Chapter One


"I think you're as ready as you're ever going to be."

"There has to be some mistake," I pleaded, "I'm not ready. I mean, there's a lot of things I am, but ready - ready is definitely not one of them." I felt borderline desperate.

"We've worked with you for over two years." Dr. Needleman replied. The name didn't fit her. I didn't know her first name. You'd think after two years I'd have heard it somewhere or asked for it, but I didn't. I guess I was too busy trying to remember my own name to ask for hers.

"But I'm not ready."

"There's nothing more we can do for you here, Ben," she said, employing the name I'd picked to go by until I remembered my real name. I'd been forced to finally select one from a baby name book because being called John Doe had finally become a non-option. "It's time for you to get back into the real world, learn more about yourself. Eventually, through experiences, your memories will come back. We'll still be doing check ups."

"You're seriously about to send me back out there without having any idea what my real name is or anything?" I asked. Panic rose in my throat. "How can you possibly expect me to make it? I don't have a job or a place to live or --"

"You'll be under our care, just independent," she explained, "At least until you've successfully grounded yourself and gotten a job and residence and the like." Dr. Needleman smiled sweetly at me.

The next thing I'd knew - despite my protests - I'd found myself standing in the center of a sparcely furnished apartment building, hugging my arms as the door closed behind the guys that had helped bring what little I had from the hospital over. I looked around. Everything was, once again, unfamiliar. But you'd think I'd be used to that... considering.



The first thing I changed in the apartment was I took down the sliding mirror doors of the medicine cabinet in the bathroom and pushed them far into the back of the under-the-sink storage unit, behind the U-bend pipe. I pushed a small cardboard box filled with towels the Center had given me in front of it.

Mirrors are frustrating things when you know you're supposed to recognize the person in their reflections and yet you don't at all. Granted, even in full mind I wouldn't have, they said, because I'd been given these splendid scars that scratched across my face, keeping one eye from opening fully and a plastic surgeon had tried to reconstruct my nose after the bone shattered, but since we had no real idea who I was, he had no real idea what my nose looked like before, so I could've been all different. A professional once tried to sketch my before face, judging by the bones that formed my features, and he'd rendered an okay looking guy. But looking at it, I felt no real connection to it, no real feeling like yup, that's me. Which could've been because he was crappy at his job, but also could've been because of the amnesia. Because he had a degree and I had amnesia, we blamed the amnesia.

My stuff didn't come anywhere near to making the place feel like it belonged to me. It felt more the way I imagine people's stuff must feel when it's put into a storage unit. The things I had were very few, and only one thing had been mine from the time before and I couldn't explain it or what it meant.

It was a CD. A blank CD. It had been damaged by water and no longer played, but it had been clutched in my hand when they found me and they were pretty certain that it was important to me, though what it had on it they didn't know and never would know. The only clue that it gave to its purpose was a hand-scrawled label, written in black marker ink, that read, "Hold On".

I'd kept it, put it in a frame, and hung it up on my wall for safe keeping.

So once my sparsely furnished apartment was sparsely decorated, I sat down on the couch and looked around. I wondered what my before self would've thought of my after self's new digs. I wondered what before self would've done now that he was unpacked. Personally, I lay down on the couch and took a nap.



It took time - and lots of it - for me to adjust to my new life. I did things that I thought I might like and when I was done from all of that, I landed in a chair in the corner of a coffee shop across the street from the apartment building I lived in and held onto that stupid white paper cup like my life depended on it. I stared at my sneakers and waited for something that I'd seen that day to sink in, to penetrate the wall in my mind that separated my memories from my recollection. I sipped coffee - the only thing that had come easily for me to remember was that liked coffee with cream and sugar - and waited but nothing ever came, and eventually I'd wander home and fall asleep on the couch, still waiting.

After all, it's hard work... remembering yourself.



After a fw weeks of searching for answers and coming up empty, drinking coffee and taking naps on the couch, I finally decided it was time to Move On and forget my Before Self and become my After Self and assume that I, who had been named by Dr. Needleman as Ben Spencer, was who I was and that was not going to change.

I frequently wondered what would happen if I made that choice, immersed myself into my life as Ben Spencer, and then one day awoke and remembered I was really someone else with a whole other life how I would feel as Ben Spencer. Robbed of my new life the way I now felt robbed of my old life?

But no matter, I was now going to do the unthinkable and become myself, whoever that may be, and do what I had to do.

The first step was getting a job. The Center had given me paperwork allowing me to work, including a new social security number and references. I left the apartment and walked into the coffee shop across the street, walked up to the counter, and the waitress there smiled. "The usual?" she asked, reaching for a cup even as she asked.

"To go today, please," I replied, "And also a job application."

"A job application?" she smiled as she put back the glass cup and pulled a white paper one out of the sleeve of them on the side of the register. She turned to the big gold perculator that forever made their coffee better than the coffee I could produce in my kitchen with Mr. Coffee. She started putting in the sugar and cream and nutmeg into the bottom of the cup - a secret of the coffee gods, I guess. "You're getting a job?"

"I'm gonna try," I replied. "I need to make money."

"And you wanna work here?" she teased.

"I'd save on the commute," I replied, thumbing toward the view of my apartment building in the store front window.

She laughed. "True," she answered. The coffee jet streamed into the cup and she stirred it with the longest spoon known to man, popped a lid on it and pushed it across the counter to me. I pulled out my wallet as she bent down and got an application from under the register. She slid that across the counter, too, shook her head, winked and said, "They're on the house. Happy job hunting Mystery Man."

I thanked her, and returned to the street, sliding the application into an empty folder I'd tucked under my arm. My idea was to collect as many applications as possible, then go home and try to fill them out to my best ability. Then tomorrow, I'd walk around returning them all. It seemed far more effective than stopping at each place to fill them out.

I imagined myself as all sorts of different types of people that day and stopped at all kinds of different places. I could literally be anything that I wanted to be, I realized, as I made my way past produce towards customer service to get an application at a grocery store, having already tucked away one from a library, a computer-tech store, and a tattoo parlor.



"Actually, I could use a stock boy," the manager of the grocery store said when I asked for an application. He was standing behind the service desk, having just come out of an office behind it. The actual service associate reached into a pigeon hole on the side of the desk and pulled out an application. She pushed it across the counter to me, much like -- damn, I didn't know the waitress' name at the coffee shop. But I'm bad at names, given I don't even known my own and all. "Do you have any experience?" the manager asked.

"I could," I replied. "Stock boy. Basically I'd unpack stuff from crates and put them on shelves, right? I could do that. I have experience doing that." I thought about all the unpacking I'd done when I first moved into the apartment.

"Good, good. Fill out the application for formality..." he said, "But I like you, there's something about you I like." With that, he turned and disappeared back into the office, closing the door.

The service desk girl smiled. "He doesn't say that to many people."

"Thanks," I waved the application and walked away. Outside, I sat down on a bench and looked at the application. It looked the same as all the others except it had the grocery store's name on it - The Little Red Hen - and this goofy drawing of a chicken. Well I guess it was a hen.

I pulled a pen out of my shirt pocket and started filling it out. Since it was just a formality and everything I figured I should go ahead and break my own filling-it-out-at-home strategy. After all, I needed a job not a stack of paperwork applying for one. I got to the line about whether you'd ever been known as any other names in the past, if your name had been legally changed. I checked the box and wrote in I don't know who I was, though.

I imagined the manager suddenly deciding he didn't like me as much.

But I figured if he said so I'd just remind him that he doesn't really know me. After all, nobody does. Including me.

Chapter Two


On the morning of my first day as a stock boy at The Little Red Hen, I ate a bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats and read a newspaper because that seemed like the right thing to do before going to work - per the Dick Van Dyke Show. After learning all about what country was at war with whatever other country and what city had been devestated by whatever natural occurrance, I headed across the street to the cafe, carrying my stock boy apron, and stepped up to the counter.

The waitress glanced at my apron. "Well good morning stock boy," she greeted me, "The usual to go?" she was already pulling the paper cup out of the sleeve.

"Yes please, Waitress," I said. I said it both to continue the joke and also because I still hadn't asked her name. I contemplated asking it now, but it seemed bad form, so I kept my mouth shut and watched her put the sugar, cream, and nutmeeg into the cup, followed by the jetstream of coffee.

"Good luck," she said with a smile, handing me the coffee.



My apron hung funny, but that was okay. I didn't actually need the apron. The first day as a stock boy was apparently customarily spent watching a series of twenty-minute videos about being a stock boy in the Little Red Hen's employee break room. Occassionally other workers would come in and make some remarks about the video while eating or taking sips off pop from the vending machine. I watched the video and imagined that my Before Self was one of the fruitloops going on and on about the great employers that Little Red Hen were and how great their 401k package was for employees that stayed longer than five years.

Even Mr. Wilder's eyes had begun to get glazed over from the positivity exuding from the fake employees (who were all labeled under their names in Helvetica font as Actual LRH Employee, even though there were credits after each video saying they were actor portrayed).

"Just think," commented a deli lady who was in her mid-range fifties, "Stay at the Hen for the rest of your life, and maybe you'll even get an insurance plan."

The manager, Mr. Wilder, looked over his shoulder at her. "The Little Red Hen would go bankrupt in a year trying to cover you, Marty," he said to her.

She grinned and held up her fingers, which were covered in bandages.

"What happened?" I asked. On the TV, some pimple-faced kid was talking about the wonders that was the lessons he learned at the cash register.

"Today? Broccoli salad. But I think this one over here was from egg salad yesterday." She pointed at a bandaid that looked slightly more worn than the others.

"I don't recall an injury report for egg salad crossing my desk yesterday," Mr. Wilder mused.

"If I reported every cut I sustained making the salads, you'd never stop reading them, Oz," Marty replied.

Oz, I'd learned, was Mr. Wilder's first name. It was short for Oscar. Yes, he was named Oscar Wilder. Yes, he was named after Oscar Wilder. He went by Oz, though. Like Dorothy's hang out. Anyways, Oz looked satisfied with the explanation about the missing injury report, and he turned back to Peter, the pimpley kid who loved his job.

Marty stood up, her break evidently over, and smiled down at me. "Well, I better get back to earning my awesome 401K." WIth that, she left the break room.

"Marty's the biggest klutz I've ever known," Mr. Wilder commented as the door slammed shut behind her. He glanced over at me, "But her Broccoli Salad is to die for."



Mr. Wilder was understanding, considering I basically told him that I didn't know anything about myself. He patted my shoulder and said, "That's tough, kid, that's tough," when I told him about how I'd spent two years in the Center and now was out on my own for the first time. Now, leading me around through the store, showing me where all the departments was, he said, "So you probably don't want people knowing about the Center, huh?"

"Not really," I answered. "People tend to ask a ton of questions and honestly I don't have any answers and I always feel like a stooge not telling them. Like I'm hiding something. But I'm not, I just don't have anything to tell."

Mr. Wilder nodded. "Sorry if I asked too many questions."

"You didn't," I assured him.

He handed me a piece of paper, "He's a map of the store," he said, effectively changing the subject. The fact that he'd brought it up at all told me that he'd never tell. Wild horses would have to drag it out of him, basically was what the subject change was saying. "And if anyone asks you where something is, there's an alphabetical directory on the back with aisle numbers."

I looked on the back.

"Excuse me," Mr. Wilder said in a mock-old-lady voice, "Where would I find the dill pickles?"

I looked up at him. "Aisle three, ma'm."

"Oh ma'm... very good." Mr. Wilder smiled. "You'll do well here."

"Sir?" I asked as Mr. Wilder led us back toward the break room.

He stopped and turned and looked at me. "Yes?"

"Thank you for giving me the job," I replied.

He smiled.



I stocked exactly three cans of peas that day. Mr. Wilder had shown me what facing was and given me the cans. It seemed easy enough. I was undoing my apron in the breakroom and getting ready to go home when Marty came in the door. She sat down in her chair and looked at me as I stowed the apron away in the locker.

"You're a funny kid," she said. "How old are you?"

I closed the locker door. "Thirty." I didn't know. Thirty sounded good.

"You could be my son," she muttered, and turned away.

My heart pounded. Anytime someone made remarks like they might know me my heart pounded. Even when they were careless, half-remarks like this one. "How old is your son?" I asked.

"I don't have one," she replied, standing up. She pulled a first aid kit from the shelf and sat back down again and started changing out the bandaids on her fingers. She appied neosporin carefully.

"Oh," I said. I hesitated, feeling awkward. I reached for the time clock and punched out, like Mr. Wilder had told me to do. Marty looked up from her bandaids. "Bye," I offered.

"Bye Kid," she answered, turning away.



Before leaving The Little Red Hen, I figured I'd buy some food for myself that night since I didn't have anything at home. I got some asparagus, because I was mildly sure that I like asparagus. I was walking through the store to the check out line with my steak and asparagus when I saw her.

She was arguing with a nine-ish year old boy with a shock of blonde hair, standing in front of the Cheez Its. She reached up and pushed a few strands of her own blonde hair out of her face, turned, and our eyes met. I looked away. But not before her eyes had met mine and some kind of flash, like lightening or a headache, had seemed to stab me in the brain. It was weird.

I almost walked into a guy as I turned, trying to escape. "Hey watch it," he said, ducking just in time.

"Sorry," I muttered. I glanced back over and she was still staring at me, a curiously amused expression on her face. She handed the kid the Cheez Its and he pumped his fist in triumph. I bolted away to the check out, my mind reeling, wondering if I'd just had a stroke or something and not wanting to end up on the floor like a drooling, quivering pool of nerves in front of the woman... whoever the hell she was.

Chapter Three


"How'd Day One go?" Waitress asked me, already putting the sugar, cream, and nutmeg in by the time I got to the counter. I pulled out my wallet and tossed the two dollars and fifteen cents onto her side. She started the coffee jet stream.

"I stocked two cans of peas and watched a video about a sixteen year old kid named Peter who thinks he'll be able to retire at age 38 on the 401K the Little Red Hen is providing him with," I answered.

Waitress smiled, slid the cap onto my coffee, and put it down in front of me. "Sounds very productive."

"Doesn't it?" I turned and started to the door.

"Good luck on Day Two, Stock Boy," she called as my hand pushed the door open.

"You too, Waitress," I answered before the door slammed shut behind me.



Stocking shelves at the Little Red Hen was easy, but I was still happy when my lunch break rolled around at 1:00 and I yanked my apron off.

I sat down at the table in the breakroom and looked around. There wasn't much to see besides the typical posters and announcements. Five folding chairs, two card tables, a microwave, a mini-fridge, two vending machines and the lockers was pretty much it. A bulletin board at the far end of the room had been decorated with paper hearts and lacy doilies, each heart was an envelope and had a name on it. I noticed there was one with my name on it. I got up and walked over to it and studied the board for a long moment.

"They're for Valentines."

I'd been so intently staring at the bulletin board hearts that I didn't even hear Marty come in on her break. I turned around, "What?"

"The pouches," she said, pulling out a chair next to the one I'd left. She put down two plastic containers from the deli on the table - one in front of her and the other in front of my empty chair. "Lunch. Come eat."

I returned to the table and looked at the container, "What's this?"

"Broccoli Salad," she answered.

"There's no fingers in it?" I joked.

"Ha." Marty pulled the lid off her own, grabbed two plastic forks off a cup at the end of the table, dropped one by me and dug into her container with the other. "I noticed you didn't have a lunch when you came in this morning."

I picked up the fork and stabbed a piece of broccoli. Carrots and bacon appeared to be ingredients in the salad also. I shoved it into my mouth, chewed, swallowed, and announced, "Mr. Wilder's right, this is good."

"Everything I make is."

"If this is any indication..."

Marty swallowed the mouthful she'd been gnoshing and turned to me, leaning back. She studied me a moment. "So where are you from, kid?" she asked.

I stared at the salad. "I dunno," I answered, "You know. Around."

She eyed me for a long moment. "What's your story?"

"What's yours?"

She turned back to her salad. "I was born and raised in Wisconsin," she answered, "Home of the cheese." She chewed her salad loudly. "I moved to Atlanta when I was twenty. Married once, divorced by thirty. I've now lived alone with my dog for the past thirty-two years - yes I'm sixty-two, don't look so shocked - and am perfectly happy about it. Your turn."

"Two years and three months ago, in November, a police officer was paroling the park and found me on the grass passed out. I woke up from a coma four months later, in March, unable to remember who I was or anything about myself prior to having woken up." I chewed a piece of broccoli. Marty was staring at me, jaw slack. "I lived for two years in a psychiatric center trying to remember my name but couldn't so finally they called me Ben, gave me an apartment, and told me to enjoy my life."

Marty let this stew a moment between us, then smiled. "So where are you really from?" she asked, "You have a bit of an accent, but it certainly isn't one from these parts."

I smiled, "California." The word slid off my tongue - the first place that came to mind. It wasn't remembering, it was just a random word.

Wasn't it?

Marty laughed. "You're funny, Kid."

"Thanks."

"So the Valentines," she gestured with her fork at the wall, "Basically we're supposed to do the whole Kindergarten thing. Nobody ever does it."

I stared at the wall. "That's kind of sad."

"Yeah, well." She put the lid back on her broccoli salad. "Enjoy your break," she said, standing up. She put the salad into the fridge.

"You're leaving already?"

"Yep," Marty nodded, "I'm a smoker." She held up a pack of Marlboro Lights.

I laughed, "Is that your deep, dark secret?"

A faint smile slipped across her face, "Oh if only that was the darkest." And with that, she slipped out the break room door to indulge her nic-fit.



Mr. Wilder came to find me fifteen minutes before I was scheduled to go home. I was kneeling on aisle five by the cereal, facing some boxes of Cheerios when he came down the aisle, sing-songing, "Ah Ben, just the person I was looking for."

I looked up, "Hey, Mr. Wilder," I said. I stood up, dusting off my knees.

He turned and inspected the cereal aisle, "Nice, nice, good job, thank you." He smiled at all the even-to-the-edge-of-the-shelf cereal boxes, nodding his head. "Very good."

Honestly, freshly faced shelves like this made me feel slightly claustrophobic.

"I just wanted to check in on you," he said, "Make sure your first day went all right."

"Went great, sir," I answered.

"And to give you this," he added, holding out a name badge. Little sticker letters had been assembled in a slightly crooked manner spelling out Benjamin with a little red ribbon that hung down off it saying I'm Training!

"Thanks," I said. I pinned it to my apron.

"Not a problem." Mr. Wilder smiled. He flapped his arms uncomfortably and rocked his heels. "Well, Ben, if you ever need anything, you know where my office is. Let me know if you have any questions."

"Yes sir," I said as he turned and scurried away. I looked down at the cereal boxes. I was just about to kneel down and continue on with the facing when I felt a tap on my elbow. I turned around and found myself looking down at a little old woman with the whitest hair I've ever seen. She grinned up at me.

"Excuse me, son, can you tell me where I might find the dill pickles?" she asked. Her voice sounded uncannily like Mr. Wilder's had the day before. Clearly, this was a frequently repeated question.

"Aisle three," I answered, "Across from the taco kits."

"Oh thank you so much," the woman's voice shook like it was about to give out on her. She waddled away, clutching a basket with three cans of cat food and a jar of peanut butter already tucked inside.

Turning back to the cereal facing, I hoped she at least didn't plan on eating the cat food herself.



That night, I sat down at the computer and open up Google. I typed in the phrase pictures of California. A bunch of pictures of the Golden Gate bridge showed up, and the Hollywood sign, both of which seemed familiar of course out of obligation to being a human being who breathes in America. It wasn't anything to get excited about by any means. I scrolled through the images tab on Google for what felt like hours. My eyes were watering and I was pretty sure I was getting carpal tunnel in my wrists from sitting with them on the down arrow key so long when it showed up.


I stared at it. I clicked on the picture's source link and found myself on a Wikipedia.com entry about the Los Angeles International Airport - LAX. I felt like I was dreaming, some furry feeling crawled over me and I could literally imagine -- no, I could see with my minds eye -- what this space-age structure looked like during arriving to Los Angeles in an air plane and it gave me a feeling of comfort.

Like going home.

I stared at it for a long time, wondering. How, if I really was from California - if saying California that afternoon to Marty had been a memory - then how in the world did a cop find me in Atlanta, Georgia, in the middle of the night, in a park, completely wiped clean of my memory?

When my back became tired from sitting at the desk, I moved the lap top to my night stand and set it up so that the picture was my screen saver, and I fell asleep laying on my side in bed, staring at the picture of the airport that made me feel more at home than I'd felt in two years.

Chapter Four


It was a week later, while I was putting out packages of Tofu in the organic section of the produce department, when I saw her - the blonde woman from my first day at Little Red Hen. Today, she was flying solo - no little boy by her side. She dropped her purse into the top part of a shopping basket before walking up to a display of avacados and proceeding to start man-handling each one, looking them over and squeezing them, checking for ripeness. I watched her, my hands paused halfway through putting the Tofu away.

I'd spent the past week falling asleep staring at the picture of Los Angeles International Airport and doing up budgets for how many days working at Little Red Hen would be required before my paychecks could fund a visit to see the real thing in hopes of jogging some part of my brain that needed to be worked out in order to remember who I was. The closest a non-LAX-photo thing had come to making me feel that same thrill in my tummy as the picture was this woman.

She finally had selected an avacado and put it into one of the plastic produce bags before dropping it into the cart and moving along. She rolled her cart toward me, stopping about ten feet away at the bagged lettuce. I turned forward and started robotically stocking the tofu packages, trying not to seem awkward. She stood there, staring at the lettuce. I snuck a look at her. She was average height and at this angle I could see that she had faint lines around her eyes and her jowl was a little slack, revealing her age. She had on steep heels and a dark blue dress that matched her eyes. She had a wedding band on her finger.

And I realized, now that she was closer, that I definitely wasn't like attracted to her.

She looked at me, and I quickly turned back to the tofu, trying to appear like I hadn't been staring at her.

"Excuse me," she said, her voice lilting with a country accent. I looked up because she was addressing me. My mouth was dry, though, and instead of asking her if I could help her I made a feeble gurgling sound, which she luckily deciphered to mean that I was interested in assisting her. "I don't see any light Caesar salad kits," she explained, waving a perfectly manicured hand at the bags that lined the shelf - all faced, thankyouverymuch - "Do you have any outback?"

"Idunnoletmegocheck," I said the sentence in a single breath, popped out of the stool I'd been using while I stocked the tofu on a shelf that was knee-level. I high-tailed it to the produce backroom and looked around for the guy that worked in the backroom there. He was an old guy with a big bulbous nose and his name was Hank. I found Hank in the back washing bunches of carrots. "Do we have any bagged light Caesar salad kits?" I asked.

Hank shrugged, "How the hell would I know?"

"Where should I look?" I asked.

"Cooler," he answered.

I pulled the cooler door open and walked inside and searched around a bit. After coming up empty handed, I thanked Hank and wandered back out to the produce section, where the woman was still standing near the box of tofu I'd been unpacking. "Sorry," I said, "We're out right now."

She sighed, "I guess I'll have to get regular. Husband prefers the light, and so don't I, but oh well. We'll make do. Thanks." With that, she snapped a regular Caesar salad kit off the shelf and tossed it into her cart before walking away.

I watched her go and waited until she'd turned the corner at the end of the aisle before I turned back to the tofu.



On my way home that afternoon, I stopped in a Walgreens and bought a box of thirty-two Valentine cards with pictures of Daffy Duck on them and a bottle of soy milk. I walked to the cafe and up to the counter to find a different person working. It felt weird to not see Waitress there, and even weirder having to actually tell the person what I wanted to drink. I paid and was on my way out the door when I heard, "Did they put the right amount of nutmeg and everything in? I'm pretty sure I have it down to a science."

I turned around and Waitress was standing there with a nice brown plaid coat on and an off-white beret that made her curly brown hair stand out and her dark brown eyes glow. I took the first sip of my coffee to test and shrugged, "Ehhh," I said, shrugging, "It's okay. It's not quite as euphoric as when you make it, but I'll live."

"Always the charmer, aren't you Stock Boy?" she asked, laughing.

"Always, Waitress."

She walked out into the cool-for-Georgia air and I followed. I dawdled by the door a moment, as did she. After all, I couldn't very well walk along with her. I lived directly across the street and she lived - well, God knows where.

"Your coffee's made with love," I said, still in my charming voice mode.

"Love, huh?" She looked me over, a smirk crossing her face. "Do you even know my real name, Ben, or am I just Waitress to you?" she asked.

I wanted to swallow my tongue.

She winked. "That's what I thought." She turned and started to walk away. I let her get maybe ten paces before I remembered how to work my mouth.

"I wouldn't mind learning it," I offered.

She turned, walking backwards, "It's Kim," she said, "See ya later, Stock Boy." And she turned and continued walking away.



The next day, I put all the Valentines into the pouches in the breakroom before starting the day. I hadn't signed them so they'd be anonymous. I spent the morning putting out frozen pies and cool whip. At lunch, I sat and ate an apple and some peanut butter that I bought. The afternoon passed in the soda aisle, making sure the two-liters' labels faced out so people could see the pop brand logos from a distance. When the day was over, I pushed into the break room to find Marty standing by the bulletin board, looking at her Daffy Duck card with a smile on her face.



A week later, three other people had put Valentines in the pouches, too. Apparently they just needed someone to break the ice.



On the second Thursday that I'd worked at Little Red Hen, I got my first paycheck. For two weeks worth of work, I received a little under $500. At this rate it would take approximately the rest of my damn life to save money to get to Los Angeles. Plus I was determined to take over the housing bills sooner rather than later, although Dr. Needleman had said that I had six months before they'd re-evaluate my situation. I just needed to figure out how to make more money than being a stock boy at LRH, that's all.

I posted an ad on the bulletin board going into the store saying that I was interested in doing some odds and ends jobs - you know, like raking or mowing or whatever. I wasn't positive I knew how to do that stuff, but I figured how hard could it be?

"Nice ad," Marty said to me as she returned to the break room from a smoke break. She pulled off a sweatshirt she'd donned to go out in and shoved it into her locker. She sat down across from me at the table, grabbed the first aid kit, and started switching out a bandaid on her thumb.

"Are there any little arms missing off the bottom yet?" I asked, hopeful that someone had taken my number.

"Two," Marty said.

"One of them was me," I admitted. She raised an eyebrow. "I didn't want it to look like nobody was interested," I explained, "So I took one so people would see that someone else had taken one. Kind of raise my credibility level."

"I see." Marty looked like she thought I was nuts. She reattached her name badge to her apron. "Do you really need a credibility level to oprate a mower?" she asked.

"Maybe one of the riding ones," I said.

Marty laughed. "You're funny, kid," she told me.



I received a phone call about the ad exactly three days after I posted it. It was a woman who lived a little ways out of the city who needed someone to help out with a project repainting a trailer. "My husband thinks he can do it alone but I just don't think that's neccessary, plus he's leaving in a week and I just think he could use a couple extra hands on deck with it," she explained.

"Sure," I answered. She gave me the address and asked me to be there around noon on Saturday.

"Do you like sweet tea?" she asked. I wasn't sure, but I said yes anyways.



"I got a call," I told Marty the next time I saw her in the break room. She was looking through the Valentine cards in her pouch. Another four people had followed suit with the distribution of them. "For my ad," I added.

"Really?" she flipped over one with Sailor Moon on it and read the back before moving on to the next one, which had a red heart-shaped lollipop attached to it. She ripped the lollipop off the card and shoved them back in the pouch, pushing the lollipop into her mouth. "So what are you doing, Mr. Handyman?" she asked, "Mucking the horse stalls? Renovating the house? Building a deck?"

"Painting a trailer."

Marty laughed, "Well that's colossally boring."

"Lady wants to pay me almost the same amount for two days as I made in two weeks here," I said with a shrug, "I'll take boring for five hundred bucks."

"But does Boring come with a 401K to die for?" Marty questioned.

"Probably not," I replied.

"Then darling, I wouldn't suggest quittin' yer day job," she said with a wink.

Chapter Five


It seemed like Kim was always at the cafe. She smiled when I walked in. "Working on a Saturday, Stock Boy?" she asked.

"Yeah but not as a stock boy today, Waitress," I said because it was more fun to call her that than it was to call her Kim.

She smirked and got my coffee. "So what are you today then? An airline pilot? A supermodel? Secret Agent for the FBI?"

"I'm a secret agent for the FBI posing as a supermodel wearing an airline uniform, actually," I answered. "Make sure it's nonfat cream you're using there, Waitress. I gotta watch my model figure."

She laughed, "You really are a jack of all trades, aren't you?"

"Precisely what I am today," I answered, tossing her three dollar bills. "Keep the change."



If nothing else, I learned a valueable lesson that day. I liked the idea of a bus - something about the word made me feel warm and fuzzy - but the actual bus itself was really uncomfortable. I learned this the hard way, as I lurched and jolted along through Atlanta's downtown area in the bus headed to Marietta, a suburb of the city where the woman who had called me - a woman named Leighanne Littrell - lived.

I had very little personal space and I hated not having personal space. I felt like constructing a six-foot-in-diameter bubble to sit in the center of to keep people away from me. I even tried putting my sweatshirt on the seat beside me and some fat lady holding a bag with a yippy-yappy dog had sat on it and I'd worried that I'd have to use a forklift to move her off it if my stop came before hers did, but mercifully she only sat there for a couple stops before leaving and I was able to pull the sweatshirt back onto my lap before a similar situation arose with a less happy ending. I hugged my warm-from-her-ass-heat sweatshirt to my chest and lurched forward and backward with the bus, vowing to save up for a driving test and a car as a priority, even over a trip to Los Angeles.

When the bus driver announced my stop, I squeezed my way off the bus and into the fresh air, practically ready to kiss the sidewalk in jubilation over having successfully navigated the Atlanta city transit. It felt like a small miracle.

Mrs. Littrell had said that she'd meet me at the bus stop and drive me the rest of the way to her house, even though I'd offered to walk it. "It's a longer walk than you'd think," she'd explained, "Trust me, I did it once in stilettos when I was having car trouble and my husband was away on business. It's not a pleasant experience." I'd assured her that I'd be wearing tennis shoes, not stilettos, but she'd just laughed and promised to pick me up in a blue Volvo.

I looked around for the blue Volvo and almost swallowed my tongue when I saw who was standing in front of it. Wearing a red gingham top with a denim skirt and her hair in two braids like she was a down-home country girl was the woman from the Little Red Hen - the one with the Cheez Its and the Caesar Light salad kit. I made my way over to her and stuck out my hand, trying not to sound like I'd just inhaled too much air too fast. "I'm Ben Spencer," I said.

She squinted at me, "Aren't you the stock boy from the grocery store?" she asked, shaking my hand.

"Yeah," I answered.

Letting go of my hand, she nodded toward the car, then walked in thick wedge heels back to the driver's side and climbed in. I followed, but climbed into the passenger seat, buckling the belt. She backed out and started driving. It didn't take long before I realized she'd been right about the walk being much longer than I would've expected - or wanted to walk for that matter.

"So is this a side job?" she asked.

"What?"

"The odds and ends? Is it a side job?"

"Uh huh."

"Honestly, I expected a high school kid," she admitted.

"I needed extra money," I explained.

After what seemed like forever, she turned her blinker on and pulled down a long, winding driveway through these tall trees that kind of hung over the pavement with droopy branches like willows but not really. I didn't know what kind they were. They were cool, though. The trees gave way after a bit to a circular driveway with a water fountain in the center of a patch of grass and a wide, tan-brick house with huge windows and ivy vines crawling over the awning that stretched over the main entrance's stoop. She drove a part of the way around the circle and parked the car in the shade of a tree. Across the circle was a black and silver trailer with the word Wylee printed in big, sparkley white lettering.

