“What are you doing here?”
I sat in my car, outside a rundown brick building in an old industrial park on the far side of town. My head was definitely somewhere else today.
Otherwise, why would I have driven to Generation Rejects’ rehearsal space?
Garrett looked down at me from my open window.
I shook my head, gripping my steering wheel. “I don’t really know,” was all I said.
Garrett stared at me for a long time. I was losing my shit. That’s the only excuse for what I was doing there.
After a while he tapped his hand on the roof of my car and nodded his head toward the building. “Well, while you’re here, come help me load up some stuff.”
And then he walked off.
I should go. I sure as shit didn’t want to be anywhere near Garrett fucking Bellows and his judgey condemnation.
So why did I find myself climbing out of my car and following him inside.
The place had been gutted. We had cleaned out most of our equipment when we went on the road. The only thing left was an extra drum kit, an ancient half stack and a few mic stands. Garrett had already stacked up some chairs and pushed the nasty couch off to the side.
I was relieved to see that he was alone.
“What are you doing?” I asked, watching as he started to wind up old cables and put them on top of the half stack.
“I’ve got a dude coming by to clear out everything and bring it back to the house. No sense paying rent for a space we never use.”
I didn’t say anything. After a few minutes Garrett gave me a dry look. “Don’t just stand there like a limp dick, go and start breaking down the drum kit,” he ordered.
Instead of bristling like I would have only a week ago, I did as he told me to. We worked in silence, packing up the remnants of our history.
“Where are Mitch and Jordan?” I asked.
“Jordan’s with Maysie and Mitch is with that Sophie chick he started seeing. So I was stuck doing this myself,” Garrett said.
“Well it’s a good thing I came along then,” I tried to joke but my words sounded flat.
Garrett didn’t say anything. I twisted off the bolts and put them in a pile, carefully taking apart the cymbals and laying them off to the side.
“I went out to my parents’ place,” I found myself saying. Garrett looked over at me in surprise.
“You did?” he asked, twisting the mic stand and collapsing it.
I picked up the snare and put it beside the cymbals. “Yeah. Someone else lives there now.”
Garrett stopped what he was doing and came over. He bent down and picked up the bolts and put them in a Tupperware container. “Wow, that’s some shit. I’m guessing they didn’t tell you they were moving.”
I shook my head. “Fuck no. I haven’t talked to those bastards in years,” I said gruffly, trying to hide how much it hurt. But Garrett saw right through me.
“That sucks, man. I’m sorry,” he said sincerely.
“Yeah, well what are you gonna do?” I brushed it off like it didn’t matter. But it did. A lot.
“Do you know where they went?” Garrett asked, picking up the dissassembled drums and carrying them over to the half stack. I followed with the rest of the kit.
“No. And I don’t care either. Fuck them!” I said with enough vehemence to be convincing.
Garrett glanced at me and smiled. “Yeah, fuck them,” he agreed.
We finished breaking the leftover equipment down. “This stuff will be picked up in the morning. I say we’re done here. You want to go get a beer?” Garrett asked, surprising me.
“Sure,” I said.
We walked to the Appleby’s down the road and sat down at the bar. Garrett ordered a pitcher of beer.
“Thanks for the help,” he said after the bartender left to get our order.
“Yeah, sure. You should have called if you needed help,” I said, knowing how stupid that was. Particularly with how he and I had left things.
But Garrett didn’t say anything about that. He just nodded as if I was right.
“How’ve you been?” he asked.