2: Rude Awakenings
"Mmm..."
Anthony rolled over, the corner
of a silken sheet wrapped tight within his fingers. His eyelids fluttered open,
his sights focusing on the white fabric hanging in front of his face. Furrowing
his eyebrows, he bolted upright in bed. He turned from left to right, finding
the sheer material on either side.
"What the hell...," he muttered to
himself. He thrust his arms into a parting of the fabric. Beyond the bed, a
hardwood floor glistened in sunbeams sparkling from the window to his left. The
window was open, a breeze whispering through the space, wafting ivory silken
curtains into the air like free-spirited kites. A cushy white armchair faced the
window, a cherry wood ottoman a pace in front of it. A bird's chirping outside
spilled into the room with the zephyrs.
Directly before Anthony stood a
white door, its polyurethane lacquer reflecting blinding sunshine back at him.
He squinted and glanced to his right, his dark eyes opened full upon a cherry
wood wash basin and mirror hanging over it.
Anthony slipped off the bed;
his bare feet padded along the cold floor beneath. His toes soon swept across
the edge of a bathmat, and he stepped onto it. Yawning, he turned on the water
in the porcelain sink. Leaning into the basin, Anthony splashed water onto his
face. It washed over his features, and a drop clung to the tip of his nose as he
straightened. He picked up a small box and opened it. And pulled out a travel
sized bar of soap. He tossed the box to the side. Holding the soap in his hands,
he rubbed them together. Lather squished out between his fingers, sliding out
from between his pinky fingers and dribbling into the sink. He raised his head
to look into the mirror...
And dropped the bar of soap. He wiped his
sudsy hands on his boxers and drew his hands to his face. The skin over his
cheekbones was tight, the corners of his eyes smooth. His fingers trailed down
to his jaw. No creasing there either.
His sights traveled to his arms,
his eyes widening. He ran a hand across his right bicep, across the face of the
Native American tattooed to the flesh. He slipped his hand down his arm, down
his bare skin.
His eyes bulged in their sockets as he swept his other
hand down his left arm, where another Native American face had been
etched.
"What the f***!"
"Mr. Kiedis! Please!" a voice shot from
the door. "Such language!"
Anthony whirled around. His hands balled into
fists, and he stepped backwards, toward the canopy bed. Raising his fists, he
breathed, "What's going on?"
The man at the door scratched his sandy
haired head. He stood in a conservative black suit. Furrowing his thick
eyebrows, he said, "you asked me to come by in time to wake you for your
breakfast with your bandmates."
"My... okay. Just need a second." Anthony
glanced around him and found suitcases and a walk-in closet behind him, to the
left of the bed. Wandering toward it, he felt breath at the back of his neck. He
turned. The blond stranger stood a pace behind him, a full head taller than
Anthony. "What are you doing" he eyed the individual.
"Why, getting you
dressed, Mr. Kiedis."
"Hell no!" Anthony's eyes nearly fell out of his
head. "Please wait for me outside the room."
Shrugging, the man left. As
soon as the door clicked shut, Anthony sighed. He took in a deep breath and
closed his eyes. Exhaling, he turned to the closet. He opened his eyes and the
closet doors. Lining either side of Anthony were at least three dozen suits. He
grabbed the closest one to his left and took its hanger off the bar overhead. He
cringed at the suit, at its gray with dark gray weave, at the scratchy feel of
its collar against his hand, at the cream colour turtleneck peeking out from
inside its vest. He thrust it back onto the bar before its hideous style could
leave any damage. His fingers wrapped around the sleeve of another suit. Pushing
all articles further down the line aside, he glanced over this new selection.
Dark blue, vinyl feel jacket, purple shirt beneath it...
With
ruffles?
Anthony dropped to his knees beside the three suitcases just
outside the closet. He unzipped one and rummaged around inside it. His hands
went over only underwear. He grabbed the next bag and slid his hand inside. His
fingers brushed against a cold, smooth surface and wrapped around its wooden
frame. He pulled it out and found himself staring at a picture of himself,
smiling, with a bright eyed, beautiful blond on his shoulder. His eyes flashed
with recognition, and he dropped the picture.
He grabbed a white suit
shirt and a pair of black dress pants from the closet. Threw on the shirt,
jumped into the pants, slid his feet into the first pair of shoes he found. He
buttoned his shirt as he dashed for the door.
The sandy haired man in the
hallway eyed Anthony up and down, raising a scrupulous brow.
"Sir..."
"Please don't call me that," Anthony murmured as he slipped the
button at his collarbone through its loop. He raised his head, and saw the man
staring at him. "Where's my band?"
The man straightened his spine and
turned away from Anthony, toward a set of elevators at the end of the hallway.
"Right this way, s... eh, Mr. Kiedis."
"Anthony."
