Written for luisadeza for the 2009 xmas_rocks exchange
| This story is a work of fiction and therefore completely untrue. No harm or libel is meant or implied about any of the individuals named within this work and it was written without their involvement or permission. No profit is being made. |
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One thing you have to know about Keith was that although he was a crazy bastard, he was also one of the gentlest people in the world. I'm not saying he didn't go out brawling when the mood took him; no, he gave as good or better than he got, but the simplest things could catch his attention and enthrall him for hours. The man who was the bane of roadies everywhere could often be seen running up to someone with his hands clasped loosely together only to open them and reveal a still living, un-squished butterfly or frog or (on one memorable occasion with Eric Clapton) a spider.
He loved playing dress up, even if he didn't call it that. He would sometimes steal the costumes from our video shoots and take them home. I remember his favorite was the crappy robot costume from the "Cobwebs and strange" shoot; though he also liked pretending to be a "gentleman of means" as he liked to call it. I always wonder if maybe we could have had something more. If I hadn't been so suspicious of his motives, so careful to keep my heart at a distance from the perceived insanity... So now I'm here; going through his things, his memories, remembering all the good times. The special times. Like when he'd be high and he'd lay his head on my lap and tell me of all the wondrous things he could see, the colors and shapes from just beyond my range of vision. The creatures and landscapes that I wish I'd been able to see. Or when he'd be sober and he'd smile mischievously as he led me on some new adventure. When he'd be lying on the couch with his legs on the back and his head hanging towards the floor and tell me his secrets and the thoughts that randomly passed through his head. I remember every concert, every smile, and every argument. I remember every time he came to my defense; even when I didn't need it. We had never met before his audition, but we were best friends from the start. I look around and I can't help but to expect Keith to come around the corner, smiling, and ask me "What's the matter?" He won't though. He'll never comfort me or bug me or surprise me by showing up unexpectedly in the middle of the night after a fight with who ever he's married to or dating. I hear Roger asking me if I need help or a break but I just wave him off and go back to digging through Keith's boxes. In a few hours Pete will come in and try to get me to leave but I can ignore him. I know what I'm looking for and I'm not leaving until I find it. I know Keith would never throw it away. Finally after hours of searching and sorting I find it. The tour scrap book. We each had one but Keith's was special. It was more than pictures, passes, ticket stubs, and such. It was almost a diary. He had the usual dates and times but then he'd write down thoughts and poems and scraps of music, whatever reminded him of that day or night. I open it up and turn through the pages. July 15th, 1967, the first time Keith told me he loved me when he was sober. I tried to laugh it off but he was so intense that the laugh got stuck in my throat. Instead I pushed him away and roughly told him not to say such things. The day is marked with a leaf and a piece of what I recognize as Für Elise. I turn another page. October 3rd, 1967, our first kiss. Neither of us were sober, I was drunk and he was high. If it hadn't been for Pete being violently ill in the back of the bus, it might have been the first time we had sex. The page is decorated with a bit of foil that smells like chocolate and a small poem. "Early in the morning I wake up to your smiling face/ Caring and quiet I watch you sleep/ I cherish every moment spent with you/ And pray I never wake up alone." And another. January 22nd 1969, The First time I told Keith I could fall in love with him. It was true. I knew I could because I already was. His smile was blinding and I felt my heart break to know how easily I could destroy him. A piece of a medical textbook that shows the human heart and the words "organic or magic?" And more. August 10th, 1970. February 28th, 1971. May 23rd, 1973. December 8th, 1974. March 12th, 1975. June 31st, 1977. All these dates and more are burned into my brain. Every kiss, every argument, every time I pushed him away. Every time I wished I hadn't but never apologized. My brain is on a time loop and it's nothing but Keith. And then it stops. September 7th, 1978. The last time I saw him was the night before. I had pushed him away and left. I ignored his pleas and the protests of my own heart. I called him things I would never have said if I hadn't been so afraid. And I had woken up to him saying goodbye over the phone. September 9th, 1978. The funeral was small and quiet. None of us wanted to be there, we wanted to be back at Keith's house telling him all about what a fucked up dream we'd had. But it wasn't a dream and Keith's home was now a small wooden box in a hole six feet deep. It seemed much too small to contain all that was Keith, but I guess it didn't have to. It only had to contain the least important bit. September 13th, 1978. And now I'm sitting here staring at the last page of the book and wishing I could take back last week. 'cause the last page isn't finished yet, but it has a date and it has a decorations. The date is October 9th, 1978 and the decoration is a key and the words "Want to stay at my place?" The thing you have to know about Keith was that although he was a crazy bastard, he was also one of the gentlest people in the world; and I think I killed him.
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