Come and Go So Quickly

ONE.

The heavy scent of grease hangs thickly in the air as Sebastian Porter follows his bandmates into the diner. Maggie Sue’s, it’s called. The restaurant is long and narrow, with turquoise walls, tangerine booths, and a floor like a checkerboard. Still queasy after his daily bout of “morning sickness” (as Finn likes to call it), the jarring colors and patterning under his feet cause Bas’s head to spin. He lifts his pale gaze, searching for the restroom, and notes a metal sign in the shape of a hand. The word “BATHROOM” is printed in block letters along the arm; it points down a slight stairwell. 

Just in case I need to make a run for it, he thinks, and gingerly touches his stomach.

Bert notices the gesture. “Still not feeling great?”

“Nah.”

“Wanna sit on the end?”

Bas nods and slides in behind him, skin clammy as excess saliva pools in his mouth. A droplet of sweat trickles down his spine; he can feel beads of perspiration glistening on his forehead. What he ought to do is excuse himself and return to the bus, force down a saltine or two, and go back to bed. What he opts to do instead is stay right where he is, willing himself not to be ill. 

The bizarre “morning sickness” had begun two weeks into Flannel Lobster’s tour. Bas woke from a strange dream around nine in the morning feeling feverish and unsettled; something unfamiliar roiled in his gut. Quietly, he’d climbed from his top bunk and made his way to the bathroom, praying he wouldn’t be out of commission with the stomach flu for that night’s show. They’d been on their way to New Orleans and he was looking forward to the beignets, but as he’d hugged the bus’s commode while speeding along Route 10, food had been the last thing on his mind.

After vomiting, he’d felt considerably better.

“A fluke,” he’d explained to Russo, who took a particular interest in the human body thanks to his years in medical school. “Motion sickness, maybe. I don’t know. But I feel fine now.” And he’d continued to feel fine until the next morning… when the nausea appeared once again.

Ever since that morning five weeks ago, he’d woken around nine, been sick, and then functioned normally for the rest of the day. Exhaustion plagued him, but traveling allowed ample time for naps. Mostly, he felt fine. On only a handful of occasions had the queasiness stuck with him. Today, it seems, is one of those days.

A middle-aged waitress appears with a tray of waters, her permed hair frizzing with humidity. She places a glass in front of each customer, tucks the silver platter beneath her left armpit, and flips open a small notepad. “What can I get y’all to drink this mornin’?” Her lips are painted a bright, unnatural pink.

Bas can’t imagine consuming anything, but he orders a coffee along with everyone else. Functioning on autopilot, he also requests a plate of scrambled eggs and a slice of dry toast. 

“No grits or fresh biscuits to go with them eggs?” the waitress confirms, her voice friendly and lilting. “We got fried green tomatoes too. Some folks prefer an order of those.”

“No thanks. Just the eggs and toast, please.”

As his friends laugh and joke about yesterday’s show in Atlanta, Bas takes a very small sip of water and tries to convince himself that he’s not on the brink of vomiting. He’s only vaguely aware of the conversation occuring around him, so focused is he on his own discomfort.

The other thing he’s focused on is his home: Lake Caywood, Pennsylvania, where his wife, Lucy Campbell, and his cats, Jem and Scout, have been residing without him for nearly two months. More than anything, he’d love to crawl into his own bed and surround himself with his family and sleep and sleep and sleep. It’s been a long tour of zigzagging back and forth across the south, playing shows almost every night. The fact that he hasn’t felt great for much of it has only made his homesickness more intense.

Sebastian’s thoughts are on Lucy when he catches a whiff of syrupy pancakes being carried past their table. The aroma, nauseatingly sweet, results in a flood of saliva to his mouth. He presses a fist to his lips and bolts from the booth, racing downstairs to the men’s bathroom. One of the stall doors hangs wide open and he rushes into the tiny cubicle, not bothering to employ the lock. Landing painfully on his knees, Bas retches into the porcelain bowl, bringing up what little contents his stomach contains: chicken fingers from Zaxby’s, fries, and a few IPAs.

He heaves until there’s nothing left inside him, and then he sits back on his haunches and pulls a long strip of toilet paper from the roll, using it to blot his mouth. Behind him, the bathroom door opens and Bert’s voice can be heard asking, “You alright, B?”