The suited
gentleman led Anthony down the hallway and took a left. They met with closed
doors where a "reserved" sign hung. The man swung open a door and held it as
Anthony passed. Round tables dotted the room inside, hundreds of them, decked
out in white cloths and unlit candles beneath bulbous glass. Anthony ran his
hands across the fabric as he passed them. He sauntered toward the front of the
room, toward the only occupied table. Throwing his head back, his eyes got lost
in the expanse of space overhead. Murals of infant cherubs and swirls of gold
stretched across the ceiling, around a chandelier his height and several times
his width. He stared at it, and walked into a chair. Its white wooden backing
jammed into his stomach.
"Uh!" Anthony exclaimed, leaning over the chair.
He stepped back and rubbed at his midsection. "F***, that hurt!"
He
glanced at the table. All eyes were now upon him, wide and shocked. Anthony
approached them, a smile sweeping across his face as his eyes met with a
familiar pair of baby blues. "You are not going to believe what kind of a f***ed
up morning I've had..."
"Anthony, please!" a voice shot from across the
table. The man seated there closed his cerulean eyes and clasped his hands over
his ears. He shook his head, wisps of sunshine bobbing along with him. "What's
with the swearing this morning?"
Anthony stopped dead in his tracks,
staring at the speaker, who opened his eyes and lowered his hands. The man
looked up at him with a puppy-dog stare, his eyebrows slanted upward toward his
long, narrow nose. His lips were closed, held tightly together. He straightened
his yellow tie and the lapels of his white suit shirt and black sports
jacket.
"Hey," Anthony wagged a finger at him. "Aren't you a Backstreet
Boy?"
The man laughed. "What in the world is a Backstreet Boy? Sounds
ridiculous anyway! Have a seat!"
Anthony glanced around the table. The
familiar baby blue eyes were smiling, their owner chuckling. Beside him, a man
with thick eyebrows, a moustache, and a goatee leaned over his plate, laughing
into it. His shoulder length jet black hair spilled over his face. To his left
sat a dark haired man with weary eyes, who managed to crack a smile. He stared
at the fried egg, bacon, and syrup smeared pancake stack on his plate. Anthony
slid into the seat beside him, sights lingering. "Hey, John! Why'd you order all
that grease?" he smirked.
John shook his head and sighed. "I just, I just
ordered something. I don't know." His eyes darted around the room.
"You
feeling okay, buddy?" Anthony laid a hand on John's forearm. John pulled back
his arm and stared at him. He stared back, studying John's jaw, its form narrow
and defined. John's full lips stood out prominently against the skin held taunt
across his face. Anthony looked him in the eye, then glanced at the corners. The
smooth corners.
"Swan!"
Anthony glanced across the table at the
goateed man. The man gestured to Anthony's left, where a waiter stood. "Order
something quick; we don't have much time."
"Don't rush him, Kevin!" the
owner of the baby blues smiled. "He just got here!"
Anthony turned to the
waiter. "Can I just get a plate of fresh fruit please?"
The waiter bowed
and walked away.
Picking up his water, Anthony looked around the table.
"Where's Chad?" he asked, and took a sip.
"Where's who?" Baby blue eyes
questioned.
Anthony laughed as he set down his water. "Come on, Flea!" he
replied. "I'm getting a little tired of..." Anthony trailed off, realizing that
everyone was staring at him.
"What did he call you?" the blond haired
runt turned to Flea, who shook his head.
"That was a nickname I had years
ago," he smiled, still watching Anthony, who bolted to his feet.
"I am
serious!" Pointing to the blond, he exclaimed, "Brian! That's your name! And you
ARE a Backstreet Boy! And so are you!" He pointed to Kevin, then crossed his
arms. Turning to John, he asked, "Do you know where Chad is?"
John stared
at his food. "I don't even know anybody named Chad."
"He's in our band?"
Anthony looked to Flea, observing his black suit shirt and red and black marble
tie. Flea's skin, as well, was uncreased, his chin freshly shaven, dark brown
hair neatly trimmed.
"Please just sit down, Anthony," Flea pleaded. The
waiter stared at Anthony as he set a fruit dish before him. Anthony sat down,
took up an apple slice, and nibbled at it. "This is really starting to piss me
off," he muttered.
Brian Littrell shook his head, grinning as he drank
some orange juice. Lowering the glass, he asked, "So, Anthony, what exactly is a
Backstreet Boy? Is this something good, something bad? And why am I and Kevin
Backstreet Boys? Is it another name for redneck or hick or
something?"
"Well I don't particularly go for your music," Anthony bit
into a piece of banana. "But I wouldn't say that being a Backstreet Boy is bad."
He swallowed some water. "I'd say it's neutral."
A smile played across
Brian's face. "Then can I call you a Backstreet Boy?"
Anthony laughed,
and popped a raisin into his mouth. "I'm a Chili Pepper though."
"So am
I!"