Steal This Book by Hth He called me on Thursday afternoon, on my cellphone. "Can you come pick me up?" "Sure," I said. Poor kid. And I held my tongue with both hands, just like I had been for a month while he kicked this whole thing around, stay or go, stay or go. Because I'm a cynical fucking asshole, and I wasn't gonna be the one to look Oz in the eye and say, You can't ever go home again, okay? Forget about it. Hey, let him lose his illusions in his own sweet time. That's how it oughta happen. How it happened to me, anyway. But I knew when he called me for a ride that it was all over. Oz went, he did his hometown thing, he had to see about a girl. Whatever. That was then, this is now. Less than a week later, and it's back to me. For what that's worth. It's worth the usual, I guess. A friend in the business. A job. A ride back up to L.A. A backup plan. Hell, I like the kid, no bullshit, no games, we just have a good groove together, we get each other. So he's got that, he's got me, and that's more than I had when I took off on my own -- what the fuck did I have? A chip on my shoulder, a coke problem, a broken heart, Ed fucking Festus. Sounds like the making of a truly fucked up country-western song. All the way down to Sunnydale, I ask myself how deep into this thing I want to get. Ask him how it went, or just figure I wouldn't be here if it hadn't gone to shit and leave him alone about it? Get in and get out, or hang around a little while, let him ease out of his past? A part of me wants a look at this infamous girl, this weird-ass town, Oz's band, Oz's home. And a part of me is glad he's finally getting out, getting on with the rest of his life. Real life, because to me all of this shit, family and childhood and school and your high school band, all of that is just a goddamn trap. He's gotta get out, like I did, go for the world tours and the sound stages and the flash and the big fucking grown-up *life.* And all the big fucking grown-up pain that goes with it. Hell, I'm just glad he had someone to call, someone who's willing to drive a few hours and walk him through this, because I know how fucking bad it hurts when you first turn your back on it. I just hope he doesn't ask me if it ever gets any easier. But what the fuck do I know? I drag arouund through my flashy fucking life like I've been partying with the Spanish Inquisition for the last seven years, and every step hurts, every mile, every note. Yeah, I chewed my way out of that trap, and it never got one damn bit easier, not ever. But it might for him, right? Oz is a different guy, you know? He's grounded better, he's more perceptive, he's cooler, less needy than I've always been. I always *needed* shit. Praise, rewards, attention, meaning. Needed to be a genius, needed to be un-fucking-forgettable. It was hard for me to give anything up, even the shit that was making me miserable. Oz probably isn't that fucking neurotic. He'll deal. By the time I get into Oz's hometown, I've made up my mind. Get in, get out. I don't want to be in his past; got plenty of that on my own, thanks a lot. I've got shit to get back to in L.A., and he shouldn't be here anyway, shouldn't ever have come. It's always bad karma, going back like that, hoping you can get a little of it back again. I'm gonna get him out of this plastic beach-ball of a town. Give him a real life to get on with. It's easy to find this address, this tired-looking little duplex in a neighborhood that practically screams "cheap first apartments for quasi-employed college students." I get there without any trouble, and his van in the driveway cinches it. I pull up to the curb, and the screen door opens, and I get a little knot in my stomach, watching Oz with a few bags, a guitar case slung over his shoulder. Walking out. God, was it only seven years ago that I was doing this? Walking out, scared to look back, carrying everything I owned and three hundred fifty in cash? And this must be Dev MacLeish, Oz's Dev. He looks different than I expected. Younger. He looks a little lost, like he knows this can't be what it looks like, and he's following behind Oz, waiting for everything to fix itself, some way, any way. He looks right at me, but even though I know he's a fan, I'm sure he can't recognize me with the cowboy hat and the dark glasses, and he looks away without any interest. Back to Oz. "--still music," I hear as the door in the back of the van opens, followed by the soft thump of whatever bag Oz tosses in. "Dude, it's a stupid roadie job. You play guitar. When are you gonna get a chance to play, you know? Get seen?" He sighs. That sigh always cracks me up; he's so sure he's seen it all. I was pretty sure of that when I was nineteen, too. And don't get me wrong, I'd seen a lot. But somehow, it always just seems to keep coming. "I don't need to get seen. And it's not a stupid roadie job. It's sound crew, amps and things. Things I'm good at." "You're good at--" "No. No, I'm not. Not good like you're good. Get yourself a guitarist who can keep up with you, and I'll see you again in Hollywood, okay, man? I'll do your sound. It's good." I look down at the floor of my van. What would it have been like, to cut my teeth on a different kind of high school band, with someone who didn't think "Hollywood" was one of the seven words you can't say on tv? Someone who wanted to play and get seen  who used me for more than his foil, his straight man? I remember Joe yelling at me when I walked out, not following me with that "this is all gonna be okay, right?" look on his face. I remember Joe raging, and me tuning him out, forcing myself not to let his words inside my head, because I never could shake the bullshit idea that every word that came out of Joe Dick's mouth was Shakespeare and the goddamn Gospel, too. All I remember clearly, too fucking clearly, was that final shot, as I climbed into my car. //You fuckingingrate. I made you a legend!