Chapter Text
“The only person you need in your life is the one who proves they need you in theirs.”
—Oscar Wilde
· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·
Rehearsal had finally come to an end.
Geoff, however, was gradually becoming stricter.
His words, growing heavier with a teacher-like authority, echoed through the studio. They were being etched into our minds, yes; but I tried not to give them any major importance or weight.
Johnny focused only on fine-tuning his guitar; Mike simply tried to ignore it all as much as I did.
But Morrissey went further. He began rewriting verses and lyrics for recent songs, a trace of resentment in the way he gripped the pencil and the sheer force with which he pressed it against the paper.
¿Why?
Because they didn’t sound "pretty and perfect" to the producer, of course.
Although my spirits weren’t at their highest—given I was feeling quite discouraged—I tried to remain calm and composed during rehearsals, just to avoid any controversy.
My most precious possession, the thing that made me truly happy, was right there with me: my 1964 Fender Precision Bass.
That bass is my heaven; it is everything.
From the very moment I saw it in that shop, leaning back, isolated and abandoned, something told me to take it. And the final straw was when I noticed it had been manufactured in the same year I was born: 1964.
That is the reason why that specific bass captivated me so much; why I chose it and fell so deeply in love with it.
After we all left the studio and went our separate ways, I found myself sitting at a random bus stop, waiting for the transport that kindly dropped me off near my house every night.
Then, in the distance, I spotted it. By the time the bus was right in front of me, I took a deep breath and stepped inside.
I had already settled into a seat at the front when the bus began to move, and I stayed there for a moment, lost in my thoughts, until the driver —with his booming, deep voice— brought me to a halt.
“Are you going to pay, or are you just going to sit there, young man?” he asked, looking at me from the driver's window. His tone wasn't the friendliest, but if I was going to pay him, I had to get on with it.
“Of course I will...” I said, shooting him a glaring look, my voice caught between embarrassment and annoyance. My cheeks flushed red from the shame that scene had caused me.
My body was somewhat tense. His arrogant voice, grasping for a shred of authority, had given me a huge fright and a sense of helplessness. For a second, it reminded me of the few years I spent at school. The pressure from teachers, the beatings, the discrimination, and the abuse; all of that is nothing now. Just blurred memories in our minds. In mine, especially.
I pulled my wallet out of my coat. I checked and —what a miracle— I still had a couple of dollars left.
I paid the fare, and finally, he left me in peace.
Snow was falling outside like tiny shards of glass. Not too fast, not with too much force. Just slowly, peacefully. The way it had always been. Quite cold, cloudy, and overwhelming.
That’s where the murky memories of childhood resided.
“Yes, that’s what they do... They haunt me from time to time,” I said, still showing a bit of resilience as I adapted to my current "self" and tried to forget the "me" of the past. “But I try to evade that.”
I closed my eyes in pain; that strange urge to cry was washing over me again, after years. My gaze was fixed on the metallic floor of the bus, so that no one would notice I might be about to weep.
I had to distract myself; otherwise, I’d be well and truly screwed.
To avoid it, I stood up and began walking toward the back, my eyes searching for a suitable seat—far away, yet close to the heater.
Then, I found him. Morrissey. Steven Patrick Morrissey, sitting in the very last row. He was writing and doodling in a notebook. What could he be planning? I had no idea.
I also noticed, by chance, that he was alone. And that always made me a bit sad. Even if it was just me, him, and perhaps two other people on board that bus.
More generally, though, Steven had always been alone. Just like me.
And seeing him there, lost in his own world, a silly smile suddenly spread across my face. It made me forget that sting of regret from a few seconds ago.
“Eh? Why...?” In the blink of an eye, I was already sitting next to Morrissey.
He was still doodling in his notebook, headphones in his ears. He had his Walkman with him, tucked into the right pocket of his trench coat. So, for the moment, I decided to take a little time to figure out what I could even begin to say to him.
The small but swift bus moved with a certain fragility through the snowy streets of Manchester.
And I was watching —or trying to watch— at Morrissey, seeing what he was up to, while believing that no one, besides myself, was looking at him.
It was quite cold, and there was still a long way to go before reaching my stop, so I prepared to take a short nap. Trying to talk to this voiceless poet was becoming increasingly complicated. Very complicated.
My bass rested on my lap; I was holding it so tightly, in an exaggerated way now that I think about it. It was only to keep it from getting bumped or falling to the floor. That bass is the most important possession I have. It is my life. It is everything to me...
So, I closed my eyes, relaxed, settled into the seat, and fell completely defeated.
Andy is sitting next to me; I know this because he seems to be sleeping, his head resting on my shoulder. I was listening to Patti Smith on my Walkman while writing —or at least attempting to write— a new song. One for which I still don’t have a title.
Andy always gets off at Sale; I know because we take the same bus together every night. Though it dismayed me that he didn’t say a word to me, as is usually the case.
But this time, the bus passed Sale several blocks ago... and he hasn't gotten off. He continues to sleep peacefully, his bass nestled against him like a teddy bear.
