Shed a Little Light

by Ian McDuff

The usual. Bowing and scraping and doors being held and screams and hysteria and flashbulbs and declarations and stuffed-plush-glittery-childish-slutty tripe being tossed from behind the police lines and the flying wedge of bodyguards and towels and water bottles and the car and the hotel and more bowing and scraping and anything-we-can-do-anything-you-need-or-want-Mr-Timberlake. And lanyards and access cards and Suits and numbers and figures and set-lists and glitches and missed steps and lighting problems and mike-and-sound fuckups and delays and traffic jams and somebody forgot to pack something again, damn it.

Squared, because touring with Christina ran all of these variables through a factor of the second power. Or something. He’d always hated bus school math.

If this was life, it wasn’t what it was cracked up to be.

Then the hotel-laundry sheets that had to be replaced with his own personal linens and his own pillow, and the folie de doute, the paranoid inability to be sure that the myriads of people he paid to do these things had done them and done them right, leading him to check and double-check his wakeup call before falling into blessed oblivion.

When he slept, at least, he didn’t wonder why the hell he was doing this to himself.

‘Hey, Kel! Babe? You seen my eyebrow ring?’ Joey had learned early on that anything tuggable did not mix worth a damn with a Small Daughter. He’d already gotten an flailing infant foot in the other eye that week, just horsing around.

‘Already set it out on the silver tray with the rest of the bling, o Luggish One!’ Kel was downstairs with Briahna, whose simple expedient for preventing Papa’s leaving was generally to get underfoot so thoroughly that packing was impossible.

‘That’s a hel- heck of a way to address the man who’s fixin’ to make an honest woman outta ya, Baldwin!’ Lance had said, years ago, that the reason Italians had never invented the intercom was that they preferred to yell up and down the stairs. He’d said it lovingly, but there was little doubt that he found his Very Bestest Friend amazingly … loud … sometimes: Southerners could be quite as loud, but they did it on different occasions, and Miz Diane had always run, with steely efficiency, a Polite and Quiet Household. Joey, Lance had said, could awaken sleeping hogs in the next county over, he got hisse’f a-goin’.

‘Yeah, right, Fatone! And people think the big shock when you guys are history and they do the “Behind the Music” will be finally confirming C and the Bassman! Wait’ll they find out how long we’ve really been married!’

Joey poked his head around the doorjamb to the landing, grinning, and called back down, ‘Hey, can I help it if Lou and then Johnny-an’-Clive insisted on me bein’ single and mingle-y?’

Kelly snorted, audibly. ‘Right, blame management, Joe! You’re just so cheap you wanted to get out of the first umpty anniversaries!’

Joe guffawed. Why, he thought fleetingly, was he giving up a single day of this to go play – or screw up trying to play – basketball?

His knees weren’t bothering him at all. Oh, sure, they hurt, but it wasn’t bothering him. Hardly noticeable, in fact. Because, face it, everything hurt, so the knee pain was blessedly submerged in the general white noise of discomfort.

Oh, who was he kidding? Everything hurt. He looked at himself in the mirror, morosely. At the tired eyes that had seen too much. At the smile that never reached the eyes. At the body that had betrayed him. At the damnable, damnable flab.

Lance and JC and Justin had all said their various pieces about that. (God bless Joey Fatone. Now there was a pal. Not a peep out of Big Joe had he heard.) Justin had literally not understood the circumstances. JC had merely told him that the extra poundage was putting extra strain on his knees. Lance, who had had his own struggles, was more understanding, recognizing that the knee pain was part of why he’d stopped such exercising as he’d ever done; but he’d been just as implacable as the others, reminding Chris that swimming was the perfect option for him, and warning him – lovingly, with real concern – of what the flab was doing to his heart. Flab, Chris thought, irritably. Nothing of the sort. Just healthiness. Not his fault he was stuck in a group with three anorexics and a tall guy whose frame could carry a little healthy … flab. Well, shit.

But what even the Bassman had not grasped that it was for his heart’s sake that Chris had let things go a little, tiny, hardly-noticeable bit. Because. After Dani. Chris remembered being young and poor but, well, elfin. Chris knew what it was like to be so rich and famous that no one cared what you looked like. And he wanted, well, someone. Someone to love. Who would love him back. And wanting that was dangerous: it was too easy to believe you’d found what you were looking for, when you were looking that urgently, that desperately. And then you might Get Taken. And get heartbroken. And Chris couldn’t handle another of those.