"What's that?" I asked, pointing at it.

"The trailer," she answered. Leighanne cut the engine in the car and opened the door, getting out. I gawked at the trailer a moment longer, wondering what in the hell I was expected to paint on it - it was immaculate. "I just am sick of black and silver and white," she explained. "We're repainting it shades of plum." It was like she'd read my mind. I got out and walked around thr car, too, joining her on the far side of the Volvo. She rooted in her purse a moment, unearthed a strip of paint samples, and handed them to me.

They certainly were purple.

"Wow," I muttered.

"I know, it's bright, but that's the idea. I need people to notice the trailer and stop in to buy stuff."

"What do you sell?" I asked.

"Clothes," she replied.

"Like jeans and stuff?"

"Like scarves and designer purses and stuff. My designs. I design them." Leighanne took the paint samples back and replaced them in her bag. "Anyways, come inside, have a glass of tea, and I'll check on whether Husband's ready to paint yet or not."

"Alright."

I followed Leighanne across the driveway, past a basket ball hoop, up a walkway, under the ivy-covered awning and into the house. The vastness of the foyer nearly floored me. A wide staircase wound up through the center, like that one in the boat in that movie Titanic. Huge marble statues stood at either side of the staircase's mouth.

Leighanne put her keys on a hook at the door and motioned for me to follow her. "Husband," she called as we crossed the foyer, moved along past a dining room and into a short hallway. She pushed open a white door that looked like a giant shutter and I found myself in a spacious dark blue and cherry-wood kitchen with sleek silver appliances. She opened the fridge and pulled out a huge glass pitcher with amber tea and big slices of lemon inside it. "Brian!" she yelled, her voice louder, "Brian!"

I stood awkwardly in the doorway watching her.

The door opened and almost hit me in the back. I jumped out of the way as a short guy walked into the room, wearing an Atlanta Braves t-shirt and a backwards blue baseball cap that had a giant white K on it. "You're home," he said, walking quickly across the kitchen, stepping up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, and kissing her cheek from behind. "Mmm, sweet tea."

"Don't mmm, sweet tea me," she said, raising her eyebrow, "I happen to know for a fact there was more tea in this pitcher before I left, Mr. Littrell."

He fake-gasped. "Are you suggesting I drank some of the forbidden tea that you specifically said not to touch a drop of before you got back?" he asked.

"Brian."

"Okay so I had a cup of it," he rolled his eyes. That's when he spotted me. "Um. Hallo."

"That's Ben," Leighanne said, getting a tall green plastic glass out of the cupboard. "He's gonna help you paint the trailer."

Brian glanced at Leighanne witheringly. "What? Today? Now?" he looked at me, "Hallo Ben. Sorry, I didn't know you were coming."

"Yes, today, now," Leighanne answered. She tapped the counter, "Don't be shy, Ben, c'mon down - you're the next contestant." She pushed the glass of tea across the counter in my general direction. My feet felt slightly less than lead. I picked the glass up and took a sip. I did, in fact, like sweet tea.

Brian studied me. "I hate painting," he commented. He got his own glass from the cupboard and poured himself a cup, his eyes never fully leaving me as he studied my face. He paused. "I feel like I've seen you somewhere before," he confessed.

"I work at the Little Red Hen," I answered.

"Yeah? Thats probably where I saw you then." He took a long sip of tea. "Did she at least tell you we were painting the trailer?" he asked.

"Brian, I didn't tell you because you're a procrastinator and if I want anything done around here I have to set it up and then tell you when it's ready to be started or you'll put it off forever."

"Name one time I did that," he argued, putting his glass on the counter and turning to his wife.

I took a sip of tea to keep from getting involved in this somehow.

"The time the toilet upstairs in Baylee's room wouldn't flush and you took like five weeks to get around to changing the valve thing."

"I told you to call a plumber," he said, "I was on tour."

"Uh huh."

"I was."

"And the garden?"

"Why do you need to grow veggies anyways, it's quicker just to go to the store and buy them." He glanced at me, "And gives this guy a bit of job security, right Brad?"

"It's Ben," I answered.

"Sorry, Ben. It gives Ben job security."

Leighanne sighed, "You're procrastinating now," she pointed out.

"Touche," Brian replied, raising his glass to his wife. He took a sip, then looked at me as he lowered the glass back to the counter. "Women; they are always right. It's amazing."

Chapter Six


Brian changed and within twenty minutes we were outside in a sea of paint cans with brushes in our pockets and rags draped over our shoulders. He was wearing an honest-to-God pair of farmer jeans, with the Osh-Kosh-b'Gosh style button-flap top and everything. He'd kept on the blue baseball cap with the K, though. He rubbed his hands together, staring at the trailer. "Well this looks like entirely too much work to be doing one week before I go on tour," he commented, shaking his head.

"Tour?" I asked, bending and using a screw driver to open a paint can.

"Yeah," he said, without offering any additional details. He knelt and opened a can, too. "Good Lord," he muttered, as he pulled the lid off to reveal the brighter of the two purples, "What in San Jose is she thinking? This monstrosity's gonna look like the one-eyed-one-horned-flying-purple-people-eater!"

"It is a bright color," I commented.

Brian sighed, "She's gonna like this color for like an hour before she wants to paint it back to black." He looked over at me and tapped the side of his head. "Women are fickle in the head, remember that." He paused, "Are you married?"

"I don't think so," I answered.

He laughed, "Well, if you ever get married, remember they're fickle, and they're always right."

"What if they said they weren't fickle?"

Brian paused. "Then they're wrong."

"But they're always right."

He shook his head, "Then it's an enigma."

We poured paint into trays and got rollers out and Brian held his, staring at the trailer for a moment. "We spent like a week gutting this thing," he commented, "And painting it the first time. It was crazy. Like a week before we left on tour with the New Kids on the Block."

"Step by step, oh baby," I sang.

"Yeah them." Brian paused, "Hey you aren't half bad," he laughed.

"At singing?" I asked. I chuckled, "Right."

"No seriously," he said, "You actually remind me of a friend of mine."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Seen him lately?"

Brian laughed, "Not really. But then again we had a fight and he tends to disappear when we fight."

"Oh." I felt like it would be over kill to ask how long ago said fight had been.



We got to work painting the trailer, chatting about goofy stuff, Brian doing impressions of all kinds of different cartoon characters including - but not limited to - Donald Duck, Marvin the Martian, Johnny Bravo, and Ace Ventura. He had a great sense of humor and a lot of energy and the ability to keep me entertained enough that I barly felt like we'd done much work when Leighanne came out with a tray with more sweet tea and some cookies on it.

"She's looking good boys," Leighanne announced.

Brian grabbed three cookies off the tray, quickly shoving one in his mouth, "Yeah," he agreed with Leighanne, crumbs falling out and landing on his chest, "Old Betsy never looked so fancy."

"Betsy?" I took one of the glasses of tea.

Brian shoved another cookie into his mouth, "The trailer," he said.

"Brian, seriously," Leighanne scolded him, reaching over and brushing the crumbs off his chest. "You act like you're four sometimes." She put the tray down on a small table on the grass by the water fountain. "You boys want anything else?"

Brian held up a cookie, "More of these?"

"Share some with Ben," she commanded, and went back inside.

Brian looked at the tray, "They're good, I promise, I'm not exaggerating at all." He picked one up and shoved it at me.

"Thanks," I answered. They were coconut macaroons and he was right, they were good. I only got two though before he'd consumed the others and evidently Leighanne thought he was kidding when he'd requested more of them because she didn't return.

After swallowing the last of the cookies and his sweet tea, Brian wiped his mouth with the back of his fist. "We're not doing half bad," he commented, looking at the trailer. "And it's drying darker at least." Not by much, but at least it was losing its painful to look at status. It looked less like a purple people eater and more like a certain dinosaur...

"Maybe y'all should rename it Barney," I commented.

Brian laughed, "Maybe."



A few hours later, Brian and I had completely covered the trailer with purple paint and he'd stood back to analyze our work and announced that it looked like a giant purple jellybean. We'd gone inside and told Leighanne we'd finished the first layer of paint and she'd rewarded us with more cookies - which Brian consumed most of again. He grinned stupidly at her as he munched them down.

"So when can you visit us again Ben?" Leighanne asked, wetting a paper towel with warm water and reaching across the counter to daub off a big purple splotch on Brian's cheek while he chewed.

"I dunno, maybe Wednesday?"

"Wednesday works," Brian chimed in.

We all agreed that I'd come back the following Wednesday to help apply a second coat of the purple paint to the trailer. "See ya," Brian said, disappearing off somewhere into the depths of the house, with four coconut macaroons piled up in his fists. Then Leighanne drove me back to the bus stop.

"Thanks for the ride," I said as I climbed out. "And also the job."

"Thank you for agreeing to do it, and putting up with Husband all day," she added, "He can get kinda rammy when he's around new people."

"Rammy?"

"Rambunctious," she clarified.

"Got it."

"See you Wednesday, then," she said, smiling.

"Yeah, Wednesday. Thanks." I watched the Volvo drive away before climbing up the platform to the bus. I sat on a bench to wait, my mind wandering over everything that had happened in the last twelve hours. It'd felt strangely right to be hanging out at the Littrell house, drinking sweet tea and eating macroons.

Chapter Seven


That night, I laid in bed thinking about the Wylee trailer and the Littrells. Brian had been really easy to get along with and Leighanne had seemed nice, too. I stared at the ceiling as the pale blue moonlight wandered across the stucco, making little shadows of the plaster mountain ranges. I rolled over and looked at the LAX picture shining brightly from the computer's screen saver and wondered if I had a family out there somewhere who I interacted with the same way Brian and Leighanne interacted - if I had someone out there that I once hugged from behind and gave kisses to and made jokes about sweet tea with. I really wanted that.

I closed my eyes and dreamt I was hugging Waitress from behind and kissing her.



"How'd the job in Marietta go?" Marty asked early Monday morning when I walked though the door of the break room at Little Red Hen.

"Well," I answered. I pulled my apron out of the locker and tied the waist strings.

"What color did you paint the trailer?"

"Purple."

"Like Barney?"

"Mmhm."

"Wow."

"Yeah, it was a little crazy. It was for some clothing design boutique or something."

"For who?"

"Uh the line was Wylee - the designer was Leighanne Littrell."

Marty spit diet Coke with lime out on the table, spraying Robin, the unsuspecting red haired teenager who was doing her nails across the table from her. Robin scowled and rushed to the bathroom to wash the soda off her shirt. Marty had stood up, barely noticing Robin and her soda-pop-bespeckled shirt. "You were at the Littrell house?" Marty demanded of me.

I shrugged, "Yeah? What, do you know who Leighanne is?"

"Sure as shit I do, and Brian, too."

"Her husband."

"Hell yeah her husband, the lucky bitch." Marty rolled her eyes back, "Please, don't tell me you ain't heard of the Backstreet Boys."

I'll be the first to admit the name didn't sound the least bit familiar. Evidently I was mildly retarded if I hadn't though, the way Marty was looking at me, so I said, "Ohh, yeah. Them."

"Ohh yeah them," Marty mocked my tone, "For Christ's sake, Ben, you didn't know you were in the presence of pop royalty?" she yanked a hair net over her frizzy brown hair, "My God, boys are stupid." And with that empowering thought, she left the breakroom.

Robin came back a second later, her shirt still speckled with soda spit. "Sorry," I said, "I didn't know she was gonna spit soda out at you."



That night, I logged into Google again and pulled up the Backstreet Boys. Brian was, indeed, one of them. I stared at his features in some of the photos and realized that he'd aged quite a bit since some of the pictures were taken. Evidently it had been a while since Backstreet Boys formed - 1993, Jesus, that was almost twenty years ago. Before Self should've been aware of them. I wondered why the name wasn't familiar to me, if they were as popular as the websites boasted them to be.

It led me to wonder, too, why I remembered how to do a complex algebra problem but not my own name. What was it about my freaking identity that was so hard to place? I turned the computer down to its screen saver and laid back into the pillows, staring at it with a dull emptiness inside that I imagined was where my heart used to be.



The next morning I got up early because I had an appointment with Dr. Needleman. I got dressed and headed to the cafe. Kim was there as usual and she smiled when she saw me. I couldn't help but flush because all I could think about looking at her was the dream I'd had after working at the Littrells where I'd come up behind her and kissed her. She made my coffee extra slow, talking but I couldn't really hear her enough to reply because I was too busy trying not to say anything mortifying that might make her think I was insane or something. Not that I wasn't insane, I mean I didn't even know who the hell I really was, so that makes me at least a little bit insane, right?

Kim handed me my coffee. "Have a good day, Stock Boy," she said.

"You, too, Waitress," I stammered, and rushed out the door. I could feel her eyes follow me as I left. I hoped to God she hadn't guessed what my problem was. I could almost imagine her telling the guy that worked there -the guy who did not have a six inch scar and a reconstructed nose- that the circus freak guy that ordered nutmeg in his coffee everyday had been dreaming about her.

I pictured them as they laughed together at my stupidity to even dream of someone as angelic and perfect as Kim. Who the fuck would want to date someone that looks like they had a fight with the wrong end of a meat cleaver?



Dr. Needleman raised an eyebrow. I'd handed her a copy of the picture of LAX. She looked up at me. "Perhaps you've visited Los Angeles before," she suggested.

"Maybe but I dunno. It felt so... It felt like I was looking at home," I said.

"You were found in a park in Atlanta," she pointed out, "What could you possibly have been doing in Atlanta if you were from Los Angeles?"

"I dunno," I answered truthfully.

Dr. Needleman handed the picture back to me. "Anything else been jogging your memory at all?"

I shook my head.

"How are you faring at your new job so far?"

"It's okay. It's kind of boring work, but I like the predictability of it," I explained. "I like that it's steady hours and the same people there. I like seeing the same people. I like having friends. Even if they don't really know me, they only know Ben."

"You are Ben."

"No I've become Ben," I corrected her, "We have no idea who I really am."



Kim looked up from the counter the next morning - Wednesday. I'd pep talked to myself all the way across the street to act like a normal human being around her today, but it still made my breath catch when her eyes met mine square on and she smiled. "Good morning, Stock Boy," she said, her eyes lighting up.

"Hey," I stammered. I shuffled my feet and we stood awkwardly on either side of the counter for a moment. It was like we were waiting for something.

She hesitated, then reached for a medium coffee cup. "The usual?" she asked.

"Yeah."

She turned to put in the sugar, cream, and nutmg. The jetstream of coffee seamed unusually loud this morning as it sprayed into the cup. She looked up at me. "Two-fifteen," she said, putting the sleeve onto the cup slowly.

I tossed the money onto the counter.

She put the cup down.

The awkward pause continued. I stared at her. She stared at me. I picked up the cup. "Have a good day Waitress," I said, and I turned. I walked across the cafe toward the door and was almost out when I heard her call out --

"Ben!"

I turned around. "What?"

She was coming around the counter, a blue apron tied around her waist, the strings wrapped around to the back and then back to the front before forming a knot. She had on a Beatles T-shirt over a pair of jeans. Her hair was pulled back in a pony tail. She was drop dead gorgeous. She stopped in front of me, her hands on her hips, she stared up at me. "When the frick are you going to ask me out?" she demanded.

My mouth went dry. "Ask you out?"

"Yeah," she nodded. Despite the courage in her voice I could see the fear in her eyes. "We've been flirting for God-knows-how-long, I've taken the time to know exactly how you like your coffee, you actually bothered to find out what my name is... When the frick exactly are we gonna go out?"

"Go out."

"Like for dinner? or a drink? Something?"

"I - I -" my voice would not operate properly. My head was spinning. She wanted me to ask her out? I wanted to pinch myself to see if this was legitimately happening.

"How about tonight?" Kim asked, "When you get back from Marietta?"

I nodded dumbly.

"I'm off at seven," she said.

"Okay. Seven. Okay."

"Okay." Kim smiled.

I hear my voice utter, "Thank you," and then I bolted out the door, the little bell on it jingling. My heart slammed in my chest like a raquet ball, and I literally ran down the street toward the bus stop, clutching my coffee. When I got to the little glass-enclosed bench, I sat down and stared at my sneakers, caught my breath, then glanced back towards the coffee shop.

Well, I thought, That could've gone worse. But 'thank you'? Seriously? She asks me out and I thank her?

I wondered if my Before Self was such a loser or if it was something I'd developed as an After.

Chapter Eight


Brian was sitting on the engine hood of a maroon SUV when I got off the bus. He was eating a Snickers bar and reading a book - The Hobbit - which he was so engrossed in that he didn't hear me approaching until I was directly in front of him. He looked up in surprise, dog-eared the corner of the book. "Hallo," he said through a mouthful of caramel, chocolate, nougat, and peanuts. He jumped down off the SUV. "How was the ride?" he asked.

I didn't want to tell him I'd sat next to the same fat lady with the yippy-yappy dog again (evidently she was a regular on those stops) and that some guy had attempted to light up a cigarette, making the driver go ballistic and me choke from smoke being blown practically in my face. So instead, I said, "It was good."

"I hate public transportation," Brian muttered. He clicked an automated key and the SUV beeped and blinked its lights at us as it unlocked. He climbed inside and I followed suit. When he stuck his key in the ignition, the radio started up and this loud country song blasted through the speakers. He scrambled to hit the volume. "Sorry," he said sheepishly. "I forgot I had it up so loud."

He started driving back to the house and I stared out the window at the semi-familiar road that led to the Littrell's might-as-well-call-it-a-mansion-instead-of-a house. The country song played quietly in the background and I felt like I might've recognized the beat, but not really. More in the way you know you've heard a song before.

"So you like country music," I commented after about half the ride had passed in silence.

Brian nodded, "Yep, I'm a country boy through and through." He beamed.

A real country boy wouldn't be wearing hot pink sneakers, I thought, remembering the footwear that had donned Brian's feet when he'd been sitting on the hood of the car. I refrained myself from saying so, though.

"Is your band country?" I asked.

Brian snorted. "What?"

"The Backstreet Boys? Do they sing country music?"

Brian looked over at me like I had four or five heads and big fireworks coming out of my ears or something. "Uhh yeah, no."

"Oh. Sorry."

Brian shook his head as he turned forward, like he was clearing it of my question. I felt stupid and wished I'd listened to some of the clips of the Backstreet Boys songs that had popped up on the web when I Googled them. Maybe if I had, I wouldn't have asked such a stupid ass question.

"We sing Pop/R&B," he said, "Like dance music I guess. Typical boyband stuff." He paused, hesitated, and evidently decided that the following wouldn't be too conceited sounding: "So what rock have you been living under that you haven't heard of the Backstreet Boys?"

"Trust me," I said, "Somedays I don't even know my own name, not to mention know who the popular musicians are these days."

"Okay... yeah... Right." He seemed like he thought I was mental. Which I kind of was.

When we got to the house and had driven up the long tree-lined driveway to the circular end of it, he parked his SUV behind Leighanne's blue Volvo and got out. "C'mon inside," Brian said, "Leighanne made food and stuff." I followd Brian up the walk and inside the huge foyer. On the floor by the door was a pair of kid's sneakers and a sweatshirt. "Wifey!" Brian yelled.

"Husband?" Leighanne's voice carried from the direction of the kitchen. Methodical, repeatitive piano music drifted through the house. Plink, plink, plink, plink, plunk. And it would start over again.

Brian disappeared toward the kitchen, but I stood kind of stupified in the foyer, listening to the music. I realized I could identify the notes. My mind couldn't quite wrap around the idea of what the notes were called, but something inside me kind of connected to the music. Instinctively, I drifted towards it, walking the opposite way from where Brian had gone off to.

Plink, plink, plink, plink, plunk.

Walking through the house, I saw a lot of family pictures up on the walls. Brian, Leighanne, and their son seemed to smile out at me from every spare wall space there was. If it wasn't their three faces it was either a piece of impressionist art or a religious painting. I rounded a corner and found myself in a huge parlor all decorated in mahogany wood and dark green wall paper. Books lined shelves, and large windows like ones you might see in a church streamed light in. In the center of the room was a seating set - two big plush chairs, a coffee table, and a couch. Off to the left was a baby grand piano, a metronome on the top waved and the nine-year-old I'd seen at Little Red Hen was perched on the stool, his fingers on the keys, creating the plinks and plunks that I'd followed to the room.

I leaned against the door way and watched him.

Plink, plink, plink, plink, plunk.

He was staring at his fingers, making sure he hit the right keys.

He turned around, blinked in surprise at seeing me there, and said - in a voice very much like his father's, "Who are you?"

"Sorry, my name is Ben. I'm here to help your dad paint the trailer purple."

He stared at me.

"I heard you practicing," I said, gesturing at the piano. "Have you been playing long?"

He turned back to the piano, "Yeah. I guess. I'd rather play a guitar but my mom says piano should be the first instrument a kid learns to play." He paused. "Why aren't you outside painting if you're here to paint, Ben?"

Suddenly Brian came up behind me. "There you are," he said. He looked over at his son. "Baylee, you're sounding good."

"Thanks dad." Baylee turned back to the piano and continued on with the plink-plunks.

"We thought we lost you," Brian laughed as he led me back to the kitchen. He took a detour, though, instead of going through the giant shutter-like door, and led me to the right to a dining room. Leighanne was just putting down three bowls on an already spread table, including sandwiches and tall glasses of water. "Hope you like chili," Brian said, "Although all other chilis will be ruined for you after this day. Leighanne's chili is the best chili known to man."

"Can't beat my mom's, but I'll definitely give it at least second place," I said instinctively, winking. As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized what I said and froze, my mind replaying the words, trying to recall what in the hell would make me say it. My mom? My mom makes chili? Made chili?

The Littrells didn't even notice my sudden silence or lack of mental presence. Brian pointed to a seat, saying something about it being where Baylee usually sat but since he was making music I could sit there, and he leaped into his own chair and Leighanne sat down, too, and they each grabbed one of my hands and Brian said a prayer and I just sat there reeling over my own chili comment.

Even though I didn't remember what I had to compare it to (at least in my conscious mind), I had to admit that Leighanne's chili was quite possibly, exactly as Brian had said it was, the best chili known to man. I ate two bowls of it quite happily, and Leighanne was beaming as she cleared the dishes away after we'd completely finished. Brian pushed back his chair, "Gooood Loooord," he groaned, stretching his arms, "Maybe eating before working was a stupid thing to do."

"Husband," Leighanne's voice was a warning tone.

"I said maybe," Brian said, "Not that I wasn't going to get to work..." he looked at me and mouthed just not very hard work. Leighanne disappeared into the kitchen with the bowls, satisfied with Brian's response. He took a deep breath and stood up, "Well Ben, let's get a move on."

We walked back through the house, which still echoed with Baylee's plink-plunking, to the driveway where the trailer and all the paint cans still waited. We popped the lids off the paint and started doing the second coat on the Purple People Eater. Brian hummed while he worked, and I watched what I was doing, thinking about the chili and about Kim. After awhile, Brian stepped back to admire our work. The purple looked a lot more purple now that the second coat was drying on it and the black layer underneath was effecting the shade less. "I kind of liked it better before," Brian commented.

We continued working on it until the whole trailer was the same shade and drying in the sun. Brian put the lid on the purple can he was working on. "I have no earthly clue what in the hell we're gonna do with the rest of this God-forsaken shade," he said as he pushed the lid down tight.

"Maybe she could paint the living room," I said.

"Oh Lord," Brian groaned, "Don't give her any ideas."

I laughed and hoisted twice as many paint cans into my hands as Brian could and we walked back to the garage to put the paint away. I pushed the cans onto shelves that lined the garage and Brian dusted off his palms. "Well," he said, "I leave Monday on tour, so maybe we could finish this up Saturday? Give it all day Sunday to dry before I have to drive it on down to Orlando."

"Orlando?"

"Yeah. You know. Florida."

"Yeah I know Orlando." For some reason I felt like I did. I made a mental note to Google Orlando later, as well as actually listen to some of the Backstreet Boys music. Since I was apprently employed by one of them and everything I might as well know what the hell they sounded like. I knew they weren't country now at least.

"So Saturday?" Brian asked.

"Sure, Saturday."

He nodded. "I'll be right back, just gonna let Leighanne know we're headed back to the bus depot." Brian went inside and I wandered back out the garage door we'd come in from to the driveway where the Purple People Eater gleamed in the sun like a giant eyesore. I walked over to Brian's SUV and leaned against the door, looking around the property. It was a calm day, the clouds floated by gently, there was a slight nip in the air but it felt good after the work we'd done.

The Littrell's mansion-house was really a nice place, all blonde and grey bricks and a lot of greenery and trees around. It was as I was standing there, looking at their house and yard and enjoying the air that I spotted a horse shoe mounted onto the door of the garage. It was strangely out of place, given the decor that the rest of the yard and house had. I hadn't noticed it before because Brian had the door opened already but since I'd shut it behind me I now saw it and I stared at it. I walked across the driveway, glancing at the door and not seeing Brian coming out, and got a closer look at it.

It was just a horseshoe. Brown from age, hanging on a nail. I touched it.

"That belonged to my uncle," Brian's voice came from behind me.

I turned around. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. He had horses."

I dropped my hand from the horseshoe. "You like horses?"

"Eh they're okay. My cousin's the horse freak, not me so much. My brother too. Harold." Brian led the way back to the SUV, and I followed him. We got in and Brian drove across town to the bus station. "So we'll see ya Saturday then, Brad?"

"It's Ben," I corrected him, "And yeah, Saturday."

"Sorry Ben," Brian answered, "You just don't look like a Ben to me is all."

"No? What do I look like to you?"

He shook his head, "Something... but not a Ben. I'll let you know when I figure out what I think you look like."

"Sure thing." He drove off and I wandered up to the platform to wait for the bus that would take me back to Atlanta.

Chapter Nine


I changed my clothes four times before finally walking across the street to the cafe wearing a pair of khakis and a button up shirt. I carried a handful of flowers I'd stopped at the Little Red Hen and picked up on the way home from the Littrell's house. I stood outside the cafe, shifting my weight from one foot to the other until the door jingled and Kim walked out. She had on the jeans and t-shirt she'd been wearing that morning - the denim hugged her butt just right and the Beatles crossed her breasts instead of Abbey Road. I stared at her. She raised an eyebrow.

"I really like the Beatles," I said by way of explanation.

Kim laughed. "Nice flowers you have there," she commented.

"Oh crap these are yours." I shoved them into her hand.

She smiled, "You're good at this."

"Sorry, it's been awhile."

"Yeah? You don't get a lot of action?" Kim turned on the sidewalk and started meandering along and I realized suddenly I had no freaking idea where we were going or doing. I hadn't planned anything.

"I've been busy lately," I answered.

Kim nodded, "Me, too, Stock Boy."

We walked side by side along the street in silence as I raced through my brain trying to come up with just the right thing to say I'd planned on doing all along. I imagined bowling, but that sounded dumb. Or the movies, but that was practically high school. So nix the activity for now, I thought, just walk to a restaurant. But what restaurant? What if she didn't like Italian? Or what if she couldn't eat shellfish?

Finally I decided it was best to tell the truth.

"I don't know where we're going," I admitted.

Kim laughed, "I know you don't."

She knew I didn't know? Then who knew? Did she know? "Do you know where we're going?" I asked.

She looked up at me, her brown eyes twinkling, "Are you capable of being spontaneous, Ben?"

If she only knew, every breathing moment of my life - every choice I made, everything I said and did - felt like spontinaity to me. There was no conscious memory to back up choices I made, or to explain the random thoughts that traversed through my head (even as we were walking, I had Raspberry Beret stuck in my head and I have no idea why). "It's hard to tell the differenc between being spontaneous and breathing for me sometimes," I answered.

Kim smirked, "You seem habitual to me, actually."

"I do?"

She nodded, "I like that about you."

I tried to think about how I'd seem habitual. I guess because I ordered the same coffee every morning when I went to the cafe - every morning. I guess that's how I'd seem habitual to someone who didn't really know me. Although now that she said it, I did kind of have a little routine when I got home, too. I mean not like OCD-esque stuff like tapping the door knob three times before entering things or anything like that but I did have a pattern. And here all this time I thought I'd been moving in a random motion, freefalling kind of way but one word from a stranger who only had my coffee drinking habits to go by and I realized that I really was a habitual creature.

"I guess I am," I said. "But it feels spontaneous."

Kim laughed. "So, how old are you, Stock Boy?"

I hated this question. So I turned it around. "How old do you think I am?"

Kim paused walking and looked at me, her eyes sweeping me. She looked at each feature of my face carefully, then turned forward. "Definitely between 30 and 40."

I could roll with that. I walked quietly beside her, nodding.

She looked up at me, "Well?"

"That wasn't specific enough," I replied.

"Is it true though? Between 30 and 40?"

"Possibly," I said.

"Thirtyyyy-" she dragged out the word, bit her lip, then spit out the word, "Six. Thirty-six. Am I right?"

"Women," I said, quoting Brian Littrell, "Are always right."

"But what if I'm wrong?" she asked.

"Then it's an enigma."



We ended up at McDonalds.

Kim was shoving fries into her mouth like there was no tomorrow and we had a grand total of forty-four chicken McNuggets on the tray between us with a pool of ketchup the size of a small lake. I was busy constructing a land scape but she kept eating the mountain range. Salt was everywhere. Music played quietly overhead and children were yelling in the ball pit a few feet away from where we sat.

"Can you go refill my Diet Coke?" Kim waved her empty cup, which had Grimmace printed on the side of it.

"You're the waitress, Waitress."

She beaded her eyes, "But you're the gentleman."

"And so I am." I took her cup and walked across the restaurant, filled it, and carried it back. She smiled up at me as I handed it to her.

"Why thank you," she said, "You didn't have to do that."

"I figured you might like a refill," I quipped.

Kim sipped her soda and waved her arm at the food in between us on the table as I squeezed into the red vinyl seat. "Did you ever in a hundred thousand years think you'd take a girl to a freaking McDonalds as a first date?" she asked, laughing.

"I don't believe I ever thought that, no," I said, laughing back.

"This is like gourmet," she said.

"I have to say I find it really amusing you're drinking diet soda while we're sitting here with 44 chicken nuggets to consume."

"I know, right?" Kim's cheeks flushed as she laughed, "That's like a hundred billion calories each."

"It's actually somewhere around 1030 calories each," I said,"Twenty-two nuggets apiece at approximately 47 calories each."

"Forty-seven calories each?" Kim looked at the nugget in her hand, "Jesus H., these fuckers are loaded, huh?" She tossed it into her mouth, chewed, swallowed, then asked, "How the hell do you know how many calories are in each chicken McNugget?"

"I'm a master at quantum physics. Einstein would salivate at my IQ level," I deadpanned.

"Seriously, how do you know?" she asked.

I picked up the box that they'd come in an turned it to her. "A service size is six an there's 280 calories per serving, that's 46.66666667 each, round up to 47. That's how."

"So you aren't a master at quantum physics you're just fucking good at math," she said, nodding and snapping the box out of my hands. She stared at it a moment, put it down, then looked up at me. "I like that we went to a McDonalds for a first date, you know why?"

"Why?"

"Because when I was little and they had the Barbie Happy Meals, my dad always brought me here."

"So I remind you of your father?"

"No," Kim laughed, "It just is a place that has an ability to make good memories for me." She reached into the box her food had come in and pulled out a plastic doll with a plastic pink prom dress on, "And I get to add this to my collection."