Fine. I suppose I’ll have to take Andy home. I see no other way, no other option. I packed my things and decided to set aside my shyness for two measly seconds.
Then, I shouted for the driver to stop and, fortunately, he did—at a stop near my house. The house where I still lived with my parents. They’ll have to bear with me a little longer.
Please, have just a bit more patience with me...
***
I stepped off the bus slowly through the back door, terrified that the one accompanying me (Andy, in this case) might fall.
“Andy will be with me, just for tonight... I promise”, I repeated softly, walking away from the bus and trying to memorize a little made-up phrase so my parents wouldn't get even angrier with me, and so Andy wouldn’t hear me either.
The streets of Stretford were blanketed in snow, making it difficult to walk. My sighs, born from the exhaustion of carrying my bassist, turned into mist. The cold was unbearable; I longed to reach home soon and lie in my comfortable, warm bed.
But a sudden, overwhelming fear washed over me. For a moment, I remembered Andy’s Fender. He would be devastated if he found out I’d lost his bass. I decided to check, and my fright was short-lived; he had it with him, slung over his shoulders. I didn't have to worry about anything else... for now.
Dragging Andy like dead weight wasn’t very pleasant. Gradually, the task became quite tedious and clumsy. So, carefully, I placed my left hand over his legs and my right under his back, and I lifted him. I let out a sigh —not of resignation, or anger, or anything of the sort—. It was more of relief, to be honest.
I would only carry him like this on the way home, which —thank God!— isn’t that long... It’s a stroke of luck that he’s still asleep, truly; he must be a very heavy sleeper.
I don't know how long I’ve been walking, but I can just barely make out my house, sitting near the end of a row of houses that all look much like one another.
Standing before the door, I grew nervous and began to tremble—whether from fear or the biting cold, I couldn't say, but I did.
Andy was still asleep in my arms. His green eyes rested beneath his eyelids. His blond hair shimmered under the streetlights. His face was so pale. And, obviously, he still had his bass resting in his arms. That bass, from the very year he was born, seems to be a significant object to Andy. That must be why he chose it over something entirely new and more functional.
My sister, Jackie, opened the door. She looked at me with an expression that seemed to scream: "Where have you been?!"
“Ah, finally. I was practically freezing out here, did you know that, Jacqueline?” I said, with a touch of sarcasm. My sister then gave me a light clip on the head —not very hard, but it stung nonetheless.
“Yes, yes, yes, whatever you say, Mr. 'Intellectual'...” she said with a well-disguised calm. “Ah... Hey, Steven. Tell me, who is he?” She pointed toward Andy. I would have to tell her who he was as quickly as possible if I wanted to avoid another argument with my parents.
“He won't be able to give you any explanations, but I can.” I took a breath, exhaled, and decided to answer. “Jackie, this is... Andy Rourke, the bassist for the band we’re forming with another boy; Johnny Marr. Do you remember how many times I’ve mentioned him to you?” My tone sounded enthusiastic for a brief moment.
“Yes, I remember perfectly.” She had her arms crossed; she didn’t want me to linger on the subject.
“Well,” I said, still holding my bassist in my arms as I climbed the stairs with some difficulty. “In short: Andy and I usually take the same bus after rehearsals. Today was no exception.” With some care, I opened my bedroom door and asked Jackie to switch on the light for a moment so I could lay Andy on my bed. At least so he could sleep a bit better.
Once I had done so, I closed the door and continued talking to my sister.
“Andy fell asleep just before reaching the stop where he was supposed to get off. Obviously, that didn’t happen, and I wasn't going to leave him stranded, asleep and alone on that bus. So, I decided to bring him home. I hope you understand and won't tell our parents...”
“No, I won't. And honestly, I don't care, little brother. Besides, don’t get upset at what I’m about to say... But...” Then Jackie said something that is still etched in my mind. “I thought you and Andy were dating. I mean, you were carrying him with such tenderness in your arms, as if he were something fragile, as if he would break into a thousand pieces if you put him down. It was the last thing anyone would have thought...”
I woke up to the sound of a door slamming shut near where I had been sleeping so peacefully...
My bass was leaning against the wall of a room that was completely unfamiliar to me. The light was dim. The yellow glow created a beautiful contrast, but the place was practically a sanctuary. Overlapping piles of books, newspapers, pamphlets, vinyl records...
Where am I, anyway?
I decided to turn my gaze toward the door. And there he was —Morrissey, leaning against it. His hands covered his face, which was so red it looked as though he’d been sunburned— if it weren't nighttime, of course...
What happened during all that time?
I managed to make out that he was saying something, a name. I think it was Jackie, or something like that... I decided to speak, or at least say something. It’s not that this was uncomfortable; I just want some explanations. Some very good ones, telling me how on earth I ended up here.
“Steven?” My voice sounded weak and tired. And saying his first name was strictly forbidden for everyone, I suppose. But I don't care.
