Chris was drunk. Annihilated, if you wanted to know the truth. 

He stumbled up his front steps, leaning against the doorframe, blinking down at his keys. There seemed to be too many and his hands were sweaty, and he cursed under his breath as he tried to locate his house key. When he finally located it, he tried several times to jam it sideways into the lock. Eventually, he got it right and almost fell flat on his face as he tumbled into his foyer. 

Too many shots and beers at an impromptu BBQ of Joey’s had caused him to give the ole Irish goodbye and he felt shitty at first, seeing as how he never saw Joe anymore, but the man had a kid and a wife, and Chris was not really in a partying mood anyway. He had snuck away and grabbed his keys before anyone could catch him, and somehow managed to make it back to his house without killing himself or anyone else. This had to stop. He could really kill someone, someone who deserved to be alive, someone with a family. Because of...what? Because he didn't know how to live a life that didn't involve touring and performing and hanging out with his brothers all day? Because he couldn't sing tooth-achy love ballads and destroy his knees and dangle above a screaming audience? Because everyone else seemed to be okay with moving on, and he couldn't?

He threw his hoodie on the couch and Frankenstein'd his way into the kitchen, needing bread, water, something in his stomach. A lobotomy. Anything.

You drink too much.

“Shut up.” He muttered, hanging onto the counter to regain equilibrium. “Nobody asked you.” 

If you had a woman, you wouldn’t have to worry about going out and getting sloshed all the time. Just saying.

“This house is too big.” Chris muttered, throwing open the fridge and surveying its contents. Ham. A suspicious looking carton of milk. A fifth of vodka. Sprite. He grabbed the fifth and closed the door. If he had half the sense that God gave the common rodent, he’d sell the fucking house and move to Tibet.

When are you going to face up to it? Justin has someone, Joey has a kid, for crying out loud. Lance is gayer then a handbag full of rainbows and he’s happy. JC is in love with himself, so no harm there. You’re lonely. Own up to it.

Chris shook his head and chugged the vodka, willing that damn voice to go away. He felt a headache needling at the edges of his brain. Being drunk didn’t feel particuarly good anymore, but the thought of making it up his long and slippery staircase made Chris groan. He stared at the bottle in his hand. 

This is not the answer.

“Eh, fuck.” He shook his head again in disgust, leaving the bottle of vodka on the counter, not bothering to turn out the lights as he left the kitchen. His maid would. He paid her too much for little things like that. He also paid her to keep the knowledge that Chris drank too much out of the papers. She was in her late fifties and had five grandchildren. She'd never tell. 

He completely bypassed the stairs and staggered to his office, which had a spare bed in case he got too drunk to move. Like now.

Craigslist.

“There’s liking a girl and then there’s stalking. That is pathetic.” Chris said aloud, to no one, falling on his twin bed. Most nights, this is where he slept (passed out, let's call a spade a spade) so it felt very comfortable. Too comfortable for a bed from Target when he had a full king size upstairs. It had never known another body but his, and he had lived there for three years now.

He sniggered. Like he’d actually post something on that stupid site. He was Chris Kirkpatrick. He didn’t NEED to resort to Craigslist to find a woman.

Oh, yeah. You are just ROLLING in women, aren’t you?

He laughed bitterly. Yeah, he could post, nobody would ever be the wiser. Hell, she could have been joking with him, that could have been her lie.  Like she’d ever respond to him, anyway. 

Trust me, you have nothing to lose, the voice said cryptically.

The voice had started about four months ago, when the liquor in the fridge started to taste more substantial then the food. At first Chris had brushed it off, laughed at himself, everybody has voices, right? He called it his conscience and left it at that. But eventually he was forced to acknowledge that the four other men who had once been his brothers were actually living their lives, having kids, coming out, taking their careers at least SOMEWHERE, if not at the same level of fame that *NSYNC had been. They started growing apart, and though NSYNC had been gone for awhile, Chris missed being part of something, even if it had been just a boy band designed to make teenyboppers cream their panties. He had nothing to do with his hands, so he wrapped them around bottles. Longing for any companionship at all had escalated into a nice heap of romantic loneliness with a goodish sized cherry of sexual frustration on top. 

Finally, his conscience started playing hardball. It went from being a conscience to actually gaining an identity-Chris called it The Undisputed Truth. He worried about his mental health but he vowed not to get paranoid unless the voice started telling him to take Percosets and go swimming.

He was too old to find new friends and going to a shrink was the last thing he would ever do. He wasn’t so tired of his hand yet that he would actually go to a bar and pick up women. And at least, Chris amended, he had enough self respect to stay away from escorts. 

