on each other and he wants to say it, oh does he ever. He wants to punch the wall, punch Pete in the throat, use the heavy angry weight in his hands for something. He bites his lip and takes a deep breath through his nose. He says, "I'm not forgiving you today, Pete."
Pete nods.
"Or next week," Patrick says. "Not next year, either."
"No," Pete says. "Probably not."
Patrick makes his hands relax and finishes passing Pete in the hall.
Joe and Marie have joined the party. Patrick quickly tells them mazel tov again, says he hopes they enjoy their gift, retrieves Victoria from flirting with Matt, and leaves.
In Syracuse, a girl slides a copy of Infinity On High across the table and smiles shyly. "Hi, I'm Allie," she says, fiddling with the frayed cuff of her Clan hoodie, purple faded nearly grey from washing.
"Hi, Allie, I'm Patrick, nice to meet you," he says, smiling back, opening the case and poising his pen over the disc.
"Oh, wait." She reaches and taps the booklet; the familiar scrawl of Joe's signature, and Pete's tight, spiky handwriting underneath. "I'm collecting all of you," she says, and giggles a little.
"Hey, that's awesome," he says. He signs his name and maybe, briefly, accidentally touches Pete's name with his thumb.
"Yeah," Allie says. "I got Joe years ago, on the Honda Civic Tour? I was eleven, it was my first concert, but Pete was just last night. I've been so excited to see you guys right after each other." She laughs and shrugs and blushes some more.
Patrick snaps the case shut. Last night? "Really? Where did you see him?" he asks, casual. He can see Paul's concerned expression out of the corner of his eye, but he ignores it.
"He did a talk at Borders in Rochester," Allie says, tucking her CD back in her bag. "His spoken word is so awesome, right?"
"I haven't had a chance to check it out yet," Patrick says. He hadn't known a thing about it, in fact.
"You really should," Allie says, and nods seriously. Paul pats Allie on the shoulder and smiles nicely at her, leading her away. "Bye, Patrick," she says, waving and grinning, just before she disappears back into the crowd.
"Good luck tracking Andy down," Patrick calls. "Bye!"
Patrick hasn't visited MeeLikey since Joe's wedding--five weeks; it's a personal best. He clicks the link in his Favourites folder. The most recent entry is from last week:
watch your fingers, it's hot off the presses
[cover of Lovekill: stories and essays by Pete Wentz]
dont want you burning yourself. this one is available exclusively at your local Borders until labor day (audiobook dl up at the itunes). on the road for the next wee little while, doing readings (never thought i'd type those words) and talkshows. schedule up soon.
Turns out, he and Pete are going to be playing Albany on the same day.
"Bad idea," Greta says.
"I think it's a good idea," Victoria says, and puts her head on Patrick's shoulder. "Closure. Catharsis."
"I have seen him since the--since," Patrick says. He doesn't even know why he wants to go; it doesn't make any sense. Keeping four blogs, Buzznet, and MeeLikey in his Favourites doesn't make much sense either, really.
"Stalking him on the internet doesn't count," Alex says without looking up from his book.
"I'm not stalking him on the fucking--shut up," Patrick says.
"Board rooms and--what, Joe's wedding? Doesn't count," Greta says.
Patrick snaps his fingers. "That's it exactly. The last time I talked to Pete, we ruined Joe's wedding." Which is not strictly true, but. Victoria shakes her head and pats his thigh.
"Like I said," Greta shrugs, "bad idea."
"You could just sneak in," Victoria says quietly, practically in Patrick's ear; he'd never imagined his bad angel being quite so--yeah. Pretty. "Stand in the back--"
"It's at a tiny bookstore," Patrick whispers back. "There's no sneaking, he'd see me--"
"You could wear a disguise," she says.
"Seriously?" Greta says.
Victoria frowns at her. "Nobody asked you. Spoilsport."
"I'll go," Alex says. "I'll take pictures. I'll wear a disguise. No one will know it's me."
"Pete will know," Patrick says. "For fuck's sake, dude."
"So I'll tell him I snuck away from the tour. I'll tell him you forbade us from attending his readings on pain of death, and I risked much merely to be in his presence." Alex raises his eyebrows. "Sound good?"
"Awesome," Victoria says, and clasps her hands under her chin. "You should use an accent too."
In the end, due to a foreboding weather report, they have to pull up stakes from Albany a day early and nobody can go to the reading. Instead, Patrick buys Pete's book the next time they stop at a mall.
He tells the band his Borders bag contains only the new Louis Armstrong biography and they leave him alone about it. The book sits beside his pillow in his bunk for three days, face-down, the back of the jacket filled with a black and white photograph of a night garden: stone wall; wooden gate; lights wrapped around a tree, glowing inside an ivy-wrapped globe; an empty bench waiting beside the gate.
After a show in Cambridge, Patrick pulls his curtain closed and snaps it shut. He holds the book in his lap for a while, and then he opens it.
The dedication is simple, of course: for you.
From "Lovekill: stories and essays by Pete Wentz."
Why This Book Has Such A Stupid Title
[...] The thing is, people always say, "I'd love to have that," in the same tone and with the same meaning as, "I'd kill to have that."
I'd love to be that. I'd kill to be that.
I'd love to do that. I'd kill to do that.
For two words with such contradictory intentions, we sure do use them interchangeably a lot. I think most of my experiences have been inside that place of shared meaning and contradictory intentions. That bare inch where you'd both love and kill for something, anything at all.
In a weird way, for a long time, I lived in the space of love/kill.
Most of these stories happened during that long and weird time, so I figured I'd cut right to the chase when telling people what's between these covers.
And that is why this book has such a stupid title. I hope you like it anyway.
-Pete
Ojai, CA
January 28, 2013
Upon closer inspection, almost half of Pete's signings and readings are in the same places on almost the same days as Patrick's shows for the next two months. Patrick frowns at his laptop screen and determinedly does not entertain any paranoid fantasies. He doesn't mention the scheduling coincidences to the band, either. They probably already know, let's be honest, and he doesn't need any more "stalking on the internet jokes"--he's not. He also doesn't need any more cunning plans to get him and Pete in the same room. He doesn't want to see Pete. He's quite satisfied with surreptitiously reading Pete's blogs, and Pete's book, thanks.
Pete's book, which has a story called "Paris Doesn't Love Me The Way It Loved Jim Morrison." It's about a conversation Pete had with a beautiful Dutch girl in a café in Montmartre; and the fact that Paris is a waystation for him, rather than a destination in itself; and how, after talking with this girl for an hour, Pete realized that he had no desire to do anything with her but talk, just as he was, for as long as it lasted.
Pete's book, which has an essay on the meaning of activism in a world made so small that tragedies ten thousand miles away are as immediate as homelessness in one's own city.
Pete's book, which has a story about going to Ashlee's wedding almost two years after they broke up, and dancing with her at the reception, and the meaning of "over it."
Pete's book, which has three short poems called "Detox," "Detox II," and "Detox III: The Reckoning."
Patrick signs the papers because his lawyer assures him the cover won't ever actually make it out of the studio. The first verse is a little too cerebral, for one thing, and can you really make a dance/R&B/pop song out of an arrangement featuring full horns and strings?
Anyway, he mostly puts it out of his mind until he's listening to KIIS 102.7 on the bus's satellite radio one morning six months later and hears the familiar fat brass opening and unfamiliar female voices alternating the opening lines of "Thnks Fr Th Mmrs."
"Holy shit," he says, and turns up the volume.
It's not terrible, all things considered. It's just--his song. His big number, his showstopper, with his strings, and his trombone-playing, and all the things Pete had to beg the label for: all the things that nearly kept it from being a single in the first place. It's just three girls he doesn't know singing about things they couldn't possibly understand, or even know about. He does have to admit, he kind of resents them for not having to deal with the "sounds kind of gay" comments.
Alex rolls out of his bunk and slumps onto a couch and starts laughing. "Isn't this great?" he asks, gesturing at the radio console.
"This is the first time I'm hearing it," Patrick says.
Alex's eyes go wide and delighted. "So you haven't seen the video either?"
Patrick's heart stutters and his stomach flips over unhappily. "Video?"
It's one of Those Weekends, when Chris comes out to visit Greta and Patrick books hotels for the next few nights. In Baltimore, Patrick locks himself in his room after the show and sits down heavily on the bed. He owes Andy an e-mail; his mom and his manager both need to be called. He falls back on the bed and stares at the ceiling for a while, occasionally drumming his fingers on his stomach. He is bone-tired, tacky with sweat; his fingers hurt from playing for over two hours.
The show went well, another nearly-full venue, almost two thousand seats. Patrick did "Hallelujah" during the encore again. He hums the melody in the darkness of his hotel room--I burned your flag on the marble arch, 'cause love is not some victory march--and is startled by a knock on the door.
He pushes himself to his feet and turns on the bedside lamp before unlocking and opening the door, expecting Victoria or maybe one of the tour staff.
"Hey," Pete says.
Patrick stares, too tired to even remember he should close the door in Pete's face.
"I was in the neighbourhood," Pete says. "Caught the show."
"Would you quit stalking me?" Patrick says automatically. "Seriously."
"Okay," Pete says. "I was in DC for a reading yesterday and decided to catch the show."
