The Things that Words Tell You

by Gwyneth Cooper

© Gwyneth Cooper

Not everything was a statement, according to Tommy; sometimes words were just words. They weren't always weapons, crafted to explode in your brain, or to crawl under your skin like literary hookworm. Tommy would like to believe that no one died from a couplet planted in your liver, incubating on your amino acids. He looked across the practice space to where Paul was bent over his notebook and sighed. He knew better than to say that aloud. Paul would probably like that idea, gory and revolting as it was. It had been grim and heartbreaking on the documentary Tommy had watched last night; red and messy parasites, tightly contained by skin. Paul would love that image. Tommy plucked at the strings of his guitar idly and watched Paul work.

Paul chewed on the end of his pen as he thought and Tommy wondered how he saw the words he was shaping on the page. Tommy never got to hear them till they'd been hacked and reshaped so the raw edges were gone. Paul liked his words sanded smooth, deceptively so, right up until you actually listened. Sometimes, Tommy would deliberately rough them up with his guitar; he wanted something more brutal, something that hit you hard while the words pierced your skin like silk. He snorted to himself. Yeah, maybe he didn't buy that shit about the powerlessness of words either. Still.

"Paul, it doesn't matter," he said. "The lyrics aren't us, you know." They'd been arguing over this for hours, holed up in the garage. Paul was stuck on some image or other, getting more frustrated and tired, his pen sweeping over his paper before slashing back over his scribbled letters. The space was hot and Tommy felt sweaty and irritable.

"The lyrics are everything," Paul said. Tommy's fingers stilled and the low hiss of irritation he'd been feeling all afternoon grew a little louder.

"Everything?" he asked.

"The public face," said Paul. "This is where we tell them what we think. A guitar lick can't tell people to fuck off with their fuckwit homophobia."

Tommy picked a simple melody over his strings, ending with the discordant jangle of a seventh. "Did you hear me say 'fuck you' in that?" he asked. He knew he was being unfair, but they'd been sitting in this garage for most of the day, arguing and playing and being frustrated in turns. The others had gone home hours ago, leaving Paul and Tommy to hack stubbornly into whatever was left between them. Whatever was causing the problems. He wished Paul would just come out and say it. It would save so much time.

"You know what I mean, arsehole," Paul retorted.

"Yeah," said Tommy. "Yeah, you keep on flying that rainbow flag. Fuck, yeah, one shitty garage band will make all the difference." He put his guitar down carefully in the stand against the wall and ducked outside. There was a sour taste in his mouth and he shoved his hands in his pockets.

Wandering round the driveway, he kicked moodily at a rock in the garden that edged it and looked at the sky, towards the red sunset. The air was cooler out here and he regretted coming out without his hoodie. He almost wished he smoked, just so he could have a reason to be out here without looking like he was sulking. Fucking singers who thought they made the fucking band with their words. Paul needed to let go of some of his shit and stop this relentless overthinking.

Taking a deep breath, Tommy turned. He jumped back as he came face to face with Paul.

"Fucker," he muttered. Paul just smiled and shoved a paper into Tommy's hands before standing in front of him expectantly. Tommy fumbled the paper, clutching it to his chest as he looked at Paul, seeing the kid he'd known since they were eight in the hopeful look in his eyes.

Tommy didn't feel annoyed anymore, just a little tired and chilled. The paper crinkled under his fingers, ink side into his chest, and Tommy wondered if they were leeching into his skin on a trail of solvent and red pigment, to merge with his blood and his heartbeat. They could slide through his blood to find a home deep inside him, sit there and culture on his sugars. He wasn't sure he wanted to know what Paul had written, but he slowly peeled the paper from his chest anyway and looked at the words.

I just want to make music that makes you not invisible, it read. Tommy looked up at Paul.

"Are you sure you write the lyrics?" he asked.

"You arsehole," said Paul, already starting to grin.

"No, seriously," said Tommy, "how does this even make sense?"

"You got the meaning," said Paul. "You're always saying we don't need to make the words fancy. Don't punk out on me now." Tommy laughed and folded the paper carefully, ink to the inside like a seed that might escape him before he got a chance to work it up into a leafy melody.

"Yeah," said Tommy. He did get the message. He let go of the last of his annoyance and the lingering knot of fear that Paul wanted to make him into a red and white poster boy for queer rights. "Let's go make some music and not give a fuck about me being gay for a while," he said. Paul punched him gently on the arm and smiled wider as he led the way back inside.

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