Chapter Ten


When we'd had our fill of 46-calorie chicken nuggets, we tossed what was left to some seagulls in the parking lot and made our way back through the streets of Atlanta, just walking and talking about stuff. She asked me about the grocery store and I recounted some of my favorite random 'let's ask the stock boy' questions (such as whether a particular tooth brush came in a different shade of red), and she told me about some of her regular customers at the cafe. It was during this point in our conversation when she paused, leaned against the building that bordered the sidewalk where we stood, and took my hands. "So," she said, looking up at me, "Who is Stock Boy?"

I smiled, "Besides the key crime-fighting hero of the Little Red Hen?"

"Yes, besides that," Kim nodded eagerly.

"I dunno, I'm just me, I guess," I answered.

She licked her lips as she thought and looked down at our hands, where they angled out from our torsos to meet in the middle between us. She swayed slightly, our hands swaying with her. Finally, she looked up, "I don't ask this to be rude," she said, "But what happened to your face?"

I looked away, down to my sneakers. "I don't really know," I answered.

Kim sighed. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," she said, "I don't care that your face is like that." She paused, "That sounded callous. You know what I mean though, right? Like some people are cosmetic about things and I'm not. Jesus, I sound like a jerk. I'm sorry."

"No trust me, I know what you mean."

Kim broke one of her hands away from one of mine and lifted it to my face. "I think you're handsom."

I looked up at her. "Please," I laughed.

"No, I really do." Kim shook her head in a way that was meant to push away my disbelief.

"My face is anything but handsom," I replied, still disbelieving, despite her headshake.

"It shows you've been through something, Ben," Kim said, "It's a battle scar."

"I could've done without it."

She sighed, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to piss you off."

"I'm not pissed off."

"You are, I can feel it in your fingers." She swayed our hands that were still connected and fished with her free hand for my free hand. She grabbed hold of it and pulled both my hands until I stumbled closer to her and I was right in front of her and she was staring up at me. "Ben, your eyes are the most amazing eyes I have ever seen." Kim paused, tugged on my hand to urge me, and finally I looked at her. She smiled, "There they are." She searched my eyes with hers. "They're so deep and beautiful," she said quietly, "I feel like I could get lost in them forever. You know?"

"I guess."

"And I love the color of them. It's so rich."

"Two -almost three now- years ago a cop went on duty around midnight and went to patrol the park. He was going through there and he found me, laying on the grass unconscious and barely alive. I was in a coma for months. When I woke up - which they didn't think I was going to wake up - I couldn't remember anything. Not a fucking thing - not my name, not my age, not anything. And nobody had come for me at the hospital. I was alone, entirely, without even myself. And the worst part is however the hell I got to the park, and nobody knows because nobody knows who I was or what the hell I was doing there, my face was covered in lacerations and my nose was shattered and my jaw bone fractured. I was really fucked up, basically. So they reconstructed my face and tried to cover as many of the scars as they could, tried to heal me as much as possible, but I still ended up looking like this."

Kim's eyes had stayed focused directly on mine the entire time I spoke; her eyes dampened, and her lips sucked into her mouth in surprise and she squeezed my hands tighter. "Ben..." she whispered.

"That might not even be my real name, you know."

Kim pulled me into her fully, dropped my hands and wrapped her arms around me, hugging me tightly. I awkwardly rested my arms across her back. Her face rested against my neck and upper chest and without moving she kissed my collar bone. "It's okay, I can just call you Stock Boy," she said into my chest.



"Joe won't mind, c'mon."

"Are you sure? I don't want to get you in trouble."

"I just said Joe won't mind."

"Okay."

Kim held open the door to the cafe. It was dark and the chairs were flipped up on top of the tables. They'd closed over an hour ago, but Kim had the key to the front door. We slipped in through the door and she relocked it. "Wait here, I'll go get the lights." She disappeared into the darkness and I stood by the door, unable to see much further than a couple feet away, where the light from the street lamps faded off. Instinctively, I walked forward along the indoor/outdoor runner of carpet toward the counter. A string of Christmas tree lights that were usually just an accent glow flicked on over the counter and gave the room a comfortable, dim light.

"Isn't it beautiful like this?" Kim asked, coming back out from the kitchen where she'd gone to turn the lights on. She looked up at the lights.

"It's nice," I replied, nodding.

"I always tell Joe we should keep the lights on like this all day rather than using those horrid flourescent things." She changed the filter in the coffee pot and started spooning grounds into it expertly. I leaned against the counter. "The usual, I assume?"

"Yeah," I laughed.

Kim smiled, "I figured." She grabbed two cups from the cupboard behind her - large, colorful in-house mugs - and tossed a tea bag into one and the sugar, cream, and nutmeg I liked into the other.

A few minutes later, we were sitting on the couch by an electric fireplace, sipping our drinks in the glow of the Christmas lights. Kim had her legs tucked beneath her and was facing me, while I was seated sideways, leaning against the arm of the couch. Kim put her chai tea down on the coffee table in front of us and reached for my coffee and put it down next to her tea. She leaned closer until she was practically sitting in my lap, braced herself by putting one arm on either side of my shoulders, and leaned in to kiss me. Her lips parted slightly when she kissed, and I could feel her breath entering my lungs. We sat like that for several long moments, our mouths searching each other, sharing breath. I steadied her, my hands on her hips. When she pulled away, she looked deep into my eyes again, a smile spreading across her face.

"You're really good at that," she commented.

"So are you."

Kim laughed and backed away, back to her own side of the sofa. She picked up her chai tea and took another long sip from the mug. I watched her, the way her fingers curved around the mug, the way she blew away the steam from the cup. Her hair, which had been in a knot on the back of her head all night, was loosening and a few long, wavy strands had escaped to frame her face.

"I swear to God I'm dreaming you," I said after I'd stared at her for quite some time.

She reached over and pinched my arm. "Did that hurt?"

"Only a litte."

She laughed. "Well you aren't dreaming anyways."

"Thank God."

Kim's eyes twinkled. "Maybe you could not-dream again tomorrow?" she asked.

I nodded. "Dreaming is overrated anyways. Not when you're around."

"You, Stock Boy, are a charmer."

"I try."

"You succeed."



After we'd finished our drinks and kissed a little bit more, Kim washed out the mugs and cleaned the coffee pot. We turned off the electric fire place and Kim unplugged the Christmas lights. She unlocked the front door and we stepped out into the street and she relocked the door. She turned to me, "Thank you," she said, "For a wonderful evening."

"Thank you," I replied.

Kim smiled. "See you tomorrow, Stock Boy."

"Tomorrow."

"Good night."

She turned, and walked away, and I watched her go until she disappeared around the corner of a city block before turning to my own apartment building across the street. Everything that happened kind of swam around in my head. My feet seemed lighter as I walked across the street and jogged up the stairs to my apartment. I laid in bed that night, bathed in the moonlight, staring up at the stucco mountains and valleys, imagining what it would be like if Kim were laying right beside me.

Chapter Eleven


I whistled as I put my apron on the next morning. Even the smell of burnt popcorn that permeated the breakroom air couldn't bring me down. "Aren't we chipper today?" Marty commented as she adjusted her hair net.

"I kissed a girl and I liked it," I told her, punching in, and heading out onto the sales floor. I could feel her smiling at my retreating back.



That night, I took Kim to a Chinese restaurant and we had fun eating with the chopsticks. She had no idea how to hold them and I expertly showed her how and by the time we'd finished our dumplings, she'd got the hang of it. "Where did you learn to use chopsticks?" she demanded, laughing.

"I don't know, remember?" I said, "I just knew how to use them when I picked them up."

Kim laughed, "That must be so weird feeling."

"At this point, it's all I know," I replied.

Kim waved her chopsticks in my direction, "Want to see how I use chopsticks, generally?"

"How's that?"

She speared one of the dumplings and held it up. "It works effectively also."

"Let's see you eat the wonton soup with them," I teased.

"Let's see you eat the wonton soup with them," she answered.

There's just no way to eat soup with chopsticks, though.



Saturday morning was raining. I wondered how Brian planned to paint the trailer in the rain, but he seemed like a pretty innovative guy so I wasn't about to question it. I didn't even bother calling them to see if they still wanted me to show up. I just got on the bus and rode it to the Marietta stop for the time we'd agreed upon and when I got off the bus, sure as shootin' Leighanne's Volvo was waiting in the lot, the wipers running and lights piercing the rain, making the drops shine like falling diamonds.

I climbed into the car and pulled the door shut. "Crappy day, huh?" I asked.

"Brian pulled the trailer into the garage," she said, smiling.

"I figured he'd have a plan."

"Husband always has a plan," Leighanne replied.

We started off on our journey back to the Littrell house through the rain. I felt like I needed to uphold conversation, so I asked, "How long have you and Brian been together?"

"Married almost seventeen years, dating almost twenty."

"Wow."

"Yeah." Leighanne smiled proudly. "How about you, anyone in your life?"

"There's a girl," I replied.

We kind of chatted small-talk for a bit. Then we came to a spot where some flashing emergency lights told us there was an accident ahead and we were stuck in traffic. Leighanne sighed. "I hate weather like this," she commented, "It makes me wish we'd settled in California where the weather rarely changes. I mean we have a condo, obviously, Brian's work takes us out there way too often."

"You've been to LA then."

"That's where the condo is."

"You've seen the space structure at LAX then?"

"Ugly thing," she commented, "Yeah."

"I've always wanted to see it," I commented. I used the term always because, well, it seemed like always to me. It was the closest I had to always anyways.

She looked over at me. "You should go see it," she said. "I don't particularly love Hollywood, but I do think it's an experience everyone should have. I'm just jaded by it. We go too often and when we do go, Husband's usually stressed... you know."

"I'm saving," I answered, "At the rate the Red Hen is paying me I should be able to go within..." I paused, laughed, and said, "Well, hopefully before I kick the bucket, you know?"

"Hmm," she mused, but she didn't say anything in response.

After a bit, we passed by the accident, and Leighanne drove along until we'd reached the now familiar driveway. She parked on the far side of the loop, as close to the door as possible, cut the engine, and we both ran for the front door. "You can leave your shoes there," Leighanne said, pointing to a small rug. Brian's pink sneakers were sitting there next to a pair of Batman sneakers that must've been Baylee's. She kicked off her pumps and left them there, too. I knocked my shoes off and followed her, stocking footed, through the house.

"Husband!" she yelled as she walked along, "Ben and I are here."

Brian came bounding into the room behind us. "I got the stencils up on the trailer, all we gotta do is paint it," he said.

"Sounds good."

Brian moved through the kitchen to a door at the far end. Opening it, he revealed that the door connected to their garage. Sure enough, the trailer sat there, dripping from the rain it'd already been exposed to that morning. The light shone on it, and a huge stencil with that curly Wylee logo was mouted on the side. "Tharrr she blows," Brian said in a pirate-y voice.

"Brian," Leighanne said, coming up behind me. "Husband, I need to talk to you a second."

"What'd I do now?" Brian asked.

"Nothing, just a second."

"Um okay. Hey if you wanna get the paint cans opened...?" he asked.

"Sure thing," I answered, and I took the steps into the garage quickly, pulling the door shut behind me.

Chapter Twelve


Marty was just leaving The Little Red Hen as I was going in. She took one look at me and changed her course from her car to step into line beside me. She eyed the stack of papers clutched in my hand curiously. "Ben," she said, "I didn't know you worked today."

"I don't."

She looked at the papers again, then back up at me. "Thought you were at the Backstreet Boy's house today?" she asked. Ah yes, she liked grilling me for information about my experiences at Brian's house.

"I was," I answered.

"And?"

"And now I'm here."

We walked into the main entryway and the doors parted and, as always, I thought of Star Trek. I don't know what it is about automated doors but they always made me think of Star Trek.

"You know, you still haven't arranged my meeting with Mr. Littrell," she said in an accusatory tone, wagging her finger at me.

"I still haven't agreed to arrange said meeting," I answered.

"Minor details, minor details," Marty replied, waving off their presence. She was getting out of breath. My gait was naturally almost twice as long as hers, so she had to scurry to keep up. "You're a man on a mission this afternoon," she noted.

"That I am."

"Where are we headed?"

"I am headed to Mr. Wilder's office."

"Why?"

"I need to request some time off," I answered.

Marty jumped in front of me. "Already? After a month working here? Where are you going?"

"I got another job," I answered, "And I need two months leave."

"Two months --" Marty's eyes widened like she'd just swallowed a bug or something. "Where are you going?"

"Out of town," I answered.

"Where in the hell did you get another job toda--" she stopped midword. I raised an eyebrow. She gasped, covered her mouth. "Oh SHIT, Ben, you're gonna be a Backstreet Boy?!"

I rolled my eyes, "Clearly, you've never heard me sing before."

Actually I had never heard me sing, but that's besides the point.

I stepped around her and started on my way again toward the service desk. I shook my head when I heard her scramble after me, panting and bursting with questions that she couldn't put words around beside little squeals that sounded like the very beginnings of words. "I'm gonna be a stagehand," I answered her unspoken questions, "You know. A roadie."

"Do they need another one?" Marty's voice was thick with hope.

"I doubt it," I replied.

We'd reached Mr. Wilder's office door and I knocked, Marty hanging right behind me. "Come in," Mr. Wilder called and I opened the door, about to step in, but Marty shoved by me. Mr. Wilder's eyes widened, "Marty, now what did you do?" he reached instinctively for a work injury form.

"Ben's gonna be a Backstreet Boy!" she gushed.

"What?" Mr. Wilder looked perplexed, "A - a - a Backstreet Boy? What?"

"You say yes to him Oz, or I swear to God..." Marty muttered, "I want my free tickets."

"What is going on?"

"A stagehand," I interrupted, "I'm going to be a stagehand on the Backstreet Boys' tour. Brian Littrell himself requested that I go along with them. And I don't think I can get free tickets," I said looking at Marty. "I already told you that when you asked me if the painting job came with tickets."

"Stagehand is more important."

Mr. Wilder looked even more confused, so I handed him a copy of the tour itinerary that Brian had given me. "I was hoping," I said as he looked it over, "That I would be able to return to the Little Red Hen when I got back?"

Mr. Wilder looked up from the page. "Wow," he said, "You're serious."

"Oz, you gotta let this happen," Marty gasped.

Mr. Wilder raised an eyebrow at her, then turned to me, returning the itinerary. "Despite your -er- cheerleader here," he said, "Your job will be here for you when you return, Ben."

"Thank you sir," I said.

"So he's going?" Marty clarified.

Mr. Wilder nodded, "Apparently so."

"YES!" Marty shouted. "I'm so going to meet the Backstreet Boys!" and with that jubilation, she trotted out of the office.

I looked at Mr. Wilder, "Wow," I said.

"I know," he said, shaking his head and neatening a stack of papers in front of him, "Who the hell ever would've guessed that under that serious deli-woman front lay a rabid teenager?"



I stood outside the cafe, staring at the doors. I could see Kim inside working. I was so excited to tell her, but at the same time I didn't really want to burst into the cafe yelling about working for the Backstreet Boys, just incase there were other seemingly-calm-adult-women-who-acted-psycho-upon-their-mention (ala Marty). So, I waited out on the sidewalk by the window until I was noticed. It took a bit, but eventually she looked up from wiping the counter down, spotted me, and smiled. I motioned for her to come out to me and she gave me the one minute finger, then turned away. I puffed out my cheeks and took a deep breath. A moment later, Kim stepped out of the coffee shop. "What's up?" she asked.

I took a deep breath. "A couple weeks ago, I was talking to someone and they asked where I was from and without really thinking about it I answered and I said California."

Kim's eyes were glued to mine.

"So that night I Googled California and looked through about nine hundred pictures until I found this one of the Los Angeles airport and, I dunno. I felt something, like it was familiar almost," I explained, "And I wanted to, you know, save money and eventually go to California and see if anything here jogs my memory."

"Okay..." Kim nodded, and I could see in her eyes that she was playing a game of connect-the-dots in her head.

"Today, I was at Brian Littrell's house," I continued, "And they're leaving for tour soon and they need a roadie... and..." I paused as dawn lit on her face.

"You got hired as a roadie," she said.

"Yeah."

"Okay, cool." She paused. "When um, when do you - do you leave?"

"Monday."

"Monday. As in two days from now, Monay?"

"Yeah, short notice."

"Jesus." She turned away and walked a couple paces, leaning against the brick building. "I'll say it is," she muttered.

"Its so perfect, I mean sure it's short notice, but what other chance am I gonna get to go see California and investigate this stuff?" I asked, "I mean, it's like they're paying me, even."

Kim nodded.

"Am I crazy? For considering doing this?"

"No," she answered, "No I mean like you said, when are you gonna get a chance to do this again?" she shrugged. "Well. I --" she smiled, "I hope you have a great time, Ben." She turned to the door of the cafe and grabbed the handle, pulling the door open.

"Wait. Why do you say it like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like it's goodbye."

"Right, you'll come in for your usual for the next two days, of course I'll see you then." She nodded. "I'll see you then, then."

"Yeah," I nodded, "And --"

"There's no and, Ben." Kim shook her head. She pushed the door to the cafe open and went inside. Her hand flew to her face and she wiped away what I assumed were tears.

It wasn't until that moment that I realized that the news might upset her.

Chapter Thirteen


I decided to let Kim be and went home, pissed at myself for not thinking more. I paced around the apartment a bit, and watched the cafe from my window. When she left I was gonna go down and apologize to her and explain myself a little better. I couldn't believe I'd been so focused on what I was getting out of the deal to even think about what would happen between me and Kim. I mean sure we were just starting to go out, we'd only been on two dates... but it had felt like more than that.

Maybe she felt that, too.

The cafe was about to close up when my phone rang and I picked it up. "Hello?"

"Ben? This is Brian."

"Hey." I was pressed against the glass of the window, fogging it up with my breath, holding the phone to my ear as I stared down at the cafe. "What's up?"

"Well, I gotta drive the Wylee trailer up to the first date in Tennessee and I was thinkin' you ought to drive up with me."

"Okay." No sign of Kim yet.

"So if you give me directions to your place, I'll pick you up Monday morning, okay?"

"Wait. What?"

"Your place. Your house? Es su casa?"

"Oh. Yeah." I recounted the directions to my apartment building to him as he listened and "uh-huh"-ed and made various other sounds of understanding. Brian promised to be at my place on Monday by 9:30 in the morning. By the time he'd hung up, I looked back down at the cafe and its lights were out and Kim was nowhere on the street to be found.



The next morning, first thing, I ran across the street to the cafe. Kim was at the register, but the moment she saw me come through the door, she booked it into the backroom like her feet were on fire. I headed to the counter and started to dodge around it to follow after her when a fat Italian guy with a shock of brown hair like Einstein stood in front of me. "What do you want?" he asked.

"Can I talk to Kim a second?" I requested.

"She doesn't wanna talk to you."

"Well it's important," I persisted.

"She's not here."

"I just saw her go in there," I said, waving at the door to the backroom.

He shook his head, "Employees only. Health code."

"Fine." I backed up to a table a couple feet away, "I'll sit here and wait, then."

"Only paying customers sit at tables," he answered.

"Well freaking A, I'll take a medium coffee, then," I replied, pulling my wallet out and holding up three ones. "Can I sit here now?"

He gestured toward the front of the counter, "There's a line, you can't cut. Go wait in line."

I glowered at him as I stood up and went over and stepped in line behind the one person that was waiting there. The guy stood in front of the door to the kitchen like he was a bouncer, his arms crossed over his chest, eyeing me like I was about to take a run into the backroom. His eyes were beady. I sighed as a waitress who was not Kim asked what I wanted and I had to explain how the Usual was made and hope that she got it right (she didn't). When she returned from the hack job of applying cream, sugar, and nutmeg, I looked at her name tag and saw her name was Meghan.

"Meghan," I started, "Can you do me a favor?"

"Um maybe."

"Can you tell Kim that Stock Boy is here and desperately needs to speak with her?"

"No inter-staff messages," the guy called from the door to the backroom. "If Kim doesn't want to see you, you're gonna respect that, you hear me?"

I looked at the coffee as Meghan made change from my three ones in an awkward silence. I felt so frustrated. I looked up at him, "Look, I just wanted to tell her that I was sorry for not thinking about how she'd react to the news I told her yesterday, that I'm not leaving forever, that I wanna call her every night I'm gone, that I don't wanna leave her, that she's awesome and beautiful and the best fucking thing that's happened to me since I lost my memory and if I could remember before that, I could say ever in my life because even without my memory I'm pretty sure that's true because she's amazing and beautiful and I think I might love her." My voice had raised so I knew it carried into the backroom. People were staring at me from all around the cafe. The guy looked kinda pissed. "That's all I wanna tell her, thats it."

"Well she's not here, so split."

I sighed. "Fine." So I left.



I spent the rest of Sunday afternoon packing and wondering if Kim had heard my little speech at the cafe, if she'd respond or if I'd completely blown it with her. I shoved t-shirts and jeans and socks and stuff into the duffle bag I'd left the Center with and a couple books. It didn't take much before I felt fully packed, I mean I only started out with a limited number of things to begin with. I sat down on the couch and flicked on the TV set to take my mind off Kim.

Even the TV was being evil to me. I turned it on and it was Cheers, which remined me of Kim because a bar is sort of similar to a cafe. I changed it and it was Friends where Rachel was bugging Gunther for coffee and a muffin. Change; Dumb & Dumber, the scene where Jim Carrey calls the waitress Flo. Change; a movie called Waitress that I'd never seen before. Change; an episode of Unwrapped on Food Network about coffee. I turned the TV off and laid down, sprawled across the sofa.

The phone rang. I sat up and took it off the cradle. "Hello?"

"It's Brian. Hey, Leighanne wants to know if you like granola bars, and what kind of soda you like? We're packing traveling snacks."

"Uh sure," I answered.

"Okay. Cool, we'll pack extra Kudos and stuff. Do you like Sprite?"

"I guess so."

"Leighanne, he likes Sprite. Throw some Sprite in!" I heard a muffled reply from Leighanne, then Brian came back on the phone, "This is gonna sound weird but your voice sounds really familiar on the phone," he laughed.

"It does?" I asked. My head was starting to ache.

"Yeah." Brian paused, "I'd tell ya who you sound like but that'd be just crazy so I'm gonna hang up. See you on the A- M," he chirped out the words.

"Okay," I replied, my head hurting too much to really pay attention to his words. "See you in the morning."

"Gotta go," he sang out and the line disconnected.

I dropped the phone onto the floor with a sigh and rolled over on the couch.



The next thing I knew, the phone was ringing again. I rolled over to pick it up. My mouth tasted like shit. I coughed and kicked one of the ugly throw pillows that had come with the apartment off the couch and flipped onto the floor. The phone was still ringing. "What the hell time is it?" I muttered to myself. Light was streaming through the window already. "God," I moaned. I grabbed the phone. "Hello?"

"Goooood morning!" Brian's voice was like cold water being thrown over my body - he was a morning person, oh God. "C'mon down buddy! Me and the Purple People Eater are a'waitin' at the curb."

My eyes landed on a clock. It was 9:15. Shit. "I'll be down in a couple secs," I answered.

"Okie dokie!" Brian sang out.

I threw the phone down on the couch and sprinted into the bathroom to get ready. My hair stuck up like I'd been electrocuted. I tried to smoosh it down but there was no hope in that. I ducked my head into the sink and soaked it in hopes that would tame it. I wrapped a towel over my head to help it dry, lathered my toothbrush and got to work on my morning mouth.

By 9:37 I was jogging across the parking area outside my apartment building to Brian's SUV. I grabbed the passenger side door handle to find it locked and looked inside and realized Brian wasn't in there. I looked around.

The cafe. He must've gone to get coffee, I realized. I sighed.

The walk across the street seemed to take forever, with my duffle bag flung over my shoulder. I stared at my sneakers the entire way. Brian was sitting at a table, drinking what looked like hot chocolate. "This place is pretty good," he said, hoisting his cup up to me like a salute.

"Yeah."

"You come here often?" he asked. "You should if you don't."

"Everyday," I replied. I glanced at the counter. She was up there and the big scary guy was not. "I'm gonna go get coffee," I said. Brian nodded, taking a sip of his chocolate. I walked up to the register. Kim didn't see me. I know she didn't because she looked shocked when she looked up. "Hey," I said.

"The usual?" she asked, and turned to the coffee.

I nodded, but she'd already started making it anyways. She put the cap on it. "Two-fifteen," she said, sliding it across the counter to me.

"Did you hear the stuff I said yesterday?" I asked.

Kim waited for the money.

I sighed and shoved three dollars at her. "Keep the change." I turned with my coffee and headed towards Brian.

"You have eighty-five cents here," she said, "Ben, take your eighty-five cents."

Brian stood up and held open the door for me.

"I told you to keep the change, Kim," I replied.

"I don't want your damn change."

"I don't want it either," I answered. I followed Brian out the door and we headed across the street.

"BEN!" Kim's voice echoed off the apartment buildings.

Brian glanced at me, eyebrow raised, and a smile playing on his lips. "I'll... meet you at the car." He sped up to a jog. I sighed and stopped on the sidewalk and turned back to watch Kim as she ran across the street, her fist hoisting the eighty-five cents.

She shoved the change into my hand. Three quarters and a dime. "Take your fucking change," she demanded.

I stared at her, stared into her eyes. "I love you," I said because I did.

Kim scowled. "I love you too," she answered, "And you better call me everyday. And I expect you to say those things you said in the cafe again to me sometime instead of screaming them at Joe." With that, she turned and flounced away back to the cafe without another word.

I laughed to myself and joined Brian in the SUV. He looked at me curiously, "Women troubles?"

"Not anymore," I answered.

"Break up?"

"Nawh, first time we ever said I love you, actually."

Brian laughed and shook his head, "Well alllllrighty then."

Chapter Fourteen


"I spy something.... red."

"That stop sign."

"Nope."

"The car over there in the left lane."

"No."

"A brake light."

"That's good, but no."

Brian and I had resorted to playing road trip games. I'd found a book in the backseat that Baylee had evidently left and we'd been going through it methodically for games the driver could play along with. I Spy had kept us busy now for a good half an hour.

"Hint?" I requested.

"It's inside the car," Brian replied.

I looked around. "This airfreshener?" I hit a Little Tree air freshener he had hanging off his rear view mirror.

"Nope."

I looked around some more. There wasn't anything else red. "You've stumped me," I said.

"The gas light just came on," he answered, grinning.

I looked over at his control panel and sure enough, a big red light had turned on. He flicked the blinker and pulled into the next gas station. "That was a good one," I said.

Brian grinned, "I know," and he hopped out of the car to go pump the gas.



Another hour on the road and we were singing along with the radio at the top of our lungs, the bass vibrating the SUV's doors. "Gooooodbye Ruuuuby Tuuuuuuesday," we shouted as the car rolled along the interstate, "Whoooo could hang a naaame on yooou, when you chaaange with evvverrrryy newww day...still I'm gonna miss yoooou..."

"We're good," Brian laughed as the DJ got ready to play another song.

"That we are, B-Rok," I replied.

He looked at me, an eyebrow raised, "B-Rok?" he laughed.

I paused. Had I just called him that? "Yeah," I stammered, "Google. Saw it was your nickname." My head was spinning. Where the hell did I pull that out of a hat from?

Brian laughed, "Right you are, right you are. I got it for kicking serious ass at basket ball." He grinned a cheesy grin, "Bet I could kick your ass at basket ball."

"You're too short."

"Oh but unlike most white men, I can jump," he said.

"I'm sure."

"Seriously."

"You're on."

"So gonna whoop your ass..." he muttered.

My head was still spinning around the fact that I'd conjured the name up to begin with - why the hell did I know Brian Littrell's nickname? Nobody had ever called him that in front of me, not Marty, not Leighanne (all Leighanne ever called him was 'Brian' or 'Husband'), so why in the hell... - when the radio started emitting familiar notes. Brian's eyes lit up, "Oh no WAY," he cried, turning the stereo system up higher.

And we started singing with the music, right on cue, "Yo listen up here's a story about a little guy that lives in a blue world and all day and all night and everything he sees is blue like him inside and outside blue his house with a blue little window and a blue corvette and everything is blue for him and hisself and everybody around cos he ain't got nobody to listen..." Brian's smile was wider than the horizon. "I'm blue da-ba-dee-da-ba-de-da-ba-die..."



When we stopped for lunch at a small diner, Brian insisted on paying, even though I had my wallet out and was ready to cover the cost of my two chili dogs. We sat down at a picnic table outside next to the Purple People Eater and Brian threw french fries to some birds a few feet away while we ate. A couple teenagers at another picnic table were making out, completely oblivious to a bird that was seated on the table stealing the bread from their sandwich less than a foot away. I nudged Brian and pointed and he laughed and snapped a picture with his cell phone. "I need to chirp that," he laughed, his fingers flying over the cell phone's screen.

I watched as the bird dragged the bread away and started pecking at it. The teens were still completely unaware that anything existed outside of their little liplock.

"There," Brian said, closing the phone, "I ought to get a few million responses off that."

I took a bite of my hotdog.

Brian watched me chew for a few minutes, then he said, "I'm glad you came along, Ben."

I looked up and wiped my mouth. "I'm glad too."

Brian stared at me for a long moment, then looked away. "I'll be right back," he said, getting up. He walked back into the diner, but I could've sworn that, as he walked away, he wiped his eyes. I couldn't help but wonder why.



Another couple hours later and the SUV hauling the Purple People Eater rolled into Nashville. Brian navigated through traffic, getting honked at semi-regularly, his knuckles white as he gripped the wheel. He handed me his Google Map directions and I told him when to turn and stuff until we got to an arena, where he pulled around the back entrance, where a high chainlink fence blockaded a huge crowd of girls away from several long eighteen wheelers and two big, black tour buses with silver swashes that ran along the side of the vehicles. The girls screamed as the SUV passed, when they saw Brian. They waved and yelled his name and several ran along side the SUV, their hands on the doors. They even waved to me, and I wasn't sure if I was allowed to wave back or not so I tried not to look at them.

Brian steered the SUV and the People Eater into the gated parking area, leaving the girls behind. They crowded around the fence, though, jostling for a position against it. They were shoving their arms through the skinny little holes, waving CDs and Sharpies. Brian glanced at me as he put the SUV into park. "I'll be right back," he said, laughing, "My public awaits."

"Okay, sure, no problem."

I watched as he bounded across the lot to greet the girls, who all started screaming like banshees the moment he'd gotten out. He was grinning like crazy the entire time and I smiled - he clearly enjoyed the adoration they were showering him with. I could tell by the faces he was making and his body language that he was joking around with them, and when it was time to leave, he jumped away theatrically, waving and dancing his way back to the SUV. When he opened the door, he was out of breath, but smiling deliriously.

"Sorry," he gasped.

"No you aren't," I laughed, "You thoroughly enjoyed that."

"Indeed," he nodded.

I grabbed my duffle bag out of the backseat but Brian waved for me to put it back down, "We have roadie to take care of that crap," he said.

"I am a roadie," I reminded him.

He laughed, "Well then, you can take mine, too." He was joking though, and we both left our bags in the SUV. "C'mon, I want you to meet the guys," he said, leading the way toward the first of the two tour buses. He paused at the door. "I gotta warn you though," he said, his hand on the handle, "It's a little crazy on the Backstreet tour bus the day we leave on tour."

"I can handle crazy," I replied.

Brian laughed, "Well, don't say I didn't warn you."

Chapter Fifteen


I mean sure, Brian warned me but he didn't warn me.

The moment the door opened, a colossal burst of sound escaped from inside. A stereo was blasting some club beat music and there were at least three male voices and one female voice shouting at each other.

