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Whether the rest of the guys realized it or not, the artist shtick was a relatively calculated plan on Ernest’s part–once they committed to the new routines, at least. The discomfort and unfamiliarity of the routine’s setup were a mindfuck. Seriously, the easel was antithetical to every performer’s instinct he had. The comparative fragility and awkwardness of the prop felt blinding, incongruous with the wild enthusiasm and pulsating energy of the crowd. But, he sipped at his beer, basking in the come-down of a night well done, it had worked.
He eyed the shadowy forms of the others, sprawled around the room willy-nilly. The quaint, formerly immaculate style of Nancy’s house was at odds with the people, chaotic variety of clothes, and colorful performing props festooning most of the horizontal surfaces. After the manic-speed insanity of the last few days, the afterparty had been downright tame. They’d hit the strip, made ambitious plans for an afterparty at Nancy’s, then, almost to a man, crashed barely an hour after getting there.
Ernest looked at his bottle, the slick surface gleaming with the minute light that slipped in from the outside porch light. He surveyed the room again, weighing how much he didn’t want to move against how sore he’d be in the morning if he stayed on the loveseat.
He flexed a knee, testing for soreness or aggravation; blissfully, there was nothing beyond the ordinary, so he shrugged and settled deeper into the springy cushions. A long pull from his warming beer drained it before he dried the condensation off with his shirt and settled it on the wood floor below his head.
Staring unseeing into the dark, he tried to find the sleep of the exhausted that everyone else seemed to have crashed into headlong. Instead, Ernest could feel his mind working overtime. Thoughts churning like a dustdevil and twice as abrasive, he finally gave in and stopped trying to shunt them away, starting with a little–well-deserved–self-congratulation.
A smile that’d suit a canary-eating cat tugged at his face, and in the concealing gloom, Ernest let himself enjoy the expression. When he’d told Mike he’d be doing this job until his knees gave out, admittedly he’d figured that meant only a few more good years. Between high school, Desert Storm, and entertaining, the writing was on the wall; switching up the acts, though, and what they demanded of their bodies. . . well. That changed things.
Suddenly, it wasn’t a question of when he’d be forced into retirement, so much as if he’d have to abruptly retire. This shake-up meant extra time. Whether to stick it out and live off his pension and social security, or find a different gig like the others. His grin evaporated at that final thought, furrowed brows and pursed lips moving in. He might've carved out extra time for somethings, but nothing changed that this was their last rodeo together.
A lonely, fractured future loomed ahead, and Ernest was self-aware enough to recognize that he didn’t much like not having his guys at his back.
Mike, for so long unquestionably beyond reach because a phone call was indescribably impossible, was suddenly back in the fold. Present in a way he hadn’t been since before The Kid. Even though he would be leaving again, back to his furniture and American Dream, the air was clearer and Ernest felt the distance was different, less overwhelming, this time around.
Ernest rolled over onto his side, facing out across the room instead of staring skyward; from his new position he could just make out the rest of the room, shadowy suggestions of occupied space against gaping stygian voids.
There.
Memory and well-developed intuition identified Mike, sprawled for some damn reason on the sinfully plush rug. It occurred to Ernest that Mike would probably feel that in the morning, especially after the lifts earlier, and that a nice person would shove a pillow or blanket at him. Worrying the afghan draped over the back of the loveseat between his fingers, Ernest settled for letting his arm flop forward over his side, dragging the cozy fabric with it and letting it slip through his fingers. Gravity took it from there, puddling the blanket potentially in reach of any hands or limbs that went questing for warmth later on.
Satisfied he’d made a good faith effort at decency, Ernest tried–again–to fall asleep. He could feel his thoughts turning hazy; time slipping away in starts and stops. In his sleep-fuge, moments of the previous journey to Myrtle Beach crept in, and after the sweet success of the weekend, he swore he could taste the froyo Tito and Tobias were whipping up.
Following the memories as he drifted off, Ernest learned forward precariously over the edge of the cushions.
On the cusp of overbalancing, some internal alarm went off and he snapped awake, jerking back into the couch cushions. Adrenaline shot his pulse sky high and he took stock of what had happened, groaning in frustration when he realized all traces of sleep had fled far, far beyond reach.
Annoyed at the situation and himself, Ernest scowled, debating whether it was worth getting up. A glass of water probably wouldn’t actually help him sleep, and trying not to break an ankle–his or someone else’s–in the dark sounded like just another irritation at the moment. He huffed, shoving himself back into the cushions, the decisiveness coloring the movement at odds with the motion itself.
