Tape
By IsEveryoneThisLost

     It was Saturday night - or was it Sunday morning? Chris never did understand exactly how that worked. He knew that technically at midnight, morning started, and that means that midnight was badly named. But in reality, the night went on long past that. Maybe night kept going until you went to sleep, and his night would end after many people’s started.
     Chris felt a heat on his fingers and looked at his hand. A cigarette. He had been smoking. He looked around and felt in his pockets for the pack. He opened it up, and it became apparent that this was not his first cigarette tonight.
     He didn’t remember buying the cigarettes, but he didn’t remember a lot. He remembered quitting smoking – four times at least. Chris took a slow drag. Apparently, he would need a fifth.
     He put out the cigarette on a brick wall. He held the butt there, pressing it hard into the brick, wondering if he could scar the stone. Then he could always come back and find this spot, and always remember tonight, though he wasn’t sure why he wanted to remember tonight yet.
     He took a closer look at his fingers. Tape. He remembered that: his fingers were taped – two of them at least, the pointer and middle – individually, over the nail. He used masking tape because he found it worked the best – once around sticky side in, once around sticky side out, two strips down the back over the nail of his fingers.

Tape.

     He remembered taping his hands 10 minutes out. He did it to kill the nervousness. Chris always taped his hands; most people didn’t, but he needed to. It was the best way to kill 10 minutes that he ever found. He was particular and tedious, so it took much longer than it should’ve. No one else understood it, but they accepted it, and that was good enough. He remembered wrapping the tape on his fingers in anticipation, feeling the awkward gaze of everyone else in the room on him.

Tape.

     He let his hand loose, and let the cigarette butt fall. It bounced off Chris’ shoe; he didn’t glance down to see it roll onto the ground. He looked at the black spot on the brick and he rubbed at it with his hand. The soot rubbed off, picked up by the remnants of the adhesiveness of the tape, which his sweat had deteriorated.
     He leaned against the wall. It was cold, even though he wasn’t. He felt the coarseness of the brick on his back, pulling on his shirt when he tried to move.
     James had pulled his shirt, but that was different. The brick had a friendly tug, like it was saying “Hey, just so you know, I’m here.” He didn’t mind being reminding of its presence.

Tape.

     James had grabbed him and yelled. James had pulled his shirt, pulled their faces close together and shouted things - though James would’ve said he talked sternly. James was lecturing him about something - getting his act together - but all he could think about was that James had some chicken between his teeth. He tried hard to remember if James had chicken for dinner or not. Then James shook him, said something about how he never paid attention, and stormed off. He remembered that James had soup for dinner, and he tried to remember if there was chicken in the soup. He thought about stopping James and asking, but he decided against it. James didn’t seem happy at that particular moment.

Tape.

     He tried to slide down the wall, but the brick didn’t make it easy on him. “Hey, I’m here,” it said as it tugged on his shirt, “I’ll help you stand if you can’t manage on your own.” He denied the offer and sat down. He held his head in his hands, resting his elbows on the knees of his efficiently crossed legs.
     He felt the taped fingers on his ear; it didn’t stick anymore. The tape wasn’t fresh - it was torn apart a decent amount, torn through in one spot. The nail of his middle finger was scraped. He peeled the tape off and discarded it on the ground, somewhere in the general vicinity of the cigarette butt. He examined his fingers: not too bad, not too bad at all. He reached for the roll of tape in his pocket. It wasn’t there.

Tape.

     James had the tape.
     The roll he always kept – he had set it down for the show. After, and after James yelled at Chris, James picked it up when he walked off. He had turned to throw it at Chris, but stopped at the last moment. He decided it wasn’t worth it to start a fight. James eyed Chris as he picked at a scab on the inside of his elbow. Chris remembered being entranced by his arm – apparently he had received some sort of a cut there that had scabbed over. James yelled something else – about being a moron, or an idiot, or completely fucked up, or something like that – and left.

Tape.

