Voices Carry: A Rock and Roll Fantasy (The Rock And Roll Fantasy Collection)

by Diane Rinella

  I look it up on my phone and find it’s a gourmet burger joint. My stomach grumbles again over how good it sounds. Google maps shows they only have one location, not far from Majestic Studios. Is that where Katherine films? I type “Vampires Undercover shooting location” into my browser and—

  God! What am I doing? Two nights ago I started hearing voices and having nightmares, yesterday I freaked out over hearing a voice while in my car, and now I not only have a crush on a celebrity, I am stalking her? This isn’t like me—not by a long shot. Am I just overtired, or am I more of a mess over Amber than I realize? For God’s sake, it’s been ten years. I’ve gotten depressed before, but I’ve never had my brain go into overload.

  Ten years … A guy can only blame the universe for not putting the right woman in front of him for so long. Dale is right. I’m too uptight. There comes a point in everyone’s life where he needs to bend the rules and open his mind. This might be that time. A date, even a trampy one, would do me a world of good.

  I pull Pixie Waitress’s number out of my wallet and start dialing. If she gives her number to every guy like Darla implied, and was really showing off her neon yellow undies, she’s probably only interested in one thing. Right now, anything that can get me over this hurdle is fine by me.

  My dialing halts. It’s hard to ignore how clearly her name is written on this paper. It also makes me feel a little sick.

  I’ll give her a pet name so I won’t have to think of her as being Amber. Apparently Brian Jones of The Rolling Stones gave the same pet name to every girl so he didn’t have to bother remembering real ones. I’ll call her Cream Puff or some other nauseating thing. Girls enjoy that, right?

  Hell, it doesn’t matter if she enjoys it. It’s only for a night.

  Actually, with how long it’s been, it will only be a few minutes. The poor girl. I already feel horrible about being Racer X, and I haven’t finished dialing.

  Abruptly I stop. What if she’s really a nice girl? People have often gotten the wrong impression of me.

  I start dialing again, typing in the number as fast as I can, even though the rational side of me is screaming to stop. It may have a point.

  I’ll do this right. I won’t expect a thing other than to treat her to a decent meal just as I would any other first date. Whatever else happens, happens.

  But after entering the last digit, my thumb hovers over the call button. This goes against how Amber changed me into the person I am. Going out with a woman I am not interested in, especially only with the intent of jumping a hurdle, is disrespectful to all of us.

  A dental assistant steps out and calls my name. With a sigh of relief, I crumple the paper and toss it into the wastebasket. I may need to move on, but I’m not the kind of guy who can do it with anyone. In both her life and in her death, Amber made me become true to who I am. I need to stand by that.

  Voices Green And Purple

  When I decided to pursue a career in marketing, I dreamed of creating multi-million dollar campaigns so brilliant that corporations paid me tens of thousands in bonuses. I also fantasized their paraphernalia would turn into collectables that begged people to fork over hundreds of dollars for the sake of nostalgia. Then I came to work at Endeara Candies and literally got a taste of reality.

  My palate is not refined—not by a long shot—yet even I know this candy is bottom of the barrel. It’s what old people buy for their great grandkids because it is cheap and reminds them of the stuff they had as children—back when ingredients were simple and real. I’m convinced our customers never eat our products because if they tried, Endeara would go bankrupt. Thus, it is my job to insure that even if our customers do bite in, they are so overwhelmed by our slick marketing they think they taste what they should.

  I pop an orange gumdrop into my mouth to see where the experience takes me. While I know it won’t taste like Florida’s finest, I expect it to taste like oranges, or at least a reasonable facsimile. The second my teeth break into it the taste of ham and cigarettes makes me gag so hard I fear I am about to hack out a lung.

  Gah, clove! Who went into my desk and switched out my fruit gumdrops for spice drops?

  Dammit, Darla!

  My office phone rings with a call from Dale. I’m barely able to stop coughing enough to answer it. Three nights ago he said work was about to ship him off to what we think of as the middle of nowhere. This should be interesting.

  I pop him onto speakerphone. “Hey, man. How’s Saskatoooon?” He’s right. The name is fun to say.

  He laughs. “Saskawho? I’ve been the victim of a last-minute detour to Toronto. You know, part of the place the film industry refers to as Hollywood North. It is almost as synthetic as the real deal, if you know what I mean.”