// //They don't have a word for what you made me.// And isn't that God's fucking truth. His slave, his whore, his partner, his victim, his soulmate, his enemy. I tried to soak him up, tried to be what he wanted; I needed so much, and Joe had so much ferocity, so much raw emotion to give. But the further you got into Joe's world, the more you realized that it didn't make any sense. He loved his image, he loved his music. He cared about the legacy, he cared about the moment. He was afraid someone would make him ordinary by understanding him, he was afraid he'd always be alone. You can't soak that shit up. You can't live on Joe Dick's 24-7 personal and all-natural acid trip. Not unless you're Joe Dick. I guess not even then. "You gonna come back for the van?" "Nah. You keep it." There's a sound that comes out of nowhere, metallic and startling. Devon's fist hitting my van. Definitely not Joe. If it'd been Joe, that would have landed on Oz's jaw. "Like I want your fucking *van*?" His voice gets calmer, more self-consciously soothing. I really think his best chance now is just to get out. Before this gets nasty. "I owe you some money. If you need it, cool, if you don't, you can sell it and that should cover everything." "I don't want your money." "I told you, it was a loan. I'm gonna pay you back, Dev." I think about interrupting, offering to front him the cash if it makes things easier. Less personal. But then I think, they sure as hell don't need me in the middle of this. And anyway, I can only assume Oz knows I'd be willing to do that for him. Maybe he wants it personal. "Don't do that, Danny." I get the feeling he's totally forgotten that I'm here at all, that he's going someplace now that he's never gone in front of anyone but Oz. I feel embarrassed for him; I feel like a prize fucker, eavesdropping on this kid getting his fucking heart broken. "Don't tell me you can take off again, maybe forever, but you can't rip me off." "Make you feel better if I steal your money while I'm at it?" "Yeah, maybe! Better than you just stealing you." In spite of myself, I can't help watching them in the rear-view mirror. Oz hanging his head, knowing he's being a weasel-dick coward, running away because things got too real. Devon standing real close, great big and strong next to skinny little Oz, but still knowing that he's got nothing, he's all out of options and Oz is holding all the cards. Shit, how sick is this, the way I'm jealous of them? It's always gonna hurt when you walk out, but there's so much in the air between them to break the anger and the resentment. I can almost see the trust and the fear, Oz knowing he's giving up something good, Dev wishing he knew where he fucked up and kissed his better half goodbye. Me, I just got yet another Joe Dick temper tantrum -- one more for the road. I never got, "Billy, don't go." If Joe had pushed "don't go" with his whole body like Devon's doing right now, it would have worked like a charm. Good thing, bad thing, who knows? Never gonna know now. But I would have stayed if he'd ever just told me that going away was a way of stealing, a way that I could take something away from him. Once, Devon leans down like he's gonna kiss Oz, and then he stops and rubs the back of his neck, tense and frustrated. The second time, he turns his head back, almost kisses him, pauses to almost say something. The third time, Oz lifts his fingers up, touches the air just an inch away from Devon's face, trying to hold him without holding him, and opens his mouth to ask for that kiss. There's a fourth time, and a fifth. Almost kisses, each of them hovering closer against the other, wanting it but suspecting that it won't feel right, will just prove that nothing is close enough, right enough anymore, not like it used to be. Finally, they meet in the middle. No tongues, no huge power-ballad movie love theme, no melting into each other's arms. Just lip to lip, Devon's hand on Oz's head, Oz's hand on Devon's hip, one last kiss because it's the thing to do, the way to go out. Like me and Joe had one last fight. The time I left. The time he died. One knock-down-drag-out, one I-hate-you-and-everything-you-touch to let us know that no matter how things change, they stay just the same. Same old Joe, no control. Same old Billy, no faith, no endurance, no honor. My hands are shaking when Oz gets into the passenger seat beside me, and it takes me a couple false starts to get the key turned in the ignition. "Ready?" he says. "If you are." He looks away, at the house, at Devon who can't look right at us and can't turn his back. "Guess everything's done." I hold my tongue, because I'm a cynical asshole, and he doesn't need to hear right now that everything's never done, that it's never over. He already knows that he's leaving the best of himself behind here, and just hoping to hell that he picks up some good shit on the road to fill in the gaps. We leave Sunnydale behind, and we're both free.