     Now Chris was left here in an alley, with no tape. He tried to remember what James had said, but words always seemed to slip from his mind. James had been mad, and he had left.
     Chris checked the cut on his arm – it had started bleeding again, sometime in between then and now. He opened and closed his elbow, hiding it completely. He was entranced by the movement of his skin. He winced for a moment at the sudden pressure on the bruise that was underneath it, but on the surface it was just a little cut. He squeezed some blood out of it, and wiped it off his arm with his finger. He tried to remember how it had gotten there, but again nothing came. He probably bumped into something. He waited a moment for the blood on his finger to dry, then using the back of his thumb nail he scraped it off. It became sort of a fine red powder that gathered together by some strange, almost magnetic force between it. He flicked it off his thumb. He looked at his fingers again; tape had saved them from harm.

Tape.

     James had his tape. He stood there for a moment after James left, pondering what had happened, wondering if this was one of those times when he should’ve been paying attention. He decided to go ask James what he had said, and walked out after him – just in time to see James get into the car that Rob was already waiting in. They drove off. James was his ride home; that meant he had to come back. He turned around as the back door to the club closed, and he bumped into it. The bump jarred him; he wasn’t expecting it. The pick was loosened from his fingers; it had been stuck on the tape, but now it fell.

Tape.

     Chris tried to stand back up, but found his legs weak beneath him. He tried again, but this time the brick wall seemed to be holding him down. “You sat down,” it was saying, “I’m not going to help you up now.” It was clinging to his shirt. As he leaned forward, he pulled it off weakly. He leaned back, and he was captivated for a moment by the sensation of the rough bricks and mortar on his back; he moved slightly, and loved the roughness against his back.
     He tried to stand again. He made it this time, though he still leaned against the wall. He felt a slight chill now. When he looked down he discovered his arm was taped, all the way around it, halfway above the elbow. It was electrical tape; he must’ve borrowed it. He pulled it off, and felt the blood rush back into his arm. He let this tape drop, though it stuck to his fingers; he flicked his wrist and it still stuck. He gave up.

Tape.

     Chris walked to James and Rob’s former parking spot. They were gone. He wondered if this meant he wouldn’t be getting a ride anymore. He looked down and saw his guitar on the ground. He picked it up; the strap was taped on. He looked around. The place looked familiar. He reached around and felt the tape that covered the seam, just behind the pickguard, where it had broken once. This was his first guitar; it’d been through a lot. He had sold all his other guitars, though he couldn’t quite remember why at the moment. He knew a guy who lived a couple blocks down the road, if the police hadn’t arrested him again. He slung the guitar over his back and walked down the road.

Tape.

     Chris tried to step away from the wall, but collapsed shirtless to the ground, trying to remember what happened next; he looked for the wall to brace himself on again, but it stared at him silently, cold as stone. It would offer him no help now. He searched around for the guitar, wondering if he remembered how to play. He had gone on stage tonight and made the right noises, but he wondered if he remembered how to really play. He looked around a bit, managing to sit up so he could see better; it didn’t seem to be around anywhere. He pulled his discarded shirt over him like a blanket that was too small to help keep the draft away. James and Rob were gone, and it appeared his guitar was gone too. He reached again to the scrape on his arm, rolled onto his back, and looked up at the sky. His arms were now entangled in the tape he hadn’t managed to shake off his hands, but maybe he was just too tired to rid himself of it.

Tape.

     Chris remembered walking down the street, with something like a sense of purpose. He stopped for a moment to look up. He watched the clouds swim by, gracefully through the sky. For some reason he was happy he couldn’t see the stars he normally loved so much - but maybe he was just glad that they couldn’t see him. He got to his destination and knocked on the door. He just had a guitar now, but he supposed that would be enough.

Tape.

     He blinked slowly; he thought about reaching for another cigarette. But smoking was bad for him. Chris glanced up past the brick wall and thought he saw a star looking down on him. Chris decided that he should quit smoking. His eyes closed just before the first of many raindrops fell on him.