"Sounds like someone's in trouble already," Brian laughed as he took the steps leading up into the bus two at a time. He stopped at the top and shouted, "IT AIN'T NO PARTY LIKE A BACKSTREET PARTY..."

"Cos a Backstreet party don't stop!" came a responsive shout. Several other voices continued what sounded like an argument. "Brian! You made it! Guys, Brian's here." Brian waved for me to follow him and disappeared further into the bus. I felt almost like I was signing a death waiver, took a deep breath of fresh air, and pulled the bus door closed behind me as I ascended the steps.

The bus was already a mess. Stuff was everywhere. Two long couches lined the first part of the bus, with open duffle bags strewn about, stuff pouring out of them. Sneakers lay on the floor haphazardly, their laces coiled around like a murder victim's at the scene of a crime. The music was thump-thumping so loud the floor of the bus shook from it. It smelled slightly like smoke.

"You better be leaning out the window with that shit, AJ," came a loud female voice from the back of the bus.

A body backed out of a bunk in the wall just beyond the couches. The guy was covered with tattoos. I swear to God there wasn't a single space of bare skin left. He had a cigarette in his hand, "Well I was, but now I'm inside telling you that I was leaning outside," he said. His voice was rough, probably from the smoking. He glanced back at me, "Yo," he said without so much as doing a once-over, then he ducked back into the bunk, his legs wriggling out into the aisle as he did.

Commotion was so not the word to cover what was happening here.

"You're so fulla crap dude... you are so not out the window, you're in your fuckin' bunk." A tall blonde guy pranced back toward me in the aisle, whipped open the curtain on Tattoo's bunk. Tattoo was, indeed, just laying in the bunk with a cigarette. "FIRE HAZARD!" yelled the blonde guy, snapping the cigarette out of Tattoo's fingers.

"What the fuck!" Tattoos leaped out of the bunk, eyes ablaze.

Blondie didn't respond, he was too busy running for one of the open windows that were over the couches, nearly knocking me over to get there. He tossed the cigarette out the window. He tripped over the murdered sneakers and fell backwards onto the opposing couch, his arms and legs flailing. "Aahh crap!" he yelped as his ass hit the floor with a loud thump. He stared up at me. "Oh hey," he said before scrambling to his feet. "You delivering the pizza?"

"Pizza?"

"He doesn't look like a pizza dude," commented Tattoos.

"Pizza dudes don't have a look, dumbass," Blondie responded.

"NICKOLAS, get your bubble ass back here!" the woman's voice carried over the other sounds.

"You're wanted, your highn-ass," Tattoos said. He reached in his pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes, pulled one from the box, and crawled back into his bunk.

"COMING!" Blondie yelled. He studied me a second. "You ain't got no flippin' pies, yo," he said.

"I'm uh here with Br--"

"There you are!" Brian came back from wherever he'd gone. "Nick, stop traumatizing Ben."

"Ben?" Nick looked at me again. He looked at Brian, "Yo how the frick do you know the pizza dude's name?"

"I'm not a pi--"

"NICKOLAS!" a short, brown haired girl interrupted me as she came out of the far end of the bus. "God you're a pain in my ass. Will you please come help me and Howie get this shit into the overheads? You know we can't reach it."

"Duty calls," Nick said, and he bounded away.

"Jenn," Brian called to the girl, "Can I talk to you a second?"

"Yeah, hold on B-Rok, let me make sure Nick's working and not trying to shove Howie in the overhead and I'll be right back." She turned and a moment later we could hear her yelling Nickolas again. Evidently Howie was being shoved in the overhead bins.

Brian laughed, "Told'ja it was crazy."

"Yeah," I said, mesmerized by the hyperactivity on board the bus. It had looked so... calm and peaceful from outside.

Brian smiled, "If it's any consolation, the roadie's bus is always calmer."

"It is a huge consolation," I answered.

It took about ten minutes before Jenn returned. "Hey, sorry," she tucked a stray piece of hair over her ear, "You know Nick, he's a pain in my ass... all the damn time," she added. She looked at me. "Are you the pizza guy?"

"No," I answered. What the hell was with everyone thinking I was the pizza guy?

"This is Ben," Brian said.

Jenn nodded, "Hey nice to meet you. I'm the fellas tour manager."

"Nice to meet you, too."

"I was hoping," Brian said slowly, "That maybe we had some space for an extra stagehand, that maybe Ben could help out? Join us on tour?" he grinned.

Jenn hesitated.

Brian turned to me, "If nothing else you can run the Wylee trailer," he suggested.

I imagined my life aboard the Purple People Eater. I didn't even know anything about the stuff Leighanne designed or sold. "I uh might not be suited for that," I replied quietly.

Jenn shrugged, "I'll talk to Rick."

"PUT ME DOWN OR I'LL FUCKIN' KEEL YOU!" a thick Latino accent carried through the bus, followed by a crash and a loud, obnoxious laugh.

"Oh God," Jenn groaned, "And we haven't even left the parking lot yet." She turned and dashed away.

I looked at Brian. "You did so not warn me enough," I informed him.

His eyes twinkled, "It gets worse, trust me."

Chapter Sixteen


The pizza guy everyone had mistaken me for arrived bearing three large pies and Tattoos put out his cigarette and Nick evidently stopped trying to shove Howie into the overhead bins and Jenn, Tattoos (whose name turned out to be AJ), Nick, Howie, Brian, and I ended up sitting on the couches with the pizzas. Nick had shoved aside the duffle bags - most of which had turned out to be his, including the sneakers - and things had gotten relatively quiet while everyone chewed their food. Well, like I said, relatively. Nick was one of those people who talked around the food in their mouth.

"I'm so excited," he gnoshed, "Like I can feel my blood like rolling around in my veins and my blood's excited too."

"You can't feel blood," Howie said, picking mushrooms off his pizza and dropping them onto Nick's plate.

"I can so feel my blood," Nick answered, "It's wet."

"Can we please not talk about blood?" AJ asked, swallowing the mouthful of pizza he was chewing.

"Blood freaks AJ out," Brian explained to me.

"But I can feel it," Nick insisted.

"It's physically impossible," Howie repsonded.

"If you could feel blood, you'd be feeling it all the time," Jenn pointed out to Nick.

"No but I feel it right now because it's moving quicker because I'm excited," Nick reasoned. He looked at me. "Can you feel your blood?" he asked.

"No," I answered.

"See? You can't feel blood," Howie said.

AJ was slightly green. "It's okay, J," Brian said, patting him on the back.

"But I swear to Christ I can feel mine," Nick argued. He shoved a big mouthful into his mouth. "Ifff noff lidd uhh cab tabbe wuduh fuhh," he grunted around it.

"God Nickolas, chew your food," Jenn said, rolling her eyes and looking away from him as a pepperoni escaped his mouth and fell onto his chest. He plucked it off his chest and shoved it into his mouth again. "I'm sorry," she said to me, "These guys are still working on progressing through the evolutionary cycle and as you can see Nick's only just made it to the walking upright part."

Nick choked trying to say something and ended up with his hands up in the air over his head trying to swallow and breathe at the same time, his eyes watering. "Serves you right," AJ said, throwing a piece of crust at Nick, which hit him in the side of the head, geting crumbs and traces of sauce in his hair.



Brian showed me to some folding chairs to one side of the stage, "Here's your seat... Jenn hasn't talked to Rick yet about where we're gonna put you, but for tonight you can sit here." The stage was huge. Beyond the curtains that blocked off the backstage areas from view, I could hear people milling through the auditorium, their voices echoing off the rafters. Brian reached in his pocket and pulled out a laminated pass that said VIP BSB on it and my name. It was teal. "Keep this on," he added, dropping it around my neck.

"Okay." I studied the pass and he bounded away. It was holographic. When I tilted it one way, a picture of five silhouettes appared, when I tilted it another way, only four remained. I looked up at the stage and sighed as I watched people scurrying around, connecting wires and setting out bar stools and waters.

Jenn sat down next to me. "Hey," she said, crossing her legs, "How's tour so far?"

"Loud," I answered, since that was the only adjective I really had for it.

Jenn laughed, "Yeah, the commotion can take some getting used to," she nodded, "It's a lot of fun though."

"It seems it," I answered.

"I talked to Rick and he's gonna have you start tomorrow, okay?" she asked.

"Okay."

"We need some extra help up in the rafters I guess," she explained, "I hope you aren't afraid of heights?"

"I don't think I am," I replied. I really didn't know.

"Fair enough," Jenn replied with a smile.

"Hey Jenn? Argument in the dressing room. Sounds like Nick's trying to dunk Howie in the ice cooler again."

I shook my head and turned back to look at the stage again. Nick needed a keeper by the sounds, a full time person who did nothing but look after him and keep him out of trouble. I'd known the guy less than twelve hours and very seriously thought about yelling at him several times.

"Jesus." Jenn turned to me, "See ya around Ben." Jenn sprinted off to rescue Howie.



Once the show started, though, I understood why Nick would've been excited enough to feel his blood earlier. I'd never ended up going on Google to listen to the Backstreet Boys so the music was all new to me, yet I felt like I'd heard it all a million times. I watched as they danced their choreographed routines and shared dialogue with the girls in the crowd. Brian leaped and danced around, at one point even doing a backflip that made all the girls in the front row get this look on their face like they were going to lunge forward and catch him incase he fell down. The only thing about the whole show that I didn't understand was why there were five stools and microphones on stage at all times when there were only four Backstreet Boys.

I nudged Jenn, who had returned once the Boys were on stage. She looked up at me.

"What's the fifth stool for?" I asked, yelling over the music.

"Kevin," she answered, "He left the band a few years ago."

"Why?"

"Wanted to start a family," Jenn answered, "I'm sure there was more to it, but I wasn't here at the time when he left." She shrugged, "He thought about coming back a couple years ago, but it didn't happen."

"Yeah? Why'd he change his mind?"

Jenn shrugged, "Some stuff came up. But it's become kind of a tradition now, to have the fifth stool, you know? We started doing that on the 20-year anniversary tour."

"Twenty years?"

"Yeah. Well, twenty-two now."

"That's a long time."

Jenn nodded. "That's why they're all such good friends." As she said the words, Nick had Brian in a choke hold on stage and was giving him a noogie.



"Hey Not-The-Pizza-Dude," Nick called. Obviously he'd forgotten my name already. He trotted up beside me. The show had ended and the Boys had gone to get changed. Nick was still in the suit he'd had on during the show, but the shirt was unbuttoned and the bow tie was in his hand. We were in the parking lot, I was leaning against the arena wall, waiting for Rick to come out. Jenn had said he'd show me where the roadies slept. "You comin'?" Nick asked, coming to a stop in front of me.

"Coming? Coming where?" I asked.

"To the after party," he replied, "I'm gonna rip some awesome beats." I stared at him, not really sure what the hell he meant by that. "I'm deejaying," he explained.

"I'm supposed to meet Rick."

"Ehh you've got a million-trillion times to meet Rick, and only one first after party." Nick grinned, "You know you want to."

"I dunno," I replied.

"Aw c'mon, it'll be fun. Plus, it's probably the only night the whole tour that you'll get a chance to see Brian get drunk. Hilar-to-the-ous." Nick nodded.

I couldn't picture Brian drunk, so this was the main selling point that had me following Nick back to the bus to head off to the after party.

Chapter Seventeen


"Eeee-eeee ah eeeee-eee-eeee ah weee umm bom baaah waay...." Brian was swaying in his seat, singing under his breath. He'd had exactly two (small, light on the alcohol) drinks and three shots and he was down for the count. He had his arms around Nick and Howie, who were both in a silent, yet intense, competition to see who could drink who under the table first (my money was on Howie). AJ had been nursing the same can of Red Bull since we got to the club. "In the juuuungle the miiighty jungle the Briiiian sleeps toniiiiiiiight..." Brian sang, giggling when he replaced Lion with his own name. "Get it?" he asked Nick, his mouth right in Nick's ear, "Do you get it? Because lion rhymes with Brian?"

Nick bombed another shot of tequila and looked at Brian, "You're so drunk," he laughed.

"I'm not that drunk," Brian argued, "You're drunk." He looked at me, "Pssst, Ben... Am I drunk?"

"Yes," I answered. I took a sip of the rum & coke that I'd ordered.

"Oh," Brian said, accepting my word that he was drunk. He returned to singing his song. "In the village, the peaceful village..."

"I'm gonna go play deejay for a bit," Nick announced, wiggling out from under Brian's arm. He wobbled a little bit as he got up out of the booth.

"He just doesn't want to keep doing shots," Howie said in a teasing tone as he licked his fist and knocked back another shot.

Nick grabbed the last one off the tray in the middle of the table, "Fuck you," he said, took the shot, cussed and slammed the glass back on the table, "I'm younger than you Howard, I will so beat your ass at this game."

AJ wiggled the straw around in the mouthhole of his Red Bull can. "Ah, the joys of sobriety. Seeing you ding-dongs act like idiots."

Brian looked over at AJ, "I'm drot nunk." He paused, his eyebrows coming together as he thought about the words he'd just said, then he said, "Okay so I am." He laid down on the far side of the booth, "The seats warm," he muttered.

"From Nick's ass," Howie said.

"He had beans earlier, too," AJ commented.

Their conversation was getting on my nerves. I slid out of the booth, leaving my drink, "I'll be right back," I said.

"Where you going?" Brian asked from under the table's ledge.

"I've gotta make a call," I answered, "I'll be right back."

"Who you gonna call?" he asked.

"Ghost Busters!" AJ and Howie both shouted at the same time. "Jinx," AJ and Howie both yelped, pointing at eachother. I could hear them arguing over who called jinx first as I walked away.

I sighed and pulled out the cell phone I'd got after Brian had asked me to come on tour with them. My VIP pass bounced against my chest as I walked, and I clicked into the contacts list, scrolled until I found Kim's name and clicked on it. Leaning against the rail of the balcony, overlooking a dance floor full of girls wearing Backstreet Boys t-shirts and waving glow-sticks, I waited for Kim to pick up.

"Hello?" she sounded sleepy. I looked at my watch. And then remembered on top of the late hour, I was also an hour behind her.

"Shit I'm sorry I just realized what time it is. I'll call you tomorrow. I'm sorry," I said, and started to hang up the phone.

"Wait! Stock Boy!" her voice caught me just before I hit the End Call button.

I raised the phone back to my ear. "I really am sorry," I said.

"It's okay," she sounded more awake now. "How'd your first day on tour go?" she asked.

"Went okay," I replied, "They definitely don't sing country music."

Kim laughed. I'd told her about my faux pas with the genre of music the Boys performed. "I knew that," she said. "Did you get to meet them all?"

"Yeah, actually I'm out at an after party with them right now," I replied.

"Wow," Kim said, "Very impressive. So you're all VIP and stuff?"

"I actually have a badge thing that says that," I bragged.

"Ah... my famous Stock Boy. When you get discovered by Hollywood, just make sure you remember that I knew you when," she teased.

"I will," I answered, "I'll never forget the Little People who helped me get where I am."

"Bastard," she laughed.

"I love you," I said.

Kim's smile practically radiated through the phone, "It's weird to hear you say that. It's also weird to want to say it considering we've only gone out like twice." She paused, "That said, I'm okay with weird. I love you, too."

I smiled and we fell into a comfortable silence.

Across the floor, Nick was finally donned with headphones and grabbed a microphone away from the current DJ and he said into it, "Who wants to get fucking crazy in here?" He looked around as all the girls below started screaming and jumping and waving their hands. The noise decibles in the club had just quadrupled in a matter of seconds.

"What the hell is all that racket?" Kim asked, laughing.

"That," I said, "Are the fans."

"They sound ridiculous," she laughed.

I looked down and what few faces I could see in the flashing pink strobe lights looked like they were in the height of euphoria. "They're okay," I answered, "A little nuts, but okay."

"No groupies, mister," Kim said in a mock-stern voice.

"With a face like mine," I said, "I doubt I'll get any groupies after me."

"I'll be your groupie," Kim promised, "When you get home I'll stock you and wear a shirt with your face on it and offer to give you a blow job in exchange for front row tickets. How's that?"

"Sounds amazing."

"Good. Now go to bed, I'm going to bed."

"That also sounds amazing."

Kim laughed, "Good night Stock Boy."

"Night Waitress."



Later that night, after Howie proved to Nick that he could, indeed, drink him under a table, AJ and I round Nick, Howie, and Brian up and hauled them back to the tour bus, which was waiting just outback of the club. Howie muttered something barely coherent in Spanish before disappearing into his bunk, while AJ threw Nick onto one of the couches. "I'm gonna hurl so many times its not even funny," Nick mused, kicking his sneakers off.

Brian stumbled over one of them and I kicked the shoes out of the way. "I'll be right back," I told AJ, "Make sure if h pukes he does it out the window at least?" I guided Brian into the bus and into his bunk. It was weird because I just instinctively knew which one was Brian's.

He folded into it, his eyes barely focusing. "That was fun, huh? Did you have fun?" his words kind of stuck together.

"Yeah it was fun," I said. I pushed Brian's legs into the bunk.

Brian grabbed my shirt and pulled me closer. I could smell the alcohol on his breath. He stared at my eyes for a long moment. "I really wish..." he muttered.

"Really wish what?"

"...been a long time..." his breath really smelled bad.

"What?"

"...impossible anyways..." His eyes were almost closed so I assumed it was the alcohol talking, and pulled his bunk's curtain shut.

When I returned to the couches where I'd left Nick and AJ, Nick was laying flat on his back, his face was screwed up tight like he was holding his breath or something and AJ was laughing. "What is he doing?" I asked. He looked like he was trying to take a dump during a bout of constipation or something.

AJ laughed, "He thinks he can levitate."

"What?"

"He thinks if he concentrates long enough, that he'll float or something."

"Oh for Christ's sake." I shook my head, walked over, bent down, and lifted Nick up.

The moment I lifted him, Nick's eyes flew open, "I'm doin' it! I'm doin' it!" he yelled at the top of his lungs. Then his eyes focused on me -well, as much as they were going to that many shots in the hole- and he said, "Where we goin'?"

"Bed," I answered.

"Dude I don't swing that way," Nick answered.

"I'm not going to bed, you are going to bed."

"Okay."

I shoved Nick into his bunk, into which he'd put a blue Batman comforter, and he scrunched around in the blankets until he'd gotten comfortable. He glanced over his shoulder at me just before I pulled the bunk curtain closed. "You're cool."

"Thanks."

Nick grinned and flipped over onto his stomach. I had a feeling he'd be asleep before I could count to ten.

When I returned once again to the couches, it was to find them empty. The smell of smoke, though, was leaking from AJ's closed bunk. I sighed. I had no idea where I was supposed to sleep since I'd never gotten to talk to Rick. I lowered myself onto the couch and grabbed one of Nick's many duffle bags to use as a pillow. It smelled a little bit like laundry. How in the hell did he already have laundry when the tour had just started that day? Did he pack clothes that were already dirty?

Chapter Eighteen


Day Two of the Backstreet Boys' tour brought us to Chicago. When the bus stopped in the arena parking lot, the guys were still asleep (well the three that had drank the night before were, AJ was just hiding out in the bunk - I could smell the smoke), so I climbed off board and went in search of Rick. I assumed I'd find him by the eighteen wheelers that were unloading bits and pieces of staging at the far side of the lot and I jogged over.

"Excuse me," I nudgd a guy rolling a big black case on wheels across the lot, "Do you know where I can find Rick?" He pointed and I thanked him and approached a rail-thin bald guy wearing a neon orange t-shirt and holding a clipboard. "Rick?" I said when I was close enough and he turned around. I extended my hand, "I'm Ben Spencer, Brian brought me along and I guess Jenn talked to you about me?"

"Where were you last night?" Rick asked.

"Nick and the guys kind of dragged me along with them," I answered. I figured blaming Nick was the most convincing. He seemed like the one who would be A) the most likely to try to talk me into going, and B) the one that would be least likely to accpet no as an answer. Also, this was C) the truth.

"Right." Rick pointed in the general direction of some stagehands that were unloading the far truck, "Go help out Larry and the lighting crew. We're gonna have you helping to set up the lamps."

"Okay, thanks." I headed over to Larry and the Lighting Crew - a phrase which, by the way, would make a really cool bandname. That is, of course, if there are any people in the world named Larry who are in bands who need names. Larry wasn't a very musically inclined name in my experience.

It wasn't hard work, and it turned out that I wasn't afraid of heights. Quite the opposite, the rafters of the arena were amazing. I liked being able to look down at the seats far below, the stage as it got assembled, coming to life like the bones of the valley in the book of Ezekiel in the Bible. It was intensely interesting. It took a few hours getting all the lights up into the rafters, where the professional light crew got to work on actually hooking them up and testing them and stuff. After I'd gotten the lights up there, I was asked to help set up the stage itself, running wires and wiping down microphones and doing small prep work all around.

By the time the Boys themselves showed up in the arena, nearly everything was done. Nick was considerably calmer than he had been the day before. Today, he wore his sweatshirt zipped to his neck and the hood pulled up. The guys mulled around on the stage while me and the rest of the roadies got things set up. I was assembling folding chairs for the floor seating when a guy with dark brown hair yelled, "Okay, we've got the VIP girls lined up outside and they're getting antsy... You boys ready? Where are we coming on those chairs?" I was almost done assembling the ones they'd given me. "Hurry up with the chairs." Someone carried the five stools out onto the stage and Nick sat on one, resting a guitar on his thigh whlie AJ played with the height of his microphone stand. Brian and Howie were talking at the far end of the stage. Brian kept shooting glances my way.

When I was done with the chairs, the brown haired guy was told to bring the girls in and they came in like a flood from one of the entrances. I went around the other side of the stage where I was given more chairs to assemble. The arena echoed with the sound of the girls talking and Nick's guitar strumming just below the microphone. He was tuning it.

Looking down stage at the girls filing in, Howie and Brian broke up their conversation and Brian showed off by flipping over and walking on his hands back to the cluster of the Boys microphones and stools. The girls laughed and cameras flashed as they took pictures.

I continued working on my task as the Boys sang and goofed off and conversed with the fans. I'd managed to ignore them until the brown haired guy sing-songed, "Anyone got any questions for the Boys?"

The first girl that got the microphone's voice shook as she introduced herself as Michaela and proceeded to ask Howie a question about the latest BSB album (Howie answered that the Boys planned to go into the studio when they got off tour in 2 months). The second one was named Hillary and wanted to ask Nick boxers or briefs (Nick laughed, played the bashful card, then announced he was going commando). The third girl's name was Sarah, and it was her question that caught my attention.

"My brother was killed in a car accident last month," she started.

"I'm so sorry," Brian said, and the concern in his voice sounded genuine.

"It's been really hard on my family because he was like my best friend and my dad's a wreck." Her voice shook as she spoke. I stopped mid-row where I was still assembling the chairs and looked back at the stage. The brown haired guy was taking pictures, Nick was looking down at his guitar like he didn't quite know where else to look. AJ was in the process of climbing off the stage, while Brian and Howie both looked at her with care-worn eyes. "It's just so hard," her voice broke and she started crying. AJ found her in the crowd and wrapped his arms around her.

I lowered myself into one of the chairs I'd unfolded, watching.

"I just wanted to know, how you guys are - are dealing with - loss," she squeaked, clutching AJ. "I just wanted to know if it gets easier."

The Boys all kind of glanced at each other. "It doesn't," Nick answered after a long pause. He put his hand on the microphone in front of him. "I'm sorry," he said, "But it really doesn't get easier, it just gets more usual. I mean, it doesn't get easier to think about the people we love being like dead and stuff, but --" he shrugged, "It gets more normal not to see them around and you think about them less because you have more things to think about that they aren't really a part of. Like right now he's in every memory and he probably had a part in every plan you've got and stuff, right? But in another month or two you're gonna have a couple memories he's not in, and you're gonna have some plans he's not a part of, and you'll think about that stuff. Then in a year, you'll have almost no plans he was a part of, and a lot of memories and so on and eventually your memories of him will be like treasures."

A heavy silence fell over everyone in the room.

Finally, the brown haired guy said, "Well Jesus, Nick, who knew you had all that in ya?"

Nick looked down at his guitar, "He did," he muttered. But nobody heard him, I don't think, except me.



I meant to ask Brian what Nick had been talking about, but I didn't get a chance to see the Boys again that night. After I'd finished up with the chairs, Rick had sent me off to help control the lines of fans outside waiting to get in, and once the girls were in the arena the Boys were buzzing around like crazy backstage getting hair and make-up done. I ended up off stage again with Jenn, watching the performance, and was risked away afterwards by Rick to help undo everything I'd done all day and get it all packed away into the eighteen wheelers. He showed me to a big white van that the roadies were travelling in and I ended up in the back seat between two guys names Ron and Harry (who did not appreciate the Potter joke that I attempted to crack).

Long and short, by the time I saw the Boy next, it was in Indianapolis the next day. The hotel that the Boys and their crew were staying at was serving breakfast and I happened to be in the lobby eating when Brian and AJ came downstairs and joined me with their waffles and tiny boxes of cereal.

"I didn't see you yesterday," Brian commented as he lowered into the chair.

"I think we were all busy," I said.

"Told you he wasn't pissed about the drinking," AJ said to Brian. Evidently this was a discussion that had been had between them. Brian's cheeks turned pink. AJ took a swig of orange juice, then turned to me. "So where you from?"

"Atlanta," I answered.

"How'd you meet 'Rok?"

"Leighanne hired him," Brian piped up, "To help with making the Wylee trailer the purple monster that it is now."

"Yeah dude, who the hell picked at color?"

"Leighanne," Brian and I both said at the same time.

"It looks like fucking shit man," AJ replied. He took his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. "I'm gonna go for a smoke. If Nick comes down, don't let him eat my food. Make him get his own." He walked across the lobby and out the door.

I sipped my coffee - coffee which was so not the same when Kim didn't make it - and let my eyes skim the newspaper I'd picked up off the table. "You enjoying it so far?" Brian asked.

"Yeah, it's cool."

"I heard they had you up on the rigs helping with the lights."

"That was kind of awesome," I said with a nod.

"I would freak out up there," Brian said, "I can't stand heights. Even flying bugs the crap out of me."

I laughed, "But you travel all the time, how can you possibly have an aversion to flying?"

Brian shrugged, "I just do."

Nick suddenly slid into the seat AJ had been occupying moments before. "Hey guys," he said. He grabbed one of AJ's waffles off the plate and started eating it dry. Neither Brian nor I bothered protecting AJ's waffles.

Chapter Nineteen


The next few shows went smoothly, bringing us from Indianapolis to Baltimore to Philadelphia to Boston to Montreal. We were travelling to Toronto the next day and I was helping to roll the stuff back to the 18-wheelers from the back doors of the Bell Centre (which is very inconviently located on a 90 degree hill, by the way, which is a great help when you're rolling big heavy things on wheels - I almost got run over by equipment like twelve times) when AJ showed up, cigarette hanging from his mouth. He trotted along behind me. "Hey," he said.

"Hey," I grunted, trying to push the piece across the slanting pavement.

AJ took a long drag off his cigarette, "You're not like married, right?"

"Not last I checked," I answered. I hoisted the case onto the ramp leading into the 18-wheeler and doubled back for another one from the arena. "Why? You interested?"

AJ literally snorted, "Uh no, thanks, though."

"So why the sudden interest in my marital status?" I questioned. I grabbed another piece and started back towards the 18-wheeler. Again, AJ followed.

"Okay so it's like this. Monkee has a friend --"

I paused. "Monkee?"

"My Ro-Ro," he said, waving his wedding-banded fingers at me. His blacknail polish had glitter in it. I raised an eyebrow. "Anyways, Monkee has a friend and this friend's in town and this friend wants to hang out with Monkee tonight but Monkee and me had plans and I don't want to reschedule my plans and Monkee's friend wants to hang out with Monkee soooo..." he blew out a mouthful of smoke.

"I'm kinda working," I said.

"So? Fuck work."

"I need the money," I answered.

AJ reached for his wallet, "How much?"

"What?"

"Ten? Twenty bucks?"

"AJ..."

"Fifty? A hundred?"

"Dude..."

"Five hundred. Final offer."

"You should've been a pimp, you know that, right?" I asked.

"So you'll do it?"

I sighed and shoved the case I was struggling with onto the 18-wheeler. I turned to AJ. "No, and here's why. First of all, I don't think it's a great idea to be pimping out your roadies..."

"Hey if it works..." AJ shrugged.

"Second of all, I don't know this girl. She could be the most boring person I've ever spoken to in my life. I could want to blow my brains out in five seconds or less with her and be stuck with her because you paid me five hundred bucks."

"From what I hear it won't be your brains that'll be being blown, if you know what I'm sayin," AJ wiggled his eyebrows.

"And while that's quite the endearing offer," I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm, "My third, final, and most important reason is that I don't want to."

"Six hundred."

"Does your wife know you're down here trying to pay me to distract her friend?"

AJ tossed his spent cigarette on the ground and stepped on it. "Please?"

I sighed. There was something about AJ - I think it was the wide brown eyes - that was hard to say no to. I rubbed the back of my neck. "Look, even if I did want to, and even if it wasn't completely fucked up that you were back here asking me this..." I said, "Honestly, she probably wouldn't wanna go out with me anyway."

"Why the hell not?" AJ asked, "You're a good guy, you're funny, you --"

"I look like a fucking beast," I answered, cutting him off, "Have you seen me in the daylight before? Seriously..."

"It's not that bad."

"Besides, I have a girlfriend."

"But she's not here, is she?" AJ asked.

"Well no but I --"

"And you get dinner for free."

I sighed. "And how am I supposed to get to Toronto if I do this? The van's leaving right after we get this shit loaded so we can get to the next stop on the tour, remember? You guys might be flying over but we get to drive all night so we have time to get your damn stage put together in time."

"I'll hook you up, you seriously think I'd leave you hanging?" AJ asked. He looked much more hopeful now.

I sighed again.

"Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleaaaase," he begged, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, like a little girl.

"Jesus, fine," I interrupted him.

"YES!" he shouted in triumph.

"But you get to explain it to Rick," I said, pointing to where Rick was standing, motioning for me to break it up with AJ and get back to work.

AJ grinned. "Piece of cake. See you at the hotel, in the lobby, in thirty minutes?"

I was so gonna regret this.

Chapter Twenty


I'd gone upstairs and dressed in the closest thing to a nice outfit that I had packed, returned to the lobby, and was now pacing by a large plant, waiting for AJ, Rochelle, and my Mystery Friend of Monkee's to arrive. I was trying to decide if I should mention the whole fiasco that was about to unfold when I called Kim the next morning. Would she find it funny, or would she get jealous and pissed off? I ran my hands through my hair and sighed.

The elevator doors dinged and I turned around in time to see the most beautiful woman I'd ever laid eyes upon in my entire life step off the elevator. AJ and Rochelle followed her, and my mouth went dry. This was Rochelle's friend? Oh God have mercy. I could literally feel the scar on my face. It ached, like it was reminding me - taunting me - sing-songing how ridiculous she and I were going to look together out on the town. Like Beauty and the Beast. I pawed at the neckline of my shirt - a button up that I'd tucked into jeans. She was in a cocktail dress. Jesus, like I could be a worse pair with her.

"Yo," AJ greeted me, coming up beside me, "Ben, this is Kris; Kris, this is Ben."

Kris gave me her hand, "Hello Ben." She gave me a funny look, then glanced at AJ.

AJ grinned, "Ben is one of our stage hands."

Kris looked at me again. "Hi," she said again.