"Not actually less creepy," Patrick says. To his own ears, he sounds more exhausted than mean.
Pete shrugs. "Can't help it."
Patrick sighs and slouches against the door frame. "What do you want?" he asks.
"Just checking in," Pete says. "Just saying hi."
Just saying hi. Patrick blinks at him and squints and doesn't feel the familiar stony rise of anger; there is only a small, painful twist of remembered betrayal, and the way Patrick has imagined him when reading Lovekill: desperate, thoughtless, manic, alone in airports and French cafes and the black and white night garden. Pete smiles a little and waves belatedly.
"Hi," Patrick says. He waves back limply.
"I read on the internet that you were doing 'Hallelujah,' but I didn't really believe it until I saw it," Pete says.
"Hm," Patrick says, eyes wandering to the hypnotic, repeating pattern of blue and red diamonds in the hotel carpet.
"I remember, Patrick," Pete says.
"Remember what," Patrick says. He closes his eyes, just for a second.
"When every breath you drew was hallelujah," Pete says, and there is a brief warm weight on Patrick's shoulder, and he opens his eyes to see Pete walking away. The strange tunneling perspective of the hallway swallows him, his black leather jacket and black jeans, his easy gait.
Eventually, Patrick falls back in to his room and closes the door. He collapses on his bed, just as he was when he heard the knock on the door.
When he wakes up at seven to get on the bus, he decides it was a dream. A weird, weirdly civil dream, and he supposes he should be glad he's not dreaming about losing his voice and dead cats anymore. He takes his copy of Lovekill out of his bag and leaves it on the hotel room desk.
In Boston, a week later, Greta says yes when Patrick asks if she wants to sing a Hush Sound song with him. They pool most of their per diem and rent a baby grand for the show. The band curls around it: Greta's kit within sight of the bench; Victoria's keyboards behind the pianist; Alex at the deep outer swell of the piano. All four of them play it throughout the night, just having fun with a real piano for the first time on the tour.
During the encore, Patrick carefully plays the opening chords of "Hurricane," and Greta sings the first verse and chorus, holding her sticks in both hands across her thighs. The lights are dimmed to dull amber, gleaming on the nuts and bolts and edges of Greta's kit and turning the white paint of the piano into burnished gold. Patrick sings the second verse, keeping eye contact with Greta, and she smiles kindly back at him. At the bridge, Victoria plays the steel guitar solo on the organ; Patrick puts his head down and watches his hands and ignores the burn behind his eyes.
Patrick's voice does not crack, harmonizing with Greta on the last refrain. It almost does, though, and he almost cries.
Maya: In Lovekill, there's this story about a girl you dated, who had a panther tattooed on her calf, and then she lost the leg in an accident--
Pete: Georgia Morningstar.
Maya: Yeah. Panther was her spirit guide, her totem. So, what's your totem, Pete Wentz?
Pete: Ah, well. Like, I don't really go for all that cultural appropriation stuff, seriously--
Maya: I'm an Indian, Pete. And I, as an Indian, being fully aware of the fact that you are not an Indian, am asking you: what's your totem?
Pete: [laughs] When you put it that way--I don't know. I'm not a wolf. And I'm totally not a bear. That's what guys usually say, right, so. I don't know. I mean, maybe I'm a bit of a wolf, but not, like, capital "w" Wolf, know what I'm saying. [pause] What do you think?
Maya: I think you've got some Coyote, to tell you the truth.
Pete: Really?
Maya: Coyote is always playing tricks--sometimes he's just joking around, and sometimes people actually get hurt. He likes to use people's pride against them. He has a strange sense of justice, in that it usually just looks like revenge. And he never takes the blame.
Pete: [laughs] Wow, that's me all over. What about you?
Maya: Oh, me. I'm a frog.
GEORGE STROUMBOULOPOULOS: Hey, Girlicious's cover of "Thnks Fr Th Mmrs" hit number one this week.
PATRICK STUMP: Yes, it did.
GS: It didn't even crack the top ten for you, so this must be pretty wild.
PS: If you told me back in 2007 that an all-girl pop group created by reality television would be covering one of Fall Out Boy's songs, I probably wouldn't have believed you.
GS: I wouldn't have believed it either. The video sure is something, too, huh?
PS: "Something" is definitely one word for it, yes.
GS: There are no monkeys in this version, for example.
PS: No monkeys or chimps, no. A lot of--gyrating, though. Shimmying. Hair-tossing. Stiletto boots….
GS: You gotta wonder how they dance in those things, eh?
PS: It's a mystery.
GS: You totally hate it, don't you? [laughs]
PS: I--uh. No, not at all.
GS: Ladies and gents, Patrick Stump. We'll be back in two minutes or less on The Strombo Show.
After the Girlicious thing, Patrick e-mails Joe and Andy and suggests they meet every couple of months, in person or by phone or webcam or whatever, to discuss things instead of relying on the lawyers not to completely fuck up whatever credibility Fall Out Boy: The Product might have left.
Joe requests the meetings happen on the last Thursday of every month. Andy says they should do it at his place in Wisconsin, since he's the only one who actually gives a shit about his carbon footprint.
Patrick agrees with Joe and sends a few pictures of his new Honda HCX to piss Andy off.
"You're going to be exhausted," Greta says, frowning a little.
"It's fine, okay, we don't have a show that day anyhow," Patrick says, crossing his legs and getting comfortable in his bunk. "I'll be back on the bus in Tampa in plenty of time for Saturday night."
"But you'll be exhausted," Greta says again. She's knitting in Victoria's bunk, Victoria holding the ball of yarn helpfully. "You're kind of missing my point a little."
"You really should just do it in video," Alex says from behind his newspaper, legs dangling over the side of his bunk.
Patrick rolls his eyes and shrugs at Victoria, like: can you believe this shit? Victoria shrugs back and says, "I think they're right, sorry."
Patrick sits back against the wall of his bunk and frowns. He says, "Fuck you all, it's my fucking tour. If I want to take a day off and go to Wisconsin, I will."
"Diva," Greta says.
"Remember when Pete was El Jefe?" Alex muses. "I never thought I'd say it, but--wasn't that a more just, more democratic society?"
Victoria giggles. Patrick pulls the curtain on his bunk with as slam-like a rattle as he can.
wearestandingattheedge.blogspot.com.
my cat totally does this
"not asleep but remembering"
then you breach
to where there are
no songs no words
just an animal silence
and the wait
of predation
a cat sleeps
near your head or
not asleep but remembering
into your dream
as its claws
knead the pillow
-P. Friesen
see you soon.
Posted by xo at 3:16AM
Two weeks later, Andy says, "Hybrids are not going to save the planet," slowly, like he's speaking to child.
"It's not a hybrid," Patrick says, setting down his carry-on in the hall and following Andy further in to the house. "It's a hydrogen fuel cell vehicle."
"Oh wow, it's like I just walked in on 2008," Pete says, coming in to Andy's kitchen from the backyard, carrying a basket of fruits and vegetables.
Patrick's spine goes rigid and his bad shoulder twinges in protest. He hadn't expected Pete to be here.
"Joe's on his way from the airport," Andy tells Pete. He takes the basket and dumps it in the sink. "Dinner will be made of--" he digs through the pile of produce "--corn, potatoes, carrots, squash, and grapes."
"Sounds good," Patrick says.
"I could do a curry if you want," Pete says, opening the half-size, solar-powered fridge and looking dubious. "I'm good at curry."
"With grapes?" Andy asks. "And since when can you cook?"
"The grapes are for dessert, duh," Pete says. "My roommates don't allow frozen food in the house. I kind of had to learn to cook or starve." He rolls his eyes and shrugs, long-suffering, leaning back against the counter.
"See, I love those people," Andy says. "I love the Jumas," he says to Patrick over his shoulder.
"That's nice," Patrick says. He has no idea what they're talking about. Since when does Pete have roommates? He can't seriously be that broke already.
"They're nice people," Pete says. "It's a house of niceness. I often wonder what I'm doing there."
"It's your house," Andy says. "Maybe?"
"But, you know, it's not a home without them," Pete says, pressing his hands over his heart and gazing up at the ceiling sappily. Patrick's mouth twitches and he swallows a bit of laughter. Pete looks at him and away, quickly, and says, "We could talk about something Patrick gives a shit about."
Patrick almost protests, but makes a joke about the Girlicious cover instead, because--he doesn't give a shit about Pete's life. He doesn't, and he hasn't for a long time, and he's not going to get sucked into giving a shit ever again. No matter how curious he is.
After dinner, as they're eating chilled red grapes and vanilla non-dairy frozen dessert, Pete says, "We can save 'Thnks Fr Th Mmrs,' guys. It doesn't have to end like this."
"How?" Joe says woefully, raising his hands, palms up. "Knee-high stiletto boots."
Pete pulls a pamphlet out of his back pocket and slaps it down in the middle of the table, between the jug of water and the jug of fresh-squeezed, organic purple juice. It tastes good, anyway. The pamphlet is pink and yellow and has a picture of a middle-aged woman with her arms crossed over her chest, hands holding her shoulders.
"The Endurance Project works to get prosthetics and chest reconstruction surgeries for underinsured and uninsured breast cancer survivors," Pete says. He holds the pamphlet open and up so Andy and Joe and Patrick can read it. All Patrick catches is: for these women, it's not just about surviving cancer: it's about enduring one more test of strength.
