I should have expected it to happen sooner or later, but it’s always a shock when you do get that call.
I agreed to the interview, of course. Both Coran and I were more than happy to appear on VH-1’s ‘Where Are They Now’ special featuring the Original Voltron Force. And the interview wasn’t that bad- I was a little bit surprised to see them skirting the whole issue with me and Coran shacking up and all. The only time I felt uncomfortable was when they asked if we stayed in touch with the rest of the team, and when I faltered, Coran spoke up and said of course we all keep tabs on each other. And we smiled those big plastic smiles and sent them packing, and I retreated into the hangar to throw my tools around and cry.
Of course it didn’t end with that. It never does. I had to watch the show.
It starts off innocently enough, showing the Lions on display at the air shows, a new generation of squeaky-clean pilots fresh from Disneyland smiling and waving from their backs. We were supposed to be the ones doing the whole air show schtick, but after the war was over, the producers soon figured out we were made of stronger stuff than what they were looking for. One too many mornings of dragging our sorry asses out of jail and into the cockpits rendered our contracts null and void. Presto! Instant has-beens.
And then they interview Sven. He looks the same as always, a bit ragged around the edges. Tired. Keith follows, and I realize with a start that he actually looks sober for the first time in years. He looks sad, incredibly sad, even when he smiles and laughs that false laugh and tells the interviewer things are going great. They do a bit on Lance, showing picture after picture of his winning smile, but there’s no interview. I’m sure I’d know if Lance was dead, so I assume they either couldn’t find him, or he was too wasted to sit for the interview. How typical.
Then it’s my turn. Jesus, I look like a fucking beached whale sitting there in the garden on that lawn chair, holding a soda with a little pink umbrella stuck in it. I knew I was fat, but shit, I look like I ought to be wearing a Hawaiian shirt or something, the way that shot is set up. There I am with my sugar daddy, the royal advisor, and we’re sitting too close, and it’s more than obvious just what kind of relationship this is. And there I am smiling my big fake smile and talking about how great life is on Arus (yeah, it’s obvious, just take a look at my waistline and that shiteating grin on Coran’s face) and how my life is so together after my last suicide attempt and the depression is gone, and it’s all horseshit. But I wasn’t lying when I said I was sober.
I roll my eyes and mentally remind myself to lay off the cheesecake. As for exercise… well, sex with Coran counts, right? If it doesn’t, it damn well should.
I snicker to myself. Fat lazy fuck, that’s me.
And then I know it’s your turn. Coran is sitting closer to me now, but I can feel the tightness beginning in my throat, and I order myself not to cry. I know it’s already too late, though, because they’re showing old photos of you, and by the time they get to the one where you’re sitting on my shoulders and we’re celebrating some victory or another, I can hardly see the screen because of the tears.
And they go through the whole schtick, talking about you and me and how we were best buddies. I’m sobbing and Coran is talking softly to me, but right now his droning voice can’t help me, and his hand holding mine is going ignored. Then they cut to you- it’s you, Pidge, you’re alive, you’re breathing, you’re looking at me through the TV screen and talking.
I jump out of my chair and press my palms up against the monitor, and it doesn’t matter what you’re saying- it’s all bullshit anyway- I’m just so fucking glad to see you alive and moving and in living color. I’m talking to you, and Coran is acting all confused and I realize I’m speaking in my native tongue, but it doesn’t matter anyway because I’m not making much sense.
You’re strung out, Pidge, you’re stoned out of your gourd. Can’t anyone tell, or is it something that only a fellow junkie could spot? Jesus, Pidge, you look rough. What are you on? It’s more than smack or ecstasy, that’s for sure. You’re thin, love, I can see your skull through the tissue skin of your face, and your eyes… so sunken and haunted, I’ve seen corpses that looked better than you. Oh, Pidge, my love, you look sad, and when you smile, it’s the empty grin of death. I have to take you into my arms, I have to hold you just one more time, but I can’t, so I hug myself instead and cry.
The show is over. I sit there for a while and beg for you to come back. Finally I return to myself and remember to speak in the common language, and Coran takes me by the arm and gently leads me up to bed where I undress and offer myself to him through my tears. Make it go away, Coran, touch me and caress me and make it all better like you always do.
But instead he turns me around to face him, and for the first time I see the sparkle of unshed tears in his blue eyes as he strokes my hair and calls me child for the last time.
And so here I am, standing here in the spaceport with this ticket in my hand, looking at the boarding ramp and wondering if I’ll have the nerve to walk it. Coran said something about second chances, last chances, and I believe him. My stomach lurches as I hand the flight attendant my bag.
There’s a small gap between the end of the ramp and the doorway of the ship. It’s only a few inches wide, but I smile as I hop across. It’s a leap of faith.
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