So. If he at least made them work for it. If he let himself go now, while they were on hiatus, with FuMan having tanked and all the attention on everyone else and he nowadays just the bitter-old-fart-comic-relief. Then, well, then if anyone made a move, it at least argued for some good faith, that it was really Chris they wanted, not a fifth of ’N Sync, not a hot popstar: just an old, fat, grumpy man who used to be in a boyband. It was a start, a preliminary test to test the bona fides of anyone who approached Chris-as-he-now-was.

So, yeah. He’d done this for the sake of his heart, Bassman notwithstanding. A little joint pain, a little pain in the limbs, was a small price to pay for an extra layer of security, another ring of outer defenses. And why not? He’d spent the year pretty much missing four limbs anyway: a baritone, a bass, and two tenors. Right?

Still, he had to be literally crazy if he thought the man in the mirror was ready for the hardwoods. Why did they keep doing this to themselves? Couldn’t they make it softball? Or a Pro-Am at a nice, Nicklaus-designed course?

It broke over them like a sea, first separately and then together, once they’d gotten to the same staging area and gone forward together. The usual, with a twist, with the new elements that had emerged during hiatus and the solo projects. Shouted questions about solo drop dates and why they kept changing, questions about the future of ’N Sync, all atop the old familiar surge and swell and thunder of the questions they’d answered all their adult lives, and the shouts and screams and popping bulbs and shoving and tumult and security issues and drivers and crowds and ear-ringing noise.

It broke upon them and rolled off them and they didn’t so much as notice. It didn’t matter a damn.

The closest they came to acknowledging the existence of the press-and-public maelstrom was Lance’s observation, as they were hustled through a set of service doors, that he sometimes wondered what the heck the fronts of their various venues looked like, since they always seemed to be offloaded at cargo docks like so many sacks of taters.

And it was the same familiar interior that seemed never to vary: echoing blind concrete-block-white-latex halls and fluorescent lights and linoleum floors, eventually giving way to institutional carpet and paint in the same unnoticeable shade of green, as they reached the backstage areas where The Talent held sway, ministered to by obsequious throngs. It was something neither of them had become comfortable with, but today they were too excited to feel guilty, or to remind one another that they were mortal: sic transit.

Partly it was simply their all being together in one place at last, however briefly: a family reunion, a brotherly bonding. Partly it was the purpose for which they were gathering. But mostly, both were still buoyed by their much-needed mini-vacation in Louisiana, in the depths of Cajun country, with Roy’s people and their own Best Gay Friends, Nick and Howie, and with Aaron along and even Brit, briefly.

Another flurry of activity, the thrumming excitement running through the fortunate few for whom being backstage, here, now, was some great life-affirming moment, the tension flashing through the professionals, the usual confusions and eddying rushes of people clearing the way, and the half-heard greetings and good wishes, some self-advertising but most heartily meant, that all sounded the same but that each deserved a smile and a nod and a fragmentary vocable that, it was important to make seem, would have been a full-fledged response if only one weren’t helplessly borne along by the momentum. (JC always had, still, to fight down the urge actually to converse with everyone, which Lance found as adorable as it was impractical – and impracticable.) The Talent was here.

A door shut, and all the outside noise was cut off, and they were there, now, at last, all in one room, together. Chris was sprawled on a sofa, his feet elevated to a level higher than that of his head. He waved, feebly, milking his Old Man act. Joe was lounging in an armchair, a recliner, looking more like an Everyday Dad with each passing week, his grin broad and sunny and his eyes twinkling. And Justin, a tired Justin with circles under his eyes, was leaning against the wall. He looked, Lance though, ‘ga’nted.’

Before anyone could actually speak, Lance crossed the room in a few strides, grabbed Justin, and hugged him tightly.

Justin stiffened, startled, and then relaxed, at first tentatively, then desperately, into Lance’s hug. He looked over Lance’s shoulder and saw JC beaming, radiating Zen, and he could, they all could, hear C’s faint, unconscious humming. ‘Shower the people you love with love….’ With a sigh that surprised even him, he hugged Lance back, reveling in the grounding touch.

‘Hidee.’

‘Hey.’

‘So.’

‘Um. Yeah. Wh- what’s all this for?’

Lance, without breaking the embrace, drew back far enough to look Justin in the eye. ‘One, it’s on account of you needed it. Two, it’s on account of it’s been just as damned long for me to see you, and I need this. Three, it’s on account of some things I got my ass reminded of, me and JC in Lou’siana t’other week. Four, Brit says “howdy.” Five, one of the things I did get my ass reminded of was that you and Nicky both had hell in your teens, and he had D to help him and you didn’t, and I still feel like we owe you. Six – it is six, ain’t it? – you’ve outgrowed your asshole years and I reckon as how you should know that, and know that while we don’t, cain’t, love you any more’n we did already, we all are damn happy to have somethin’ purt’ much resembles you back amongst us. And seven, I wanted you to know we love you afore we whup your ass in Challenge.’