"Okay," Andy says. "But--"
"We lend them the song to use for promo, we do some appearances, we namedrop, we donate a shitload of money," Pete says.
"Oh god," Patrick says, as the hook dawns on him. "Thanks for the mammaries." Andy and Joe groan and shake their heads.
Pete grins, the old "see, Patrick gets it" grin; it looks rusty. "It's fucking awesome, right?"
"Something like that," Patrick says.
They agree to it, of course; Pete puts a motion to the band and they vote and it's unanimous. Pete says he'll take care of it with the lawyers.
It's late; Patrick has to catch a plane to Florida. He hugs Andy and Joe goodbye, tells Joe he'll see him at the Pasadena show in a few weeks. He waves at Pete and goes outside to his cab.
Pete follows him, holds the cab door open for him. Patrick does his best to ignore all of it. "It's a really good idea," Pete says.
"I know," Patrick says. "That's why I voted for it."
"You met Adelie at Joe's wedding," Pete says, tapping his fingers on the top of the cab door.
Patrick doesn't have time for this. "Yeah, look--"
"Adelie and her husband and kids live with me in Ojai," Pete says. "They're my roommates, the Jumas."
"Okay," Patrick says, slowly. He doesn't fucking care, but he had been wondering; he'd wondered about Adelie.
"It's a long story, but I saved their lives, and they saved mine." Pete shrugs. "And now I'm not allowed to eat frozen food."
"That makes a lot of sense," Patrick says.
Pete smiles a little and says, "You should go; you're going to miss your flight."
Patrick glares at him and gets in the cab and pulls the door out of Pete's hands and slams it closed and doesn't say goodbye.
On the plane, he wishes vaguely and suddenly that he hadn't gotten rid of his copy of Lovekill; Pete's long story about the Jumas is probably in there somewhere. He pulls his laptop out of his bag angrily, jams his headphones on, and starts working in Garage Band.
Back on the bus in Tampa, he e-mails Joe and Andy to tell them the trip completely exhausted him--it's not that much of a lie--and it would be better if they did the meetings via video or phone in the future. Joe agrees and Andy says he'll set up a Skype server for next month.
"I told you," Greta says, peeking in to his bunk an hour before showtime.
"Leave me alone," Patrick says, half-yawning, and puts his pillow over his head.
Bob's e-mail arrives while Patrick is doing soundcheck in New Orleans; it says some vague things about ambient sales increasing with the Girlicious cover and non-profit licensing and also something about capitalizing on emerging revenue streams.
Pete replies with hard numbers: iTunes and Island licensed downloads are up, CD sales are up, Google searches are up. He puts a name to the emerging revenue stream: best-of compilation.
On the phone, right before Patrick is supposed to go on stage, Andy says, "Best-of albums are fucking ridiculous. People only buy them for the singles."
"I know," Patrick says. "But--"
"Best-of albums are the fucking death-knell," Andy says. "The death-knell, Patrick."
"The bell has already tolled," Patrick says. He doesn't really care either way, he doesn't. "Seriously, man."
Andy is quiet for a moment. With his free hand, Patrick adjusts his tie in the dressing room mirror, straightens his sweater vest, trades his yellow cap for a grey fedora.
"Really?" Andy says. "You really think--"
"It's over," Patrick says, looking himself in the eye.
"Yeah. And there's no harm in cheapening the integrity of something that doesn't exist, right?" Andy asks.
Patrick swallows. "Exactly," he says.
The track listing of the compilation is decided by vote, via e-mail. There are fourteen slots on the album; the four of them take turns nominating songs; they each have two vetoes. Patrick is surprised and pleased to find out that Joe's absolute favourite Fall Out Boy song is "Calm Before The Storm;" Andy's is "Sugar," of all things.
Pete's e-mail says, "seriously, andy hurley?"
Andy replies, "it has a fucking narrative structure, okay."
"don't hurt yourself," Pete replies, "i'm seconding the nomination." Patrick and Joe also vote yes.
Patrick uses both of his vetoes against songs Pete nominates: "Honorable Mention" and "It's Hard To Say 'I Do.'" It's not required, but he justifies his decisions with: "Shitty song," and, "I don't think death threats are the 'best' of us," respectively.
In Phoenix, he says, "This one's for Andy," and sings the first line of "Sugar," and lets the audience sing the rest. No, seriously, the rest of the song. They do I've been dying to tell you anything you want to hear so well, he kind of feels they deserve a chance to belt the whole thing like they probably have to their steering wheel (pillow, hairbrush, mirror) a million times.
He prompts them once in a while, and does the back-up part for the bridge, but mostly he just plays his guitar and sings along off-mike and smiles--into the glare-slicked darkness he knows is filled with a crowd of singers, at Victoria and Alex and Greta, at his own feet, thinking: I made this, I made this and it's amazing.
When the reverb of the last chord and the screams of the crowd are still humming in the room, he wraps his hand around his mike and says, "Okay, guys, okay, let's try that again. And maybe I could sing this time?"
Transcript of VH1.com "Top of the Crop" countdown interview, taped 10-01-2013
Pete Wentz: Like, we needed a single, and "Carpal Tunnel" had been a single, but it never got much play--partially because of the video, the original video, which was a Happy Tree Friends animation and all violent and gory, which some people didn't like, go figure. We like the song, anyway, and we thought it deserved another chance, and it's the title track for the album, so.
The concept behind the video is that…I'm cheap! I didn't want to spend a lot of money, and also that we are incredibly busy these days, the four of us, separately, and it was pretty much impossible to line up our schedules for even the like three days it would take to shoot a video. Plus, I just didn't have time--none of us had time to sit down and find a director and go through concepts and the whole thing.
So I was like, let's cut the song into four pieces and each do our own mini-video, and I think it turned out pretty awesome, for like no money. I mean, Andy--Andy didn't even have a video camera, so I had to buy him one, which was like the biggest expense in the budget. And the flashcards from my bit, whatever.
I think the videos encapsulate really well what we're all doing these days, and what we've been up to for the last few years, actually. Like, Patrick has been working his ass off, just getting better and better at what he does and having a ton of fun doing it, and Joe got married and had kids and started a new, awesome band, and I--play games with small children, I guess, and Andy, wow. Andy is--the best person on the planet. I think he exists to balance me out in the universe. Or, I balance him out, whatever, know what I'm saying.
Anyway. Here it is: Fall Out Boy's "The Carpal Tunnel Of Love," from our new best-of compilation, aptly titled Love Songs For The Genuinely Cunning, number one on this week's VH1 Top of the Crop countdown. Enjoy. It's transfat-free and vegan-friendly.
Patrick watches the video for the nine hundredth time on Youtube, in his bunk on the bus. He watches himself playing the song at soundcheck in Dallas, impulsively shake-shake-shaking his hips and breaking into laughter with Victoria. He watches himself moving equipment and playing Rock Band II with Alex and Greta and making Mr. Noodles in the bus kitchenette.
Andy got the first two choruses--his footage is all time-lapse of him in a Hurley Organics t-shirt, arms crossed, looking satisfied and, at times, faintly smug, standing in the middle of various enterprises: his farms and orchards, processing plants, the Milwaukee clothing factory, his renewable fuel vehicle dealership, which mostly sells bicycles.
Pete's footage, for the second verse, was shot in a kitchen. He's sitting at the table with three kids who range in age from seven or eight to probably eleven or twelve. They bang the table along with the stomping feet effect, and lay their heads down on the table for sleeping through the weekend and blow kisses at the camera. Pete holds a stack of flashcards up for the camera, illustrating more lyrics: several pictures of himself, from horrible dreadlocks to red bangs to Hobbit mullet to the ridiculous mini fauxhawk he got after Ashlee left. The last card says: "How've you been? http://www.falloutboyrevisited.com," the website for the best-of compilation. They all wave goodbye and blow more kisses and the verse is over.
Joe wanted the screaming verse, so he could use home video of his girls with ice cream all over their faces, and footage from his wedding, and show off Juliette and Aida playing in a sprinkler in his yard; Marie runs through the spray with baby Lauren, both of them laughing.
The final chorus shows Pete holding the camera out to film himself straightening his tie and smoothing his hair, checking his cufflinks. He opens a door and focuses the shot on the long table inside the boardroom. Joe, Andy, and Patrick sit around it, all wearing suits, each with two or three actors clearly playing Lawyers.
Joe: Well, yeah, like, I love it, 'cause it's got my kids in it. And, like, I always thought that we tried to capture some essential Fall Out Boy-ness in our videos, and this one gives you a pretty good idea of what it's like to be in the band these days.
Kate: Wait--you guys are back together?
Joe: Oh, no, sorry--
Kate: Thought I had a scoop for a minute there. [laughs]
Joe: [laughs] Yeah right. I meant, like, Fall Out Boy isn't a band anymore, but it exists. There are all kinds of business things associated with the product--the entity, right, and all four of us are still involved in making decisions for the entity. It's like Frankenstein's Monster or something up in here. So I guess I meant that the video--really, the last shot, gives you an idea what it's like to be involved with the business enterprise known as Fall Out Boy.
Kate: How so?