Of course, even CONSIDERING posting something on Craigslist to find some mystery girl he had met in Lager’s wasn’t that far off. It was like something you saw in a bad Tom Hanks movie or something. No, he told himself drowsily, I’m not that bad off yet. 

The Undisputed Truth, though, had different ideas.

I laid on the ground, squawking feebly. There wasn’t a word for how Mary Sueish this was.

My brain automatically rebelled against what was plainly obvious-how could I, of ALL PEOPLE, bump into a famous person BY himself at an empty middle class restaurant at fuck o' clock thirty? I mean, I had no personal experience with boy bands, but my immediate impression was that of pretty boys of dubious talent, surrounded by screamy, blonde, dumb, mammary-gifted groupie chicks. Lunchboxes. Pelvic thrusts. I groaned. Fanfiction writers all over the Internet would call this, OMG! fate!

Okay, maybe I had sung along with a song or two on the radio when I was tanked, so sue me- but I had no idea how to discern one from the other. I always figured they conditioned them in a factory somewhere. And when I thought of the man I had met that night, teenybopper wet dream was not what came to mind. Maybe a roadie, or a rock group from the 90's or something. I thought he had been pulling my leg. 

But pictures don’t lie, and even though in several of them Chris was sporting a very interesting array of braids, it was unquestionably him. I smacked my head against the carpet. No, there couldn’t be any way it was him. He liked Quentin Tarantino movies! He had badass tattoos! I simply did not have the bandwidth to process this. This had to be some sort of alcohol induced hallucination or psychosis. In one last effort to prove the universe wrong, I got up and Googled 'Chris Kirkpatrick 2009', and the last vestiges of denial were sacrificed. It was 1000000% him. 

I whimpered and returned to my fetal position on the floor. 

There was a knock at my door, and it opened. Alan saw me lying on the ground and rushed to my side.

“Nyx, what the fuck happened? Are you okay?”

“Pop group…lunchbox…Tarantino…ughhh!” I groaned, and he yanked me to a sitting position. He smelled like he had taken a bath in Drakkar Noir.

“What the fuck are you talking about? Open your mouth! Form sentences!” Alan smacked my cheek lightly, and I flung his hand away. 

“Stop hitting me, Old Navy. I am having a crisis here!”

“Are you looking up pig porn again? Wasn’t one time enough?” Alan asked skeptically, and I rolled my eyes. “No, shithead. Look at the computer.”

He unceremoniously dropped me to the floor and leaned across the back of the chair to peer at the screen. I clawed back onto my chair. Alan's eyes widened to the size of garbage can lids. He grabbed my face, quite disturbed now. “Please, God, tell me why you’re looking up pop bands. Please tell me a pod person replaced you.” I scowled and beat his hands away. “No, assface. Look closer at this guy. Does he look familiar?” 

Alan got closer to the screen, squinting. All of a sudden, he laughed. “What’s so fucking funny?” I demanded.

“Oh, it’s just a small ole world after all.” He said smugly, crossing his arms and chuckling at me.

“Crane, I swear to God I will take you golfing and tee off of your dick if you don’t tell me what the fuck is funny, right now.” I pointed at his face, doing a very good impression of Christobel, maybe too good, because Alan stopped laughing immediately. 

“He’s my next door neighbor.”

“GAHH!!!” 

____________________________________________________

I didn’t speak until I had a cold compress on my forehead and a few shots of Absolut Raspberri down my throat, which I had made Alan fetch for me, under penalty of castration. Only with alcohol was I able to have this conversation. Alan had propped me up against the wall, on the floor, and I hit my head against the stucco. The dull ache kept me sane.

“Okay.” I took a deep breath. Alan flinched at the sound of my voice.

“What exactly do you mean, he lives next door to you?”

“Well, not TECHNICALLY next door.” I glared at him, and he rushed to explain. “About five doors down. I’ve never met him. I’ve seen him outside.”

My stomach roiled. I wanted to disappear. 

“Why are you so worried about this?” Alan was getting exasperated. 

I sighed and looked at him through my fingers. “Ugh, Alan, it doesn’t matter. Thanks for telling me.”

Alan shook his head and stood up. “Well, wonders never cease-you did get weirder.” We smiled sadly at each other, and then he shoved his hands in his pockets, looking away from me. Good thing about Alan-he never wanted to know more then the basics. 