"Hi," I answered. My voice came out like a frog's.

"Okay, that said. Let's go!" AJ wrapped his arm around Rochelle, and led her to the doors of the hotel.

Well," I said, "Um.. shall we?" I offered Kris my hand. I felt like I should've bowed and been kissing her knuckles, like she was royalty.

Kris stared at me. "I..." she clutched at the pashmina wrap that covered her shoulders, "Yeah, let's go." She trotted down the steps, following after AJ, her heels clicking on the tile as she went, completely ignoring the hand I'd offered her.

I sighed.



Kris kept her eyes off me the rest of the night. She stared at her plate through dinner, answering vaguely when I asked her questions - like what she did for a living and the like - and excused herself to the bathroom when AJ and Rochelle went to dance. I sat awkwardly at the table alone until a waiter walked by and asked if I wanted more wine in my glass. "Fill it up," I replied, "And keep it coming." As the waiter walked away, I thought to myself if nothing else, I'll drink enough wine to make AJ rue the day he asked me to do this for him.

When the song ended that AJ and Ro were dancing to, they returned to the table. Rochelle looked at Kris' empty chair. "Where'd she go?" she asked.

"I dunno, bathroom," I answered. "Anywhere to get away from me, I suppose." I shrugged. The wine may or may not have been having its way with me.

AJ raised an eyebrow. Rochelle smiled, "I'll um... go... check on her." She took off in the direction Kris had gone in.

AJ sat down. "So."

"So?"

The waiter came by and started to pour wine into my glass again, "That'll do," he said, waving the guy off before he could fill it. He raised an eyebrow at me as the waiter left. "How many of those have you had?"

"A few."

"Ben."

"AJ."

He leaned forward, "I don't understand," he muttered, "She's usually a total riot."

"I told you she wouldn't wanna go out with me," I said.

AJ shook his head, "She's not like that."

"Apparently she is more than you think," I said with a shrug.

He leaned back and rubbed his chin, deep in thought.

Rochelle returned a couple minutes later. She glanced at me, hesitated, then said, "Kris isn't feeling good."

"Told you," I muttered to AJ.

AJ looked up at Rochelle, "What do you mean she's not feeling good?"

"I mean she's not feeling good," Rochelle replied.

"I can go home," I said. "Or - er, hotel. Whatever."

"What's the matter with her?" AJ asked.

Rochelle took a deep breath, "AJ..."

"What?"

"She just doesn't feel good."

"Is she like ragging or something?"

"AJ!" Rochelle and I both snapped at him at the same time. She looked at me, surprised that we'd both responded, then said, "I can't believe you just said that, Alex. God." She rolled her eyes.

AJ rolled his back, "Well dude she was fine before we left and now all of a sudden she's sick? Why can't Ben bring her home?"

Rochelle sighed, "Men are so pointless." She got up and walked back to the rest rooms.

"AJ, it's okay. She can't stand me, it's not a big deal," I said.

"Women are fucking insane..." he muttered. He looked at me, his eyes apologetic. "I'm sorry man."

"Its not a big deal," I answered. AJ sighed. He pulled out his wallet. "J... put your wallet away. You don't seriously have to pay me."

He looked surprised. "I wasn't really gonna pay you anyways," he said. "This is for the cab back to the hotel," he handed me a twenty. "I'll see you later. I'll get you a flight, I promise."

"Thanks." I pocketed the twenty and headed back out to the street. Instead of taking a cab, though, I chose to walk. The night air felt good and honestly ten blocks wasn't that bad of a walk. I was used to trekking all over the place at home, so this wasn't that much different. Other than all the French signs and conversations that I passed by, that is.



I dialed Kim's number when I got back to the hotel and laid down on the bed, staring up at the stucco. It's amazing, I could be a thousand miles from home and still be doing exactly the same thing as I'd have been doing at home. "Hello?" Kim's voice never sounded so sweet coming through the wires to my ear.

"Hey," I said.

A smile entered her voice, "Hey there Stock Boy. How's life on the road?"

"Eh, going okay," I answered, "So I went on a date tonight."

"Oh?"

And I proceeded to tell her all about AJ's whiney-begging and the date with Kris from beginning to end, being careful to emphasize the part where I reminded AJ that I had a girlfriend, and left out the part about Kris being the most gorgeous woman ever to walk the earth. By the time I was done, Kim was seething. "What a bitch," she said.

I sighed, "It's not a big deal."

"Not a big deal? Not acknowledging your presence because of your scar? Your scar is beautiful."

"I wouldn't go that far."

"It's a sign of everything you've been through, it's your battle wound," Kim said. Drama was most definitely her forte. "It's beautiful, and that bitch has to make you question your self confidence? Please. She's not worth it, you hear me? Not worth it."

"It was just really awkward," I said with a shrug, "It's not like she outright said something like hey ugly scar face or anything. It just was very uncomfortable. I mean, she took one look at me and just completely shut down."

"I stand by my first judgment," Kim replied.

I smiled. "You're viciously defensive."

"Only about people I care about a great deal," she replied.

"Well I'm glad you care about me a great deal," I said teasingly.

"Me, too," she replied. "Now about the fact that you agreed to a date..."

"Oh boy."

"Next time you go on a date without me, mister, I'll have to be very, very angry."

"Oh?"

"Yes, and then I'll use strong words and brow beat you for many years to come."

"Years?" I asked, "You plan to be with me for years?"

"Mmm.. we'll see. Depends how many more dates you schedule without my being invited."

"Got it." I sighed, "Ah Kim, I wish you were here."

"Me, too. When do you come back to Atlanta?"

"We have Toronto, Vancouver, Seattle, Los Angeles, Albuquerque, Houston, New Orleans, and then Atlanta," I replied.

"So tomorrow, yes?"

"Tomorrow, plus ten days," I answered.

"Longest tomorrow ever," she replied.

I smiled, "But I get to see Los Angeles soon."

"You excited?"

"Very."

"I want a postcard," she said, "And a t-shirt. And one of those funny shot glasses."

"Let me make a list."

"Okay. I'll wait while you get your pen."

Chapter Twenty-One


That night, I had strange dreams. Haunting dreams. Dreams that felt like more than dreams. I was in a house - a house that I did not recognize - playing a piano. In another, I was folding laundry and many of the pieces were women's and then Kim walked out of a bathroom with green goo all over her face and I talked to her and suddenly the goo was gone and she wasn't Kim, she was actually Kris. Then in a third, I was sitting in a restaurant and Kim was across the table from me, and we were talking about stocks and the future and I suddenly pulled out a box from Tiffanys and open it to propose but the ring is gone and I freaked out and look around and I see it, but it's on another person's hand, and I look at the hand and realize it's Kris' hand.

I woke up in a cold sweat and couldn't sleep. It was four in the morning. I spent the rest of the night staring up at the stucco walls, and wishing that I'd gone easier on the wine the night before. Obviously it had done something screwy with my head.



Nick waved as he passed by us. "Toodle-loo," he said, "Have fun in coach." He pranced onto the airplane.

I looked at AJ, "You didn't have to trade in your first class ticket you know," I said.

AJ shrugged, "It was the only way to get another seat." He sighed as Brian and Howie followed Nick onto the plane. He looked at me. "Besides, you'd have been alone in coach if I hadn't."

"I'm okay travelling alone, I'm not a kid you know."

"I would've felt bad drinking my orange juice in the champagne glass thinking about you in coach with the minimal leg room and the flat pop," he said.

I laughed, "Well thank you for making the sacrifice. Now we both get to suffer."

"One for all and all for one," AJ agreed.

Once everyone was on the plane for first class, a flight attendent started seating the coach kids. Me and AJ made our way onto the plane. He was too short to get his bags into the overhead, so I put both of our carry on pieces up and shut the door myself. I sat down next to him and we buckled ourselves into the seats. AJ sighed. "I should've run out and taken a smoke before we got on board." He looked out the window.

"You smoke too much anyways," I argued. He rolled his eyes. "Seriously, you're gonna end up with shitty lungs and keel over and that'll be that. It's a disgusting habit."

"Okay, dad."

"Oh trust me, you'd hate it if I was your father. You and Nick, God..." AJ looked at me, shook his head, and laughed. "What? I demanded, "You think it's funny that I'd whoop both your asses into next Tuesday for some of the crap I've seen you pull over the last week?"

"It's not that," AJ answered, "It's just..." he sighed, "It's just you remind me of someone, that's all."

"Oh yeah? And who might that be?" I asked, still joking, "Hitler? Stalin? Satan?"

"Kevin."

The name sat heavy between us. I'm not sure why. Something about the way he said it I guess, something about the way it rang in the air. "So why didn't he rejoin the band then," I asked, "If he cares so much that he wanted to be your dad?"

AJ looked out the window.

The pilot came on over the intercom and announced that we'd been cleared for take off and requested the attendants to get ready and do the safety drill and all that. Then the plane started rolling across the runway and AJ continued staring out the window. I made sure my seatbelt was good and tight, and the plane was rushing down the runway and the wheels lifted off and the world became smaller. I stared over AJ, out the window, as the wing dipped and the plane moved in a semi-circle before evening out, climbing in altitude, and ultimately leveling off. The seatbelt light clicked off and the flight attendants all but leaped out of their seats to begin serving drinks.

AJ turned to me. "Kristin was his wife," he said. "She said you reminded her of him, that's why she got all weirded out."

"Was his wife? Are they divorced then?"

AJ took a deep breath. "He's dead."

"Oh." I turned away, breaking the intense line of eye contact we'd been sharing. Suddenly, the pattern of the carpet lining the floor of the plane became extremely interesting.

"A couple years ago, him and Kris had a fight because Kev wanted to come back to the Backstreet Boys and she didn't want him to. He'd left because he wanted more time at home and stuff and she liked him being home or whatever. Well that and there was this big blow out between him and Nick, but anyways..." AJ paused. "Anyhow, he left the house. They lived in Kentucky. And nobody knew where the hell he'd gone to. Then like a month and a half later after he left, they found his body."

I looked up at AJ again. His eyes were red, and squinting, as he fought back tears. His voice clenched. "His wallet. That's the only way they could identify it was him. We don't really know what happened to him." AJ bit his lips, and turned away, looking back out the window.

I took a deep breath, "I'm sorry."

"That's why Kris was so fucky last night," he explained. "Because you reminded her of him. In the eyes."

"Do I look like him?" I asked.

AJ shrugged, "Not really," he answered, "Your jawline is all wrong."



When we landed in Toronto, Nick was waiting at the gate. "That was a nice flight," he said, "Very relaxing..."

"So was ours," AJ answered him.

"The soda was nice and bubbly."

"So was ours."

Nick trotted along side us as we walked through the airport's crowds, highlighting the fine points of his airline experience for us, each of which AJ said we'd experienced, too, even if we hadn't. Nick didn't one-up AJ until he said that he'd inducted a flight attendant into the mile high club (which I'm pretty sure he was lying about but not completely certain) and then AJ gave in and admitted that coach hadn't been that good and they went on chatting about Nick's fictional Mile High inductee and her chest size.

I blocked the conversation out and instead called Kim to let her know I'd landed okay in Toronto. She didn't answer and I ended up leaving a message on her machine.

"I'm telling you, her boobs were like this," Nick was waving his hands in front of his chest by a ridiculous amount.

"If her boobs were that big," I interrupted - making both of the Boys snap their attention to me, since they'd thought I was ignoring them and all, "Then she'd fall forward on her face because she wouldn't be able to hold them up."

"I swear it," Nick said.

AJ laughed, "Dude, if a chick fell down 'cuz her tits were too big, would they bounce and make her stand back up again?"

Nick's brow furrowed, "Dude that's like algebra."

"Alge-Bra," AJ pointed out.

Nick laughed so hard he snorted.

I went back to tuning them out.



I was sitting on the Wylee trailer with Brian later that afternoon. Rick had the stage set before I got there, so I'd been given the duty of helping out on the Purple People Eater for the afternoon. Brian was making sure there was enough cash to make change while Leighanne was folding scarves and arranging them on a table behind us. She and Baylee had flown into Boston to meet up with the tour. Baylee was currently laying on his back on the floor, playing a hand-held vido game.

"So... I heard you met Kris," Brian commented. He peeked up at me from the money he was counting.

"Yeah, I did."

"And?"

"AJ said I freaked her out because I reminded her of her - um - of Kevin."

Brian nodded. "Sorry about that," he said. "Was it really awkward?"

"She talked to her salad bowl all night," I replied.

"You've reminded me of him a few times, too," Brian admitted. He laughed, "I mean that as a good thing. I dunno what you know about Kevin or whatever but I know some people think he was kind of uptight and anal and stuff but really he was a great guy. I'm a bit biased of course, because he was not just my friend but my cousin, too, but..." Brian smiled. "Anyways."

"Is Kevin the person Nick was talking about the other day? In soundcheck? When that girl asked about her brother?" I asked.

Brian nodded, "Yeah."

"AJ said Kevin and Nick had a fight."

"Yeah, when Kevin left the band." Brian shrugged, "It's a kind of long story."

"I have time."

"Well Nick was drinking a lot and Kevin just thought he needed to stop. So he told him so and Nick was never real good with authority and he kind of reacted strongly and they both have these stubborn personalities that just explode when they strike the right chord and they had a knack for doing that. Like flint, they just shoot sparks constantly." Brian laughed, "God my grammar can't make up it's mind if Kevin's past or present tense."

"Present tense," I said. I smiled comfortingly, "He's here in spirit, so present tense."

Brian nodded, "Yeah." He sighed, "Anyways. You ready for pandamonium?" he asked. He waved his hand around the trailer.

"As I'll ever be," I replied.

Chapter Twenty-Two


The Wylee trailer was almost as crazy as the concerts. I spent a good deal of time regulating the amount of people that were aboard the Purple People Eater - which was my job for the evening - and we didn't even get all the girls that wanted to visit the trailer on board before it was time to close up shop for the night. "I'm sorry," I apologized to the girls who were waiting outside, "I'm sorry, there's just not enough time... Brian's gotta eat before the show, you know?"

"But I was next," whined the girl in front.

"And the girl behind you was next, and the one behind her next after that..." I answered, "I'm sorry, you know we'd let you all in if we had the time but we don't. I'm so sorry." I backed into the trailer and closed the door, leaned against it, and let out a long sigh. "Good luck getting off this monster," I told Brian.

He laughed, "Good luck to me? Good luck to you. At least they don't have a death warrant out against me."

I assured the door was locked and sat on the floor near where Baylee was still playing his hand held video game. Leighanne was refolding many of the scarves she'd spent so much time folding, and Brian was organizing the money box so all the bills aimed the same way.



Later, once we got back to the venue in one piece and were safely behind the gates that protected us from things like fan-issued death warrants, I was sent to go get the Boys for the show. They'd holed up on the tour bus after the soundcheck and their opening act was just getting on stage so hair and make-up were looking for them. I jogged across the lot to the tour bus and knocked on the door, but to no avail. I knocked again and when still no answer came, I opened the door and climbed aboard.

The guys were seated in a square on the couches just inside the bus, facing each other - it looked like possibly even facing off against each other - Nick and Howie on one side, AJ and Brian on the other. "It's just im-freaking-possible is all," Nick was in the middle of saying, "Y'all are crazy for even thinking it. I mean he's cool and all but he ain't ---"

Brian looked up, saw me, stood up, hit Nick in the forehead, and said, "Hey Ben!"

"Hey..." I said slowly.

Nick turned around, rubbing his forehead where Brian had swatted him. "Hey."

Howie and AJ waved.

"Listen, Rick said to come get you," I explained, "I knocked but I don't think y'all heard me or something."

Brian looked at his watch. "Jeepers," he announced, "Guys it's almost eight."

"What? No fuckin' way." AJ looked at his own watch. "Dude, we been out here for three hours at this?" He got up and trotted off the bus. "See ya Ben," he announced as he went by. Nick quickly joined him, eyeballing me as he passed, but not saying a word.

"What's going on?" I asked.

"Just talking," Brian replied at the exact same moment that Howie answered, "Complete and total idiocy."

"Interesting." I nodded. "Anyways they're looking for you," I thumbed back towards the arena.

"C'mon D," Brian said, and he patted me on the back and took the steps two at a time.

Howie stood up slowly. He paused right in front of me and stared into my eyes for a long moment. "Where are you from again?" he asked.

"Atlanta."

"How long have you lived there?" he asked.

"As long as I can remember."

Howie nodded. "See you, Ben." He followed the way the other guys had gone, leaving me alone aboard that Backstreet bus, completely confused.



"They keep staring at me and watching me, it's really weird," I told Kim later that evening while the Boys were on stage. And it was true. Ever since the encounter and awkwardness on board the bus, the Boys had been looking at me funny and whispering behind my back when I was in the room. AJ and Nick were whispering at one point and their hushed conversation ended in them arguing loudly and having to be torn apart when Nick decided to wrestle AJ to the ground rather viciously.

Kim mused, "Maybe they are gay after all and were fighting over who gets to take your manhood," she joked.

"Seriously Waitress," I pleaded.

"I could be serious, Stock Boy," she replied. "Don't underestimate your hotness. I mean I wouldn't mind taking your manhood myself."

"By very definition of you being a lady, you can't 'take my manhood', as you so eloquently put it," I teased her.

"There are ways," she giggled.

"Ok instead of discussing sodomy..." I laughed, "Help me figure this out. What do you think they're up to?"

Kim breathed deeply and thought about it, "I don't know. They didn't say anything to you about anything?"

"Not really."

"When's your birthday?"

"I don't remember."

"Jesus, that sucks," Kim said, her tone changing, "Seriously? You don't remember your birthday? When do you celebrate getting older and closer to death?"

"I don't," I answered.

"You don't?" Kim gasped, "That's it. We're celebrating your birthday when you get home."

"But that might not be my birthday."

"I don't give a shit, we're celebrating it anyways," she answered.

I laughed, "You're crazy."

"I'll take that as a compliment," she replied. "So now about these staring Boys. I need you to tell them that you're taken already, capiche? Tell them you don't care how rich and famous and sexy they are, you already have a penniless coffee bitch that will serve your ever whim. Got it?"

"...penniless... coffee... bitch.... every whim..." I muttered, pretending to write her words down, "There, now I got it. Anything else to add to that?"

"Just that you're a jerk but I love you anyways."



I went along with the Boys to the after party that night on Nick's request once again. I was sure Rick wasn't going to be happy about it, but it's not like saying 'no' to the Boys was part of my job description (quite the opposite, the general rule of thumb was that they kind of got whatever the hell they wanted - especially Nick, whose temperment was similar to a French Poodle's), so off I went.

We found a club in downtown Toronto that Nick insisted was very upscale and that he'd been to once before when he premiered a movie he wrote and directed (I made a mental note to Google that since I was pretty sure anything that came out of that mind had to be extremely messed up). It was a little less classy than Nick had described, and Brian looked like he was trying not to touch anything all night. We weren't there long before Howie suggested we take the party to the bus where he said he had the ingredients for better drinks than the club was serving, and so to the bus we went. Brian looked relieved.

"I think we were all in danger of catching STDs if we sat on those booths much longer," he hissed to me as we went out the door.

On board the bus, it took Nick approximately eleven seconds to suggest we play strip poker. "Strip poker's shit when there's no ladies around to play," AJ argued.

"Well we can get Leighanne and Rochelle to come over."

"Leighanne is not playing strip poker," Brian said sternly.

Nick sighed, "Why not?"

"Because she is my wife and I've seen you play strip poker and the first thing you do is demand a bra."

Nick grinned wickedly.

"I'm not playing strip poker," Brian said, shaking his head.

Howie passed AJ a Red Bull and each of us a drink concoction of some sort that he'd mixed whlie we were arguing about strip poker. Brian stared at his, "Did you go light on the whatever-is-in-this?" he asked, "Don't forget Baylee's here."

"Do you want a Red Bull straight, too?" Howie asked.

"I can't drink that stuff," Brian replied, rubbing his chest. He sniffed the drink, which reeked of alcohol (I know because I'd been sniffing mine), "Can I just have club soda?" he asked.

Howie took Brian's glass, downed the drink like a shot, then went to go refill the glass with club soda per Brian's request.

"How about you, roadie?" Nick asked, "You in?" he was shuffling a deck of cards.

"Nick are you harboring some kind of weird fetish?" AJ asked, "You wanna play strip poker with a bunch of guys?"

Nick shrugged. "Well, roadie? In or out?"

I shook my head, "I'm fine sitting this one out."

"C'mon," Nick said, his voice lowering, "Don't be a pansy."

"Nick, if he doesn't wanna play, he doesn't have to play," Brian piped up.

Nick's eyes didn't waiver from mine. He started dealing the cards. Apparently he and I were the only ones playing - or at least we were the only two the cards were being dealt to. I watched him deal. Something about the attitude he was throwing as he dropped each card, something about the look in his eyes - this competitive, haughty, know-it-all, son-of-a-bitch kind of look - made me want to play just so I could win. It was like I got posessed by the need to kick some serious Carter ass.

Without breaking eye contact with Nick, I took a large, burning mouthful of the drink Howie had given me. The alcohol stung all the way down my throat, and an instant rush of light headedness washed over me. "I'm in," I said.

Chapter Twenty-Three


"I'm tellin' you, he said it was on his left ass cheek."

"I can't picture him getting a tattoo on his ass."

"But that's what he told me."

"When? When did he tell you this?"

"A long time ago."

"I think if any of him knew him really well it'd be me, considering."

"It's not like you were B-F-Fs, yanno... he could've told the rest of us shit he didn't tell you."

"I'm gonna go for a smoke."

"No, dude, you gotta help me out with this."

"I need a smoke first."

"Ugh. C'mon guys, someone's gotta help me prove it..."

The hushed conversation seemed far away. My head was throbbing like a club beat. I groaned and moved and heard scurries and a bang, and Nick let out a yelp. I stretched, and lifted my head groggily. Nick was sitting on the floor in a pile of stuff he'd knocked over, Brian was perched in a complex position by my feet, and Howie was standing a couple steps back from my head. AJ was no where to be seen. I glanced at each of them. "What in the hell are ya'll doing?"

"Nothing," Brian replied, dropping back to the couch. That all looked like cats who had swallowed canaries.

If I wasn't so dizzy, I would've pressed the subject, but as it was, I could almost feel the bus swirling around like an olive in a martini glass. God - no, the last thing I wanted to think about was alcohol. I had consumed more than enough. I could barely remember the poker game with Nick - it was very hazy. But then again, given the fact that he and I were both in clothing, it evidently hadn't been a full game anyways. I was missing a sock and was down to my boxers and an undershirt. Nick was in boxers and socks.

"What happened?" I asked.

"You guys both passed out," Brian replied.

"He passed out first," Nick squeaked from the floor. Apparently hang overs did not impede his competitveness.

"By like a nanosecond," Howie ammended.

Nick shook his head, "Nuhh uhh, I had time to notice he was passed out before I did."

Brian laughed, "Yeah you said dude he tipped over, then tipped over too."

I sat up and rubbed my head. "I feel like shit," I announced.

"Wanna finish the game?" Nick asked.

"Nick," Brian's voice was a warning tone.

"What? I wanna see if --"

"Nick." Brian's voice was stern and cut him off. Nick shut up.

"See if what?" I asked.

"Nothing," Brian replied, "Nick's being retarded."

"I'm being retarded?" Nick demanded, "It's you a Chachi out there that think the dead can come back from the dead like zombies but not really...ya'll are fucking bonkers."

"What are you talking about?"

"Nothing," Brian answered me. He looked at Nick, "Shut the hell up."

"Why don't you just ask him?" Nick demanded, "If you think you're so right why don't you just ask him?"

"Because --"

"Ask me what?"

"Nothing." Brian's voice was firm. "Nick, just butt the fuck out will you?" A general silence permeated the air. Brian had said the F-bomb and thereby commanded all authority. It was a good card to play.

I glanced at my watch. It was nearly three in the morning. "I probably missed the roadie van, huh?"

"They left a long time ago," Howie answered.

AJ returned, "Hey you're up," he said, looking at me. He looked at Nick on the floor, staring at his hands, and Brian, who was kneeling on the couch still, his hair poking up every which way, looking at Nick with an expression that I imagined Alexander the Great probably wore as he conquered all of Asia. "What the hell happened?" AJ asked.

"Brian won't just ask Ben if he's --"

"SHUT UP NICK!" Brian yelled.

"If I'm WHAT?" I shouted.

"Kevin! If you're Kevin!" Nick's voice carried over yet another round of Shut Up from Brian, and the minute he got the words out all four of the Boys fell into complete and utter silence, staring at me, waiting for a response.

I laughed, "Um... what?"

"Are you Kevin in disguise? Pretending to be someone else and like spying on us? Is that a mask?" Nick asked, "Because these are all theories that Sherlock and Watson here came up with during our Top Secret Meeting yesterday..." He thumbed at Brian and AJ, who both were bright red in the face now. "Did you go on the witness protection program or something? Are you a secret agent in the FBI? Are you a mirage? Maybe we all dreamt you."

"Nick shut the hell up, we never said any of that shit," AJ snapped.

"You said the part about him being Kevin."

"Yeah but none of the secret identity stuff," Brian argued.

Nick looked at me. "Well?"

"But Kevin died," I stammered. "You said so," I added, pointing at AJ. "So did you." I pointed at Brian. "How the hell can you think that I --"

Brian sighed, "We think he died. I mean they couldn't identify the body."

"His wallet," Howie reminded Brian. "They found his wallet."

"Wait. I know how to solve this!" Nick cried, "Ben... Do you have a wallet?"

"What?"

"Nick, he could've bought a wallet in two years time I mean Jesus Christ," AJ groaned, rolling his eyes at Nick.

"The wallet could've been on anyone's person," Brian snapped, "It could've been anyone they dragged out of that river. You don't know it was Kevin!"

"And why the hell did he wait until now to show back up? Why the hell didn't he come back before, like the next day, after his wallet got stolen?" Howie snapped back.

"I - I don't know!" Brian yelled.

It was like they'd forgotten I was even there. I stared blankly ahead at them as the four of them started bickering loudly, Nick shouting over them all that it was the stupidest thing he'd ever heard and AJ arguing that Kristin had said I reminded her of Kevin and Howie yelling the word wallet and identification over and over and Brian reasoning how a wallet could've been stolen... and I just sat there, staring at them. My mind was racing, my heart beating fast. A Backstreet Boy? Me? My mind couldn't wrap around the concept. Yet they'd come to this conclusion all by themselves, without even knowing my backstory, without me having told any of the four of them about the amnesia, about the Center, about anything.

Was it possible that I was Kevin Richardson?

Chapter Twenty-Four


"So they just found you in the park?" Brian asked, "No clues to who you were, nothing? Just you in a park?" His eyebrows were furrowed. I'd spent the last hour telling the Boys every cotton-pickin' thing I remembered about myself, and they'd sat in rapt attention as I spoke. Now we were to the Q&A portion.

I shook my head, "Not a thing. I had no identification on me."

"Which works with the wallet being stolen," Nick pointed out, apparently now on board for the Kevin-Theory.

"Is it weird?" AJ asked, "Not remembering who you are?"

"Very," I answered.

Howie drew a deep breath, "Okay, let's look at this diplomatically. Nick, get a paper, write this stuff down." Nick scrambled for a notebook and pen. Once he had the pen poised over the paper, Howie said, "Kevin decided after the NKOTBSB tour ended that he was gonna think about rejoining the band... Anyone remember when it was he called us about it?"

"We were in the studio down in Orlando the first time he called," Brian pointed out.

"Okay, so our first day in the studio in Orlando was..." Howie's eyes were rolled back as he thought about it. "Let's see, we were in LA for my birthday because Leigh, James, and I went to Disney..." he paused, "It must've been September before we were in Orlando."

"And after he called," AJ said, "He sent those audition tapes, remember?"

"I thought he was already in the band?" I asked.

"He was," Nick answered, "But Kev's weird like that. He wanted to audition so it was like official and shit."

"Makes sense."

"Not really," Nick said.

"Ok, so we get the audition tapes, we'll say that puts us at mid-to-late September. Then October he was waiting and putting off telling Kristin..." Howie said slowly.

"That took forever," AJ scoffed.

"He finally tells her say mid-October?"

Brian injected, "I'd even say late October."

"It was Halloween," Nick corrected, "Because he joked that he was gonna tell her by going to some party as Kevin from the Backstreet Boys as his costume."

"Okay, so he tells Kristin on or very near Halloween, that puts us in November... They were in Los Angeles for Halloween because they went to that party that Leigh and I went to..." Howie looked at me. "You say you were found in November, in a park in Atlanta, by a cop without any identification of any kind on your person, and were in a coma until March... Meanwhile, in January, they found the body with Kevin's wallet in New York."

"Travel is involved either way... They found the body in New York and Ben was found in Atlanta," AJ pointed out.

"But it makes sense for Kevin to be in New York," Nick pointed out, "He had an apartment in New York."

"But he has a cousin in Atlanta," Brian argued.

Howie grabbed the notebook from Nick's hand and stared at it. He looked up at me, "Shouldn't this stuff be like jogging your memory or something?"

"That's what I was thinking," I said, shrugging. "But the doctor at the Center did say that the portion of my brain that's damaged could easily be pernamently damaged. I may never remember any of my past..." I sighed, "God this is so frustrating. It makes sense, what you guys are saying, it really does. And I want to remember so much. I hate that my head won't let me remember."

"And you said they reconstructed your jawbone and nose?" Howie asked.

"Yeah, both were shattered."

Nick stared at his feet. "This is fucking crazy. How can you be a person and not have any idea you were that person?" he blew air out of his cheeks, which he'd puffed out like a squirrel's.

"It would explain why none of us recognized him," Howie conceeded.

"Except in the eyes," AJ answered, "Look at his eyes. They're just like Kevin's.

"But not the eyebrows," Nick pointed out.

"Well my scar runs through one of my eyebrows," I pointed out.

They stared at me for a long moment. I felt like a piece in a museum. "Even Kristin thought his eyes were like Kevin's," AJ pointed out.

"Did anyone run this by her?" Howie asked.

"I didn't wanna mention it to her until we'd figured it out a little," AJ answered, "I didn't wanna freak her out or get her excited or something and have it be like no, no he's just Ben."

Howie nodded. He stared at the notebook some more. "It fits perfectly," he muttered, "And yet it doesn't."

"You don't remember anything?" Brian pleaded with me.

I rubbed my forehead, "Not really. What little bits and pieces I feel like I've remembered have been dreams and these weird flashes, like lightening or something..." I sighed and massaged my temples. "This is the most freaking frustrating thing ever."

"We need to make him remember being Kevin," Nick said in a decisive tone.

"What?" Brian sounded skeptical.

"Well I mean, if it makes sense for him to be Kevin, then maybe he is Kevin. But he doesn't remember being Kevin, so we hafta like remind him. Right now he's on this tour like he's a roadie, he's being treated like a roadie and we're treating him like a complete stranger... so, like, that's not gonna help him remember being Kevin, right?" He paused, formulating thoughts in his head. "We gotta make him do Kevin-y things."

"Kevin-y things?" Brian repeated.

"Yeah," Nick nodded, "Kevin-y things. Things that will make him remember his Kevinhood."

"Kevinhood?" Brian repeated again.

"What do you got echolalia or something?" Nick asked.

"Where in the frick did you learn the word echolalia?" AJ demanded.

"Wikipedia," Nick replied flatly.

Howie was nodding, "That makes sense."

"Yeah I know, Wikipedia knows like everything," Nick responded.

