Page 22 of Real Dirty
“And be homeless?” I don’t mention the part about losing my remaining connection to Ma, because in my current mood, I’ll end up being the sad sap at the bar with tears falling into my drink.
Hope’s answer comes quick, like it’s one she thought out in advance. “I’ve got a futon with your name on it.”
Before I can reply, she slides away and down the bar, grabbing bottles and making drinks. It gives me a minute to realize that I have no idea what I did to deserve such a good friend. Apparently, for once in my life, I got lucky. Hope is good people.
“Oh my God, is that really him?” a woman one stool down from me shouts over the music as she climbs onto the cushion, balancing on her knees.
While I’m busy worrying about whether she’s going to face-plant on the floor, the atmosphere in the bar changes in an instant. There’s only one reason for it—celebrity sighting.
The artist onstage pauses mid-song and yells into the microphone, “Ladies and gentlemen of the White Horse Saloon, please welcome Boone Thrasher to the stage!”
15
Boone
One hourearlier
“That’s the worst idea you’ve ever had,” I tell Frisco as I lean back into one of the chairs on my porch, my shotgun resting beside me with an empty shell box on the table. Now that the sun has dropped below the horizon, we’re done shooting skeet, and Frisco is talking out of his ass.
“I’m pretty sure that time he wanted to streak through the parking lot in Denver in January was a worse idea,” Quarter, my bass guitarist, offers. “He’ll never live down those pics of his dick.”
“It was cold! Shrinkage, dude. Not fair.”
“That’s what George said onSeinfeldtoo ...”
“Shut up, you assholes.” Frisco tucks his shotgun back into its case and cracks a beer. “Just hear me out. Nick and Charity told you to lay low, but this whole thing is going to play out on the stage of public opinion. Your fans love you because you don’t take shit from anyone. Remember when you called that guy out for shoving that chick in the crowd, and had security yank him? You aren’t the kind of guy who goes to ground when shit hits the fan. You come out swinging, showing the world what you’re made of, and they worship you for it.”
“As much as I want to say he’s an idiot, Frisco actually has a point there,” Quarter says, popping the top off his beer.
“So you think showing up on Broadway, walking into a bar, and playing a set like I used to is somehow going to make a difference?”
“Not just any bar on Broadway—the White Horse. It’s always packed with all those tourists dying to see someone famous. You step onto that stage and mention you’ve been having a rough week, and then you play your new single and talk about how the girl you thought would be riding in that 442 with you turned out to have different plans, so you’re rolling with the curveball life threw you.” Frisco’s beer sloshes over the lip as he gestures with his hands.
Quarter chuckles low. “Oh man, they’ll eat that shit up. You’ll have so many pairs of panties on that stage by the time you’re done ... You gotta do it.”
I don’t give a shit about panties on the stage, or the women throwing them.
Frisco jumps up from his chair. “You’re Boone fucking Thrasher. You ain’t shy about people knowing you’ve been knocked down. You show them you’re tough as hell every time you get back up, and tell ’em to bring it on. No one takes you down and sends you into hiding, especially not Amber Fleet.”
Frisco’s words finally penetrate, because he said exactly what I’ve been thinking. I don’t hole up and lick my wounds. That’s not the kind of man I am. I haul my ass up every time it gets kicked, and dare the world to throw another punch.
A rush of determination fills me, something I haven’t felt in months.
“You’re fucking right that’s who I am.”
Quarter springs out of his chair. “So we’re going?”
“Yeah, we’re fucking goin’.”
* * *
The crowd partslike the Red Sea, and Frisco, Quarter, and I head for the stage at Broadway’s famous White Horse Saloon.
The guy onstage, whose set I just cut in on, welcomes me with a huge smile and one hell of an introduction.
“You sure you’re cool, man? I don’t wanna put you out.”
His eyes widen. “Dude, you’re my idol. I’ve been listening to your albums since I was in high school, and now we’re standing on the same stage.”