Joe: Lots of lawyers. And meetings. [shrugs]
The next Fall Out Boy not-a-band meeting happens when Patrick is in Madison for a show anyhow, so he goes over to Andy's place. Pete is also there, which Andy hadn't mentioned when Patrick called him. It's all disquietingly familiar.
"Hey guys," Patrick says, and hugs Andy.
Dinner is roasted squash with some kind of grains and berries. It's really good, and they talk easily about how well the Project Endurance thing went, and how the best-of thing is selling, and how the "Carpal Tunnel" video is in the YouTubePro top ten. When Joe Skypes in during dessert, he looks largely disinterested, fiddling with his mouse and grimacing when Andy suggests licensing songs to other charities.
"What's the problem, Trohman?" Andy asks.
"This is worse than fucking Infinity On High," Joe says. "We need to play a show or something, you guys, or I am seriously going to give all this shit back to my lawyer."
Stung, Patrick asks, "What was wrong with Infinity?"
Joe rolls his eyes. "I'm serious--I'm bored out of my fucking mind, and I could be playing with my kids right this second, okay."
"So let's do it," Andy says.
Pete looks up from his phone, but not at Andy. His gaze is unreadable when he meets Patrick's eyes. Patrick just stares back for a few seconds, refusing to react. Pete glances at Andy. "Do what?" he says.
Reunion, Patrick thinks.
"A reunion tour," Andy says.
Patrick thinks about it on the cab ride back to the bus. He thinks about: Joe shouting "Hell yes," and Andy turning down the sound on the computer speakers--"If you blow my sound system, you're fucking replacing it, Trohman." He thinks about Pete smiling into his coffee cup.
He thinks about how he told Andy it was over; the bell has tolled.
The truth is: he misses the band. He misses all of it--the smelliness and the lack of personal space and the never knowing when he'd get more than an hour of sleep. He misses it, and he feels, a gut-anchored knowing, that Joe is right. They have to do something, or he's going to lose whatever he has left with them. He's going to lose even Pete--the opportunity to remind Pete of what he's done.
He gives Victoria some printed music a few days later, and tells her about the proposed reunion. She doesn't say anything, doesn't offer any opinion, just nods and tells him she'll be ready to do the song at soundcheck.
At the end of the show that night, the final encore, Victoria sits at her organ and Patrick stands with his acoustic guitar. He plays gently, subdued, a million years removed from the original version of the song.
He sings, "I'm good to go, and I'm going nowhere fast."
After, he helps load the equipment in to the trailers and the underbelly of the bus and goes to bed in his bunk while the rest of the band and a couple of kids from Countdown Commence drink and eat popcorn and play video games.
He lays on his back, the shouting and clinking and explosions from the front lounge muffled but not muted, thinking me and Pete me and Pete me and Pete. He falls asleep, waiting for the decision to feel real.
Patrick wakes up to the plain jane "brrng brrng" of his phone, on the road somewhere between Cleveland and St. Louis. The ID says "Joe FOB," so he takes a deep breath and puts the phone to his ear and says, "Hi."
"That means yes, right?" Joe says.
Patrick puts the back of his hand against his forehead, hardly daring to believe it himself, and says, "Yes, it means yes."
"This is going to be so fucking awesome," Joe says.
"I hope so," Patrick says.
"I'm gonna go call Bob and Andy and Pete," Joe says.
"Sure, yeah," Patrick says. "It's your band, man."
"Dude," Joe says, and Patrick can picture him sitting on his couch, both hands around the phone, barely able to contain his glee, "dude, seriously. This is so fucking awesome."
"I missed you too, JTroh," Patrick says, and Joe laughs and hangs up.
Patrick dozes for an hour, half-listening to the hushed noise of Victoria rolling over and back again above his head. A soft beep from his phone tells him he has a text message.
It says: "thx. u wont regret it. xo"
"So," Patrick says into the mike, fiddling with the tuning knobs on his acoustic guitar. "So, this tour is over in a couple of weeks--" the crowd and Victoria go "aww"--"yeah, I know, I'm sad too. It's been a lot of fun, being stuck in a bus with three girls for months on end."
"You swore you'd never tell," Alex says.
"That Greta's a girl?" Victoria says.
The crowd "oohs" and Greta throws a drum stick at Victoria's head and Patrick laughs.
"No, seriously, guys," he says. "There are things happening after the tour, like Greta is having a baby--" cheers "--and Alex is doing a new This Is Ivy League record--" more cheers "--and Victoria is--what are you doing again, Victoria?"
"Something about a man and a piano," she says, shrugging, blushing.
"Victoria's doing a solo album," Alex says. He raises his voice over the cheering crowd to add, "And then she's coming on tour with me and Ryland."
She rolls her eyes and shakes her head, waving her hands in the "do not want" way.
"What about you, Patrick?" Greta asks, a little slyly.
Patrick adjusts his hat and gives a brief laugh. "Well, uh. There's this thing I'm doing next year, this Fall Out Boy reunion thing--"
The crowd goes insane. Patrick waits it out, gives them a minute. He's starting to figure out that he's actually excited too. He wants the bus to be a mess. He wants Andy handing around vegan junk food and being addicted to sports video games. He wants to play the blues and watch bad movies and talk about babies with Joe. He wants--he misses trusting Pete, and he's not kidding himself about getting that back, but maybe, at least, he can have all the things that went with trusting Pete.
"I know," he says to the dying screams of the crowd in Seattle. "It's too soon, I know."
"Any band who get back together less than ten years after breaking up is only doing it for one reason," Alex says.
"I'm not gonna lie," Patrick replies, "we need the money." He shrugs and shakes his head sadly at the audience. "It's the awful truth, kids. Just like Motley Crue."
"Panic at the Disco," Alex says.
"Stone Temple Pilots," Patrick says.
"The Rolling Stones," Alex says.
"The Stones never actually broke up," Patrick points out. "It was never official, they just took really long--breaks."
"'Break' being the operative word," Alex says.
"Hey, guys," Greta says. "We could play a song?"
Patrick nods and resettles his guitar on his lap. "We could," he says, thoughtfully, like he's trying to think of something to play. "We could play--ah, fuck it, this is 'Songs About Chicago.'"
The crowd cheers, almost as loudly as when he'd said Fall Out Boy were getting back together. He smiles and leans forward to sing the opening lines.
Here's the story of a windy city and the questionable company it keeps:
kids in bad clothes with bad hair and the sad, sad songs they sing.
*
And end.
Patrick et al. futurefic | 26012 words | 14A | 3/4
Disclaimer: All characters and events in this story--even those based on real people--are entirely fictional. All celebrity voices are impersonated...poorly. The following story contains coarse language and due to its content it should not be read by anybody.
*
Patrick thinks he's actually pretty successful at avoiding Pete for the first half of Joe's wedding--the wedding half, that is. They're seated in the same row, third from the front on Joe's side, but there are Victoria, a couple of Joe's cousins, Andy and Matt, and Pete's date--a tall, stately woman with tiny, immaculate, ebony braids falling down her back--between them.
"Pete looks good," Victoria whispers in Patrick's ear, and Patrick grimaces at himself for getting caught sneaking glances.
It's true, is the annoying thing. Pete looks solid, alive, well-groomed. He's wearing an all-black suit with a triangle of white and black handkerchief peeking from his breast pocket; the pattern matches the abstract flower print on his date's dress. "I don't care," Patrick whispers back.
Victoria rolls her eyes and takes his hand. "You're acting like a character in a shitty romantic comedy, and I think you should know that."
"You can't swear at a wedding," Patrick grouses.
The music starts before Victoria can reply, and they shuffle to their feet as the wedding party comes down the wide path between the chairs: Marie holding baby Aida, Joe carrying Lauren, Juliette walking ahead of them with a big basket of flowers, Joe and Marie's parents flanking the family.
Later, Joe slides the plain gold ring over Marie's finger, and says, his voice shaking, "Behold, you are betrothed unto me, according to the law of Moses and Israel," and Patrick realizes that he's happy for them. Not just intellectually happy, or the happy of friendly obligation--really, really happy. The vague jealousy he felt when Juliette was born, when Joe turned out to be an honestly great dad, it's gone. He sniffs deeply to hold back sudden tears and Victoria laughs quietly and takes his hand while Marie puts a ring on Joe's finger and repeats firmly, "Behold, you are betrothed unto me, according to the law of Moses and Israel."
Patrick looks over at Victoria, smiling, and down the row Pete is looking back at him, his eyes damp too.
The rabbi says, "Joseph will now read the ketubah aloud and present it to Marie for her safekeeping," and Patrick turns away to watch.
While Joe and Marie are having their brief break between the ceremony and the party, Patrick gets to talking with Andy about the tour--thanking him again for the sponsorship. Andy smiles, a little uncomfortably, and tells him again it's no problem, seriously. Victoria and Matt bring over some punch and the conversation gets generic and friendly until Pete brings his date over, holding her hand.
"You remember Andy and Matt," he says to her, and she nods, shaking Andy's hand, and Matt's.
"Lovely to see you again," she says, her voice broadly accented.
"And this is Patrick Stump," Pete says, gesturing at Patrick. "Patrick, Adelie Juma."
Patrick smiles tightly and shakes Adelie's hand. "Nice to meet you," he says. He puts his hand on Victoria's shoulder. "This is Victoria Asher."
