Warnings: Death story--MAJOR SPOILERS for the movie, if you haven't seen the film but think you may like to watch it someday, and you don't want to be spoiled, do not read any further! Song lyric alert! So if that's a squick, quit reading at "The End". ;-)
Disclaimers: I do not own these characters, but I'm not entirely sure who does. Michael Turner wrote the book, Noel S. Baker wrote the screenplay, and Bruce McDonald directed the movie. They gave me the wonderful gift of fascinating characters with which to play.
Notes: Thanks to Nicole (as always ;) and Bone for the early feedback. They gave me the courage to post this thing. All mistakes are mine.
Summary: Billy comes to terms with his loss.
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The idea occurred to me, long after the funeral, after I finally sobered up. I should say that, at first, I thought it seemed trite-- getting a tattoo because of a song. Although if you're going to do it, a heart on the shoulder is much better than "Edmonton Block Heater" branded across your ass, right? So I resisted the impulse for a few weeks and came back to L.A. The on-again, off-again Jenifur job was on again, and rehearsals were scheduled before going into the studio to cut another record.
Occasionally, I'd quit drinking to see if I could deal with the pain for awhile. I deserved the pain. I did. Joe was hurt and angry for a long time, that's true--although he'd have denied the hurt part. But I did betray him. I was going to tell him that I was back in Jenifur, but I wanted to wait until after the last show was over. Maybe I'd bring it up on the way to Toronto, maybe I'd wait. How was I supposed to know that fucker Bruce would tell him before I could? Or that Joe would react the way he did?
I nearly died myself that night. For a while I thought I *was* dead and my body just hadn't caught up yet. I didn't believe it at first when people started running into the club, screaming that Joe had shot himself outside. I went numb and blank and just kept wiping the blood off my face. Then one of the film crew--I think it was Danny-- came in there and told me what happened. He was there and he'd gotten the whole thing on film. The whole--what? --two fucking seconds? It doesn't take long to put a bullet in your head, I guess. If you're a walking exposed nerve like Joe was, you can do it before you even have time to think.
I don't remember the walk from the dressing room to the sidewalk. One minute I was leaning over the sink, spitting out blood and checking for loose teeth, listening to Danny. I was denying it with every breath, and trying desperately not to puke as the truth sank in. And the next thing I knew, I was kneeling next to Joe. The stupid motherfucker looked like he was sleeping except for the bloody hole in his temple. I wanted to wake him up and ask him what the fuck he was doing, scaring me like this. That's not buddies...
My own blood felt like it was freezing in my veins, and my skin was becoming a thick layer of ice that nothing and no one could penetrate. But, when I put my hand on Joe, he felt just a little cool, about what you'd expect from someone who'd been out in the night air for a while. I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't that he'd feel warmer than I would. Hell, my brain had shut down and all I could think and say was no. No. NO! But Joe was past listening and there wasn't a damn thing anyone else could do. He was gone. The son of a bitch had left me before I could leave him. Again.
So now we come to the main source of my guilt. I was going to leave Joe even though we were making plans to play together. I couldn't pass up a steady, well paying job to fuck around Canada with Joe. This was my shot to make it big, to do something that Joe just wasn't capable of, step up to the next level. I accepted that we wanted different things, but I forgot that Joe, in his deeply ingrained anger, didn't accept that. Maybe he couldn't or maybe he just refused to. I was never sure, but it's not all that important anymore, is it?
Guilt fades to an acceptable level that simmers in the back of your brain. The anger works itself out or turns to bitterness. And I was angry. It's one of the stages of grief, isn't it? I was angry with Bruce for getting in my business, at Ed Festus for fucking up the band in the first place, at the whole world for just existing. But I went beyond angry into a furious rage at Joe Dick, for lying to me, for fucking me over, and, most of all, for leaving me with this jagged hole in my chest. But the anger couldn't stand up to the soul-ripping pain of losing Joe-- for knowing Joe *chose* to leave me.
How could he do that? How could his pain and anger overwhelm him to the point that death seemed the only way out? I thought Joe was stronger than that. The man I had known was just contrary enough to want to live and make my life miserable if he could, or possibly give me the cold-shoulder brush off like Bucky gave him. His break with Bucky hurt him so bad that he knew how much it would have hurt me to hear him say, "I never want to see you again. Ever." But maybe he did what he set out to do after all. Death, the ultimate cold-shoulder...that's a sick joke, even for me.
