Gossip [&] the Devil

[Parts: I, II, and III]

Billy @ the Rockwalk induction. "Lick clean the dirty fingers."

[Oh my how the drama is unfolding. You know, it's difficult writing this from such a young perspective. It's difficult to capture the true excitement with such jaded years behind me. Part of me wants to get back to that sparkle, the other part is glad I'm not so new. The other part of me realizes it's been for fucking balls ever since I've posted another part of this story and should probably do so.]

[Also I have exactly ZERO pictures from this time. It's as black and white as the words you're reading. There's a lesson in here somewhere.]

The Storm Trooper guard grunted at me again. I finally came back to earth long enough to push a picture toward Billy, some large, gaudy shot from the Adore era I’d torn from a Smashing Pumpkins calender given to me for my birthday years prior. [The autograph has since been stolen]. He scribbled his name and I watched his hands; hands that to this day I compare all other men’s hands to, no lie. Something about the shape and capability of them. The ability to hold ambition. He smiled again and I repeated a quiet, wavering “thank you,” before I was shuffled out the door. The freezing air held me, tears so hot they had no time to stick to my face, falling in fat drops down equally fat cheeks.

The whole thing took less than 10 minutes. Sometimes that’s all it takes. 10 minutes. 17 seconds. A hug. And like that you’re set down a path.

My inner voyeur couldn’t resist watching through the glass for a few more minutes as he greeted other fans, scowling at the security guards trying to shoo me away. I happily waved goodbye to those I’d met in line, most of which were crying too. I knew I’d never see them again, but the fact remained, we’d done this together. [Which is saying something. I'm not a fucking team player.]

In my elation, when we’d stopped to fill up for gas I bought chips and sodas for the way home. One split Yellow Sub sandwich over nearly a 24-hour period didn’t cut it. [Celebratory dinner?] However, as we approached I-35 we realized: We’d just spent our toll money.

Motherfucker.

I refused to spend the money Billy had given me, even if it meant an easier way home. We were too scared to blow the tolls since we didn’t have licenses to begin with, no sense in attracting cops.

Navigating the interstate was hard enough, but trying to find a way home without it was near impossible. We’d driven for a few hours, through weird, Friday the 13th-ish dirt roads, small sleepy towns and scary truck stops. Finally we came upon this little biker bar in the middle of fucking nowhere, desperate for directions. My boyfriend went inside and locked the car door, telling me to yell loudly if anyone came out and bothered me. [Remember we were 14 and 15, respectively.] The new Pumpkins single “Stand Inside Your Love” came on the radio. When he returned he was carrying a fistful of crumpled one-dollar bills.

“Hey this waitress gave me her tips because she felt bad.”

We’d ended up something like a hundred miles west of where we needed to be. But we found our way back. Things were going to be fine…

…until we were pulled over for going “too slow.” We’d been on the interstate exactly 15 minutes when we had to exit again so deputy fucking dog and his sidekick could blind us with a spotlight.

Imagine: two kids, nervous, trying to stay right between the lines, trying in vain to obey every traffic rule we could remember. Legally, the only way you can drive with a permit is if you have an of-age, licensed driver in your car. Since I was neither, we were fucked.

There’s always a price you pay for following your bliss. A balance has to be made.

First test of faith: keeping it in the face of crisis.

[Bonus round before part 5: tell me the frame of refrence for this tattoo and I'll send you a couple Gossip [&] the Devil pins before they hit the merch store. Email julie [at] devilgossip [dot] com with the answer. Family and those who attended the tattooing are not eligible. Don’t post in comments. I’ll fucking punt your first born onto the train tracks.]

It's a good thing I get regular pedicures. I have toes longer than some men's penises. (Peni?) That's kind of gross.

[Part 5 - later. But not as long as it took to post Part 4. I'd promise but then when I broke said promise you'd look at me like the father who keeps saying "next time" when you ask  him to come to your baseball games. I don't fucking like baseball.]