"Do You Watch Buffy?"

We're starting to run out of pint glasses here at the Fitzner Safe House. The latest casualty, which came at the hands of ma belle femme, was a piece of "Roachenders" merchandise. It was obviously an accident: the soapy 16 oz sippy slipped unexcitingly from her soaked hands while doing dishes. I hesitated a split second before setting the shards in a sack. 


This hesitation was a funeral. I really loved this glass, as it was a relic of my former life spent perpetually driving and sleeping in an under-windowed, yellow Ford Econoline. The Roachenders were a street punk band from Providence, RI that I met in 2001 touring with my first band, Tanka Ray and it was around then that I snagged this personalized pint glass. Their band name is clearly a ganja reeference, but the glass just had a giant close up of a roach face on it. I know, right? Badasss.


Now I must admit, it was a miracle that it even made it all the way back to Kansas City let alone survived the subsequent decade. Nevertheless, I vowed to give my wife flack for the blunder and found this to be a decent segue into the memories conjured at the funeral of my Roachenders pint glass. 


I immediately thought about my first time in Providence. The show we played was humdrum but the guys in the band were a hoot. Their drummer, a  thirtysomething old school tough-ass dude who went by the name of Bob Bitter, played host to the three of us. He fed us and got us drunk and we shot the shit until the blue threat of sunlight came through his second story window. At some point previous, he asked me to come to his room with him. I hesitated of course, but he gave me a look as if to say "not into rape, or boys" so I followed him.
He closed the door behind us and opened his top drawer. 
"This is a secret, alright man?"
"Sure, yeah. Not a problem."
Was it going to be drugs? Because I wasn't really into drugs, especially the kind you sneak away from 6 other people to do. He moved some clothes aside and pulled out a stack of bound paper.
"It's a script. Do you watch Buffy?"
"The Vampire Slayer? Um I've caught a few, yeah for sure." Never seen it. I saw the movie a few times.
"Well it's probably my favorite fucking show and I wrote a script--and they used it. And Joss Whedon--you know Joss Whedon? No? Well he does the show and he sent me a fucking check for Five Thousand Fucking Dollars!"
"What? Really? That's, uh, that's awesome dude, I mean I was pretty sure you were gonna rape me." 
"HA! Fuck you man. Fuck you. I really like you guys, good job tonight", Bob smiled and admitted. "Make sure you get a T-shirt or something before you go tomorrow."
"Can I have a pint glass?"
"Oh fuck yeah man, of course" and off we went to pound enough beers to wash away many old thoughts and memories. But not this one.
----
I woke up 4 hours later on the living room/dining room floor to the sound of my cell phone ringing. It was my mother, asking me to come home immediately because my grandfather had died during the night. 
"I can't mom. There's 15 shows left."


I miss Bob and I miss being on tour. I miss my pint glass. But if I'd known that I was going to cling to my teenage self until I was damn near thirty, I might've asked her to smash the glass and join me in a moment of silence the second I got home from that tour.