"Hi," Victoria says. She shakes Adelie's hand too. "I love your dress."
"Thank you very much." Adelie waves at Pete. "His design. Who am I to turn down free clothes?" They all laugh politely and she adds, "That colour is beautiful on you, Victoria."
Victoria shrugs and smiles modestly, fiddling with the yellow skirt of her dress. "I picked it up the other day when we had a break. Outlet mall, of all places."
Pete just stands there, smiling blandly at all of them, like this is some kind of reunion: high school or the Marines or something.
"How's business?" Andy asks Adelie, and she grins, starts talking about organic farming.
"I'm going to find a bathroom," Patrick says quietly to Victoria. She nods and squeezes his hand.
He uses the first-floor half-bath and runs in to Pete on his way back outside. Patrick tries to duck around him, but Pete blocks him with an outstretched hand.
"How are you?" Pete asks.
"How am I," Patrick says, dumbfounded.
"The tour is going really well," Pete says, "and I can personally account for about half of your album sales, but for real--"
"Are you serious," Patrick says, frowning. "You're seriously asking me--"
"Well, you never replied to my text," Pete says. "And I could never get through when I called."
"You never called me," Patrick says coldly.
"I did," Pete says. "I tried--"
"I got a new phone after you texted me," Patrick says.
Pete's face goes blank. "Oh."
"You never called me," Patrick repeats. "Before, I mean. You said--" he shakes his head, cutting himself off. He's not having this conversation. He tries to go around Pete again, but Pete puts up his other hand.
His eyes are intent on Patrick when he says, "I said what?"
"You said you'd call me," Patrick grits out. "When you decided what you were going to do. And you never did."
"Is that--that's what this is about?" Pete asks, eyebrows raised, surprised. "Is that all? I didn't call you the next morning? Seriously?"
"Fuck you, Pete," Patrick says, flatly, feeling in his chest the compressed weight of all the things he wants to say, all the things he's thought, all the hurt that was too much to be written down, let alone sung. He pushes Pete's arm out of the way and almost gets past. Pete grabs his shoulder with both hands.
"Patrick," he says, "listen--"
Patrick shoves him away; his shoulder hits the wall. "Three years," Patrick says. "You didn't call for three years, asshole--"
"I'm sorry," Pete says. "I had some shit to deal with, I had to--it had nothing to do with you, or the band, I just--"
"You're fucking sorry? You made me, you fucker, you made me and then you fucking left me," Patrick says, nearly shouts, and Pete takes a step back, puts his hand over his mouth and looks: stunned; apologetic. Patrick breathes in and out heavily, hardly even believing he just said that.
It seems like hours before Pete drops his hand to his chest and says, quietly, "I'm sorry."
Patrick shakes his head at Pete. "Could you," he says; his voice catches and he closes his eyes, tries again: "I can't--"
"Don't," Pete says. "Don't say it. I know you, I know you won't take it back, and I'm a selfish motherfucker, but I need to think you'll forgive me. Please, okay, just don't fucking say it."
Patrick feels his hands curl in on each other and he wants to say it, oh does he ever. He wants to punch the wall, punch Pete in the throat, use the heavy angry weight in his hands for something. He bites his lip and takes a deep breath through his nose. He says, "I'm not forgiving you today, Pete."
Pete nods.
"Or next week," Patrick says. "Not next year, either."
"No," Pete says. "Probably not."
Patrick makes his hands relax and finishes passing Pete in the hall.
Joe and Marie have joined the party. Patrick quickly tells them mazel tov again, says he hopes they enjoy their gift, retrieves Victoria from flirting with Matt, and leaves.
In Syracuse, a girl slides a copy of Infinity On High across the table and smiles shyly. "Hi, I'm Allie," she says, fiddling with the frayed cuff of her Clan hoodie, purple faded nearly grey from washing.
"Hi, Allie, I'm Patrick, nice to meet you," he says, smiling back, opening the case and poising his pen over the disc.
"Oh, wait." She reaches and taps the booklet; the familiar scrawl of Joe's signature, and Pete's tight, spiky handwriting underneath. "I'm collecting all of you," she says, and giggles a little.
"Hey, that's awesome," he says. He signs his name and maybe, briefly, accidentally touches Pete's name with his thumb.
"Yeah," Allie says. "I got Joe years ago, on the Honda Civic Tour? I was eleven, it was my first concert, but Pete was just last night. I've been so excited to see you guys right after each other." She laughs and shrugs and blushes some more.
Patrick snaps the case shut. Last night? "Really? Where did you see him?" he asks, casual. He can see Paul's concerned expression out of the corner of his eye, but he ignores it.
"He did a talk at Borders in Rochester," Allie says, tucking her CD back in her bag. "His spoken word is so awesome, right?"
"I haven't had a chance to check it out yet," Patrick says. He hadn't known a thing about it, in fact.
"You really should," Allie says, and nods seriously. Paul pats Allie on the shoulder and smiles nicely at her, leading her away. "Bye, Patrick," she says, waving and grinning, just before she disappears back into the crowd.
"Good luck tracking Andy down," Patrick calls. "Bye!"
Patrick hasn't visited MeeLikey since Joe's wedding--five weeks; it's a personal best. He clicks the link in his Favourites folder. The most recent entry is from last week:
watch your fingers, it's hot off the presses
[cover of Lovekill: stories and essays by Pete Wentz]
dont want you burning yourself. this one is available exclusively at your local Borders until labor day (audiobook dl up at the itunes). on the road for the next wee little while, doing readings (never thought i'd type those words) and talkshows. schedule up soon.
Turns out, he and Pete are going to be playing Albany on the same day.
"Bad idea," Greta says.
"I think it's a good idea," Victoria says, and puts her head on Patrick's shoulder. "Closure. Catharsis."
"I have seen him since the--since," Patrick says. He doesn't even know why he wants to go; it doesn't make any sense. Keeping four blogs, Buzznet, and MeeLikey in his Favourites doesn't make much sense either, really.
"Stalking him on the internet doesn't count," Alex says without looking up from his book.
"I'm not stalking him on the fucking--shut up," Patrick says.
"Board rooms and--what, Joe's wedding? Doesn't count," Greta says.
Patrick snaps his fingers. "That's it exactly. The last time I talked to Pete, we ruined Joe's wedding." Which is not strictly true, but. Victoria shakes her head and pats his thigh.
"Like I said," Greta shrugs, "bad idea."
"You could just sneak in," Victoria says quietly, practically in Patrick's ear; he'd never imagined his bad angel being quite so--yeah. Pretty. "Stand in the back--"
"It's at a tiny bookstore," Patrick whispers back. "There's no sneaking, he'd see me--"
"You could wear a disguise," she says.
"Seriously?" Greta says.
Victoria frowns at her. "Nobody asked you. Spoilsport."
"I'll go," Alex says. "I'll take pictures. I'll wear a disguise. No one will know it's me."
"Pete will know," Patrick says. "For fuck's sake, dude."
"So I'll tell him I snuck away from the tour. I'll tell him you forbade us from attending his readings on pain of death, and I risked much merely to be in his presence." Alex raises his eyebrows. "Sound good?"
"Awesome," Victoria says, and clasps her hands under her chin. "You should use an accent too."
In the end, due to a foreboding weather report, they have to pull up stakes from Albany a day early and nobody can go to the reading. Instead, Patrick buys Pete's book the next time they stop at a mall.
He tells the band his Borders bag contains only the new Louis Armstrong biography and they leave him alone about it. The book sits beside his pillow in his bunk for three days, face-down, the back of the jacket filled with a black and white photograph of a night garden: stone wall; wooden gate; lights wrapped around a tree, glowing inside an ivy-wrapped globe; an empty bench waiting beside the gate.
After a show in Cambridge, Patrick pulls his curtain closed and snaps it shut. He holds the book in his lap for a while, and then he opens it.
The dedication is simple, of course: for you.
From "Lovekill: stories and essays by Pete Wentz."
Why This Book Has Such A Stupid Title
[...] The thing is, people always say, "I'd love to have that," in the same tone and with the same meaning as, "I'd kill to have that."
I'd love to be that. I'd kill to be that.
I'd love to do that. I'd kill to do that.
For two words with such contradictory intentions, we sure do use them interchangeably a lot. I think most of my experiences have been inside that place of shared meaning and contradictory intentions. That bare inch where you'd both love and kill for something, anything at all.
In a weird way, for a long time, I lived in the space of love/kill.
Most of these stories happened during that long and weird time, so I figured I'd cut right to the chase when telling people what's between these covers.
And that is why this book has such a stupid title. I hope you like it anyway.
-Pete
Ojai, CA
January 28, 2013
Upon closer inspection, almost half of Pete's signings and readings are in the same places on almost the same days as Patrick's shows for the next two months. Patrick frowns at his laptop screen and determinedly does not entertain any paranoid fantasies. He doesn't mention the scheduling coincidences to the band, either. They probably already know, let's be honest, and he doesn't need any more "stalking on the internet jokes"--he's not. He also doesn't need any more cunning plans to get him and Pete in the same room. He doesn't want to see Pete. He's quite satisfied with surreptitiously reading Pete's blogs, and Pete's book, thanks.