"Not that you dumbass," Howie answered, rolling his eyes, "I mean that we need to do stuff to try to jog his memory of being Kevin." Apparently we were all on board the concept that I was Kevin now. It was official. We'd decided my identity.

"Can we leave out the parts of Kevin that we didn't particularly like?" Nick asked.

"Hey now, no saying you don't like me, I'm sitting right here," I joked.

Nick laughed.

"Okay, so it's decided," Brian nodded, "We work on Operation Memory and see where that leads us and go from there."

"Operation Memory? That's lame," Nick argued. "Let's call it something cooler than that."

"Cooler?" Howie raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah... Let's call it Operation Return of the Kevi." He said it so Kevi rhymed with Jedi.

"Do we have to call it anything?" Howie asked.

But it was too late, Operation Return of the Kevi was already in Nick's head and even I knew there was no way to get shit out of his head once it'd gotten in there. That'd be like removing the super out of super glue.

Chapter Twenty-Five


Operation Return of the Kevi began commencement the next day on the way to the airport, where we would board a plane headed for Vancouver. Day One belonged to Nick, who claimed he deserved Day One because Return of the Kevi was his idea and everything. "Besides," he bragged as we were shouldering our duffle bags, getting ready to climb off the bus and into the cab that was bringing us to the airport, "Days Two and onward will be no longer neccessary once I'm done with you."

I looked pleadingly at Howie and Brian, who seemed to have at least some resemblance of control over Nick and his hairbrained schemes, but they both shrugged. AJ slapped me on the back. "Good luck," he bade me, and the three of them took one cab while Nick and I took another.

As soon as the door closed, leaving Nick and I alone save the cabbie, who didn't seem even remotely interested in us, Nick turned to me with a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. "Okay. So." He cleared his throat, "I have a theory," he explained.

I took a deep breath, "I can't wait to hear this one," I said, attempting to mentally prepare myself for Nick's shot at reason.

"It's calld the Theory of Inherent Kevinness," he announced, looking quite proud of himself.

I stared at him. "Okay..." I said. I definitely had a feeling that I was gonna need more than the thirty-seconds I'd had so far to prepare for this. I mean, he named the theory and everything. "Explain."

"Okay, it's kinda like E=MC2," Nick explained.

"Einstein's theory of relativity?" I asked, confused.

"Yes, only completely different."

"Okay?"

"It's A+K=B-A."

I blinked at him. "What?"

"Yeah," he nodded, "Like algebra. Yanno? If you go and subtract A from K it equals B plus A or vice versa, yanno, you gotta do both at the same time to both sides or else it stops making sense."

"Kinda like you stopped making sense?"

"It's okay, I know it's hard to follow, that's why I'm the genius behind the theory and you're not."

My head literally hurt already. "Nick, it makes no sense. What you just said makes no sense."

"No listen, though, it does," he argued. "See you - Ben, so B - are K - Kevin, plus A, that is Alzheimers."

"Amnesia."

"There's too many A-words."

"Like asshole?" I asked, eyeing him.

"What?"

"Nothing, continue with the explanation," I said.

Nick looked quite pleased despite my dig, which I don't think he heard enough to get what I meant by it, and he said, "Basically, we just gotta subtract A from B and you'll be K."

"Uh huh." I squinted at him, trying to follow what he meant. "How is that even a little bit like E=MC2?"

"Because we subtract A and you'll be healed."

"Right. And how do we do that, Einstein?" I asked.

"By applying the Theory of Inherent Kevinness," he replied.

"Ah yes, the theory. Now you're Plato. So please, explain this theory."

"What's Mickey Mouse's dog got to do with it?"
"What?"

"Pluto?"

"Plato," I answered. "He was a philosopher."

"A shrink?"

"No that's a psychiatrist," I replied.

"I thought that was the people who could see the future?"

"Psychic."

Nick paused. "So wait, what about Mickey's dog?"

"Nick, god damn it, just explain the theory."

"Oh. Right, right. So we appeal to your innate Kevinness," he replied, "By creating a condition that would illicit a particular response from Kevin, we can create the same response in you, thereby triggering your inner Kevin-y thoughts and creating an environment in which you'll be more able to remember who you are inside your heart."

He sounded like a cross between Dr. Phil and a PBS After School Special.

"Okay, so what environment are you going to attempt to illicit a particular response from me in?" I asked.

"Well," Nick said, "See, I spent half the night last night thinking to myself -- self, I said, What was one thing that you could always count on about Kevin? And that's when it hit me -- like it was an anvil and I was Wiley E. Coyote."

"And what was that Nick?"

"The one thing that I could always count on about Kevin..." he said slowly, like he was unveiling the winning phrase on Wheel of Fortune, "...was that I always, always had the ability to piss him off." He grinned.

".....what?"

"Basically, I'm gonna spend the day pissing you off."

"Nick, that makes no fricking sense."

He grinned, "Ah, yes, but we're off to a good start.... aren't we, Kevin?" he winked, and grinned.

It was going to be a really... really long Day One.



By the time we landed in Vancouver, I was ready to kill him. So help me God if I'd been armed, I would've done it. I very seriously contemplated asking for a pen from one of the flight attendants just so I could reinact that scene from Grosse Point Blank. I would be John Cusack, he would be the dead guy with the pen in the neck.

I bolted for Howie and Brian and AJ in the airport, where they were standing by the baggage claim. I grabbed Brian and hugged him to me when I got to them. "Sane people. Thank you Jesus."

"Air," Brian croaked. I let him go.

Nick came trotting up. "Kevvvvvvvin," he whined, "You ditched me."

"I only did it for your own good," I said.

"God Nick, what the fuck did you do?" AJ demanded. "If he is Kevin he's gonna remain amnesic out of self-defense to keep the fuck away from you."

"Agnostic ,not amnesic, dumbass," Nick reprimanded him. He paused. "No wait you were right. Agnostic is the thing when you can't smell, right?"

"That's anosmic," Howie said.

"Wikipedia?" Nick asked.

"A brain," Howie answered.

"This is what I've put up with that whole flight. Except it came along in a package deal with this," I waved my finger in AJ's face and mimicked Nick, "I'm not touching you."

"Tough break," AJ said, swatting my hand away.

"What in the world good would that possibly do to jog his memory?" Brian demanded.

"A+K=B-A," Nick replied.

"What?" All three of the other guys chorused together. "Jinx," AJ and Howie said at the same time. They proceeded to argue over who said it first.

"The Theory of Inherent Kevinness!" Nick wailed.

"You have a theory?" Brian asked, looking concerned.

"Please," I said, "Don't ask him to explain it. You'll get a mirgraine."

Brian bit his lips to keep from laughing.



"He named his theory?" Kim cracked up. "Oh my God, they're like cartoon characters."

"I know, right?"

"I can't believe he named the theory."

"He thought Plato was Mickey Mouse's dog," I laughed.

Kim let out a whoop of delight, "Holy shit that's the best thing I've ever heard. Are you sure you're not making this up to amuse me?" she asked. I could literaly hear tears of laughter in her voice.

"Kim, I literally could not make this up," I replied.

"Oh my God," she wheezed, coming down off her bout of laughter. "Oh God, that's too good."

"I'm glad you're entertained at least."

"Oh please, like you aren't laughing at it now that it's over. I mean how old is he? And he was doing the I'm not touching you thing?"

"Thirty something, I dunno. Thirty-four, I wanna say."

"God. Please, next time Nick Carter comes to you with a theory, for the love of all things holy, please tell him to hold that thought and get a video camera. That shit would go viral on YouTube. I'm serious."

Chapter Twenty-Six


Luckily, Nick took the evening off from Operation Return of the Kevi, since he was distracted by soundcheck (and ultimately the concert), and I got some blissful hours of helping out around the stage, running wires and the like.

Rick had me set out the stools and microphones and as I was putting the dead mic into the fifth stand in front of the fifth stool that nobody would use, I felt an overwhelming urge to try it on for size. I looked around and none of the other roadies were in the front part of the stage, and the Boys were currently down taking pictures, keeping the fans and their photographer (a guy they called "two point oh" whose real name was Justin and apparently was a successor to a prior Justin, though they didn't say where the original Justin was, only that this guy was a 2.0) effectively busy.

This was my chance.

I took a deep breath, certain that, despite A+K=B-A, this might just be the thing to trigger some memories. I wasn't entirely certain what that might feel like, so I was ready for anything short of a stroke as I lowered my tushie onto the stool. My knee instinctively bent to rest on a rung, my other leg stretched to touch the floor a couple inches away. I was turned inward, toward the other stools. I reached up and put my hands on the microphone. It felt comfortable. I closed my eyes and listened... imagining the arena the way it sounded when the Boys were on stage, with all the fans out there and the music so loud it throbbed the floor of the stage like a heart beat...

"Hey get to work!" Rick's voice cut through my envisionment. I scrambled off the stool. "You got some high aspirations there, Spencer?" he called in a mocking voice. My face flushed. Brian, however, had turned at the sound of Rick's yell, barely able to see over the stage, but his eyes landed on me sitting in Kevin's place and he gave me thumbs-up and laughed, nudging Howie, who looked back, too, then leaned in to say something in Brian's ear. I quickly trotted off stage and hid in the back moving stuff around for the rest of the night.



Later that night, I was standing outside, bundled up in like three jackets because it was freezing in Vancouver, talking on my cell phone to Kim, when AJ came out the back door in a tank top and a knit skull cap. He nodded at me to acknowledge my presence, but didn't say anything upon seeing the phone, and went to work on a cigarette. I watched the orange glow of the tip and the flying ash when he knocked them off into the small cluster of snow that leaned against the building.

"So, anymore theories from Nick?" Kim asked eagerly.

"He got busy, I think he forgot about me," I laughed.

"Aww, poor thing," she laughed, too. "I still can't believe the Mickey Mouse's dog bit. I think that's my favorite part. What're you doing now that you've been left to your own devices?"

"I dunno. Talking to you." I kicked an ice ball and it skid a little ways away. AJ watched it go then went after it, like a dog playing fetch. He shuffled it between his feet like a soccer player. "Just chilling out back the venue. I think the show's over."

AJ nodded to indicate that it was, took a drag off his cigarette and kicked the ice ball back to me.

I caught it with the tip of my toe before it hit the wall of the venue, and pulled it closer, doing a slower, less bouncy version of the shuffling that AJ had done a moment before. "Is it cold in Vancouver?" Kim asked with a yawn. She'd told me to call after the show and not to think about the time because, she claimed, she had to get up early, early to open the coffee shop and a phone call from me at 2:30 was exactly the way she wanted to be awoken, but I still felt bad. I shot the ice ball back to AJ and he missed it and it went skidding along past him. He carefully trotted after it across the parking lot, waving his cigarette like a runway light as he went.

"Yeah it's pretty cold," I answered, "I'm kind of losing feeling in my fingers," I added. "There's snow."

"Ew."

"And lots of it," I added.

AJ finally had caught up to the ice ball and I told Kim I'd call her on her breakfast break at the cafe. "So tomorrow's your day," I said to AJ, tucking the phone into my pocket as he started moving the ice ball back towards me. He kicked it and I kicked it back. He actually managed to catch it with his foot this time, and he looked ridiculously proud of himself.

"Yep," he said, flourishing his catch and his words by waving his cigarette around as he spoke, "Tomorrow, we'll test the Richardson-McLean Theory of Recollection," he said.

"Oh God," I groaned, "Not you too."

"Yeah, sure," he grinned, "See, if you raise B to the power of N eight times and take K minus the L, O, S, E, R..." I must've looked pretty perplexed because AJ laughed and said, "Relax, dude, I'm shittin' you." He kicked the ice ball back to me and I got it just before it hit the wall. AJ's smoldering cigarette went out and he flicked it to the ground and crushed it under his heel, taking a deep breath and shoving his hands deep into his pockets. "Christ," he muttered, "I'm freezin' my flippin' kahonies off out here. Let's go inside."

So we abandoned the ice ball and headed into the arena. We were on the way back to the dressing area where we could already hear Nick's voice echoing down the hall. "I won't e annoying like him," AJ said, referring to Nick, who was squealing loudly. It sounded like someone was torturing him. I pictured him strapped up on a rack and being stretched slowly but agonizingly. I wondered who he'd offended this time. "I got plans, though, great plans," AJ said, rubbing his hands together.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He nodded. "See, last time we were in Seattle, you and me, we went to this one place and we had a great time and there's no way in frick that you could possibly not remember that." His eyes had a gleam of evil in them.

I had a sinking feeling. "What kind of place?" I asked.

AJ laughed, "Oh c'mon, you act like you don't trust me." I raised an eyebrow. "It's a strip club," he said, "A harem." He rolled his eyes, "Christ, K, you used to have a life."

The way he said it, I thought he was kidding, so I laughed.



"Jesus," I said, "I thought you were kidding."

It was less than 14 hours later and we were on the curb in front of a place that looked like Playboy threw up on it. It looked like an old time majestic theater except plastered everywhere were these posters featuring girls wearing almost nothing - burlesque style underwear covered only the bare minimu to keep it legal - in the most immoral positions known to man. My eyes were glued to the rack on one chick, whose poster heralded her as Miss Bunny Jones, the magnificent. "I can't go in here," I muttered. "You're kidding, right? You found this place and dragged me here as a joke, right? and now we're going to the real place? You're funny." I took two steps back, trying to rip my eyes from Bunny Jones and her magnificence, but it was like a tractor beam.

If I was Catholic, I'd be sayin' Hail Marys until I died for all the lust I was feeling staring at that poster.... and even then, I'd still do time in purgatory.

"Nawh dude, you and me done some of our best bonding behind these walls," AJ said with a sigh of joy.

"I honestly don't know how to take that," I said, my voice coming out pinched and quicker than usual.

"Dude, relax," AJ laughed. He tried to pull me toward the front door but my feet were planted. It was gonna take a bulldozer to push me forward.

"How in the world can you expect me to relax?" I demanded.

AJ took out a roll of dollar bills, "Is it the tips for the G-strings your worried about? 'Cos I got you covered."

"Can you cover them?" I asked, pointing to Bunny Jones.

"Now you're the funny man."

"Aren't you married?" I asked.

AJ laughed, "Well dude so aren't you."

I choked. I choked and hacked and wheezed and nearly keeled over because until he'd said it, I hadn't put the pieces together... If A+K=B-A... then.... Kristin was Kevin's wife, therefore if I was Kevin then... "No. Oh shit. Oh God. Oh God." My lungs felt like they were collapsing.

I clutched my throat.

"Dude save the theatrics, the ladies inside will give much better CPR than I would," he winked and pushed me into the club. I let him because I was so freaked out and mentally distracted realizing my own marital status and settling into complete and total panic mode. A mode which only increased once I snapped back to it and realized AJ had shoved me down onto a bar stool that was directly in front of the performer platform, which was speared in the center - right in front of me - by a tall stripper pole.

"I - I --"

AJ shoved half the roll of ones into my hands.

"I'm MARRIED?" I gasped, coughing again.

"Since 2000," AJ replied.

"But... but... but..." I stammered, my brain working faster than my mouth could possibly move. "But - but Kim..."

"No, no..." AJ said, shaking his head, "No it's Kris, dude." He paused, then his eyes lit up. "HEY!" he cried excitedly, "You like almost remembered her name, dude. See, this is working!" He grinned.

"No," I said, "No Kim is my girlfriend."

"Girlfriend?" AJ asked, confused. "But dude, you're married."

"Oh God." I was fairly certain I was going to puke. A lot. Everywhere. I leaped to my feet, but the moment I did, the lights turned out completely and a hot pink spot fell on the stripper pole and the shattered fragments of reflections from a disco ball spun around the room like sex stars.

"Gentlemen," called a sultry voice, "My name is Miss. Bunny Jones and I'm here to show you a magnificent time... Who's ready?"

My eyes widened as the spot expanded and climbed up the perfectly shaped, bare leg of Bunny Jones, revealing her to be wearing a hot pink leather G-string and matching bra and a pair of pink fuzzy bunny ears on a headband.

I dropped feebly back to my chair, every ounce of will to leave had just been sucked from my body. "Fuck," I whispered because really there was nothing else to say.

"I know," AJ said, grinning, "Dude, later we'll score you a lap dance and see if that'll help your memory!"

Chapter Twenty-Seven


"They're just excited that you're back is all," Brian was saying the next morning on the plane. We were sitting next to each other, just ahead of the wing of the plane. I had the window seat, and my nose was pressed to the glass as the plane neared Los Angeles. We'd spent the entire flight talking about AJ and Nick and their horrible attempts at jogging my memory. "I promise that what I have planned at least makes sense and doesn't come with a fancy name or anything."

"And what exactly do you have planned?" I asked, my breath fogging the window. I pulled the sleeves of the sweatshirt I was wearing down over my fist and wiped it clean again.

Brian smiled, "Well, you said that the picture of LAX made you feel like you were going home, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well..." Brian said, shrugging, "Exactly."

I turned to look at him. "We're going home?" I asked.

Brian nodded. "You're going home."

I looked back out the window, the blood accelerating through my veins as I waited for the first sight of that futuristic building to creep into sight. I felt like a little kid on Christmas day, like there was a million packages under the tree with the pretty wrapping all with my name. All I had to wait for was the moment when it would come time to open them.

"To the left," Brian said over my shoulder.

I glanced back at him. I'd forgotten he was there. "What?"

"Left. You're looking the wrong way." He reached over and tapped the plane window. "There."

I followed the line his finger made through the sky to the ground where, peeking through the clouds, was LAX.

It was a weird sensation because an overwhelming sense of excitement filled me, though I couldn't quite place what the feeling could be labeled as. It was different than the one that had filled me when I looked at the picture on the computer, but it was still strong. I watched as the plane's wing dipped, bringing more of the city into view. We swung through a holding pattern and I watched as the buildings, houses, rivers of highway, and the ocean rotated below me. My stomach swayed with gravity as the plane slowly lowered and eventually slid down... down... onto the tarmac.

I turned and looked at Brian. "Wow," I said.

Brian smiled, "Welcome home, Cous."



"My favorite part about LAX!" Nick exclaimed, rushing forward out of the gate to a tall brunette a few feet away, who he proceeded to dip into a deep, wildly inappropriate-for-a-public-display-of-affection kiss.

"Who's that?" I asked Brian.

"Lauren Kitt. Nick's girlfriend," he replied. As we walked by them, Brian said to Nick, "When you come up for air, we'll be down by the baggage claim." Nick extricated his hand from the mess of tangled body parts that was the two of them and gave Brian a thumbs up, then returned his hand to wherever it had come from. "C'mon," Brian said, waving his arm, "Let's go."

LAX was crazy-busy and I felt like my senses were on overdrive as I looked at everything and took in all the sights and sounds. People were darting every which way, everyone in need of getting somewhere in a hurry. I followed Brian through the hub-bub, feeling a little less lost than I'd felt in the other airports we'd been to, despite the egnormity of this one. It was a good feeling, something close to familiar.

When we got to baggage claim, we pulled our suitcases off the line (I had to help Brian because his bag was heavy and it almost pulled him onto the conveyer belt), and then Brian led me out of the airport to a rental car company who already had a reservation made for him, and ultimately out into the wide parking lot where we located a sleek blue convertible and climbed inside.

Brian drove, and I continued looking around at everything, taking in the sights and smells and sounds of the city. Everything felt vaguely familiar, and I knew - just knew - that I was going to do a lot of remembering before the day was out. I just knew it. By the time I go to bed tonight, I thought, I'm gonna have memories again.

We got off the highway and Brian started navigating city streets, slowing for pedestrians and street lamps, and rocketing down boulevards, past tall palm trees that reflecte the sun off their majestic branches. My heart was pounding. The way the air smelled of city and ocean at the same time felt right in my nose -- like liberation and independence. It was the smell of freedom.

It happened like a lightening strike, just like the other times. I was riding along beside Brian in the car, and the next moment my mind was somewhere else. Out on the curb - on the curb right there at the spot we were about to pass...

I was walking away from the bus stop on the corner there, and someone was with me, but I couldn't remember who or what they looked like or anything... Only that there was someone there... And I was walking along down the Boulevard, overcome with excitement, nerves, and interest like I'd been since we started hovering over LAX. "Freedom!" I whooped in my memory, "Freedom... Can ya feel it? Can you smell it? I can smell it!"

I shook my head, returning to the real world as Brian took a turn in the opposite direction of where I'd headed in my memory. I turned to tell Brian -- but his face was aglow with excitement of his own. "We're almost there," he said, grinning.

I held my tongue. Whatever it was that I'd remembered, I told myself, it was the first of many things to come, and I just had to wait for the floodgates to open and everything to come rushing back.



"So Kristin's still not here," Brian was saying when I tuned back into him, my mind returning from the lightening strike. His eyes never left the road as he spoke. He was a nervous driver in California - put the brakes on too quickly, giving the seatbelts that wrapped over our shoulders tests as we kept jolting forward against the brakes. "She and Mason are have been staying in New York for the most part," he explained.

"Mason? That's a weird name," I said, looking over, "Is that her boyfriend?"

Brian's lips sucked into his mouth and his grip on the wheel tightened as he flipped on a blinker and turned into a driveway with a gate. A small keypad by the front required a password, which he entered without any hesitation, and the gates parted for us. He drove forward, and the gates closed behind us. The driveway was by no means the long, sprawling length of his driveway, but it was surrounded by lush landscaping, and a yellow house with ivy and other climbing plants crawling all over it. He cut the engine and we sat there for a moment.

"Mason's..." he paused.

"New husband?" I asked.

"Her son."

Silence fell between us, my mind analyzing the words he'd said. He'd said her son, right? So that didn't mean that I --

"Your son," Brian clarified.

The floor had dropped out from under me. My mouth went dry. I reached for the door handle of the car with shaking hands and climbed out of the car, having to move, having to walk, having to escape. My heart was playing ping pong around the cavity of my chest. I desperately wanted something to do with my hands - I stuffed them into my pockets and pulled them out a couple times. I completely could understand AJ's nervous smoking habit now, as if I'd had one I probably would've lit up a cigarette just then, despite the fact that I was morbidly opposed to smoking. I shook my head as I walked.

Brian got out of the car and came over to me. "I'm sorry, I meant to tell you that differently," he explained. "Well actually I meant for you to remember Mason on your own..." he paused. "Say something, Kevin," he begged.

I turned to look at him. "What kind of father am I?" I asked, exploding with emotion, "If I don't even remember my own kid? What kind of person am I if I don't remember my son and my wife?" I paced, "Even when I saw Kristin I didn't remember her, and you mention Mason and instead of instantly being propelled into memory, I question who he is. I can't even remember my own family!" I covered my eyes. I wanted to cry, I wanted to hit something.

Brian hovered silently, allowing the words to sink in as he stared at his toes.

"I fucking hate this," I choked the words out, "I fucking hate that I can't remember."

Brian took a deep breath, "You will though," he said in a desperate voice, "You will."

"What if I don't?" I asked, "I'm going to spend the rest of my life relying on you and the fellas and everyone to supply memories for me? Fuck I remember a goddamned bus stop downtown more than I remembered my fucking son."

"You have amnesia," Brian reminded me, "You didn't just voluntarily forget him because you don't care. You were a great dad, Kev."

I walked up to the house and sat down on the stoop. Brian came over and stood a couple feet in front of me, like he knew I wanted to hit something and was afraid to become my punching bag. He studied me a moment, "You practically raised Nick and AJ," he said after a long moment, "They had such shitty parents, but you were always there for them. So much so that Nick - Nick gave you a Father's Day card every year for the last ten years. He goes to your grave every year on your birthday, you know that? And you take care of all four of us on tour. You're always the one in charge, always the one who knows what's going on in everyone's lives. You left the band not because you don't love us but because you knew it was time for Nick and AJ to grow up. You told me so yourself. You said to me that it was like they were adults still living at home with their parents as long as you were there, and you left so that they could grow up, and they did. They did because you gave them such a solid foundation. And I told you this stuff one night when we were sitting here when you'd called me up panicking to come over because you were scared shitless because the pregnancy test said 'yes' to Kristin and you were having a melt down. You kept saying I'm gonna be a terrible father. But you weren't Kevin," Brian's voice lowered as he finally took a breath. He paused, "You weren't a terrible father. To any of them."

I looked up at him. "But I forgot all of you," I said thickly.

"You didn't choose that," he whispered.

I felt my throat tighten and a single tear escaped the prison of my eyes and slid across my cheek. I stared down at my feet. "I just wanna remember," I whispered.

Brian rubbed my shoulder, "I know," he answered. "It'll come."

Chapter Twenty-Eight


The house was... well, clean is the only word I can come up with for it. It was so pristine it almost didn't look lived in. "Nobody's been staying here for awhile," Brian said, as he slipped the house key back into a ceramic frog we'd pulled from under a bush out front. He rocked on his feet as we looked around the pristine room. I kicked my shoes off because I felt like it was the only real response one could have to a house like this. Brian smiled, "Even when you don't remember, you remember," he laughed.

"Huh?"

"No shoes around the house," Brian said in a tone that was obviously quoting something I'd once said, "It's like your one stickler of a rule." He smiled.

I had never once had that rule at my own apartment back in Atlanta. In fact, I usually had my sneakers on all day. I'd woken up countless times still wearing them, especially when I'd crashed on the couch and never zombie crawled back to my room at night. The floorboards were cold in the apartment and I hate that cold floor under foot feeling.

I didn't say that to Brian though.

We inched through the house, Brian watching my face eagerly for some sign that I recognized something but everything seemed foreign and unreal to me in the room. It was like I was being quizzed on material that I'd never studied in a subject that I knew nothing about, like Quantum Physics or something, and it was all in technical jargon. My heart ached because I longed to recognize the place, I wanted to remember who I was, and to be the person that the guys were expecting me to be, but some part of me just felt empty, lacking, and hollow, like one of those chocolate rabbits at Easter.

I rounded a corner leading from a dining room to a living area and found myself almost bumping into a sleek black baby grand piano. I stared at it, the curves in the wood and the smooth, perfect surface that gleamed in the light of the streaming sunrays that infiltrated through the windows behind me. I reached for the lid that was closed over the ivory keys themselves and lifted it gently. The hinge creeked from misuse and Brian's voice found my ears, a sound just above a whisper, "It hasn't been touched since you last played it," he said.

I touched one of the keys and a low, ringing note filled the room. I could almost picture the dust inside the piano's body flying off that key's strings and floating through the air, like tiny ballet dancers set into motion, spinning and dancing through the air...

I reached for the seat and pulled it out and sat awkwardly on it. Brian sat on the arm of an overstuffed chair, his eyes focused on my fingers, his nostrils flaring and settling as he breathed nervous, heavy breaths. I took a long draw of oxygen into my lungs, placed my fingers on the keys, cleared my mind... and began to play.

The notes and chords flowed out of me from somewhere deep inside, a place I couldn't remember but that had contact with my limbs just the same. I played like I had been playing everyday of my life, the notes vibrating through the air. The music climbed and dropped and spun through the air around Brian and I like it was tangible. It spoke of pain and suffering and escape, of realization and heartbreak and adulthood. The music told a story of a prodigal with ambitions and dreams, a heart that turned, and a return. My fingers found each key without even a single mistake. And when the song had come to an end - and it was a relatively good length song - I allowed the notes to fade and die away slowly. The song had ended midway through a story, leaving you hanging, perched for a conclusion that would never come.

I looked over at Brian.

"Wow," he said. "That was amazing." He paused. "What was it?"

I shook my head, "I think... I think I wrote it."

Brian's eyes registered surprise. "You... wrote...that?"

"I think so." I felt as though I could've named any concerto written by any composer at that moment - be it Beethovan, Chopin, Mozart, or whoever - and that which I had just played belong to none of them. I couldn't recall when I'd written it or how or anything else of that sort. Only the strong feeling of ownership, of being the creator who had formed the universe of that song's notes.

"It was incredible," he said.



Nothing really jogged my memory at the house, but Brian found a picture of Kristin and Mason in the bedroom that he "borrowed" from the frame and handed to me. I stared down at their picture and felt my stomach twist.

Looking at the photo, I realized that I hadn't talked to Kim yet. Kim. My pretty, happy, funny Kim, whose attention made me feel warm and whole in a way that I hadn't felt since I'd woken up in the hospital from the coma. Kim, who loved me when nobody, including myself, knew me.

"Maybe that'll help," Brian had said when he put it into my hands. All it had done though is make me feel worse - worse for not remembering them and worse for not wanting them to exist so that I could stay with Kim.

We left the house around half-past noon and headed out to get some food. We went to a crab shack on the boardwalk overlooking the ocean. It was nice. I liked the breath of sea air, and the feeling of the wind rolling off the water into my face. People gave me half-glances as they walked, several peoples eyes skimmed the length of my across-the-face scar, and looked away quickly. Los Angeles was a shallow city, there was no hiding it. Brian looked like he felt somehow guilty every time it happened, and I felt bad that he felt that way. After all, there was no reason for Brian to feel guilty. He wasn't the one judging me based on my face.

And those who were didn't know a damn thing about me.

Then again, neither did I.



That night, I snuck out the back door of the arena while the Boys were on stage and let myself onto the tour bus. (The Boys and I had spent the time between the soundcheck and the show itself moving my things into the extra bunk; they'd insisted that I "roll Backstreet style" with them.) I lowered myself onto the couch that lined the wall and pulled my cellphone out of my pocket. I took a deep breath and clicked on Kim's name in the Contact's List.

Kim answered quickly, on the first ring. "Hi," she said, her voice missing its usual exuberance.

"Hey," I said slowly, "What's the matter?"

"I had a terrible day," she replied, her voice thickening.

Not a good time to tell her about Kristin and Mason, then, I thought to myself, so I took a deep breath, and rerouted my mind. "What happened?" I asked.

"It just was..." she paused. "You know those bad days when you have a bad day because you sort of think your way into it being bad? Like maybe the day itself wasn't so terrible, but you thought so much about something that you kind of lost track of reality and ended up having a bad day as a result of that?"

Like I did today thinking about Kristin and Mason? I thought. "Yeah, I know exactly what you mean," I answered.

"It was that kind of day," Kim answered. "I dropped a whole pot of coffee, broke the stein, Joe was pissed..."

"I'm sorry."

She sighed, "It's not your fault," she replied.

But the guilt I was feeling about not telling her about Kris and Mason made me feel like it was my fault.

Chapter Twenty-Nine


Nick tried to sneak onto the tour bus at two-forty-seven in the morning, long after the other three guys had come back and fallen asleep (even AJ, who seemed to spend the entire night holed up in his bunk smoking). I was asleep, too, and never would've known how late he got back if it hadn't been for the fact that he tripped and fell onto the floor with a colossal bump and a grunted "fuck". It wasn't enough to wake the other guys, but I was a light sleeper, and I rolled over and stuck my head out of the bunk. Nick was on the floor still, rubbing his head, looking thoroughly miserable.

"Nick?" I said in a hushed voice.

He looked up at me, "Sorry," he muttered. He scrambled to his feet, almost tipped over again, and caught the edge of Brian's bunk only just before falling into it. He stumbled over to his own bunk, "I didn't mean to wake you up."

"You okay?"

"Hmm?" he looked at me, his eyes unfocused. "Yeah," he nodded, "I'm aiight."

"You sure?"

"Yeah." Nick climbed into his bunk and pulled the curtain shut without another word. I sighed and ducked back into my own bunk. A moment later, there was a rustling, then my bunk curtain opened and Nick poked his head in. "Hey Kev?"

"Yeah?"

Nick paused, "I said some stuff to you before."

"What stuff?"

