EMPTY MY GUTS ON THE SIDEWALK
AND GET YOU A BLANK SLATE
MAKE WAY FOR THE NEW MEYOU WANT ME TO BE

//♪

06: scrubs

HEADACHES EXIST IN DIFFERENT FORMS. Although he is sure there are many, he only knows of two types, personally. Intimately.

Headache (type 1): the painful sensation in any part of the head, ranging from sharp to dull.

Causes: stress, lack of sleep, an incorrect eyeglass prescription, loud noise exposure.

Treatment: ibuprofen, aspirin, acetaminophen, or naproxen.

Headache (type 2): the complete and utter ruination of Mamés Beverly. From the tissues and structures that surround the skull to the inflamed periosteum that surrounds his bones and the muscles holding his skull. It's heavier than type 1, sharper, dangerous like an earthquake in his skull. He could feel it all the way to his spine.

Causes: MelMelMelMel

Treatment: 500mg of forgiveness served by Melanie Hart.

Mamés is not in the mood to work. To plaster a smile on his face for hours and pretend everything was okay. Nothing is okay. He feels ill, moments away from throwing up and he's scared. Deathly afraid of what would come out— tears, blood, his minced heart. Or worse all the years they spent together; the hand holding at ten, sleepovers in the mornings belly faced down to hide the heat packs under them as they play sick and fool gullible Lulu. Practice kissing at 2 am because Mel wanted to make sure she could do it when Ryan Bryce asked her in seventh grade. His whole life. And then he's empty. An empty shell. Would Mel want him then? A blank canvas. She could paint the picture she wanted him to be.

At the sound of plates crashing, he jumps. It's enough to bring him back to reality. Barely.

It's Jamal.

Through the haze of pain and regret. He feels a stab of guilt. He had chosen to remain in the kitchen for most of his shift assisting the chef. Leaving poor freshly plucked Jamal to the wolves.

Brown, his boss, cuts him a pleading look. "I know you aren't feeling too hot Mamés but if he continues like this I won't have any chinas. He really isn't good with crowds."

That's true but also false. It's just this crowd. Cardboard cutouts of the all-American dream. Cute white blond boys(girls) with bowties on their necks on a Friday night and little girls with trimmings in their socks. If Mamés was out of place despite his bleached smile then Jamal, sweet Jamal—with his tattooed neck of his favourite bible quotes, and his colourful durags that he sewed himself— was a shark on dry land.

It's not like Mercury's was always like this.

But now it is.

Jamal uses his durag as a towel to wipe the sweat off his face cause he's nervous. The customers are nervous too. Brown's nervous too. Everyone's nervous but Mamés isn't.

He just feels strange. Funny, like his skin is inside out. It tickles.

Brown clears his throat, loudly, because Mamés still hasn't replied. He spent a full minute just staring into space as if in a trance. But the spell is broken now and he murmurs his assent and switches places with Jamal who looks more than happy to slink into the kitchen.

The next hour passes by quickly and his headache has mostly died down into a dull ache when a loud and rowdy group saunters in like the night isn't almost over. Mamés shares an uneasy look with his coworker Cooper, who shrugs in reply. Because it's technically Mamés' turn to deal with the next customer(s). While Cooper ushers them to the big table, Mamés glances up at the window making sure his smile is still in place.

It's still there; a little bit forced and a little crooked but it's better than nothing.

There are eight of them; five guys and 3 girls. It takes a few seconds before he recognizes them. It's bubble-gum girl, Chris or Adam or whatever his name is, and the others. Before he can say something—anything, bubble-gum girl beats him to the punch.

"Oh wow, it's the boy wonder!" She exclaims with a toothy grin.

"His name is Mamés. Mamés Beverly." Ana points out.

Mamés looks at her even though he doesn't want to. It's a compulsion. He can't help it, especially not when she's looking at him too.

"Hi," her lower lip pinches like she's trying to seal off a smile, she's almost got it but her smiling eyes give her away.