Pete's book, which has a story called "Paris Doesn't Love Me The Way It Loved Jim Morrison." It's about a conversation Pete had with a beautiful Dutch girl in a café in Montmartre; and the fact that Paris is a waystation for him, rather than a destination in itself; and how, after talking with this girl for an hour, Pete realized that he had no desire to do anything with her but talk, just as he was, for as long as it lasted.
Pete's book, which has an essay on the meaning of activism in a world made so small that tragedies ten thousand miles away are as immediate as homelessness in one's own city.
Pete's book, which has a story about going to Ashlee's wedding almost two years after they broke up, and dancing with her at the reception, and the meaning of "over it."
Pete's book, which has three short poems called "Detox," "Detox II," and "Detox III: The Reckoning."
Patrick signs the papers because his lawyer assures him the cover won't ever actually make it out of the studio. The first verse is a little too cerebral, for one thing, and can you really make a dance/R&B/pop song out of an arrangement featuring full horns and strings?
Anyway, he mostly puts it out of his mind until he's listening to KIIS 102.7 on the bus's satellite radio one morning six months later and hears the familiar fat brass opening and unfamiliar female voices alternating the opening lines of "Thnks Fr Th Mmrs."
"Holy shit," he says, and turns up the volume.
It's not terrible, all things considered. It's just--his song. His big number, his showstopper, with his strings, and his trombone-playing, and all the things Pete had to beg the label for: all the things that nearly kept it from being a single in the first place. It's just three girls he doesn't know singing about things they couldn't possibly understand, or even know about. He does have to admit, he kind of resents them for not having to deal with the "sounds kind of gay" comments.
Alex rolls out of his bunk and slumps onto a couch and starts laughing. "Isn't this great?" he asks, gesturing at the radio console.
"This is the first time I'm hearing it," Patrick says.
Alex's eyes go wide and delighted. "So you haven't seen the video either?"
Patrick's heart stutters and his stomach flips over unhappily. "Video?"
It's one of Those Weekends, when Chris comes out to visit Greta and Patrick books hotels for the next few nights. In Baltimore, Patrick locks himself in his room after the show and sits down heavily on the bed. He owes Andy an e-mail; his mom and his manager both need to be called. He falls back on the bed and stares at the ceiling for a while, occasionally drumming his fingers on his stomach. He is bone-tired, tacky with sweat; his fingers hurt from playing for over two hours.
The show went well, another nearly-full venue, almost two thousand seats. Patrick did "Hallelujah" during the encore again. He hums the melody in the darkness of his hotel room--I burned your flag on the marble arch, 'cause love is not some victory march--and is startled by a knock on the door.
He pushes himself to his feet and turns on the bedside lamp before unlocking and opening the door, expecting Victoria or maybe one of the tour staff.
"Hey," Pete says.
Patrick stares, too tired to even remember he should close the door in Pete's face.
"I was in the neighbourhood," Pete says. "Caught the show."
"Would you quit stalking me?" Patrick says automatically. "Seriously."
"Okay," Pete says. "I was in DC for a reading yesterday and decided to catch the show."
"Not actually less creepy," Patrick says. To his own ears, he sounds more exhausted than mean.
Pete shrugs. "Can't help it."
Patrick sighs and slouches against the door frame. "What do you want?" he asks.
"Just checking in," Pete says. "Just saying hi."
Just saying hi. Patrick blinks at him and squints and doesn't feel the familiar stony rise of anger; there is only a small, painful twist of remembered betrayal, and the way Patrick has imagined him when reading Lovekill: desperate, thoughtless, manic, alone in airports and French cafes and the black and white night garden. Pete smiles a little and waves belatedly.
"Hi," Patrick says. He waves back limply.
"I read on the internet that you were doing 'Hallelujah,' but I didn't really believe it until I saw it," Pete says.
"Hm," Patrick says, eyes wandering to the hypnotic, repeating pattern of blue and red diamonds in the hotel carpet.
"I remember, Patrick," Pete says.
"Remember what," Patrick says. He closes his eyes, just for a second.
"When every breath you drew was hallelujah," Pete says, and there is a brief warm weight on Patrick's shoulder, and he opens his eyes to see Pete walking away. The strange tunneling perspective of the hallway swallows him, his black leather jacket and black jeans, his easy gait.
Eventually, Patrick falls back in to his room and closes the door. He collapses on his bed, just as he was when he heard the knock on the door.
When he wakes up at seven to get on the bus, he decides it was a dream. A weird, weirdly civil dream, and he supposes he should be glad he's not dreaming about losing his voice and dead cats anymore. He takes his copy of Lovekill out of his bag and leaves it on the hotel room desk.
In Boston, a week later, Greta says yes when Patrick asks if she wants to sing a Hush Sound song with him. They pool most of their per diem and rent a baby grand for the show. The band curls around it: Greta's kit within sight of the bench; Victoria's keyboards behind the pianist; Alex at the deep outer swell of the piano. All four of them play it throughout the night, just having fun with a real piano for the first time on the tour.
During the encore, Patrick carefully plays the opening chords of "Hurricane," and Greta sings the first verse and chorus, holding her sticks in both hands across her thighs. The lights are dimmed to dull amber, gleaming on the nuts and bolts and edges of Greta's kit and turning the white paint of the piano into burnished gold. Patrick sings the second verse, keeping eye contact with Greta, and she smiles kindly back at him. At the bridge, Victoria plays the steel guitar solo on the organ; Patrick puts his head down and watches his hands and ignores the burn behind his eyes.
Patrick's voice does not crack, harmonizing with Greta on the last refrain. It almost does, though, and he almost cries.
Maya: In Lovekill, there's this story about a girl you dated, who had a panther tattooed on her calf, and then she lost the leg in an accident--
Pete: Georgia Morningstar.
Maya: Yeah. Panther was her spirit guide, her totem. So, what's your totem, Pete Wentz?
Pete: Ah, well. Like, I don't really go for all that cultural appropriation stuff, seriously--
Maya: I'm an Indian, Pete. And I, as an Indian, being fully aware of the fact that you are not an Indian, am asking you: what's your totem?
Pete: [laughs] When you put it that way--I don't know. I'm not a wolf. And I'm totally not a bear. That's what guys usually say, right, so. I don't know. I mean, maybe I'm a bit of a wolf, but not, like, capital "w" Wolf, know what I'm saying. [pause] What do you think?
Maya: I think you've got some Coyote, to tell you the truth.
Pete: Really?
Maya: Coyote is always playing tricks--sometimes he's just joking around, and sometimes people actually get hurt. He likes to use people's pride against them. He has a strange sense of justice, in that it usually just looks like revenge. And he never takes the blame.
Pete: [laughs] Wow, that's me all over. What about you?
Maya: Oh, me. I'm a frog.
GEORGE STROUMBOULOPOULOS: Hey, Girlicious's cover of "Thnks Fr Th Mmrs" hit number one this week.
PATRICK STUMP: Yes, it did.
GS: It didn't even crack the top ten for you, so this must be pretty wild.
PS: If you told me back in 2007 that an all-girl pop group created by reality television would be covering one of Fall Out Boy's songs, I probably wouldn't have believed you.
GS: I wouldn't have believed it either. The video sure is something, too, huh?
PS: "Something" is definitely one word for it, yes.
GS: There are no monkeys in this version, for example.
PS: No monkeys or chimps, no. A lot of--gyrating, though. Shimmying. Hair-tossing. Stiletto boots….
GS: You gotta wonder how they dance in those things, eh?
PS: It's a mystery.
GS: You totally hate it, don't you? [laughs]
PS: I--uh. No, not at all.
GS: Ladies and gents, Patrick Stump. We'll be back in two minutes or less on The Strombo Show.
After the Girlicious thing, Patrick e-mails Joe and Andy and suggests they meet every couple of months, in person or by phone or webcam or whatever, to discuss things instead of relying on the lawyers not to completely fuck up whatever credibility Fall Out Boy: The Product might have left.
Joe requests the meetings happen on the last Thursday of every month. Andy says they should do it at his place in Wisconsin, since he's the only one who actually gives a shit about his carbon footprint.
Patrick agrees with Joe and sends a few pictures of his new Honda HCX to piss Andy off.
"You're going to be exhausted," Greta says, frowning a little.
"It's fine, okay, we don't have a show that day anyhow," Patrick says, crossing his legs and getting comfortable in his bunk. "I'll be back on the bus in Tampa in plenty of time for Saturday night."
"But you'll be exhausted," Greta says again. She's knitting in Victoria's bunk, Victoria holding the ball of yarn helpfully. "You're kind of missing my point a little."
"You really should just do it in video," Alex says from behind his newspaper, legs dangling over the side of his bunk.
Patrick rolls his eyes and shrugs at Victoria, like: can you believe this shit? Victoria shrugs back and says, "I think they're right, sorry."
Patrick sits back against the wall of his bunk and frowns. He says, "Fuck you all, it's my fucking tour. If I want to take a day off and go to Wisconsin, I will."
"Diva," Greta says.
"Remember when Pete was El Jefe?" Alex muses. "I never thought I'd say it, but--wasn't that a more just, more democratic society?"
Victoria giggles. Patrick pulls the curtain on his bunk with as slam-like a rattle as he can.
wearestandingattheedge.blogspot.com.
my cat totally does this
"not asleep but remembering"
then you breach
to where there are
no songs no words
just an animal silence
and the wait
of predation
a cat sleeps
near your head or
not asleep but remembering
into your dream
as its claws
knead the pillow
-P. Friesen
see you soon.