“I’ve got to go, Christobel wants to go eat at some place where Brad Pitt supposedly had dinner last week. They have tofu burgers or tofu tacos or some kind of California new age bullshit.” He pretended to yak all over the floor. I could only smile faintly at this, and his azure eyes softened. 

“Are you going to have any more breakdowns? Do I have to block Google? Steal your vibrator?”

I chuckled tiredly. “Nah, go eat some rabbit food. I’m good.”

He patted my head, like I was a fucking golden retriever or something, and left, pointedly taking the bottle of vodka with him.

I waited until the door closed softly behind him and then dragged myself up to the chair.

I enlarged the picture until Chris’ face filled the screen, and I stared at it until for some weird reason, I felt like I might cry, and that would never do.

I slammed the top to my computer.

“Fucking Mary Sue.”

I went downstairs in time to catch one of the maids stealing food out of Alan’s refrigerator. Thirty dollars, a visit from her cousin and a promise to keep my mouth shut netted me a bottle of Jack Daniels and a little bag of booger sugar. Never let it be said that I don’t appreciate America’s hired help.

I forgot about my promise to never do it under his roof and spent the evening snorting and drinking myself into a stupor that, prior to my Everclear experience (twenty first birthday, alcohol poisoning) had gone unmatched. The only thing I remember before passing out in a wave of colors and vomit was disappointment in myself, because I was everything a guy like Chris could never want. 

Stop. Wait. Before we get any further into this story, I need to clarify something.

You know that whole song and dance about when you love someone enough, you can save them from themselves? Well, that’s horseshit. Love is not enough, at least, not their love for you. You have to love them enough to get better so that they don’t have to put up with you puking in the garden at two a.m. What's more than that, you have to love yourself more than that. That's what all the articles say. That's what the therapists sqawk about. You have to get better for you, and all that AA propaganda.

That’s what love is, being selfless, I guess. I wouldn’t know. I suck at it. 

He was awesome at it, he made it look easy. The easiest thing in the world, even. I thought I could do it, but than, he made me believe I could do anything. In return, I chewed him up and spit him out. I do that to everyone who gives a shit about me. I don't know how else to be. 

If I could do anything to show him how sorry I am, how much I really do care, despite everything, I’d go back and tell him to fuck off when he told me about my nose bleeding that night in Lager’s. I would have been a bitch to save him.

I want to. It’s the only selfless thing I’ve ever wanted.

I woke up that night like I do most nights, nose gushing, head exploding, room vibrating. I would have puked, but I had nothing left. Nobody had checked on me. I felt like a scratched record, still doggedly chasing the needle.

I grabbed the bottle of Jack, which still had a good four shots in it, and slithered my way up to the computer. Nobody was online. Nothing was going on. I had insomnia and bugs were eating me from the inside out. 

Wwwwww.craigslist.org

Fuck.

Wwrw.craigslist.org

Ugh! TYPE!

www.tsgdkf.com

GAHHH! PORN!

www.craigslist.org

“Fucking finally.” I mumbled, taking a drag from the bottle, and clicked on the missed encounters link.

“We met at the gas station, you wore a blue shirt. You were so alive. Who are you?” 

“Saw a knockout blonde at Starbucks on Norwalk Drive today. Grey sweatpants, blonde hair, Rollins t-shirt. Great ass.” 

“You: Beautiful blonde that parked next to me in a green 4 Runner with Pennsylvania plates. You then stood behind me in line. We made eye contact a couple of times and smiled at each other. I really wished at that moment that I didn't have a girlfriend. Damn. Those brown eyes really got me. I had to look away. I hope somebody's treating you right. “

I laughed. “Fucking pathetic jerk offs. Go touch some grass.” I clicked on a few more, but my amusement was waning, and I was just about to get off of the site when I saw-

“Lagers-m4w-you drank like a fish.”

No, it couldn’t be. I laughed nervously and stared at those blue words, mocking me on the screen. I bit the bullet. I clicked the link.

“Captain-

There is nothing here I will say unless I can say it to you in person.

Acknowledge.

I’m drunk

-Scott Baio

I wish there would have been a camera there to document the look on my face at that moment. I choked and flames encased my throat and I nearly ralphed all over the fucking floor. No, wait, I DID ralph all over the floor, and the show didn’t stop there. I straight up passed out.

And woke up with a broken nose and a busted lip.

Well, will you won't you want me to make you 

I'm coming down fast but don't let me break you 

Tell me tell me tell me the answer 

You may be a lover but you ain't no dancer 

Look out 

Helter skelter 

helter skelter 

helter skelter 

Helter Skelter

The Beatles