Sebastian coughs, spits once more, tosses the wadded paper into the toilet, and flushes. Then he hoists himself to his feet and exits the stall, a hand pressed tenderly against his stomach. He walks over to stand before the mirror, leans down to rinse his mouth and splash cold water on his face. His eyes are bloodshot, his complexion sallow. 

Bert hands him a paper towel to blot the cool droplets. 

“You don’t have any mints, do you?”

Reaching into his pocket, Bert unearths a roll of Wint-O-Green Life Savers and hands it to Bas. “Have you mentioned your ‘morning sickness’ to Lucy yet?” The look the man wears is a stern one; he’s been trying for weeks to have his friend visit Urgent Care. 

“Nah. I don’t wanna worry her.”

“You vomit every day and you sleep all the time. There’s something wrong with you, B.”

Sebastian ignores this and pops a mint into his mouth.

“What if it’s mono?”

“What if it is?” he counters. “They’ll tell me to sleep more. I’m already doing that.” He shrugs and leans against the sink, sucking hard on the Life Saver. “Besides, nausea isn’t a symptom of mono. I don’t think that’s it.”

Scowling, Bert shakes his head in frustration. Then he takes a step closer, places a hand on either of Sebastian’s shoulders, and says, “Remember when I found that lump in my breast and you made me go to Urgent Care to get it checked?”

“Yeah.”

“Because you had a feeling there was something off?”

“I remember, B.”

“Well… now I have that feeling. So when we get to Charleston later today, can we please find an Urgent Care and have you examined? Please, Sebastian. Can you do that for me?”

The use of his full name rather than the abbreviated “B” that they utilize when addressing one another is what ultimately persuades Bas to agree. He holds Bert’s pistachio-hued gaze for a long moment, noting the worry that resides there, and sighs in resignation. “Fine.”

Bert, too, exhales a long breath. “Thank you.”

“We should be in Charleston around three?”

“At the latest, yeah.”

“Alright. We’ll go then.”

“Alright,” Bert echoes, removing his hands from Bas’s shoulders. 

They exit the bathroom together, trudging back up the stairs to rejoin their bandmates. Bas nibbles a corner of toast while Finn speaks animatedly about tomorrow night’s show in North Carolina. “Eddie’s got the cake covered,” he says, even though Bas had expected as much. 

Finn’s girlfriend owns a small bakery in the tiny beach town of Moonglow, and even though For the Love of Cupcakes specializes in miniature cakes, Edna McCloud has been known to periodically create something on a much larger scale. Her coconut cakes are outstanding, and when she adds a layer of lemon curd, they become something else entirely, so even though Bas worries about the sensitive state of his stomach, he can’t help but anticipate the confection. “If you talk to her later, tell her thanks in advance.”

Finn tucks a thick dreadlock behind his ear and reaches for the tabasco sauce, shaking it onto his scrambled eggs and drowning them in heat. “I tried to persuade her to bake a chocolate cake instead, but she wouldn’t do it.”

“Good.”

Bas has nothing against chocolate, but coconut with a layer of lemon curd and an abundance of cream cheese icing has become a birthday tradition. It had been his mother’s specialty; she’d prepared it for all five of the birthdays she’d been alive to celebrate with her son, and to this day, someone inevitably follows her recipe and attempts to create a similar masterpiece. Before her death, Bert’s mother had usually been the one to provide it, but others have helped out over the years: Lucy’s mother, for one, and Martha Pond (Sebastian’s almost-step-mother) for another. Edna, however, has a magical touch when it comes to concocting delectable desserts and Bas would be lying if he said he wasn’t looking forward to a big slice of birthday cake. 

“Do we have an actual gig in Moonglow?” Bert wonders as he loads his fork with a large bite of omelet. “We’ve never played there outside of the festival, have we? And that’s not ‘til June…”

“We’re playing in Starlet but crashing in Moonglow,” Finn explains. “It’s an afternoon show, down by the pier. We’ll have Saturday night and Sunday to ourselves. Then two more weeks on the road before heading home.”

Bas pushes his eggs around the plate, not trusting his stomach enough to consume much beyond dry toast and water. It’s already been such a long tour; two more weeks, while not an overly lengthy span of time, feels like forever. 

He misses Lucy. 

He misses his cats.

He misses sleeping in his own bed. 

He just… misses his home.