Posted by xo at 3:16AM
Two weeks later, Andy says, "Hybrids are not going to save the planet," slowly, like he's speaking to child.
"It's not a hybrid," Patrick says, setting down his carry-on in the hall and following Andy further in to the house. "It's a hydrogen fuel cell vehicle."
"Oh wow, it's like I just walked in on 2008," Pete says, coming in to Andy's kitchen from the backyard, carrying a basket of fruits and vegetables.
Patrick's spine goes rigid and his bad shoulder twinges in protest. He hadn't expected Pete to be here.
"Joe's on his way from the airport," Andy tells Pete. He takes the basket and dumps it in the sink. "Dinner will be made of--" he digs through the pile of produce "--corn, potatoes, carrots, squash, and grapes."
"Sounds good," Patrick says.
"I could do a curry if you want," Pete says, opening the half-size, solar-powered fridge and looking dubious. "I'm good at curry."
"With grapes?" Andy asks. "And since when can you cook?"
"The grapes are for dessert, duh," Pete says. "My roommates don't allow frozen food in the house. I kind of had to learn to cook or starve." He rolls his eyes and shrugs, long-suffering, leaning back against the counter.
"See, I love those people," Andy says. "I love the Jumas," he says to Patrick over his shoulder.
"That's nice," Patrick says. He has no idea what they're talking about. Since when does Pete have roommates? He can't seriously be that broke already.
"They're nice people," Pete says. "It's a house of niceness. I often wonder what I'm doing there."
"It's your house," Andy says. "Maybe?"
"But, you know, it's not a home without them," Pete says, pressing his hands over his heart and gazing up at the ceiling sappily. Patrick's mouth twitches and he swallows a bit of laughter. Pete looks at him and away, quickly, and says, "We could talk about something Patrick gives a shit about."
Patrick almost protests, but makes a joke about the Girlicious cover instead, because--he doesn't give a shit about Pete's life. He doesn't, and he hasn't for a long time, and he's not going to get sucked into giving a shit ever again. No matter how curious he is.
After dinner, as they're eating chilled red grapes and vanilla non-dairy frozen dessert, Pete says, "We can save 'Thnks Fr Th Mmrs,' guys. It doesn't have to end like this."
"How?" Joe says woefully, raising his hands, palms up. "Knee-high stiletto boots."
Pete pulls a pamphlet out of his back pocket and slaps it down in the middle of the table, between the jug of water and the jug of fresh-squeezed, organic purple juice. It tastes good, anyway. The pamphlet is pink and yellow and has a picture of a middle-aged woman with her arms crossed over her chest, hands holding her shoulders.
"The Endurance Project works to get prosthetics and chest reconstruction surgeries for underinsured and uninsured breast cancer survivors," Pete says. He holds the pamphlet open and up so Andy and Joe and Patrick can read it. All Patrick catches is: for these women, it's not just about surviving cancer: it's about enduring one more test of strength.
"Okay," Andy says. "But--"
"We lend them the song to use for promo, we do some appearances, we namedrop, we donate a shitload of money," Pete says.
"Oh god," Patrick says, as the hook dawns on him. "Thanks for the mammaries." Andy and Joe groan and shake their heads.
Pete grins, the old "see, Patrick gets it" grin; it looks rusty. "It's fucking awesome, right?"
"Something like that," Patrick says.
They agree to it, of course; Pete puts a motion to the band and they vote and it's unanimous. Pete says he'll take care of it with the lawyers.
It's late; Patrick has to catch a plane to Florida. He hugs Andy and Joe goodbye, tells Joe he'll see him at the Pasadena show in a few weeks. He waves at Pete and goes outside to his cab.
Pete follows him, holds the cab door open for him. Patrick does his best to ignore all of it. "It's a really good idea," Pete says.
"I know," Patrick says. "That's why I voted for it."
"You met Adelie at Joe's wedding," Pete says, tapping his fingers on the top of the cab door.
Patrick doesn't have time for this. "Yeah, look--"
"Adelie and her husband and kids live with me in Ojai," Pete says. "They're my roommates, the Jumas."
"Okay," Patrick says, slowly. He doesn't fucking care, but he had been wondering; he'd wondered about Adelie.
"It's a long story, but I saved their lives, and they saved mine." Pete shrugs. "And now I'm not allowed to eat frozen food."
"That makes a lot of sense," Patrick says.
Pete smiles a little and says, "You should go; you're going to miss your flight."
Patrick glares at him and gets in the cab and pulls the door out of Pete's hands and slams it closed and doesn't say goodbye.
On the plane, he wishes vaguely and suddenly that he hadn't gotten rid of his copy of Lovekill; Pete's long story about the Jumas is probably in there somewhere. He pulls his laptop out of his bag angrily, jams his headphones on, and starts working in Garage Band.
Back on the bus in Tampa, he e-mails Joe and Andy to tell them the trip completely exhausted him--it's not that much of a lie--and it would be better if they did the meetings via video or phone in the future. Joe agrees and Andy says he'll set up a Skype server for next month.
"I told you," Greta says, peeking in to his bunk an hour before showtime.
"Leave me alone," Patrick says, half-yawning, and puts his pillow over his head.
Bob's e-mail arrives while Patrick is doing soundcheck in New Orleans; it says some vague things about ambient sales increasing with the Girlicious cover and non-profit licensing and also something about capitalizing on emerging revenue streams.
Pete replies with hard numbers: iTunes and Island licensed downloads are up, CD sales are up, Google searches are up. He puts a name to the emerging revenue stream: best-of compilation.
On the phone, right before Patrick is supposed to go on stage, Andy says, "Best-of albums are fucking ridiculous. People only buy them for the singles."
"I know," Patrick says. "But--"
"Best-of albums are the fucking death-knell," Andy says. "The death-knell, Patrick."
"The bell has already tolled," Patrick says. He doesn't really care either way, he doesn't. "Seriously, man."
Andy is quiet for a moment. With his free hand, Patrick adjusts his tie in the dressing room mirror, straightens his sweater vest, trades his yellow cap for a grey fedora.
"Really?" Andy says. "You really think--"
"It's over," Patrick says, looking himself in the eye.
"Yeah. And there's no harm in cheapening the integrity of something that doesn't exist, right?" Andy asks.
Patrick swallows. "Exactly," he says.
The track listing of the compilation is decided by vote, via e-mail. There are fourteen slots on the album; the four of them take turns nominating songs; they each have two vetoes. Patrick is surprised and pleased to find out that Joe's absolute favourite Fall Out Boy song is "Calm Before The Storm;" Andy's is "Sugar," of all things.
Pete's e-mail says, "seriously, andy hurley?"
Andy replies, "it has a fucking narrative structure, okay."
"don't hurt yourself," Pete replies, "i'm seconding the nomination." Patrick and Joe also vote yes.
Patrick uses both of his vetoes against songs Pete nominates: "Honorable Mention" and "It's Hard To Say 'I Do.'" It's not required, but he justifies his decisions with: "Shitty song," and, "I don't think death threats are the 'best' of us," respectively.
In Phoenix, he says, "This one's for Andy," and sings the first line of "Sugar," and lets the audience sing the rest. No, seriously, the rest of the song. They do I've been dying to tell you anything you want to hear so well, he kind of feels they deserve a chance to belt the whole thing like they probably have to their steering wheel (pillow, hairbrush, mirror) a million times.
He prompts them once in a while, and does the back-up part for the bridge, but mostly he just plays his guitar and sings along off-mike and smiles--into the glare-slicked darkness he knows is filled with a crowd of singers, at Victoria and Alex and Greta, at his own feet, thinking: I made this, I made this and it's amazing.
When the reverb of the last chord and the screams of the crowd are still humming in the room, he wraps his hand around his mike and says, "Okay, guys, okay, let's try that again. And maybe I could sing this time?"
Transcript of VH1.com "Top of the Crop" countdown interview, taped 10-01-2013
Pete Wentz: Like, we needed a single, and "Carpal Tunnel" had been a single, but it never got much play--partially because of the video, the original video, which was a Happy Tree Friends animation and all violent and gory, which some people didn't like, go figure. We like the song, anyway, and we thought it deserved another chance, and it's the title track for the album, so.
The concept behind the video is that…I'm cheap! I didn't want to spend a lot of money, and also that we are incredibly busy these days, the four of us, separately, and it was pretty much impossible to line up our schedules for even the like three days it would take to shoot a video. Plus, I just didn't have time--none of us had time to sit down and find a director and go through concepts and the whole thing.
So I was like, let's cut the song into four pieces and each do our own mini-video, and I think it turned out pretty awesome, for like no money. I mean, Andy--Andy didn't even have a video camera, so I had to buy him one, which was like the biggest expense in the budget. And the flashcards from my bit, whatever.
I think the videos encapsulate really well what we're all doing these days, and what we've been up to for the last few years, actually. Like, Patrick has been working his ass off, just getting better and better at what he does and having a ton of fun doing it, and Joe got married and had kids and started a new, awesome band, and I--play games with small children, I guess, and Andy, wow. Andy is--the best person on the planet. I think he exists to balance me out in the universe. Or, I balance him out, whatever, know what I'm saying.
