Daron's Guitar Chronicles: Vol 4

304 I WON'T BACK DOWN

I WON'T BACK DOWN

No one in the bus said anything for the first several minutes. I mean, not a word. I'm not sure why. Maybe they were waiting for me to say something first.

We were well on the highway when I burst. When I just couldn't keep my mouth shut anymore. Christian was sitting against the back wall of the lounge with his headphones on and his eyes shut but he didn't look remotely asleep.

"This is what happens with an attitude like yours, motherfucker," I said.

His eyes snapped open. "What did you call me?"

"Same thing you called me. You said we're the same, right?"

"What the fuck–"

"That," I said, pointing to the back of the bus where the graffiti was, "is your fault. Even if you didn't paint it there yourself. Your whole fucking attitude is what lets that kind of shit happen."

"My attitude? If you guys weren't such outrageous queers you wouldn't draw that kind of fucking attention! You think it's easy being lumped in with you?"

That was when Ziggy jumped in. I hadn't even realized he was standing right behind me. "Oh, is that what's bothering you?" he sign-songed in mock sympathy. "Did one of the Megashits call you gay? Did they call you a pansy and hurt your feewings?"

In all fairness, I have to say that was a very "provoking" thing for Ziggy to say. So I can't say that I really blame Chris for lunging at him. However I don't think anyone can really blame me, who was standing between them, for clocking Chris in the neck with my elbow. It wasn't even like a Bruce Lee kind of moment. He's just tall and we were too close together for my fist to go where I wanted it to.

Chris fell right back onto the bench where he had been sitting, coughing and spitting. And then it was Ziggy–and everyone else–holding me back from just jumping on him and punching the living shit out of him. Granted, by then, everyone else was screaming at the top of their lungs. I won't even try to do that justice. It was mostly them screaming at Christian.

When it died down, I wasn't less angry, but I was at least less violent. "Listen to me," I said to him. He hadn't moved; I don't think he dared. "If you really can't stand being in a band, or a bus, with me and Ziggy and Colin, and whoever else here might have homosexual tendencies that I don't even want to know about, then when the fucking tour is over you can quit. But quit now and as far as I'm concerned, we sue you for something like a quarter million dollars in lost revenue."

"Oh, so you want the house, now," he said.

"No, I don't want the fucking house! I want the Christian Gallagher I used to know back. Barring that, I'd like the Christian Gallagher we've got to shut the fuck up and do his fucking job." I gripped onto the stripper pole as the bus rocked a little.

"You don't understand," he said.

"No, I don't fucking understand. You know how fucking hard it was to come out to you? It took me fucking months to get up the nerve, and then you were like, cool with it. I thought, jeez, all that worry over nothing. Now I find out I was right in the first place?" It's hard to remember being more upset than I was at that moment outside of fights with Ziggy. "Are you fucking kidding me? We bought a house together, motherfucker, and now you're going to tell me–"

"Daron! Stop! That's... that's not what I meant." He looked much more scared of what I was saying than he was of me threatening him physically. "That's really not what I meant. Not about you."

"Then what did you fucking mean? Just which of us weirdos and outrageous queers are you having a problem with? Because if you're having a problem with them, you have a problem with me."