‘What?’ Justin was laughing even as he shouted. ‘You got no skills, Bass.’

‘Just you wait, youngest one.

‘But we got some bidness to take care of first.’

The first order of business, of course, was to greet Chris and Joe properly as well. As they all found places to sit – Justin ended up sliding onto the couch with Chris’s legs in his lap, and Lance and JC had never seen a love-seat they didn’t try to make live up to its name – Joe remarked, ‘See you got Southern-fried in Louisiana, Frenchy.’

JC smiled, eyes crinkling. ‘As bad as Lance. But the nice thing is, by tomorrow, mine will be a tan again, and Lance will still look like a plate of mudbugs.’ Lance punched him, lightly. JC winced, and Lance murmured, ‘Stop trying to be tough about it, you don’t take care of this you’ll be sicker’n a dawg tomorrow.’

‘I heard about all that,’ Justin said. ‘You. You said Brit was there?’

JC nodded, ignoring mere mortal sunburn. ‘I had a bunch of people I thought needed some spiritual triage, man. You weren’t touring, you’d’ve been there, too.’

‘Um.’

‘And if it’s that you heard about it, man, chill. She’s been my pal long as you have, if I want her to drop by a family gathering, the press can fuck itself. And she can always say that she’s planning on reopening her restaurant, with real Louisiana food this time, and was getting recipes, right?’

‘No, man. Not what I was thinking. ’S cool.’ Justin’s voice was quiet, full of a mature regret. ‘How is she? Really?’

‘Like the rest of us,’ Lance cut in. ‘Getting’ by, growin’ up: she’ll be fine. Just like you. Just like all of us.’

Chris raised his head slightly. ‘You’ve come back pretty damn Yoda-fied, Bass. What’s with the wisdom?’

Lance paused. JC patted his hand. ‘Well. When JC dragged us out there.’

‘I knew he needed it, just like Brit, just like Nick-an’-Howie. But I may have gotten the most out of it,’ JC said, placidly.

‘When he dragged us out to the swamp,’ Lance smiled, ‘I didn’t know what to expect. But. They just … put us to work. We didn’t even help cook, we weren’t let to, but we chopped and peeled and fetched and carried, and suddenly, it all came together and we all sat down and ate ourselves full as a tick. Everybody together, cooks and bottle-washers and grannies and shirt-tail children. And, well. All this time. I’ve had the Big Plans, the long-term plans, all this time I’ve learned to think operationally, about doin’ something today that will pay off in five, six years. And that’s a good thing, but. Or, when we’re out there as a group, it’s the work and the immediate payoff, in a way, but, it’s not a shared thing. I mean, we can talk about our fans until we’re blue in the face, but what we experience at a concert of ours and what they do, two differ’nt things. But out there on Bayou Lacassine. There was the work, people working together, and the immediate result, and the shared fruits of the labor and ever’body got to participate. I’d forgot what that was like. And then I got to thinkin’. The one thing in our life these days, I mean the five of us, that gives me that sort of feelin’ is, well, this, and things like it, like the Shriner’s Hospital. It’s what we do for the kids. So.’

‘I mean,’ JC chimed in, with that eerie perceptiveness of his that sometimes made the rest uneasy, wondering warily about telepathy. ‘When it comes down to it, I mean, we could get together when we want, us five, but, like, what matters is the kids. That’s why we’re here, here, now, regardless of knees or kids or tours or post-production or business. Right?’

Joe grinned and grunted his assent, and Chris ducked his head. Justin nodded, slowly, and leaned over to squeeze JC’s hand.

‘So,’ Lance said. ‘We’ll talk numbers later. Quickly, who’s going where tonight? J? I think you have to be seen with Cameron?’

‘Oh, man, shit. Look, I don’t want y’all to think –’

‘Justin.’ Lance was being even more Wise and August, Chris thought to himself. ‘If it’s real, let’s not jinx it, and even if it weren’t, you deserve a zone of privacy for a change.’ JC nodded, vigorously, with an even more Zen-like smile than usual. ‘We’re through doubtin’ you. All of us done growed up some, this past year. Don’t matter what the press or the fans think if we ain’t all attached at the hip, we know we’re good. So. Point is, logistics. You’ll be picked up per Line 57 of the schedules C’s – ahem – passin’ out, and us four’ll go to Crobar per Line 58. Any questions about the rest of this page? All right. Final bit of bidness. Y’all each have an envelope with the packet. I suggest y’all read it. Ain’t the formal report for this past year of the charities – we’ll address that at the final bidness meeting before we wrap, this weekend, when we look at this year’s numbers – but I asked them to get us some examples, some anecdotes, about the differ’nce we’re makin’.’