Nick shook his head, "Some stuff I didn't mean. Back then. Before. You know, when you left the first time. And..." he gnawed his lip. "Anyways, you were right back then, and I was wrong and I said that stuff and I'm sorry." He nodded, then ducked back out of the bunk.

I followed, sticking my head back out into the center aisle. "It's okay Nick," I said, because that's what Nick needed to hear at that moment. "It doesn't matter. Whatever you said, I'm sure I knew you didn't really mean it, whatever it was."

"I thought that was why you left," he said.

"Brian said I left so you and AJ could grow up," I answered.

Nick hesitated. "How does Brian know that?"

"Because I told him, I guess," I shrugged.

Nick looked at his feet for a moment. "I was gonna tell you I was sorry," he said, "But I never got a chance to. First I was too mad, then I felt too stupid to say it, then it just wasn't the right time 'cos we were on a cruise and the fans were there and everything, then... well, then you died." He took a deep breath. "I guess it's still not the right time, since you've got amnesia and everything but..." he shrugged, "Plus I'm kinda drunk."

"There's that," I said, with a slight smirk.

"But I just wanted to say it to you," he said, "Before it's too late again and I can't."

"I appreciate that," I answered.

"Thanks." Nick climbed back into his bunk and stuck his head out. "I'm glad you're here," he said. Then he ducked into the bunk and the bus fell into silence.



The next day would've been Howie's day to help me remember, except we were all trapped on the bus as we drove from Los Angeles to Albuquerque, so Howie decided to wait for his day to participate in Return of the Kevi until the next day. So we spent the driving day on board the Backstreet bus doing things that apparently we used to do all the time. One of which was Monopoly.

"I think Nick's fucking with the bank," AJ said, watching Nick sort out his paper money into stacks of thousands.

"I am not fucking a bank," Nick replied at the same time as Howie, who was playing banker, announced, "Nick is not fucking me."

"Yeah I wouldn't fuck him," Nick said, thumbing at Howie.

"I wouldn't let you fuck me," Howie answered.

"Why? I'm sexy!" Nick said, taking offense.

Howie raised his eyebrow. "Are you seriously upset about that?"

"Everyone should wanna fuck me," Nick explained. "As a general rule. Even you."

"Well, call me crazy but..."

Nick pouted.

"Nick's the master at cheating," Brian stage-whispered to me.

"I am not cheating!" Nick yelped.

I laughed, "It doesn't matter, the more the empire has the harder it'll fall." I rolled the dice, landed on Boardwalk and turned to Howie, the banker. "I'm gonna buy a hotel for Boardwalk."

"God damn it," AJ yelled. He was down to like twenty bucks.

Howie put the plastic red hotel on my square and I tossed the cash in his direction, which he sorted and put into the bank.

Brian rolled the dice and one went off the table. Nick dove under for it, his ass flying up into the air, knocking the board, sending several plastic green houses sliding across the table. Howie caught the bank just before it fell down. A moment later, Nick popped up again, tossed the dice to Brian, then turned to Howie. "Did you see my ass?" he asked, "How could you not wanna fuck me after seeing my ass?"

Howie rolled his eyes.

"Can we stop talking about you two fucking each other, please?" AJ asked, "It's kinda creepy."

"We are not talking about it," Howie replied.

Brian re-rolled the dice. "Aren't you glad you came back?" he asked me as the dice hit the table. Brian moved his thimble around and passed by Boardwalk without having to give me any money. He breathed a sigh of relief, landing on the rail roads.

"That'll be like a billion bucks please," Nick announced, wiggling his fingers.

"You own the damn railroads?" Brian asked, scowling. He glanced over at the pile of property deeds Nick had stacked in front of him. "Prove it. Show me the title."

Nick flipped through the pile until he located the railroad, then waved it in Brian's face, "See? SEE? Doubtin' me.. I'll show you a thing or two..."

Brian sighed and handed Nick the money.

It was Howie's turn. He rolled the dice and landed on the same railroad as Brian. He cussed in Spanish. Nick wrapped an arm around him. "It's OK, D," he said sweetly, "I'll give you a lover's discount."

"Get your hand offa me or I'll keel you," Howie grumbled. Nick removed his arm.

"Remember the time Kevin flipped the Monopoly board?" AJ asked.

The other three guys started laughing. "He-- I mean, I flipped the Monopoly board?"

Howie turned red - well, as red as he could anyways. "It was a championship game," he explained.

"Championship game?" I asked.

"We had a lot of free time on that tour," Nick said. "We had a Monopoly championship."

"Who won?"

"Me," Nick announced, at the same time that Howie said, "You."

"Wow, what?" I asked, confused. Brian's eyes were leaking tears as he laughed. "I missed something," I added.

"Nick cheated like a married man in Vegas on a business trip," AJ said, "And he denied the crap out of it but he stole the title to like half the properties on the board from the bank --"

"I bought them, you bastard," Nick interrupted.

"-- and you should have won because everyone else was out but Nick stole one of your properties and when you landed on it, he tried to take the money --"

"Because I bought it," Nick injected.

"-- and you were like 'that space is mine I don't owe you anything' and Nick was like 'it's mine' and you two got in this fight --"

"Over my property," Nick added.

"-- and finally you got so pissed you just jumped up and flipped the board over," AJ finished.

"And we never saw the dog again," Brian added.

"Or the iron," added Howie.

"Which is why we have a Barbie doll shoe as a game piece," AJ explained.

"All because you're a sore loser," Nick said with a nod, smiling at me.

I raised an eyebrow. "Because I'm a sore loser?" I reached over to Nick's pile of title deeds, shuffled, and took out my deed for Boardwalk, which he'd shoved into the bottom of the deck. "Or because you're a shitty cheater?"

Nick's jaw dropped. "How in the hell did that get in my pile?" he asked, feigning surprise as the other Boys cracked up.

Chapter Thirty


Howie's plan for Return of the Kevi was much less complex than the other guys. When they all went off to get lunch and explore, he and I stayed on the bus and fired up Nick's gaming system, surrounded ourselves with Chinese food take out containers, and settled down to take our megapixel bazookas to a herd of Nazi zombies. Neither one of us was particularly good at the game - the controller felt like it had too many buttons for me to keep track of which one did what. I think our best game lasted ten minutes tops before we were both slaughtered mercilessly by zombies.

"We suck," I laughed.

Howie laughed too. "Nick's really good at this stuff, I've never understood it, I figured that it would be fun to try."

I grabbed the box of chicken fingers and twirled one around in a little plastic cup of sweet and sour sauce. "So far I've learned that Brian's my cousin, AJ and I have bonding issues but that doesn't keep him from being clingy as hell, and Nick tends to piss me off. How do you and I relate?"

Howie shrugged, "We're the cool ones."

"Yeah?"

He nodded, "We're way cooler than Nick, for example."

"That's not hard."

Howie smirked. "We kinda have the experience thing, you know? You've been in like every kind of production possible and I'm a businessman myself..." he shrugged, "We're the grown ups."

"Got it." I popped the chicken finger in my mouth, chewed it slowly, then swallowed, gesturing at the TV screen, "Which is why we're playing Call of Duty?"

"Everyone's gotta be a kid sometime," Howie answered.

"So what kind of business do you do?" I asked.

"I own a couple clubs," he answered, "Housing developments, the like." Howie shoved a mouthful of pork fried rice into his mouth. "You actually got me going on it to be honest, you helped me out picking out my first place I owned. I think you were trying to set me up with the realtor..." he smirked, "Which thanks for that by the way."

"Was she a hag?"

"She's my wife," Howie replied, laughing.

"Sorry," I laughed, too.

He ate more rice. "You were always big on responsibility, you know? You liked knowing you had security so you promoted the idea of savings accounts and investments with us guys. Nick and AJ always drove you mental because neither of them were interested in that and Brian, well, Brian did it but grudgingly because he'd rather have fun, you know? But I listened so I kind of became your business partner in a way, I mean we did a lot of the business stuff when it came to BSB, we were the ones who thought ahead after Lou to read contracts thoroughly, etc."

"Lou?"

"Long ass story that I'll spare you right now," Howie answered.

I leaned back and took a deep breath. The screen was flashing the words Game Over at us. "So," I said, "Since you seem to be the one of the four of you with your head screwed on the best... Do you think I'm Kevin?"

Howie shrugged, "It's hard to say," he said, "I mean, we really have no way of telling until you remember something."

"Yeah, I guess."

"I think the guys are putting too much stock in the idea, though," he added. "Do you think you're Kevin?"

"I don't know," I replied.

Howie ran his hands over his knees as he thought for a long moment. "Do you want to be Kevin?"

The words were weird, yet they were a question I'd been asking myself for a few days now. Did I want for the fellas to be right? Did I want this life that I'd lost? I wasn't sure, to be honest. I mean it'd be really cool to find out that I was some awesome pop star and had millions of dollars and these great friends surrounding me, but it scared me that I could forget all of this great stuff so easily and completely. It scared me that I had a son and a wife and that even having seen them and spoken to her that I still didn't remember them on my own. It scared me that I could be so surrounded by my past that I still couldn't remember it. How completely was my memory erased?

"If I don't," I replied after a long pause, "It's not because of you guys."

Howie nodded. "After the stuff Nick and AJ have done to you I wouldn't blame you if it was," he joked.

"There's this girl," I said slowly, "Back in Atlanta."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." I paused. "If you guys are right and I'm Kevin, then I'm married." I bit my lips. "I don't want to break her heart. I know if I remember I'll be in love with Kristin again, but I don't want to break Kim's heart. I feel like scum for not remembering my own wife and wanting some girl from a coffee shop but... well, Kim isn't really just some girl, either, she's amazing."

"I wouldn't want to be in your shoes," he said.

"I don't even wanna be in my shoes," I answered.

"You gave me some advice once," Howie said, "And I'm gonna give it back to you, okay? You gotta follow your heart, no matter what, even if it doesn't make sense to anybody else in the whole world because your heart's gonna lead you exactly where you need to go."

"Thanks D," I said.

Howie smiled, "No problem."



I remembered the next night in Houston that I was supposed to ask for tickets to the show in Atlanta for Kim, Marty, and Mr. Wilder plus one. The guys were on stage and I was watching from the wings with Jenn and Rick and the other stagehands when I remembered and I turned to Jenn. "I have a favor to ask of you," I shouted.

"What's up?" she called back.

"Anyway I could score some tickets to Atlanta's show? I have some -er- family in the area and I'd really like them to check it out," I explained.

Jenn smirked, "For you, K-dawg, anything."

"The fellas told you about that?"

"Course they did," she answered, "They tell me everything."

"Of course they do."

"I think they're nuts," she added. "Actually I knew they were nuts long before this but I think they're extra nuts." Jenn paused, "Don't you think they're nuts?"

"I think I'm the nuts one," I answered.

"I already know you're nuts too." She smirked.



That night when I talked to Kim, she seemed distant yet again. "What's wrong?" I asked, "Break another coffee stein?"

"No," she answered with a heavy sigh, "It's nothing. I guess. I don't know, I think it's nothing."

"Well what is it and I'll help you out," I answered. The other end of the line got still for a moment. I paused. "Kim? You still there?"

"Yeah I'm here," she answered.

I sighed, "What's wrong?"

The silence at the other end of the phone line was so thick it could've been cut with a knife. After a long moment that was filled with that thickness, Kim's voice echoed through the line, her voice vibrating slightly. "When were you going to tell me about her?"

"About who?"

"Your wife?" Kim asked.

My mouth went dry. "Kevin's wife. It hasnt' been proven that I'm Kevin yet though."

Kim's voice cracked, "But if you are then you're married," she said, "And you didn't even mention it to me."

"Honestly, it just really sank in a couple days ago," I replied. "I mean I knew but it didn't really get home in my brain until the other day and I had a complete meltdown over it, trying to picture telling you, trying to decide how and when and --"

"I'm a selfish bitch."

"What?" I asked, taken off guard.

"Me," she said, her voice warbling dangerously close to tearfully, "I'm a selfish bitch."

"How the hell can you say that?" I demanded, "Don't say that."

"It's true though, Stock Boy," Kim stammered out the words, "Because I don't want you to remember," she explained, "Because I'm scared. I'm scared I'll lose you."

"Aw Waitress, c'mon now..."

"No its true. If you're him, you've got her and you've got a kid and you've got a life and a world that has nothing to do with me."

I stared at my feet. There was really nothing I could say to argue the words. I was standing outside the tour bus, pacing the length of it, the stars overhead in the black sky like pin pricks. The cellphone was hot against my ear, and I had no clue what to say to her. There was nothing. I didn't want to agree and there was no way to disagree. The point just hung there between us, heavy and ominous.

"I love you," Kim choked the words out, "I love you and I want to keep loving you, so I keep praying to God you aren't him, that there's nobody in your life, that I'll get to keep you forever." I heard her pull the phone back as she swiped tears from her eyes and I felt guilty. "It's so selfish, I know but it's how I feel."

"I love you too," I said, "And that doesn't change just because I remember or don't remember who I am."

Kim sighed. "I don't want to say this," she said slowly, "What I'm about to say."

"Then don't," I said, my heart tightening and my stomach dropping like lead in my stomach.

"I have to," she said, "Because it's not fair to either of us to limit you..." she paused.

"Kim..."

"I don't think we should be together," she said slowly, the words forced from her mouth, "I don't think we should love each other anymore."

"I can't just unlove you," I said.

"It's not safe," she said, "It's not safe and it's not fair. You could belong to someone, I could end up hurt so badly from this. I mean you're the perfect guy; you're funny, you're sexy, you're sweet..."

"Please," I whispered.

"I'm sorry," she said, "But I just think until you remember and we know that it's for the best."

"But --"

"I don't think that I could survive losing you if I keep you much longer. It's already going to be like a nuclear holocaust, losing you. Like losing air. Losing sanity." Kim paused, "I need to go."

"Don't go."

"I gotta go, Stock Boy," she said. "Good night."

When the line went dead, I turned around and punched the side of the bus with every ounce of strength I had.

Chapter Thirty-One


The fellas were all still up when I got back on the bus. Nick was sitting on the floor with a spoon hanging out of his mouth, a bowl of ice cream on his lap as he played the zombie game. Howie was looking over his shouler at the buttons he was hitting on the game paddle while AJ and Brian were staring down at a checker board on the coffee table, Brian biting his tongue as he thought and AJ examining his fingernails for chips.

"I need your guys help," I announced.

AJ, Brian, and Howie looked up. Nick muttered around the spoon, "Und midnud." Howie kicked him and Nick dropped the paddle, splashing it into the bowl of ice cream, and before he could fish it out and regain control, the game had flashed Game Over as the zombie he'd been about to mutilate grabbed hold of his game character. He spit out the spoon, "You ass," he snapped, looking up. Seeing the other three guys looking at me, he turned to me, "Sorry," he said.

"I need your help," I repeated.

"Sure Kev," AJ offered, "What's up?"

"We need to figure this out," I said, "We need to make sure I'm Kevin. We need to find out who I am. I don't care what it takes, I don't care if I remember. I just want to know. I need to know. I have to know or I'm gonna lose Kim."

"Kim?" Nick asked, "Who the hell is Kim? Is she hot?"

"Not the point," I answered.

"You told her about Kristin?" Howie asked, being the only one up to date on my dilemma.

I took a deep breath, "She found out on her own before I could and she broke up with me because its not safe in case I remember and you're right and I am Kevin and I am married..."

"But you are Kevin, we already figured out it works," Nick argued.

"I need to know," I said, "For certain. Because if I'm not Kevin, and I'm not married, then I need to know so I can get Kim back because... I love her."

Brian nodded, "Okay, so what do we do."

"I dunno," I answered, "Something, anything. We need to look up like news stories and stuff and - and - I don't know." I felt so helpless because here I was desperate to know the truth about myself with absolutely nothing to go by. The fellas were gonna help out but there was still a certain degree of impossibility about the game. Without my memory, there was too many variables.

"Okay, so let's get the internet fired up and see what we find," Brian said, his voice resolute.

Nick looked confused, "But what're we gonna look for? I mean its not like we can log onto Ask.com and get answers about this, yanno?"

"Missing persons," AJ suggested, "Newspapers. Something's gotta be somewhere."

The fellas all went for their computers to begin searching. Howie put a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "We're gonna help you every way we can," he said, "Whether you're Kevin or not, you're our friend. Ok?"

"Thanks Howie," I answered.



Eight hours later, we had nothing. Nick had fallen asleep, AJ's eyes were glassed over as he scanned through missing persons lists, Brian had searched through newspapers in Atlanta and Los Angeles, and Howie had scoured forums for people searching for long lost family members. Nothing, other than things we already knew, had come up. I felt like a gutted fish. I dropped onto the couch beside Howie. I'd been going from one to the next of them in a rotation all night, looking over their shoulders at the progress - or lack thereof. We were all red-eyed and exhausted.

AJ was the one who broke the intensity in the room. "If I fucking see one more missing person list..." he sat back and closed the lid of his computer. "It's depressing shit. You know half of them are dead and the other half don't want to be found."

"Its amazing how many people post looking for half brothers and sisters," Howie agreed.

Brian sighed, "It's worse than looking for a needle in a haystack. It's like looking for an unnamed object in several haystacks. We don't even know if it's a needle." He rubbed the back of his head. "G'Lord," he groaned.

"Thanks anyways guys," I muttered.

"I need coffee," Brian said.

"I need bed," Howie said.

AJ pulled his cigarette pack out of his pocket and headed for the door without saying a word. We all knew he'd been thinking it anyways.

"I'll go for coffee with you, Bri," I said, "You can go to bed, Howie."

"I plan to." Howie stood up, being careful not to step on Nick, and headed for the bunks.

"Next stop, Starbucks?" Brian suggested. I nodded and we climbed off the bus. AJ was standing outside. "You want coffee?" Brian asked.

AJ shook his head, "I'm gonna hit the sack after this." He flicked ashes off the end of his cigarette. Brian called a cab. AJ looked at me. "I'm sorry we didn't figure it out."

"It's okay, I guess I didn't really think we would all in one night," I said. Although I had. I'd had grand visions of looking and one of us finding it, finding the key that solved the mystery of who I was once and for all. I'd pictured calling Kim and telling her and her being thrilled and mine again.

We stood there talking, analyzing what we didn't find, waiting for mine and Brian's ride to Starbucks to arrive, when Jenn came jogging across the lot in the early morning light, hugging a sweatshirt around her chest.

"What're you Boys up to this early?" she asked.

"Long night, need coffee," Brian replied in a robotic voice.

Jenn laughed, "Monopoly championship revisited?"

"Nawh," AJ answered, "Researching this guy." AJ thumbed at me.

"Researching him?"

"Trying to find proof of who he is for certain, Kevin or not, you know," Brian explained.

"Aha." Jenn nodded. "Did you try newspapers?"

"All night," Brian replied.

"And missing persons," AJ added.

Jenn thought for a moment. "What about Kevin's mom?"

Brian looked up. "Aunt Ann?" he thought a moment. "Shit I never thought of that. Aunt Ann should be able to tell right? I mean..."

Brian kept talking, babbling about Moms and sons and their connections, but even as he was speaking, something was stirring in me. My mom, I thought to myself. What was it about a mom that was striking inside me? I closed my eyes and thought hard, focusing on the words. My palms were damp. Why?

"Yoo hoo? Ben?" Jenn clicked her fingers in front of my face. "Earth to Ben?"

"Sorry," I said, snapping to attention.

"There you are," Jenn laughed. "Ben, I got your tickets. That's why I came out when I saw you guys over here." She handed me a small envelope. I opened it and inside were the four tickets I'd requested. Third row from the stage no less.

"Thanks," I said.

"No problem."

The three of us watched as Jenn jogged back across the lot. AJ flicked the last of his cigarette to the ground and stomped it out. "Well, hate to smoke and run but bed is calling me." He saluted. "Enjoy the caffeine ya freaks." He disappeared onto the bus.

"So who are you inviting?" Brian asked, gesturing to the tickets once we were alone.

"Friends from the grocery store I work at in Atlanta," I replied, "Well one was for Kim, too, but I don't think she'll come now." I stared at the tickets.

Brian sighed, "We're gonna figure this out, buddy. Don't worry."



I called the grocery store when it opened to tell Mr. Wilder and Marty about the tickets to the show. Mr. Wilder thanked me profusively and asked how everything was going on the tour, so I told him about the stuff I'd done working for the Boys, and kind of left out the whole Kevin controversy. I didn't feel like explaining it. Mr. Wilder promised he'd be there with his wife and hoped we could get together beforehand and I said we could. "Did you want to tell Marty yourself?" he asked, "She's in."

"Sure," I replied.

Some music played while I waited on hold for Marty to pick up. After a long pause, the line clicked. "Deli, Marty speaking, how can I help you?"

"Hey Marty," I greeted her, "It's Ben."

"Hey Ben," Marty answered, "How's the tour?"

"Alot of fun," I answered, because over all it had been so far.

"Are the guys awesome?" she asked.

"They're great," I replied, "We're good friends."

Marty sighed, "God I'm jealous."

I laughed, "Well don't be too jealous because I'm holding your ticket in my hand and I'm told by Brian you're welcome backstage."

Marty sputtered with excitement, "You're kidding me. You're kidding me. You really did it."

"I really did it."

"Sweet Lord almighty, I can't believe it," she gushed.

"I couldn't forget my favorite coworker," I said.

Marty laughed. "It certainly has been quiet around here without you entertaining me in the breakroom," she said.

"I miss our chats." And it was true, I did. I hadn't realized how much so until I'd said it, but I really did miss Marty. And Mr. Wilder too, of course, but especially Marty.

"I'm almost as excited to see you as I am to see the Boys," Marty said with a chuckle. "I must stress the almost though," she teased.

"Eh it's okay, I expected the almost. After all, you knew I was coming back," I said.

Marty's voice was surprisingly solemn, "Not everyone who goes away comes back," she said.

"True," I replied, even though I wasn't entirely sure what she was talking about.

"In fact, in my experience," she explained, "When people go to California they don't come back." She laughed, lightening the moment, "Must be too damn nice out there to want to, 'ey?"

"I'm sorry," I replied, "But I'm coming back. It wasn't that nice out there," I teased.

"Too hot," Marty agreed, "And too many half-naked ugly people. It amazes me the body shapes people think can wear bikinis and speedos that really shouldn't."

"Too true," I laughed. "So you wanna know where you're sitting at the show?"

"Of course."

"Third row, center," I announced.

"Shit," she breathed, "Ain't no way I won't be able to see. God damn. You need to keep this job if for nothing else but to keep me in my supply of great Backstreet seats."

I laughed. If she only knew that I was possibly one of them, I couldn't even begin to imagine what she'd have to say to that. "Well," I said, "I just may be getting a promotion here."

Chapter Thirty-Two


Nick was moody when he finally woke up. He helped us continue the web search for a little bit, but announced after an hour that he was going to go explore Houston for awhile and he left. "He just really wants you to be Kevin," Brian said after the door had closed behind him. I turned and watched Nick cross the parking lot.

I sighed. "I feel like no matter who I am, I'm gonna end up hurting somebody," I said.

Brian frowned.



We gave up after a couple further hours anyways, and the guys went into the venue to do soundcheck, hoping that Nick had returned and was inside waiting for them. I apologized and opted to stay on the bus. I laid in the bunk and stared up at the ceiling of it, thinking, trying to force myself to remember.

There had to be some sensible reason for everything that had happened. First, Leighanne had seemed familiar to me while I was working at the grocery store. Second, telling Marty that I was from California had happened naturally enough that it sounded like the truth and, third, when I researched it and LAX came up, the photo of the airport had given me a feeling that I'd equated with home. However, four, when I actually got to LAX it didn't feel as homey as I'd expected, familiar though, especially, five, at the bus stop where I'd had that memory of feeling freedom. Six, something about the mention of Ann Richardson and the word mom had stirred inside me a feeling. Some emotion that I now decided would be labelled as homesickness.

There had to be a story there, there had to be something in those six things that explained everything, didn't there?

When nothing came to me, I decided to think about everything I knew about Kevin and see if anything came up.

He/I joined the Backstreet Boys when they first started out. He/I was living in Orlando at the time, working for Disney as an actor, playing Aladdin. He/I recruited Brian for the band, and somehow fell into the role of the father-figure for the younger two, Nick and AJ, while becoming Howie's business partner/trainer. He/I had fathered the hell out of Nick and AJ and finally left so they could grow up, evidently after having had a massive blow out with Nick, which he apologized for. He/I had returned to the group years later after visiting them in the Bahamas during a cruise. He/I disappeared a few months later, in November. I turned up in Atlanta in November, and a body with his wallet appeared in New York several months later.

Some story was there, too, between November and the appearance of the wallet. Whether it was my story or Kevin's story or if the stories were one and the same was beyond my scope of knowledge.

The bus door opened and Brian's voice filled the room, "Hello?" he called.

I stuck my head out the curtain of the bunk. "Yeah?"

"Aunt Ann called me back and she's coming to Atlanta," he said. "I didn't tell her about you..." he paused, "Do you think I should have?"

I thought about it a moment, "In a way," I said, "But in another way I don't think so. Because I mean if she's supposed to decide if I'm me or not, wouldn't it be better if she did without any preconceived notions of what she might find when she got here?"

"True."

"How'd you get her to come without telling her about me?" I asked, "Just out of curiosity."

Brian shrugged, "I just told her it was an important show."

"Oh."

"I was talking to Jenn also," Brian said slowly, "About the other day at your house in LA?"

"What about it?"

"The way you played that piano..."

"You told her about that?"

Brian flushed, "I told everyone about that. It was really impressive. Anyways, I um - I asked her if you could kind of - have some time to - you know... play it. During the show."

"What?"

"I thought having some stage time might help you remember being on the stage as Kevin, and that it wold be really nice if you played your piece during the show," Brian spit the words quickly.

"But I don't have a piano."

"We do."

"But I'm not even sure I could replicate what I played that day..."

"Then play any old thing," Brian said, "You just have such a passion for the piano, I could tell when you were playing it..." he paused, "You've always had one but it was so strong the other day."

I took a deep breath, trying to picture myself on stage in front of all those crazy people that the Boys called fans. I couldn't imagine it, couldn't imagine the feeling of being in front of all of them, the center of attention. But Brian's eyes were so bright and pleading that I couldn't say no. There was simply no way to. "Okay fine," I said, "I'll do it."

Brian grinned, "Awesome."

"Just don't blame me if I suck," I added.

"You won't suck." Brian thumbed at the door, "I gotta get back in there... We'll have the piano tomorrow so you can practice and do soundcheck and everything," he said.

"You were confident I was gonna agree to that, huh? You already have the baby grand being shipped?" I teased.

Brian smirked, "I just knew I wasn't going to take 'no' for an answer."

Chapter Thirty-Three


The piano arrived to the venue in New Orleans right about the same time that we did. Brian was practically giddy as he dragged me into the venue. The piano was white and the paint gleamed under the stage lights, giving it a pearly glow. It was beautiful - truly that's the only word for it. I climbed the stairs up to the stage behind Brian, approaching it the way a nature photographer might approach an endagered species of animal. I sat down and stared at the piano's keys, my fingers tingling, dying to make her sing. "Wow," I whispered.

"Think you can play it?" Brian asked.

"Think I can?" I nodded, "Christ I don't know if I'm worthy to."

Cautiously, I rested my fingers on the ivories and pressed down. The ringing note that resulted filled the venue in every corner as it resounded from every speaker in the house. A chill went down my spine. I took a deep breath and sank into playing music. My mind wandered, tripping over the notes and the past few days as my fingers moved across the keys. I thought of Kim, and of Brian, Howie, AJ, and Nick. I thought of Ann Richardson and Kristin and Mason. I thought of the bus stop in Los Angeles and the grocery store in Atlanta. I thought about Marty, and I thought about the piano and my fingers placement on the keys...

I felt like I was on the cusp of remembering. I opened my eyes and looked around... but nothing was there to remind me, to help bring forth the memories, and I sighed and stopped playing.

"What's wrong?" Brian asked.

"Nothing," I said, "I just... I could feel it, I could feel memories coming... but when I opened my eyes there wasn't anything that helped to make me remember and it faded away. It was so close, it was like seeing the destination but not quite being there."

"What were you thinking of just before you started to remember?"

"I don't know," I answered truthfully. I couldn't recall the last thoughts I'd had before I'd realized I was close to remembering.



The rest of the day, my brain felt like there was a roulette wheel in there, spinning over keywords, and I was just waiting for the wheel to stop on one of them to give me my memories back. California, freedom, piano, Kevin, Ann, Kristin, Kim, Mason, Marty, November, wallet, bus stop...California, freedom, piano, Kevin, Anne, Kristin, Kim, Mason, Marty, November, wallet, bus stop...

It was thoroughly distracting. I couldn't focus on anything. I wandered around helping out with the equipment backstage for Rick but my brain was ceaselessly spinning without landing on a single idea. I kept waiting for the moment when my memory would flood into me - I imagined it knocking me over from the sheer force or something. I made sure I stayed on the ground in interest of that possibility. I mean it would just suck if I was up in the rafters doing a light and bam my memory comes back and I flip off the side of the rafter and die. Totally something that would happen to me, though.



I tried calling Kim three times over the six hours between the arrival of the piano and the start of the show. I wanted so bad to ask her if she'd consider coming the next night in Atlanta - after all, I had the ticket for her - but she wasn't answering her phone. I left a couple desperate messages on her answering machine, but no reply came. I stood, moping ever so slightly, and watched the show from the sidelines like I always did. But for the first time, my eyes wandered away from the Boys to the expectant, excited faces that peered out from the dark rows in front of the stage. I imagined walking out, sitting down, and playing them the closest thing I had to a memory and I nearly felt sick.

"You okay?" Jenn asked, elbowing me somewhere in the rib region (she was so short it was hard to really call it the ribs specifically).

"Yeah," I answered, "Sure."

"You look petrified."

"I'm just picturing going out there and playing for them."

"Well you'll have family in the crowd," she said in an encouraging voice.

I thought of Marty.

"Brian told you Ann's coming right?" Jenn continued.

"Oh. Ann, right yes... Yes, Brian told me."

"So see? Family." Jenn smiled.

I sighed and folded my arms over my chest. "Do you really think I'm him?" I asked, glancing at her after a long moment.

Jenn shrugged, "I haven't seen Nick so cheerful in a while so honestly it doesn't really matter to me if you are or aren't, I just don't want to see Nick fall apart again."

I watched Nick bounce across the stage, one hand on his headpiece microphone, the other grabbing his crotch. "Well he adjusts well anyways," I joked.

Jenn laughed, "Nick's a good kid."

"How old are you exactly?" I asked, laughing, "You don't look old enough to call anyone a kid."

"Really. Asking a woman her age. Crazy man."

I laughed, "Consider it a compliment."



After the show was over, I frantically checked my messages on my phone, but there was still nothing. I left one last super-desperate sounding message on Kim's phone and shoved it in my pocket, frustrated. "Damn it," I muttered to myself. I paced a little bit.

Nick came out the back door of the venue, a teddy bear tucked under his arm upside down. He smiled when he saw me and jogged over. "Bri says you're gonna go on stage with us tomorrow," he said excitedly.

"I'm playing a piece on the piano."

"Still on stage," he answered. He stood there awkwardly, the bear mooning me from his elbow, its face stuffed in his arm pit. I did not envy that Teddy. "Are you excited?"

"Scared shitless is more the term," I answered.

Nick laughed, "Please, Kev you've never been stage fright in all your life."

"Hey Nick?" I said, changing the topic, "Can ya do me a favor?"