It hurts. It hurts so bad. Every minute, every day, I hurt with an all-encompassing pain that defies metaphors of knives and fires. The pain is deep in my core. It's on the surface of my skin. Tears won't drown it, wash it away, or clean it up into something more acceptable. But that's pointless to worry about because the tears won't come anyway. Men aren't supposed to cry, but I'd cry a fucking river if it would help. The chilling knowledge that it probably wouldn't brings the anger back.
When the anger comes back, it comes back with a vengeance, sinking its teeth into my bones and shaking hard. It explodes out in violent outbursts that leave me feeling foolish and helpless. Oh yeah, and remorseful. I know intellectually that the guy in the bar who asked about the Hard Cores didn't do it with some evil intent to fuck up my life even more. It shouldn't have been worth more than an "I don't wanna talk about it. Fuck off." Instead, he got a right cross to the jaw and a kick in the ribs as he lay gasping on the floor. When I dropped to my knees and started punching, it wasn't even that poor son of a bitch I was seeing. It was Joe, the way he looked that last night in Edmonton. Narrow-eyed, chest-heaving, mouth drawn in tight with pain and fury... I wonder if he really would have killed me if there hadn't been a crowd there to pull us apart. I was fighting back, of course, just like always--working off the accumulated tension of the tour and the adrenaline of the attack. But enough about Edmonton. I'm sick of reliving it. Sick of feeling sick.
After the incident in the bar, which got my ass hauled off to jail for the rest of the night, I decided it was time to quit drinking again. This time maybe try to make it last, while I thank God, the fates, and my lucky stars that the guy, being the true 'fan' that he is, decided not to press charges. He's probably just going to sue me later. I can't seem to work up the energy to worry about it.
Sober is an interesting place to live when you've only been an occasional visitor. When the numbness and detachment wear off the pain hits full force again, but it's tempered by clarity. You can see the pain, look at it from all angles. You--this sounds so sappy and New Age--embrace the pain and accept it. It's still there and it still hurts so bad some days that I wish Joe had put that gun to my head instead of his. I'm slowly learning to accept it.
So I was sober when I got the tattoo idea again. It seemed a little corny and I tried to talk myself out of it, but I really wanted to do something to commemorate Joe and how I felt about him. Before and beyond the hurt and betrayal, there was love. I loved him and he loved me. Surprisingly, he could say it a little easier than I could. But it was always there, deep and true, and we both knew it whether we were fucking like minks or beating each other bloody. Yeah, I'm guessing therapy might have helped, but it's too late now. I have to laugh, though, when I picture Joe facing down some psychiatrist asking him how he felt about his mother. The doctor would need a therapist of his own.
Fuck, now I'm talking about therapists and new age mumbo jumbo...I've definitely been in L.A. too damn long. Maybe I need to go back to Canada for awhile, hang out in Vancouver with people who make sense.
Anyway, that's how I ended up in this tattoo parlor on Sunset with a guy named Fernando putting his needles to my skin. The guy really does know his stuff, and I'm very satisfied with the design we came up with together. It's a dark blue heart about four inches across with a green sketch of the earth taking up the middle. The letters 'J' and 'B', stylized and entwined, are in blood red in the middle of North America. Joe and Billy together forever, if only in ink.
The End.
Blue Tattoo (lyrics by Michael Turner)
It hurts so bad when you got it
It went right to your head
And it drove you insane
But now that's forgotten
And you can go on without any pain
A blue tattoo on your shoulder
In the shape of heart
In the middle, my name
It's how I remember
All of the bad things
That you couldn't change
CHORUS:
Blue tattoo
Blue tattoo on your shoulder
Blue tattoo in the shape of heart
You had no time for corruption
You felt the world was an unsafe place
You worked towards a solution
Best you could do was just send me away
CHORUS
A blue tattoo on my shoulder
In the shape of the world
In the middle, your name
And that's how I remember,
All of the good things
You took to your grave
Blue tattoo
Blue tattoo on your shoulder
Blue tattoo
in the shape of a heart