"Mamés Beverly. Mamés Beverly. Mamés Beverly," Bubble gum girl repeats. "I like it. It kind of sounds like something you hear on the radio. Unique—"

"Okay, okay, that's enough." Adam or Chris interrupts. He gives Mamés an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry about what happened last time. I'm not going to give any explanations because it doesn't excuse my behaviour. I hope you won't hold it against me. I'm Adam and this blabber mouth here is Yuki but everyone calls her Boss. That's Sarah, Garfield, Uche, Miles, and Kunal.

They all mumble their hellos while he tries to attach names to faces. They are all so different from the faces he sees every day in Rochford.

Uche is darker than him with upturned eyes and long fat dreadlocks and piercings in his dimples. Kunal has a badly chopped Mohawk and a tattoo on both eyelids. But Yuki has to be the most striking— her blonde hair is nowhere in sight. Her hair is skin cut and dyed a vibrant pink so deep it's almost red— or maybe it is, Ana with a dark blue face mask sitting on top of her chin, wearing no makeup except a bright electric blue eyeliner and a wicked smile.

"Hi," Mamés mumbles back. Shy or maybe intimated, he can't tell which yet.

"Well don't just stand there. Take a seat." Garfield pipes. He's probably the oldest in the group, Mamés decides, mostly because of the beard that he is keeping. It's an unruly mess tied together at the end by a tiny purple (bow-shaped) hair clip.

He is staring. "I-I can't, sorry. We are busy."

"Yeah," Uche says dryly, looking around the room. "You're packed."

Heat floods his face. He takes a look around to hide his discomfort. It's practically empty now. Brown is at the entrance seeing off some regulars – an elderly couple that has date nights here every so often.

Brown catches his eye and raises an eyebrow in question. He's about to shake his head. There's no problem. But Yuki is always faster. "Hi mister," she calls. Her voice is louder than it needs to be. Commanding. "Do you mind if our friend chats with us for a bit?"

Surprise colours Brown's face, probably at the mention of 'friend', but he loses interest quickly and gives a go-ahead gesture.

Yuki hops onto Adam's lap relinquishing her chair, right in front of Ana. Her smile is a little too triumphant.

Mamés tries not to look too nervous as he sits down; he can't imagine what they could possibly talk about. He hugs his fingers together and places them tightly between his thighs, not to hide the trembling this time...but to hide the stillness.

"Okay, tell me the truth," Uche begins, splaying his fingers on the cool wood and cuts him a hard look. "Did you really not notice the film crew or were you just trying to hit on our boss?"

Mamés opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again. No matter how you spin it sounds like a goddamn Spanish Inquisition.

Then Kunal thumps him at the back of his head and they all break out in laughter. And he realises Uche is joking.

"Ow," Uche says with gusto. "That hurts you know."

"Lay off the kid then," Kunal replies just as snarky.

"It was dark," Mamés says stupidly. He still feels self-conscious talking to a bunch of strangers. But the atmosphere is friendly and warm. No one looked at him like he was stupid, even though that's what he feels like the majority of the time. Stupid. Pathetic. "I have pretty severe myopia. I wasn't wearing my glasses that day" or today "so I didn't notice the crew because frankly, I couldn't see them."

Everyone is nodding. Understanding.

Sarah, the only one who wears glasses, asks. "How bad?"

"Um, -10 in one eye and -9.5 in the other," Mamés replies.

Everyone looks at Sarah (for an explanation) but Ana is the one who voices their thoughts."How bad is that?"

Sarah pushes her glasses up. They are round, a cute forest green that rests on her chubby cheeks nicely. "Anything below -5 is already bad but it is pretty severe." She explains.

The conversation flows easier after that. He finds out that Yuki is called Boss because she's the granddaughter of an actual yakuza boss in Japan. Adam is quick to tell him how good she is with a blade. (They called her Ojosama back in Japan). They asked what he likes to do, and he mentioned (shyly) that he liked to sing, a little—a lie, really—and when they wanted to know more. Hear more. He changed the topic to their movie. It sounded almost as Mel called it. Most of them were out of college though and the movie was at the behest of Ana's close friend. They have done most of the filming already in LA but they were here just for some flashback scenes.