Anyway. Here it is: Fall Out Boy's "The Carpal Tunnel Of Love," from our new best-of compilation, aptly titled Love Songs For The Genuinely Cunning, number one on this week's VH1 Top of the Crop countdown. Enjoy. It's transfat-free and vegan-friendly.
Patrick watches the video for the nine hundredth time on Youtube, in his bunk on the bus. He watches himself playing the song at soundcheck in Dallas, impulsively shake-shake-shaking his hips and breaking into laughter with Victoria. He watches himself moving equipment and playing Rock Band II with Alex and Greta and making Mr. Noodles in the bus kitchenette.
Andy got the first two choruses--his footage is all time-lapse of him in a Hurley Organics t-shirt, arms crossed, looking satisfied and, at times, faintly smug, standing in the middle of various enterprises: his farms and orchards, processing plants, the Milwaukee clothing factory, his renewable fuel vehicle dealership, which mostly sells bicycles.
Pete's footage, for the second verse, was shot in a kitchen. He's sitting at the table with three kids who range in age from seven or eight to probably eleven or twelve. They bang the table along with the stomping feet effect, and lay their heads down on the table for sleeping through the weekend and blow kisses at the camera. Pete holds a stack of flashcards up for the camera, illustrating more lyrics: several pictures of himself, from horrible dreadlocks to red bangs to Hobbit mullet to the ridiculous mini fauxhawk he got after Ashlee left. The last card says: "How've you been? http://www.falloutboyrevisited.com," the website for the best-of compilation. They all wave goodbye and blow more kisses and the verse is over.
Joe wanted the screaming verse, so he could use home video of his girls with ice cream all over their faces, and footage from his wedding, and show off Juliette and Aida playing in a sprinkler in his yard; Marie runs through the spray with baby Lauren, both of them laughing.
The final chorus shows Pete holding the camera out to film himself straightening his tie and smoothing his hair, checking his cufflinks. He opens a door and focuses the shot on the long table inside the boardroom. Joe, Andy, and Patrick sit around it, all wearing suits, each with two or three actors clearly playing Lawyers.
Joe: Well, yeah, like, I love it, 'cause it's got my kids in it. And, like, I always thought that we tried to capture some essential Fall Out Boy-ness in our videos, and this one gives you a pretty good idea of what it's like to be in the band these days.
Kate: Wait--you guys are back together?
Joe: Oh, no, sorry--
Kate: Thought I had a scoop for a minute there. [laughs]
Joe: [laughs] Yeah right. I meant, like, Fall Out Boy isn't a band anymore, but it exists. There are all kinds of business things associated with the product--the entity, right, and all four of us are still involved in making decisions for the entity. It's like Frankenstein's Monster or something up in here. So I guess I meant that the video--really, the last shot, gives you an idea what it's like to be involved with the business enterprise known as Fall Out Boy.
Kate: How so?
Joe: Lots of lawyers. And meetings. [shrugs]
The next Fall Out Boy not-a-band meeting happens when Patrick is in Madison for a show anyhow, so he goes over to Andy's place. Pete is also there, which Andy hadn't mentioned when Patrick called him. It's all disquietingly familiar.
"Hey guys," Patrick says, and hugs Andy.
Dinner is roasted squash with some kind of grains and berries. It's really good, and they talk easily about how well the Project Endurance thing went, and how the best-of thing is selling, and how the "Carpal Tunnel" video is in the YouTubePro top ten. When Joe Skypes in during dessert, he looks largely disinterested, fiddling with his mouse and grimacing when Andy suggests licensing songs to other charities.
"What's the problem, Trohman?" Andy asks.
"This is worse than fucking Infinity On High," Joe says. "We need to play a show or something, you guys, or I am seriously going to give all this shit back to my lawyer."
Stung, Patrick asks, "What was wrong with Infinity?"
Joe rolls his eyes. "I'm serious--I'm bored out of my fucking mind, and I could be playing with my kids right this second, okay."
"So let's do it," Andy says.
Pete looks up from his phone, but not at Andy. His gaze is unreadable when he meets Patrick's eyes. Patrick just stares back for a few seconds, refusing to react. Pete glances at Andy. "Do what?" he says.
Reunion, Patrick thinks.
"A reunion tour," Andy says.
Patrick thinks about it on the cab ride back to the bus. He thinks about: Joe shouting "Hell yes," and Andy turning down the sound on the computer speakers--"If you blow my sound system, you're fucking replacing it, Trohman." He thinks about Pete smiling into his coffee cup.
He thinks about how he told Andy it was over; the bell has tolled.
The truth is: he misses the band. He misses all of it--the smelliness and the lack of personal space and the never knowing when he'd get more than an hour of sleep. He misses it, and he feels, a gut-anchored knowing, that Joe is right. They have to do something, or he's going to lose whatever he has left with them. He's going to lose even Pete--the opportunity to remind Pete of what he's done.
He gives Victoria some printed music a few days later, and tells her about the proposed reunion. She doesn't say anything, doesn't offer any opinion, just nods and tells him she'll be ready to do the song at soundcheck.
At the end of the show that night, the final encore, Victoria sits at her organ and Patrick stands with his acoustic guitar. He plays gently, subdued, a million years removed from the original version of the song.
He sings, "I'm good to go, and I'm going nowhere fast."
After, he helps load the equipment in to the trailers and the underbelly of the bus and goes to bed in his bunk while the rest of the band and a couple of kids from Countdown Commence drink and eat popcorn and play video games.
He lays on his back, the shouting and clinking and explosions from the front lounge muffled but not muted, thinking me and Pete me and Pete me and Pete. He falls asleep, waiting for the decision to feel real.
Patrick wakes up to the plain jane "brrng brrng" of his phone, on the road somewhere between Cleveland and St. Louis. The ID says "Joe FOB," so he takes a deep breath and puts the phone to his ear and says, "Hi."
"That means yes, right?" Joe says.
Patrick puts the back of his hand against his forehead, hardly daring to believe it himself, and says, "Yes, it means yes."
"This is going to be so fucking awesome," Joe says.
"I hope so," Patrick says.
"I'm gonna go call Bob and Andy and Pete," Joe says.
"Sure, yeah," Patrick says. "It's your band, man."
"Dude," Joe says, and Patrick can picture him sitting on his couch, both hands around the phone, barely able to contain his glee, "dude, seriously. This is so fucking awesome."
"I missed you too, JTroh," Patrick says, and Joe laughs and hangs up.
Patrick dozes for an hour, half-listening to the hushed noise of Victoria rolling over and back again above his head. A soft beep from his phone tells him he has a text message.
It says: "thx. u wont regret it. xo"
"So," Patrick says into the mike, fiddling with the tuning knobs on his acoustic guitar. "So, this tour is over in a couple of weeks--" the crowd and Victoria go "aww"--"yeah, I know, I'm sad too. It's been a lot of fun, being stuck in a bus with three girls for months on end."
"You swore you'd never tell," Alex says.
"That Greta's a girl?" Victoria says.
The crowd "oohs" and Greta throws a drum stick at Victoria's head and Patrick laughs.
"No, seriously, guys," he says. "There are things happening after the tour, like Greta is having a baby--" cheers "--and Alex is doing a new This Is Ivy League record--" more cheers "--and Victoria is--what are you doing again, Victoria?"
"Something about a man and a piano," she says, shrugging, blushing.
"Victoria's doing a solo album," Alex says. He raises his voice over the cheering crowd to add, "And then she's coming on tour with me and Ryland."
She rolls her eyes and shakes her head, waving her hands in the "do not want" way.
"What about you, Patrick?" Greta asks, a little slyly.
Patrick adjusts his hat and gives a brief laugh. "Well, uh. There's this thing I'm doing next year, this Fall Out Boy reunion thing--"
The crowd goes insane. Patrick waits it out, gives them a minute. He's starting to figure out that he's actually excited too. He wants the bus to be a mess. He wants Andy handing around vegan junk food and being addicted to sports video games. He wants to play the blues and watch bad movies and talk about babies with Joe. He wants--he misses trusting Pete, and he's not kidding himself about getting that back, but maybe, at least, he can have all the things that went with trusting Pete.
"I know," he says to the dying screams of the crowd in Seattle. "It's too soon, I know."
"Any band who get back together less than ten years after breaking up is only doing it for one reason," Alex says.
"I'm not gonna lie," Patrick replies, "we need the money." He shrugs and shakes his head sadly at the audience. "It's the awful truth, kids. Just like Motley Crue."
"Panic at the Disco," Alex says.
"Stone Temple Pilots," Patrick says.
"The Rolling Stones," Alex says.
"The Stones never actually broke up," Patrick points out. "It was never official, they just took really long--breaks."
"'Break' being the operative word," Alex says.
"Hey, guys," Greta says. "We could play a song?"
Patrick nods and resettles his guitar on his lap. "We could," he says, thoughtfully, like he's trying to think of something to play. "We could play--ah, fuck it, this is 'Songs About Chicago.'"
The crowd cheers, almost as loudly as when he'd said Fall Out Boy were getting back together. He smiles and leans forward to sing the opening lines.
Here's the story of a windy city and the questionable company it keeps:
kids in bad clothes with bad hair and the sad, sad songs they sing.
*
And end.