They had read in silence for a while, reading the simple words and looking at the photos that gave them a feel for where their efforts and money had gone. A school band program that had not had to close, after all. A promising teen graphic artist saved from the streets and an addiction. A sixteen-year old unwed mother – Chris choked up a little over that one, and Justin buried a hand in his hair and soothed him without even having to ask or look up. A hospice for pediatric AIDS cases. By the end, all five of them were a little emotional, much more at ease with one another, and unable to remember why doing this had ever seemed a burden.

Joe said as much. ‘I mean, even if we lose, right?’

Justin grinned, with a cockiness that was without any tint of meanness. ‘I got skills, y’all.’

And Chris, who was more than eager to prod things along and lighten the mood, jumped right in. ‘Oh? Because I heard the Bass, earlier, mention opening up a can of whup-ass on you….’

‘Hey, that’s right! What are you on, no-rhythm-no-game Bassboy, crack?’

Lance’s own grin was shark-like. ‘Whole reason I set this hour aside was so you could try to get up to our level, Timba. Because last year was pitiful.’

‘What? Were you at the same game I was at?’

‘Oh, you can run around and look pretty, but, babes? Your trash-talkin’ skills done deserted you.’

‘And it’s not like people come to see basketball, God knows,’ Joey said. ‘They’re here for the floorshow.’

‘Oooooooh,’ said Chris. ‘Yeah. So we should conduct a little seminar, huh?’

‘Yup,’ Lance said. His grin was more smug than ever.

‘Why, you two midget freaks –’

‘Hey now, don’t prove my point already, Memphis Slick. I’m here to –’ and here Lance dropped into his lowest register – ‘practice what I preach.’

JC whimpered, then realized he’d done so aloud when Joe start roaring with laughter. He turned rose-pink atop his touch of sun.

‘So, C,’ Joe managed, between laughs, ‘Lance been singing Barry White around the house again?’

JC’s incoherence, and still-deeper blush, was answer enough.

‘Yeah, well,’ Justin said, ‘that ain’t gonna affect me on the courts, dawg. And I can trash talk with the best of them.’

Chris shook his head, mock-mournful. ‘No, Infant, you really can’t. You’re not enough of a smartass to keep up with me and the Bassman.’

‘I’m plenty smart!’

‘Smart as the world is flat,’ Lance said, wickedly. The Trash-Talking Seminar was now in session.

‘Takes two hours to watch 60 Minutes,’ Chris said.

‘Pfft,’ Justin said. ‘Dude, you’re as smart as you are tall. And Lance is goalie for the dart team.’

‘Huh?’ JC said, he having still been distracted by recollections of Lance singing Marvin Gaye and Barry White during foreplay.

Chris rolled his eyes. ‘C needs a foundation of his own, to cure CDD: Clue Deficit Disorder.’

‘Oh, right,’ JC said, ‘this from a dwarf who keeps it floored in neutral.’

‘CK’s not a dwarf,’ Joe interjected. ‘Actually, he’s six one, but he’s standing on his record.’

Chris grinned at him. ‘I’m not the one playing in the shallow end of the gene pool.’

‘Naw, you just got in it when the lifeguard wasn’t on duty.’

‘At least I’m not so dense that light bends around me.’

‘Naw, but if they put a lens in each ear, you’d make a great telescope.’

Twenty minutes later, Johnny Wright knocked on the door, and, getting no intelligible answer, opened it. After a quick glance, he shut it again, firmly, and turned to the waiting bodyguards. ‘We’ll need a vacuum,’ he said.

‘I knew feather pillows were a bad idea,’ Lonnie grunted.

‘Yes,’ Johnny said, with an evil grin. ‘But a nice, noisy vacuum should be a hoot.’ He eased the door back open, slightly, and the men who had devoted their lives to these charges of theirs peeked in and stifled their snickers. In a snoring, cuddly heap, amidst the detritus of some savaged pillows, five of the richest and most famous young men in the world were curled up, sleeping, in a puppy-pile. It was as if years had fallen away from them in an hour.

Johnny closed the door again, softly. ‘At the risk of paraphrasing that Other Band, gentlemen, I b’lieve ’N Sync’s back.’

END