A Dead China Doll

"I'm never going to know you now, but I'm going to love you anyhow."
Waltz, #2, Elliott Smith

You’re staring into your mug when he walks into the room. From behind you he says, “I’ll be away overnight, can you do me a favor and check in on Moz?”

You quickly think of three legitimate excuses before agreeing.

“Thanks Andy,” he starts to walk away but the door doesn’t shut and you turn to look at him hesitating in the doorway. “Call me if, you need to.”

You nod and wonder where everyone else was that he had to ask you.

You flick off the TV and stare at the time blinking on the VCR, 9:32. You decide to wait an hour, to only have to make the trip two doors down once. In that time you brush your teeth, smoke twice, brush your teeth again, and frown at the pink-tinged spit in the sink.

You collect the sheets of music that lay scattered on the unmade bed, and you piece them together, wishing you’d remembered to number the pages this time. At least you have something to say to him. You remind yourself of that again as you walk down the hotel hallway.

Morrissey’s door is shut like every other door, but somehow it seems more pointed. You knock lightly, your breaths coming a little faster. He must be sleeping, you think, and look down the hall as if Stephen Street is going to be there frowning at your weak attempt. You knock again.

The door pulls back and you’re surprised to see him staring at you. “Hey,” you start to smile but stop yourself. He walks away from the open door and you take that as invitation enough.

He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor now by a record player, listening to something you don’t recognize. You’re sure anyone else would.

“Stephen left?” he asks as he pushes a magazine flatter against the cheap carpet floor.

“Yeah,” you sit on the edge of the bed and look down at the assembled papers in your hands. “I have some new music if you wanted to take a look.”

“On a tape?” Morrissey turns his head towards you and looks at the papers. “Record it on a tape.” He takes his glasses off and rubs at his eyes. “You can go, I’m not fine with someone here, I’m not fine without someone here---so what’s the point?”

He’s never spoken quite so candidly to you. That tone of voice was typically only overheard when Johnny had forgotten to shut a door.

“What can I do?” you want to get closer to him, but afraid that if you move you’ll break the spell.

“Call Johnny,” Morrissey’s eyes look glassy, but still earnestly blue.

You’re shaking your head back and forth before the full impact of the request has even hit.

“I haven’t talked to Johnny since before he left,” you’ve told him this before. Johnny left you like he had everyone else.

“Please,” he says and you know you’ll do it. He puts his glasses back on and walks over to the end table by the bed.

“I don’t know that he’ll even answer,” you swallow hard. Morrissey is dragging the phone closer to you.
You decide to try the house.

The bed dips down next to you. Two long rings ripple against your ear before a woman answers.
“Hey Ang,” you think you sound casual.

“Andy,” she says with a tone that acknowledges the significance of the call.

“Is Johnny there?” You’d ask her how she was doing, but Morrissey is sitting too close for you to behave normally.

She pauses as if deciding, “yeah.”

There is a gap of time, and you cover the receiver with your hand and whisper, “what do you want me to say?”

“I just want to hear his voice,” Morrissey’s voice breaks and you have to turn away from him.

“Yeah?” Johnny’s voice sounds like its coming straight from the dead.

“It’s me,” you pause, “Andy.”

“Angie said,” you hear him moving something around on the other end of the phone.

“I just wanted to see how you’re doing,” you manage.

“I’m OK---I’m good.”

“I’m ugh---writing music.”

“I actually can’t talk right now, mate,” he breaths heavily into the receiver.

“Oh.” The phone clicks on the other end.

You turn back to Morrissey but he’s staring hard at the floor and you know he’s not in this room with you anymore.

“I’m sorry,” you say because you are. All you can think to add is “he sounds good,” but it’s not true, and even if it were, it’d be the worst thing to say. Even you know that. Morrissey isn’t moving and you run your fingers lightly over the square numbers on the phone. You’re suddenly angry at Stephen for leaving you here.“Do you want a Valium?” You hate yourself. But you have to do what you can for him.He’s nodding so you retrieve a neatly folded napkin from your pocket. You spill two pills onto your palm. He swallows them without water, already looking better.

You don’t surprise yourself when you reach across his shoulders and pull him towards you. He makes no move to pull away. You cover his lips with your own and kiss him slowly. It’s the third time you’ve kissed him, but he always tastes the same: mix of dry-mouth and stale tea. He repositions himself so he’s facing you, and you push him back against the mattress. There is something perverse in the way the phone cord tangles under the two of you, but you don’t want to think about that right now.