He nodded, "Sure, what's that?"

"Make me a promise?"

"Okay. What kinda promise?"

"If I'm not Kevin for some reason, like I remember at some point and it turns out I'm not him... Just remember that first of all, everything you've said to me - he's been able to hear it; second, he's with you always in your heart; and third, even though you annoy the hell out of me, you're still my friend and I love ya like a brother, okay?"

Nick was staring at his sneakers the whole time I was talking. He looked up, a deer-in-headlights kind of look on his face. "What do you mean? Are you saying you aren't Kevin?"

"I'm saying just in case, okay? I haven't remembered anything and maybe I never will but..." I shrugged. "I just want you to know that. Okay? Promise you won't forget that?"

He nodded, his eyes looking a little glossy, and he looked away.

"I'm sorry," I said, "I don't mean to be a Debbie Downer."

"Denny Downer. You're a dude." Nick snuffled and wiped his nose with his arm.

"Denny Downer, then."

"I know you don't." He sighed. "Can you make me a promise?"

It only seemed fair, so I said, "Sure, name it buddy."

Nick's eyes met mine. "Can you tell me first?"

"What?"

"When or if you remember and you aren't him... can you tell me first? I want to hear it from you, not from Howie or Brian. Okay? Please?"

I nodded, "I will. I promise. I'll tell you first either way, how's that?"

Nick smiled, "Even better."

Chapter Thirty-Four


My phone rang at 8:14am the next morning, just as the bus was crossing the Georgia stateline. I sat bolt upright and answered, hoping it was Kim. "Hello?" I tried to sound like I'd been awake for hours. I was actually still asleep. Those weird crumbs were still gluing my eyelids closed. I pawed them away.

"Ben? It's Marty."

I felt like groaning but somehow subdued myself. "Hey," I said, "How are you?"

"How am I?" she asked, "I'm about to go see the Backstreet Boys. I'm amazing."

"I should've known," I teased.

"God I don't even know how to tell them how much their music means to me," she gushed, "I can't even put words around it sometimes. I'm so nervous I'm going to say something stupid..."

I leaned back into the pillows and closed my eyes. "I'm sure you'll be fine," I answered.

"What should I wear?"

"Jeans and a t-shirt, probably," I said, "I mean shoes would be nice, too."

"Funny," she said dryly. Marty paused, "Actually I was just calling to see how early would be too early to get there?"

"We're not even there yet."

"So too early then. Got it."

"Yeah a little."

After agreeing with Marty that somewhere around one o'clock wouldn't be too early or too late to really enjoy the atmosphere, she hung up and I rolled over in the bunk and staredat my phone, willing Kim, wherever she was, to follow suit and call. I racked my brain trying to think if I'd told her what day I'd be in Georgia -- but of course she knew, until two nights before we'd both been counting down together.... and yet I was stuck with Radio Silence.



At one, I excused myself from the crew setting up the stage and took a walk out to the outer reaches of the parking lot. The fence that surrounded the arena was packed with fans, leaning and waiting, watching the buses intently. Brian and Leighanne had been out earlier visiting and signing autographs while Baylee played basket ball, but they'd gone in and the girls waiting now were mostly the ones waiting for Nick.

"Are the guys on the bus still?" some girl with Howie's name written on her forehead asked.

"They took off awhile ago," I answered. A collective groan worked its way through the crowd of them. "Stick around, though, they might come out and visit with ya'll later, okay?" I suggested. Most of them heeded the advice.

I squeezed out from the fence and moved a little ways down the block to separate myself from the crazy girls waiting for the Boys and watched traffic passing by until I heard the name Ben being shouted. I turned and saw Marty coming across the street from a subway outlet. "BENNNN!" Marty was shouting excitedly, waving her arms. I waved back and greeted Marty with a hug when she got to the curbing. She grinned. "I can't believe I'm here," she announced, looking at the venue.

"Well, its happening, so start believing," I teased.

A van slowed on the street and the window unrolled and AJ peered out from inside. "Hey," he said, "What up? Why're you out on this side of the fence?"

"Meeting up with Marty," I said, gesturing to her. She was staring wide-eyed at the car, her jaw dropped. I turned back to AJ, "You might be able to tell she's a fan." She nodded.

AJ laughed, "Want a hitch inside the venue?" He pointed at the girls migrating towards us, curious looks on their faces since they couldn't quite see AJ inside the car.

Marty was already lunging for the car by the time I got out the words if it's not a huge trouble. We climbed inside the car and AJ rolled the windows up just as some girls caught on what was going on and ran toward the car. They started flocking around it, staring in, looks of terror and exhileration on their faces (looks that matched Marty's face). AJ didn't seem to notice the multitude of ladies following the car, instead he just turned to Marty. "So you're a fan, huh? How do you know Ben here?"

"I worked with him at the Little Red Hen," she answered. "I'm in the deli."

"Cool shit," AJ answered. He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. "You mind?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"Course not, Marty smokes like a chimmney," I said with an eyeroll.

Marty flushed.

"Well in that case, how rude of me." AJ pulled a second cigarette out of the case, and handed it to her. "Light?" he offered.

Marty stared at the cigarette like it was made of gold.

"She may frame it," I said.

AJ laughed. "How long have you been a fan Marty?"

She cleared her throat, "For a long time, but especially the last four years or so."

"Yeah?"

Marty nodded, "Yeah. I was on the cruise ya'll did just before --" she hesitated.

"Ah," he nodded, "Yeah. Before Kevin." His eyes flickered at me, a bit of a question in them, but I looked away.

"It was really nice," she said, smiling.

"We had fun on cruises," AJ answered.

"You should do another sometime," she said hurriedly. She was still clutching the cigarette. AJ had given up waiting and lit his. "It would be lovely to get a break from...everything...like that again." Marty smiled.

The car had gotten through the gates into the venue lot and AJ reached for the door handle and climbed out, "We've been working on it. I mean it sounds stupid but it's hard getting back on ya feet after losing someone like Kevin."

"I know the feeling exactly," Marty said, following him out of th car. I scrambled to also as they started walking across the parking lot. For short people, I found myself trotting to keep up with them as the fans along the fence went wild screaming for AJ to go visit with them.

I wanted to ask Marty how she knew the feeling, but she'd evidently already told AJ because he was responding when I got close enough to hear them again. "...sucks so bad. Me and my mom are close," AJ was saying, "I think its important to be close."

"I do too." Marty smiled.

I sighed and made a mental note to ask her later.

AJ led the way into the venue and down several winding hallways until we were in the backstage area where the guys got hair and make-up done. Nick was in a chair already and Brian was sprawled across an overstuffed chair, reading an article about the Lochness Monster outloud. Howie was MIA.

"Fellas, meet Marty," AJ announced as we walked through the door.

"Hi," Nick said, baring his teeth into his iPhone camera. He started picking at them with his baby fingernail. He didn't look over until Brian had stopped reading the Nelly article and gotten up and come over to shake Marty's hand. "Who's that?" Nick asked, turning.

"Marty," I answered, "She's my co-worker, the one I needed tickets for."

"I thought that was a dude, Oscar Meyer or something."

"Mr. Wilder," I corrected him.

"Whatever." He paused, "Hi Marty. I'm Nick."

"Hi," Marty shook his hand, too. "God I can't believe I'm here," she muttered. "I'm sorry. I'm trying to be sane acting, it's just really hard when your heroes are right in front of you."

"Heroes?" The way Nick repeated the word, I could tell his ego was expanding. Like a Chia pet.

"Your music helped me through an extremely hard time in my life," she explained.

Brian smiled, "It's always good to hear that we helped someone with it. I mean it's what we love you know, so it's awesome when someone else can be touched the way we are by the music."

Howie came in the room behind us. I noticed, but Marty was entranced by Nick and Brian and AJ. To get by her, Howie put his hands on her shoulders, "Excuse me," he said, shifting her slightly towards me. He was rewarded by a shriek of shock from Marty as she jumped out of the way. He looked perplexed.

"Oh goodness," Marty said. "I'm sorry, I'm just not used to.... to being pushed aside by a Backstreet Boy, I guess."

I laughed, "Alright, why don't we go get you a seat for soundcheck and stop freakin' the Boys out?" I suggested. Nick smirked. "We can come back and talk to the fellas after the show, okay?"

Marty hesitated. "Okay," she nodded, "Soundcheck. Let's go." She backed out of the room, keeping her eyes on the guys like she was hypnotized.

"Toodles Marty," Nick shouted, waving with just his finger tips.

"Nice meeting you," Brian and AJ added in a chorus.

"I'll - er- meet you later," Howie said.

I led Marty around the stage to the seating that I'd already set up that morning on the floor by the side of the stage. We sat and she rubbed her knees with excitement. "I still can't believe I'm here," she commented.

"It's neat, huh? Seeing a show before the show?"

Marty nodded, "It's unbelievable."

I smiled. I could tell from her voice how much this all meant to her. "How long have you been a fan of these guys?" I asked her.

She laughed, "A really, really long time..." An air of nostalgia welled up in her, "God, my Michael was soooo aggrevated when I'd play them in the car or go crazy about seeing an appearance they did. He was in high school so stuff like that embarassed him, like when I wore a Backstreet Boys t-shirt to parents night." Marty shook her head, "He'd die if he knew I was here."

I laughed. Then I remembered something. "I thought you said you didn't have kids?" I asked. I could've sworn we had that conversation once.

Marty smiled ruefully, "Well I guess I don't anymore," she shrugged. "I don't really like talking about it, so I tend to say I don't have one."

"What happened?" I asked.

"He sort of disowned me," she answered, "It's a long story. I was too judgmental. I should've just accepted him like he was, you know?" Marty shrugged. "He hasn't called me in almost five years now. I don't know a blessed thing about him."

"That sucks," I answered.

Marty nodded, "Yeah. Anyways, he never would've approved me being here, I'm sure," she laughed.

"Oh well," I answered.

Marty smiled, "You're a good kid, Ben."

"Thanks."

"I'm sure you make your mother proud," she added.

I hesitated. "Yeah," I agreed. Which reminded me that I had to get backstage again because Ann Richardson, who may or may not have been my mom, was going to be arriving any moment and I had to go meet her. I looked at my watch. Literally - any moment now. I turned to Marty, "Hey I gotta go take care of some stuff, but Justin's gonna be out in a few minutes to start organizing this and getting the fans in and then the Boys will be out. You okay here?"

Marty nodded, "I am. I just like the atmosphere of it, you know?" she smiled.

"Okay," I answered, "I'll be back before the soundcheck's over," I promised.

I trotted backstage, leaving Marty sitting in the arena, looking around, awe-struck by it all, and found my way backstage, my head full and my heart heavy. I felt like something was gnawing at my stomach. I found the Boys still in their dressing room, a short woman with dark hair sitting on the chair Brian had previously occupied. They all looked up as I walked in the door. Nick bit his lips and AJ looked from Ann to me with his eyes like he was watching a tennis match.

"Aunt Ann," Brian said, "This is a friend of ours." He motioned for me to come in and I couched down, looking Ann in the eyes, and shook her hand. I could feel that the Boys were all holding their breath... waiting for her to react to me or to leap up and wrap her arms around me sobbing like I was the prodigal or something.

"It's nice to meet you," she said.

Chapter Thirty-Five


"Just because she didn't recognize you doesn't mean shit," Nick said defensively.

"Yeah, I didn't recognize the similarity in your eyes at first either," Brian agreed. "How long did we work together before I noticed?"

"Maybe she just didn't say anything," AJ suggested, "I mean it is kind of an awkward thing to point out. Hey you look like my dead kid in the eyes a little?"

Howie sighed, "Maybe we should just ask her. Explain to her the situation, what we think and everything."

"What if it upsets her?" Brian argued.

Ann had just gone to sit with Leighanne and Baylee to see the soundcheck. The fans were bustling, we could hear them on the other side of the curtain we were standing behind. I felt like I was on overload. Too much was happening, I couldn't keep up with it. My head was about ready to explode.

Nick put a hand on my shoulder, "Don't give up, okay?" he begged.

"Yeah no problem," I answered. But honestly, I felt a little empty. I mean if she hadn't recognized me, how could I be her son? Not recognizing your cousin right off or your bandmate, that's totally different than son. Of course, I wouldn't recognize Mason if I fell over him so maybe it's the same thing. Well no because I have amnesia. She doesn't. And maybe Mason wasn't my son, maybe if he was I would recognize him. Maybe she really just didn't say anything, like AJ said, or maybe - maybe she'd said all there was to say.

Brian patted my back on his way by as the Boys went out onto the stage for soundcheck. I slid off the stage and sat down in the empty folding chair next to Marty, who grinned and shook my knee to greet me once I'd sat down. She stared up at the Boys with rapt attention, her jaw slightly dropped, as they got their mics going and started goofing off and chattering. They sang a couple songs acappella, and I have to admit that it was a really different experience hearing them sing that way from the floor in front of them, rather than as background noise as I worked. They were much more impressive from this angle, and it was easy to see how people got so invested in their 'fandom' once I experienced it from their angle.

The hour for soundcheck seemed to fly by, and once Marty ha gotten her photo with the Boys, we hovered off to the side until they'd met everyone and the fans had all been shuffled back out of the arena. Once they'd left, Brian jumped the barricade that kept the fans from getting too crazy, and came over to me and Marty. "Hello again," he greeted Marty. "You enjoy the soundcheck?" he asked.

"Definitely," Marty nodded. "Your voices are amazing."

"Oh gorrrsh," Brian drawled in a Goofy voice.

Marty laughed, "Like you Boys don't know you sound beautiful," she waved a hand at Brian.

"Are you excited for the show tonight?" Brian asked, "And to see this one here in action?" he added, fake-punching my arm.

"This one?" she looked at me. "What?" she turned back to Brian.

"Ben here has a part in our show tonight. What? You didn't tell her?" Brian asked, looking at me, a hint of disbelief in his voice.

My cheeks turned red. "No, I didn't tell anyone."

"Well, just you wait," Brian said, nodding solemnly, "It's a big surprise, but you're gonna be amazed." He grinned.

"I can't wait," Marty replied.



In all the hub-bub with bringing Marty backstage and the preparation for the show and the soundcheck and everything, I was fairly distracted until after dinner and didn't get a chance to attempt calling Kim until I'd already gotten Marty seated in the crowd, greeted Mr. Wilder and his wife and got them seated with Marty. I dialed the number for Kim's cellphone like five times, and each time the phone just rang and rang and rang and rang...

I sighed heavily. Nick sat down next to me. "What's up buttercup?" he asked.

"I'm just frustrated," I replied, closing the phone. I stared at it in my hand, willing her to call me back.

He looked at the phone. "I'm sorry," he said. "That you're frustrated."

"It's okay."

Nick hesitated. "You know why I believe you're Kevin?"

"Why?" I asked.

He smiled, "Because Kevin had the best way of making people feel good around him. He didn't have to do much, he just had to be there and it made you feel better." With a shrug, Nick added, "I dunno, you kinda do that. I feel good around you. You know?"

"Even though I get irritated at you sometimes?" I laughed.

Nick smirked, "It's fun pissing you off. Another reason why I think you're Kevin."

"So you have a list," I said, laughing.

Nick shook his head, "Just those two reasons is all." He paused. "You really think dead people can hear stuff?" he asked.

"Yeah, I do," I replied.

"So even if you ain't him, I told him sorry, right?"

"Right." Nick scurried off without saying anything else.

I opened the phone and tried dialing Kim's number again. Nothing. I left a voicemail. "Kim, it's me... I miss you. I just wish you'd answer. I'm in town, we're doing the show here tonight, and I'm kind of playing a piece on the piano tonight, like on stage in front of all these people. I just wish you were here. I left your ticket at will-call. If you get this in the next like hour or so, please come over. It would mean a lot to me to look in the crowd and see you there. I love you." I hung up.



The stage lights were flashing, the opening act was on stage about to wrap up. Everyone backstage was pulled together into the huddle to do the preshow prayer. Everyone's arms were interlocked, and Brian was leading. "Lord thank you for this tour, thank you for everything you've done for all of us, for the fans, for the venue and the capable stagehands who change it from an empty arena to a fantastic stage show. Thank you for my bandmate brothers and for all the friends we've made this tour. We ask you to watch over us tonight and give us strength to put on the best possible show we can. All this is Jesus' name..."

"Amen," everyone chorused.

We all put our hands together in the center. "One! Two! Three!" Nick shouted.

"Backstreet!" We all yelled, parting, hands flying like shrapnel from the center point.

Energy filled the backstage area. Nick bounded around, his hair gelled and sprayed so much that the spikes didn't even move as he frolicked. Howie downed a cup of honey-chamomile tea like it was a shot. AJ changed his vest like four times. Brian paced. Finally it was time, and the Boys left me to the side of the stage, like usual, and went out to perform the first half of their act.

"ATLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANTAAAAAAAAAAAA!" Nick shouted as he ran onto the stage, and the crowd went absolutely nuts.

I could see Marty and Mr. Wilder and his wife in the third row, with Kim's empty chair beside them. I sat down beside Jenn and rubbed my forehead with the heels of my hands. Jenn smiled, "It's gonna be okay," she offered.

"I feel sick," I replied.

"It's called nerves," Jenn answered.

As the Boys danced and sang, I leaned back and tried not to focus on the fans and the magnitude of their screaming. I didn't want to imagine myself in front of them. My palms were sweating just thinking about it. I imagined myself messing up, hitting the wrong keys, a bunch of mindless noise escaping from the piano. It was going to be a disaster, I thought. They were going to hate it. I pictured a tomato hitting me in the side of the face as I played.

When the Boys came backstage, I grabbed Howie by the shoulders. "I can't do this," I muttered.

He laughed, "You can do this."

Brian was on his way back out, a spotlight on him and the piano was rising up from the floor on a lift, like we'd practiced. "We have a special treat for ya'll tonight..." he was saying.

"No seriously, I can't do this, I'm gonna hyperventilate, or something," I replied.

Howie shook his head, "Just pick one person out there, look them in the eyes, and pretend you're only playing for one. It'll help. I promise."

I nodded. "Okay."

"Deep breaths," I heard AJ say from behind me.

"You done this a ton of times before," Nick reminded me, "You just don't know it."

My nerves shook inside me.

"...amazing piece on the piano, composed himself..." Brian was saying out on the stage. Girls were clapping and screaming. Marty was looking at the piano, her jaw dropped, her eyes wide. "Please put your hands together for Ben Spencer." Brian waved his hand toward the curtain where I was standing.

My knees locked, I forgot how to step forward, how to walk out there. Nick shoved me from behind, "Goooo," he urged me.

I stumbled out onto the stage, regained balance, and walked as calmly as my shivering nerves would allow. My eyes scanned the arena. There wre people everywhere. I felt ready t to throw up. They were all looking at me, like I was anything to look at... I was ready to turn back, to dive back into the safety of the sidelines and shadows, when Howie's words echoed in my head and my eyes quickly darted to Kim's still empty seat. Mr. Wilder was clapping like crazy. But my eyes locked with Marty's.

There were tears in her eyes.

I sat down at the piano and Brian ran off stage and the light softened to a gold shade and I lifted the key cover took a deep breath, I poised my fingers... and brought them down onto the keys...

And it was like lightening struck with the first chord.

Chapter Thirty-Six


The angry first notes of the composition filled the auditorium with sound... and my mind with words...


"You have a degree in music, did you really think that was going to get you anywhere? Why don't you think things through Michael?" her voice carried through the house. "You're thirty years old, you're a grown man. If I was any other mother, you'd be out by now."

"So why don't you throw me out then!"

"Because I love you too much," she yelled back.

"Well why don't I just take that burden from you then. I'm leaving. I'm going to California."

"With what money? You don't have money to get to California. Where are you going to live? What are you going to do?"

"People go to California all the damn time, they get famous, they make money," I yelled. "Mom, I'm good at what I do. I'm a good pianist."

"I never said you weren't, but it's not a life, it's not a career. What are you going to do, concerto your way to millions of dollars?"

"I could."

"You can't. You need to get a job, Michael, you need to grow up."

"Why don't you respect me?!"

"I do repsect you, I just wish you'd grow up!"

"I am grown up!" I yelled. "I'm grown up and I'm going to California and there's nothing you are going to say or do to stop me."

"You can't just go to California!"

"Why not?" I demanded.

"Because... Because I SAID SO!" she'd reached the pinnacle. The point where, when I was a child, she always won the argument with those four simple words. She was, after all, the mother.

But not that time. Instead, that time, I looked her right in the face and said, "I don't care. You're narrow minded and you don't believe in me, and I don't care what you think."


The music danced a trail that conjured images of the routes and town names on a map. A map that spanned the distance from Atlanta to Los Angeles. I pictured the plane, and LAX as the plane was in a holding pattern, that space-age structure far below as it had been a week ago, on Brian's day for the failed mission of Return of the Kevi.

And next, the music turned into a declaration of independence, a song about freedom...

My room mate from college was waiting at the bus stop when I got off the bus that had taken me from LAX. Leonardo had studied drama and was waiting for his Big Break to come. He had a job at a pizza place in the mean time and offered me to stay at his apartment until I'd found a decent job. When I got off the bus and the smell of city and salt had filled my nostrils, I'd felt invigorated. I'd felt freedom. The world was mine to conquer and mine to gamble with my music if that was how I wanted it to be. I was okay with being a starving artist, whether my mother was okay with me being one or not. And Los Angeles, this city filled with dreams, promised me that I could succeed.


With a sweep, the music dipped into a darkness... a time of depression and struggle...


California dreams are many a time just that - dreams. Dreams that never come true. I'd battled failure and loss and discouragement. I'd struggled through part time job after part time job, trying to upkeep my end of the rent before Leonardo kicked me out, our friendship having dissolved with his patience. I'd struggled to try to forge a life on my own, but things mounted up and soon I'd found myself living on the streets, enough money to buy food and things like that but hardly ever enough to keep a roof over my head.

The darkest moment of my life - marked by the deepest baratones of the piano's keys - had been lived under an overpass by the highway. The traffic rumbled overhead at all hours of the night. The scene there was so much like that movie Where The Day Takes You that I kept waiting for Little Jay or King to appear. I wanted out of that life, I wanted a good night's sleep, and to feel hopeful again.

I'd decided to go home. I knew my mother wouldn't turn me away. I'd go home and I'd get a real job - maybe as a music teacher or something; I could picture myself doing that. I'd apologize for being terrible to her before... I'd swallow my precious pride... pride that had foolishly separated me from my mother - the bravest, most saint-like woman I'd ever known in all of my life... the woman who had raised me, single-handedly.



Obligingly the song lifted into a hopeful, climb, like a promise being realized, reaching for the answer to a question that was never asked.... and as it built up to that climatic, abrupt ending that so shocked every person that had yet listened to the piece... I understood why... why it ended that way.


Her house was on the other side of the park. I was running through it, my heart beating in my chest, my bag slung over my shoulder, the case containing my keyboard clutched in my fist. I hadn't even heard the guy coming up behind me until it was too late. He didn't get much, I didn't have much for him to take. I mean he got my keyboard and the clothes in the duffle bag, I'd assume. But I'd spent every last red cent I had on the airline ticket home.

I wonder if it was a waste for him, mugging a poor guy like me?


I'd never made it to my mother's to get the answer that would finish the song and so it simply ended, hanging there in the room, asking a question at the same time as it answered so many others.

As soon as the final note, the one that asked Am I still your son?, faded in the arena, I leaped up from the chair of the piano and ran toward the backstage, my heart thumping wildly in my chest. Brian looked ecstatic about the music; Howie, Nick and AJ were all grinning as I neared them, proud and excited because I'd lived up to expectations they'd had for a person that I could never be, simply because I wasn't him.

I passed by the others and grabbed Nick by the shoulders. I looked him right in the eyes. "My name is Michael," I said.

Nick looked shocked for a moment, then realization to the words I said dawned on him, and then he looked stunned. The other guys were exploding with questions behind me, but Nick just stared at me, his eyes searching mine. "You remembered?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said, "It just --" I pointed back at the stage, "It just flooded me. That song... that piece, it tells the story and I just... I wrote it for her, for my mom. It's hard to explain right now, I'll explain later." I let go of his shoulders and passed by him, ignoring the other guys altogether as they shouted questions after me. I had to get to Marty.

I pushed through the doors that led to the seating area, and I squeezed between the rows of girls to the center aisle. Marty was still facing the stage, her jaw dropped, her eyes welled with tears. "Excuse me," I pushed by the last girl that stood between Marty and I. Mr. Wilder looked over at me and nudged her arm. Marty turned to me, a look of shock and confusion filling her eyes. Her lower lip trembled.

"Mom?" the word felt good...right...in that heavy, comfortable way, like a blanket feels in winter.

"Michael?" her voice was thick, caught in her throat, "What happened? What - your face - what --" she stepped toward me. Several fans were looking at us with interest. The Boys were standing on the stage, staring at us; Nick's eyes wide like he couldn't decide if he was shocked, scared, or incredibly excited.

"I tried to come home," I said.

She stepped closer, put her hands on my cheeks, and I bent down to look into her eyes. Her eyes filled with tears and her face contorted. Her arms wrapped around me, pulling me into her chest as a silent sob shook her head-to-toe.

Chapter Thirty-Seven


A half an hour later, once I'd promised I'd be back to go home with Marty - I mean, my mother - after the show was over, I left her there in the third row to watch the Boys finish out their concert. I had somewhere to go, I'd told her, somewhere important.

The bus stopped at the usual place, a half a block away. I still hated the way it smelled and the lady with the dog was on there, probably on the way home from where ever she used to go in the mornings when I rode the bus to Marietta. I climbed off and jogged to the corner through a rain that had started, splashing water into my sneakers and soaking my hair flat to my head. I reached the door knob on the cafe and stepped inside, my sneakers squishing on the runner rug that lined the way to the counter.

Kim was wearing black skinny jeans, purple high-top Converse sneakers, and a purple and grey striped shirt that hung off one shoulder, with her apron tied around her waist. Her hair was pulled back in a pony tail and a pencil was slung over her right ear. She looked up when the windchime hung on the door tingled, and her eyes widened in that oh shit sort of way. Joe was no where to be seen. She had no where to run. She waited at the counter while I squish-squished my way across the cafe. I stopped at the counter.

She hesitated, chewing her lower lip. She looked up at me. "The usual?" she asked.

"Yeah, please," I answered.

She turned and started pouring the coffee into the paper cup. She shook the nutmeg in, then turned back to me. "That'll be two-fifteen Stock Boy."

I pulled the money out of my wallet, put it on the counter. "You can call me Michael," I answered.

Kim looked up from the money. "Michael?" she asked.

I nodded.

I could see in her eyes that she was processing the thought, and I knew when she realized what it meant. Excitement flooded her eyes. "Michael?" she asked again.

"Yes?"

Her nose flared with excitement. "Is - is Michael married?" she asked.

I stared at her, a smile slowly spreading across my face as I lifted my coffee from the counter. "Not yet," I answered.

Kim's face broke into a grin and she leaped onto-and-over the counter. Luckily, I hadn't come to the cafe after coffee because I dropped the cup onto the floor in the interest of catching her as she fell into my arms.



Nick and the guys were still backstage with my mother when I got back to the venue later, having promised Kim I'd call her the next day. She'd gotten pictures with each of the guys and autographs all around and commanded Nick to visit the house next time he was in town so that she could 'fatten him up' ("Lauren would kill me, but I love home cooked food..." Nick had admitted).

It was the weirdest feeling, walking into the room because it was like being from two different worlds at once. I'd been called Kevin by the guys for a whole week (when you're amnesic, that's a long time to be called anything), and the other I hadn't seen in five years, yet she felt like home. She wrapped her arm around my waist and clung tight, like she refused to let me go incase I disappeared again. I was okay with that. I was okay with being held onto. I didn't want to disappear again.

"I guess this means we need to find a new stage hand to complete Rick's crew, huh?" Brian asked, looking at his feet.

"I guess so," I answered. "At least for a little bit." I glanced at Marty, who was still staring at the Boys with a bit of awe in her eyes. "I don't think this one here's gonna be too keen on me quitting anytime soon."

"You're invited anytime," Nick's words exploded from his mouth. He paused, "Even if you ain't Kevin. Or a pizza dude." He paused. "Remember when I thought you were the pizza dude?" he asked.

"Yeah, you were trying to shove Howie into the overhead compartment."

"Don't remind him of that," Howie hissed.

We all laughed.

When the laughter died down, though, an awkwardness filled its place. I hesitated. "I'm sorry, fellas," I said slowly.

"Why?" AJ asked, "What's there to be sorry for?"

"I got your hopes up... all of you... that I was Kevin, and -" I shrugged, "Well, I'm not."

"I think in a way it gave us some kind of closure," Brian replied, "In a weird way."

"We still dunno what happened to Kev though," Nick pointed out. "Not really."

Brian sighed, "Maybe we'll never know."

Nick looked at his feet.

"Nick," I said. He looked up. "He heard every word."

He smiled.



The next day I was at my apartment across from the cafe waiting for Kim's shift to end when the buzzer rang. I answered it to find a crew of guys delivering the white piano the guys had ordered in. The head of the crew handed me an envelope with a simple note from Brian saying that the four of them had talked and agreed that a pianist needs a piano, and they really had no use for it without a pianist on the tour.

Maybe you can finish that song now? he'd written, I mean don't get me wrong, I love the cliff-hanger ending but I really hope to hear what it sounds like now that the story's been completed.

When the crew had finished reassembling the thing in my living area, I sat down at the stool, opened a notebook, and wrote down the chords and notes that went into the piece. When I got to that last, hanging note, I stared at the keys for a long time, trying to figure out how to end it. My eyes traveled around the room, like looking at my stuff could glean some sort of inspiration.

Hanging on the wall in its frame was the CD. The supposedly blank CD, labeled simply Hold On.

Once, it had been a recording of the piece.

Hold On, I'd entitled it.

I closed the key cover, turned the page on the notebook, and wrote the following letter to Brian, Nick, and AJ:

I can't finish the piece.
The piece was never meant to be finished. It's not just my story, it's a story about anyone who has had a life that's encountered opposition, supposed understanding, a dark time, and a return to hopeful uncertainty. It's a journey, really, and the journey is destined to repeat itself in some form or another. For instance I've reached hopeful uncertainty but tomorrow a new obstacle will arise and I'll restart the journey. A different one, but one all the same. You've all lived the journey, too; so will everyone else.
It's unending, just like the song. Even when we die, the journey doesn't just end. I don't know what happens after, but I'm sure that it is a hopeful uncertainty. It is only right then, to end such a song on a hanging note.
And appropriately enough, the song is entitled Hang On. It's a beautiful irony, isn't it?

I tore the sheet out and slid it into an envelope, which I filled out with Brian's home address. I left it laying on the piano so I would remember to mail it. Then I went into the bathroom, opened up the cupboards under the sink, and pushed aside all the crap. I reached into the back, behind the U-shaped pipe, and got the mirror doors that belonged on the medicine cabinet. It took some struggling with the runner but I managed to get them back on. I stared into my own eyes in the reflection, studied my jawbone and my cheeks, which I now understood had been significantly altered now that I knew what I'd previously looked like. I met my own eyes - and there I was, those I recognized from before. I stared into them, searching them, reaquainting myself with, well, myself.

The buzzer echoed through the apartment, signaling the arrival of Kim now that her shift was over.

"Well Before Self," I said outloud, "Meet your After Self." I smiled, "He's an okay guy. You'll get along okay."

The buzzer rang a second time.

"Coming," I shouted, and I went to go let Kim up, turning off the bathroom light as I went.