“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, never better. Why?” The truth would only invite a conversation I’m not ready to have yet with anyone other than my shrink and my former bandmates.
They’d scattered, joining up with other groups, but each swore they would return if I ever wanted to revive The Savages. All I need to do is say the word.
But just being around Skylar and her crew for the week has been a constant reminder that your life could spiral quickly out of control if you didn’t keep your feet firmly planted in reality. I like reality.
“Seems like you zoned out on me there for a minute,” Malik says.
I drain the beer I’ve been holding which is now warm. This is how I usually get through parties. I grab one beer or a glass of wine, mostly as a prop, and don’t partake of anything else. Actually drinking this one down is crossing a line for me. Relapse is an ever-present possibility.
“Just enjoying the music,” I say which isn’t a complete lie. I crush the beer can. “I need to get some fresh air. Later.”
Malik kicks his head back in response and I make a beeline for the door. If I’m going to remain at Sky’s party, I need to remove myself from earshot of the medley of The Savages hits the deejay will undoubtedly play. His M.O. is to play a trio of songs by various artists, which means another couple of ours are coming up.
This wouldn’t be particularly difficult, except that every song I’ve ever written has a story behind it which doesn’t dredge up fond nor particularly productive memories. If I don’t go, I’ll either end up snorting a few lines or opening up a vein. Hearing Kim’s voice in the background vocals isn’t making things any easier, either. It’s like hearing a fucking ghost, and my throat still threatens to close each time I hear her clear, high harmony complimenting my melody.
The bass emanating from the speakers shake the LA mansion like an earthquake registering at least a 3.0 on the Richter scale. I’ve steered clear of clients’ parties in the year I’ve been working for I’m Your Man, Inc.—escaping the temptation to return to some semblance of my former self and all that.
I exit through the French doors onto the patio and take a deep breath. Several other partygoers are outside enjoying the relative quiet and the cooler temperature. There are no hot dancing bodies out here, though it’s apparent some came outside for privacy to do those wickedly illicit things they can’t wait to get back to their homes and hotel rooms to do.
A few couples swim in their underwear, their clothing strewn over the loungers they’ve abandoned. A group of twenty-year-olds have taken over the gazebo, and the pungent odor of marijuana wafts from them.
There goes my fresh, clean air. I move upwind from the pot so I don’t entertain the notion of joining them. Not my scene anymore, but temptation lurks everywhere.
Sure, I’d had a beer, but I’ll be okay. Unless there are drugs involved, I’m fine around a bit of booze. But if my specific brand of rock is played, my entire body reacts as if it has a hard-on which only my drug of choice abates. In those situations, I am hard-pressed to resist giving myself up to it and taking a hit of something.
Rock music calls to me like a siren’s song. It is a blessing and a curse, and it has taken me five long years to emerge from the darkness I found myself in when I bottomed out. That darkness had been fatal for Kim and could quite easily have been for me as well. It still could be, and that is a fact I have to live with each and every day.
Convinced I’ve given the deejay plenty of time to switch artists, I turn to head back into the party. I need Sky. She made me promises with her lips and her body after the concert and I intend to cash in on them. Sex is the one celebratory thing I can still do that doesn’t hurt me.
I grasp the ankh I wear around my neck—one of the last gifts Kim gave to me. It’s engraved with our
“Yeah, never better. Why?” The truth would only invite a conversation I’m not ready to have yet with anyone other than my shrink and my former bandmates.
They’d scattered, joining up with other groups, but each swore they would return if I ever wanted to revive The Savages. All I need to do is say the word.
But just being around Skylar and her crew for the week has been a constant reminder that your life could spiral quickly out of control if you didn’t keep your feet firmly planted in reality. I like reality.
“Seems like you zoned out on me there for a minute,” Malik says.
I drain the beer I’ve been holding which is now warm. This is how I usually get through parties. I grab one beer or a glass of wine, mostly as a prop, and don’t partake of anything else. Actually drinking this one down is crossing a line for me. Relapse is an ever-present possibility.
“Just enjoying the music,” I say which isn’t a complete lie. I crush the beer can. “I need to get some fresh air. Later.”
Malik kicks his head back in response and I make a beeline for the door. If I’m going to remain at Sky’s party, I need to remove myself from earshot of the medley of The Savages hits the deejay will undoubtedly play. His M.O. is to play a trio of songs by various artists, which means another couple of ours are coming up.
This wouldn’t be particularly difficult, except that every song I’ve ever written has a story behind it which doesn’t dredge up fond nor particularly productive memories. If I don’t go, I’ll either end up snorting a few lines or opening up a vein. Hearing Kim’s voice in the background vocals isn’t making things any easier, either. It’s like hearing a fucking ghost, and my throat still threatens to close each time I hear her clear, high harmony complimenting my melody.
The bass emanating from the speakers shake the LA mansion like an earthquake registering at least a 3.0 on the Richter scale. I’ve steered clear of clients’ parties in the year I’ve been working for I’m Your Man, Inc.—escaping the temptation to return to some semblance of my former self and all that.
I exit through the French doors onto the patio and take a deep breath. Several other partygoers are outside enjoying the relative quiet and the cooler temperature. There are no hot dancing bodies out here, though it’s apparent some came outside for privacy to do those wickedly illicit things they can’t wait to get back to their homes and hotel rooms to do.
A few couples swim in their underwear, their clothing strewn over the loungers they’ve abandoned. A group of twenty-year-olds have taken over the gazebo, and the pungent odor of marijuana wafts from them.
There goes my fresh, clean air. I move upwind from the pot so I don’t entertain the notion of joining them. Not my scene anymore, but temptation lurks everywhere.
Sure, I’d had a beer, but I’ll be okay. Unless there are drugs involved, I’m fine around a bit of booze. But if my specific brand of rock is played, my entire body reacts as if it has a hard-on which only my drug of choice abates. In those situations, I am hard-pressed to resist giving myself up to it and taking a hit of something.
Rock music calls to me like a siren’s song. It is a blessing and a curse, and it has taken me five long years to emerge from the darkness I found myself in when I bottomed out. That darkness had been fatal for Kim and could quite easily have been for me as well. It still could be, and that is a fact I have to live with each and every day.
Convinced I’ve given the deejay plenty of time to switch artists, I turn to head back into the party. I need Sky. She made me promises with her lips and her body after the concert and I intend to cash in on them. Sex is the one celebratory thing I can still do that doesn’t hurt me.
I grasp the ankh I wear around my neck—one of the last gifts Kim gave to me. It’s engraved with our
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