And a change of pace.

It's surprisingly easy to be himself. Not a son. Or a best friend or a lackey. Just Mamés. He laughs at all the wrong places and cracks jokes that shouldn't make them laugh but they do. They laugh anyway.

Ana looks him in the eye when she talks, she's a big talker—expressive, using all ten fingers, 32 teeth, and two eyes to get the thought across. Last time she was a thunderstorm—sullen, loud, and annoying. Tonight she's a windstorm, it takes everything in him not to be swept away.

Mamés is glowing. It's a different type of glow, different from when he plays music. It's almost radioactive. Like if they turned off the lights he would illuminate the room just with his skin. It's that kind of glow. He's never felt it before and he decides he never wants it to end.

But it does. It always does.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. It's an alarm he set for Lulu's vitamins. On his lock screen, Mel is glaring at him. Her green eyes are piercing. Angry. It jars him from this moment, this illusion and reality slaps him in the face.

What was he thinking? How could he be happy, cracking jokes when Mel is somewhere mad, angry, hating him. His stomach churns. He doesn't belong here.

Mamés stands abruptly, stiffly. "Your orders," He clears his throat but his voice still sounds off. Dead. Robotic. No one seems to notice.

They all talk simultaneously but after the half an hour he spent with them cooked with the years he's spent working here. He is used to the chaos. A burger for Boss, and fries for Adam, Garfield, Miles, and Kunal. Sarah isn't hungry, in fact with her head resting on Ana's shoulder she looks like she's about to fall asleep. And for Ana, he has a hard time looking at her and not looking at her. She says, "I'll just have a lemonade...and your number."

His gut flips.

The whole table explodes with laughter and someone says. "Jeez Ana, he's a kid!"

"I turned eighteen last month," he responds quickly. Too quickly. He realises a second later how that sounded. Defensive. Heat floods his face.

The table explodes once again with guffaws. But it isn't at him or at his expense. He's experienced it enough times to know the difference. This isn't one of those times when there's a joke and everyone's laughing but all he feels like doing is dying. Despite his embarrassment, he feels like laughing along— their joy is contagious and he's contaminated. But he knows he shouldn't. He shouldn't. So he clams his jaw tight and walks away.

He doesn't come out to serve them. He doesn't come out again until they are long gone.

◒

It's nearly midnight when Mercury empties out. Mamés is locking up tonight, not because it's his turn but because he wants to be alone. Liar. Because he wants to think. Liar.

His fingers are all pruned and wrinkly from dishwasher duty. But he goes through the motion of sweeping up, wiping tables, and stacking chairs. He is done in less than ten minutes.

He knows from experience that the best way to get Mel to forgive him faster is to punish himself. If he crushes himself so badly that there's nothing left, she'll have no choice but to pick up the pieces.

Mamés knows all this but he's still stalling. He's been stalling from the second he told Brown he wanted to lock up. After some consideration, he decides to be honest with himself. He tells himself he will do it next time; he'll wreck himself so badly that Mel won't have anything to destroy. But tonight he'll play.

The headache is back unfurling itself like a flower at the base of his skull. It's like it never left. Mamés welcomes the pain this time because it will be gone soon— in the face of something bigger, larger, everything else becomes insignificant.

He climbs onto the little stage by the corner, illuminated by its own little sun hanging low. There used to be an ancient piano before, right where he stood but Brown sold it— again, for the deadbeat son. Funny, how families only seem to take. Take. Take.

His guitar is out, by the mic, blue and electric. He's dying to grab it. But he takes his time. Acts shocked to see it lying there, waiting for him. There's no use pretending. There's no one watching. But it always takes time to switch off pretend Mamés and switch on real Mamés.

He slips the strap over his head. His pulse thundering in his ears. There's an earthquake in his chest, in his fingers. He holds his guitar tight like he's trying to suffocate it, wring its neck, and squeeze the music out of it.

"I am sorry," he whispers into the air. Then he plays.

Then he performs.