Page 51 of Poetry By Dead Men
The bass drum pounds and Johnny shreds on the guitar, and then Bobby opens his mouth to sing.
Anchor me down in the cold, dark dirt—
His voice sounds like butter, with hints of gritty sugar mixed in now and then. I can’t even focus on the words as I watch the spotlight grow brighter, the stage lights rising and flashing in shades of red and white.
I knew this was a legitimate tour with an actual production budget, but actually seeing it? Seeing him up on that stage with all the equipment and the lights and the crowd—it’s the most incredible thing I’ve ever been lucky enough to witness. Bobby walks forward, his eyes scanning the audience. He has that way about him that makes people feel special, and I can tell that as he meets his fans’ eyes, they all think he’s singing to them.
But I know the truth.
As his gaze meets mine, he beams at me, throwing his arm up in the air. He points toward me, winks, then pats his pocket where my song is tucked for luck.
My smile feels like it might split my face in half, my cheeks nearly cramping as I blow him a kiss.
Bobby finishes the song, and the crowd devours it. Their roars are near deafening as he thanks them and switches out guitars. Wes is doing an excellent job already. "Good evening, Albany!" Bobby shouts, his voice booming through the speakers. Anyone watching him now would never believe he’d been so anxious only twenty minutes ago.
"Thank you all for being here tonight. For giving me this opportunity." His words come across humble and grateful, and I know it’s sincere. He takes a moment to scan the room, from the front row to the last. "This has been a dream of mine for as long as I can remember." I swear the floor vibrates with the cheers, and Bobby laughs as someone behind me yells out, “I love you, Robert!”
"I love you all. Truly." He places a hand on his heart. “Settle in for a few songs. I hope you hear something you like!"
And boy, do they. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a crowd as interested in an opening act before. Nobody’s chatting with friends or using that time to go to the bathroom. They're singing along, or for the ones who've never heard of Bobby before, they’re swaying on their feet and holding up drinks. A couple girls next to me are searching his name on Spotify and Instagram, following him and swiping through his photos.
After the initial shock and pride of seeing him on stage wears off, I scream every word, along with Molly and Michael, and by the time his set ends, we’re all hoarse. Bobby thanks the crowd and throws a handful of guitar pics into the front row, making sure Molly and Michael both get one, then walks to me and puts the one he played with in my hand.
"A good luck charm for you. I love you," he says, only to me, before standing and waving as he walks off the stage.
To anyone else, it would look like just an interaction with a fan, but for me, it's the best moment of my life.
NOW
August 2024: Rogers, AR
Good morning my dear
How I miss you here
And I hope you miss me too
But of course, I know you do
—Harrison Rouchester's good morning text the morning of Robert Becketts first show
The stadium isactuallyvibrating. If I was anywhere other than backstage, I think I’d be terrified that the whole place is going to tumble down around me. The rumble of footsteps and roar of applause is exhilarating, growing with every song Bobby plays.
I don’t recognize them all, but even the new ones pluck the strings of my memories. They’re all built from pieces of our past. Each and every one of them.
It’s painful, but despite it all, I’m proud of Bobby. Of everything he’s accomplished. Of the beautifully poetic words he’s written, and the absolutely intoxicating way he performs them.
Bobby sings the final note of his encore and still, the crowd demands more, even after playing for almost three straight hours.
I never forgot how attractive Bobby is on stage, all sweaty and vibrant and full of life. But something about seeing him here, older and more confident, makes my body react in a way that feels like a betrayal.
Harrison. You’re engaged to Harrison.
Despite my rational mind and weighted ring finger, my body heats. I try to find shame, but I can't. It's not my fault. Being around Bobby has always made me feel this way, ever since the first time I saw his shaggy hair and blue eyes. It was like we were two halves of the same soul, and while I know in my head that it isn't true, the rest of me didn't seem to get the memo.
Because he went and messed everything up, I remind myself, hoping it will douse the fire in my belly.
It doesn’t.