“Oh... Ah. A-Andy, you... are you awake already? I thought you were still sleeping, because a while ago you were fast asleep on my shoulder on the bus...” I feel like he’s far too nervous, I don't know. But there’s something more than a well-faked stutter, I want to believe.
“The bus...? What do you mean...?” Now I remember everything, and more clearly. My eyes drifted to my hands; from staring at them so much, they grew glassy. Then I scanned the room, which felt so unknown and ambiguous. Those posters weren't mine; the desk was far too cluttered to be mine; and those stacks of books could certainly not be mine.
That can only mean one thing. This isn’t Sale, it isn’t my house, these walls aren’t mine, and this bed where I now lie, definitively, does not belong to me...
“I didn’t get off where I was supposed to, did I, Steven?” I met his gaze, and mine, with great effort, tried not to reflect the sorrow I still carried inside.
He nodded in response to my shaken question. Then, he let out a brief little laugh. It didn’t reflect mockery or annoyance; it meant he had something else up his sleeve.
“You were sleeping so serenely that you seemed absent from the world, Andrew. And for me, it felt like a sin to try and wake you from that idyllic, romantic dream you were having alongside your bass, you know?” As he told me this, Morrissey toyed with his hair—a sign that he was trying to resist the urge to run out of the room.
I gave him one last look before turning my eyes to the ceiling of his bedroom. With every passing minute, I longed for him to leave, if only for two seconds. Something was piercing my chest; I don’t know what it was, but it hurt far too much.
Then, Morrissey broke the silence.
“Two minutes after you sat down and settled next to me, you were already fast asleep on my shoulder. And with such exceptional trust that I found it alarming. Throughout the entire journey, I was your personal pillow, so to speak. Though it wasn't annoying at all, I must admit.”
“You aren’t angry with me, then? I mean... for what I did back then...” I said, blushing. Even though my tone was somewhat sensitive—trying to hide myself emotionally—it didn’t change the fact that I had used Morrissey himself as a "portable bed"; it seemed impossible.
I managed to disguise my true feelings in that instant.
And I was doing it well; Morrissey seemed not to notice a thing.
What a pity...
“Not at all, Andy. Why should I be?”
“I don't know... I feel like this is a joke, a very bad one... And I feel like I’m making you uncomfortable in the same way,” I said, with a lump in my throat.
“Andrew Rourke.” He leaned down slightly, placed his hands on my shoulders, and brought his face close enough to mine that I could see his blue eyes. And he began to speak again. “I seriously doubt that carrying you and your bass from the bus stop in Gorse Hill —about five minutes from my house— was a joke. My feet were aching, your face was growing paler by the second, and I nearly froze to death out there. If it weren't for Jackie, my sister, I would have died from the cold...” His dramatic tone made me laugh.
Despite the fact that what I was saying was incredibly serious, he took it with such lightness. I’m supposed to be the one who does that.
So, our roles have been reversed today, eh?
***
“So you carried me, Shakespeare?” I said, just to see his reaction. He looked at me seriously, and I pulled a funny face, which made him burst into laughter instantly. Our dynamic is amazing; it’s strange we haven’t ended up like this on other occasions...
“Yes... Furthermore, my arms ache from the sheer effort of bringing you and your bass all the way here. Your bass especially. You two seem to be made of lead, you know? Well, your Fender specifically...”
I let out a deep sigh, stood up from the bed, and once I was beside him, I gave him a good clip on the top of his head; he deserved it. How dare he speak that way about my bass —such a delicate and beautiful instrument— in more than three times?
Steven, due to the blow —which wasn't even that hard— clapped both hands to his head, looked me in the eye, and gave me a look of pure pity and agony.
“Andy... Jackie had already mistreated me here before, I don't know if you knew...” I shook my head vehemently. Besides, with the dramatic tone he was using, as if he were bleeding out, it made me want to laugh until I cried.
“You know what, Morrissey? You’re trying to look pitiful, and you’re doing it well. And I’m so sorry for what I just did to you...”
“Hahaha, but leaving aside the fact that my head is now your new 'percussion instrument,' don’t hit me like that again,” he said, gently rubbing his head with his hands.
Both blows —his sister's and now mine— had definitely been strong.
After the pain subsided, he looked at me for a moment. A moment in which time seemed to stop, a moment in which my sadness vanished completely, and in which I forgot entirely that we were even bandmates.
“I-it’s alright, Andy. Moving that aside...” His offer had finally broken the spell, so I suppose: thank you very much. “Would you like a cup of tea? I hope you share my taste for such delicious infusions.” He gave me a smile so sincere that it left me frozen and perplexed all over again.
Is Morrissey really like this? Or is he just forcing himself to be so hospitable with me?
I decided to speak; the offer was still hanging in the air, so I accepted it.
“Of course, if it’s not too much trouble,” I said, pleased by this humble invitation. “And could I have it with a splash of milk?”
He nodded. Then he left the room slowly and carefully. His parents and sister were sleeping. Yes, that must be why he left with such caution...