With nothing beyond his own inability to sleep to occupy his mind, Ernest realized he really wanted froyo now. Fan-fucking-tastic. He growled, cutting it off abruptly when someone responded. Just a questioning groan, more appropriate for a D-list zombie movie but with the distinctive upward lilt at the end, just enough to pass as a question.
“Nothing, go back to sleep.” He stage-whispered. An airy hum floated back, but he didn’t hear anything else, so Ernest counted it as a win.
Unfortunately, as the quiet reasserted itself Ernest found his mind wandering back along paths he was specifically trying to avoid. Tito and Tobias’ froyo truck dreams and the inescapable approach of the future had reclaimed the forefront of his mind. At least,he thought I’m involved with this one.
Of course, he wouldn’t have intentionally caused Tobias’ short-notice hospital stay–and the truck’s off-roading jaunt–but, privately Ernest could admit they had their upsides. And, grimly amused, he thought it was pretty damn on-brand for them.
And in this case, one of the upsides was that he got to delay the inevitable goodbye by helping paint–or repaint–the truck. Thoughts drifting toward the likely damage, he started tallying what would be required to fix the paintings before giving it up, realizing he’d probably be better off stripping the paint entirely and starting fresh. At least he could conscript someone or another to help with the stripping–Ernest smirked, unable to ignore the irony of that thought. So, help stripping, and probably no one could fuck up the base coats, so an extra set of hands there. Cool.
Hmmmmm.
A mischievous thought flickered through his mind; he could pass it off as art therapy. The guys would get a kick out of it and Tobias would be a good sport about the whole thing. Entertaining the idea, Ernest closed his eyes, envisioning the scene. Quintessential Florida sunshine and neglected drinks sweating in the heat and humidity, haphazard progress as people got distracted and someone, himself of Mike– maybe even Tobias or Tito–bullied them back on track. Dollars to donuts someone would end up with excessive amounts of paint on them, probably some on the truck too, a bit sloppy-chic, but perfect for a Florida froyo truck.
Picturing the final, idyllic moments of the daydream, he chuffed in amusement, Ken would doubtless insist on some sappy, blessing-cum-christening type shit. ‘Course no one would argue; whatever Ernest’s personal opinion, Ken’s spiritual mumbo-jumbo hurt fuck all and made him happy enough, so they’d go right on going along with them. ‘Sides, he was after all for a little extra luck or spiritual goodwill, especially after their latest misadventure.
Ernest mentally flipped through the guys, mmmmm. Mike, Tito, Tobias, Ken. . . then frowned when he reached Richie. Cracking his eyes open stung, gritty heaviness weighing them down, but he ignored it, casting an assessing glance around the room before ending at the ceiling. Speaking of Richie. . . he was conflicted.
Richie was the only one of their group not currently dead asleep in the living room, and probably the only one who wouldn’t regret their sleeping spot in the morning. The perks of sleeping in an actual bed, I guess. He thought wryly, the armrest’s heretofore unimportant wooden frame beginning to feel a bit hard.
He toyed with the idea of crashing in one of the upstairs guest beds. The floral pattern was a bit too similar to his Oma’s old upholstery for his liking, but the mattress had been heaven. Of course, seeking out that particular heaven this time around might cost a stubbed toe, ankle, or Mike.
Hmmmm. Probably worthy it.
Swinging a leg down to the floor, Ernest started to shift off the loveseat when he remembered one last obstacle: Richie.
Or rather, Big Dick Richie and Glass Slipper Nancy.
“Aw shit.” Ernest flopped back on the loveseat, ignoring the complaints from the loveseat’s frame. The same solid architecture he’d admired did a bang-up job of killing sound. Maybe he could reach nirvana-on-a-bedframe without incident. . . .
He scoffed. With his luck, he’d walk in on them cuddling. Granted, cuddling was pretty one size fits all, but Ernest didn’t just fall off the turnip truck; Richie liked Nancy. And damned if she hadn’t returned his attention in spades. Well, if Mike can chase his white picket fence, so can Richie.
Ernest rolled over, feeling uncomfortably like a gas station roller dog as the cushion’s narrowness kept him in essentially the same spot. Only now, his forehead and nose were flush with the back of the loveseat. There we go. With the combined reassurances of the grounding contact and accounting for his guys, he could finally feel his brain ticking down.
As if approaching a skittish animal, Ernest tried to keep his thoughts as blank and uninteresting as possible, like he could lure in sleep as long as his brain didn’t find anything else to obsess over. In his preoccupation with trying to go to sleep, Ernest missed the moment when the Sandman came knocking, but in the space between breaths, he finally fell asleep.