  Judging by the tone of his voice I am not quite sure if Dale has spent the last few days drooling over hot chicks or cringing over silicone. “Why are they keeping you locked away in Canada?” I grab another spice drop in hope of killing the vileness in my mouth. Green spice drops should be mint or some acceptable replica.

  “Because I solved their problems in Saskatoon with lightning speed. Now they love me so much there is talk of keeping me here with a big, fat raise and an easy chair.”

  “Dreamer!” I pop the spice drop in my mouth and chew.

  Gah!

  I cough so hard I nearly spew the thing across the room. Artificial lime? Thanks, Darla, for mixing spice drops with my gumdrops.

  “You okay, bro?”

  “Yeah, a friend played Russian roulette with my candy stash.” I hold the bag to the light and scrutinize the creatures that tried to kill me. Gumdrops and spice drops are supposed to be sized differently. These aren’t. How did she pull this one off? The bag gets tossed. Besides, after all the drilling the dentist did yesterday, I should lay off of the sugar.

  “Darla strikes again, huh? With the stuff they make there, that has got to be toxic! Hey, hold on a sec.”

  The ambient noise from his end of the line disappears. I lean back, put my feet up, and close my eyes.

  Hold music creeps in. Warrant’s “Cherry Pie”? That’s an odd choice. My foot starts pounding out the rhythm of the bass drum. The song becomes an anthem, beating itself into my head and making me rally behind it. This is totally gonna be stuck in my head all day.

  “So far, today has been promising.”

  No!

  I bolt up in my chair, gripping its arms with white knuckles while my heart tries to gallop out of my chest. That voice came over the phone! It wasn’t any voice either! My words sprint out, cracking as they go. “Dale, you there? Who’s with you?”

  Ambient noise returns, followed by Dale’s voice, “Hold on another sec.” I’m definitely not on hold now, yet I still hear Warrant. This is exactly what happened in the car two days ago with Mötley Crüe.

  “Anyway,” Dale says, “I was thinking maybe …”

  “Sometimes this job can be so boring.”

  My lungs struggle for air. There she is again, and she sounds as clear and loud as Dale does. I’m tempted to throw down the phone and run, but all I can do is sit here, frozen and gripping the chair.

  Haze begins to coat my inner vision. Pixels form and merge. At first the image is black with a smattering of light peering through, and then browns and creams work their way in, leading to full color, yet it is all buried under fog. My jaw clenches. What the hell is going on?

  The haze clears, and although my heart won’t stop racing, something tells me I am safe, regardless of how I have a hard time believing it.

  The image before me is of a female arm reaching toward a coffee table and a copy of Neon Angel, the autobiography of Cherie Currie of The Runaways. Next to it is a stereo with an iPod attached. Is that where Warrant is coming from?

  “I find myself waiting around, wasting so much time. At least I’m becoming well read.” She chuckles. “If you can call this well read. At least I finally have a chance to look into some of the things that interest me.”
/>   Dale’s voice slips in. “I think I’m headed to great places.”

  Everything sounds jumbled to the point where I’m not sure who said what. I don’t want to risk disturbing the vision by asking Dale to stop talking. I also fear that if I speak, I’m so far over the edge my voice won’t work.

  The view slips to a dark brown carpet, and although I am still gripping my chair, I seem to be walking; yet I can’t tell where. All I catch are glimpses of what I’m pretty sure are pictures hanging on the wall of a fairly small space. Is this a trailer?

  We pass through a door and the music fades, but the sound of heels clicking on tile echo into the mix. The acoustics also change, and I catch sight of a bathroom sink.

  “Anyway, I need to head off. We’re getting ready to …”

  Was that Dale? I’m not sure anymore.

  Sweat builds on my brow as my view turns to a mirror. My ability to breathe is strained when I see the woman wearing jeans and a T-shirt with a design I can’t make out. Her skin is fair and freckled. Her eyes seem hazel or maybe brown. I can’t tell the color of her clipped-up hair, but it seems dark red. Who is this woman whose voice keeps infiltrating my mind? And why am I suddenly seeing through her eyes? It’s almost as if I am her, yet I know I am not.

  I’m not, right?

  No. I’m Brandon Wayne. I’m sitting at work in Los Angeles, California. I’m thirty-one years old. I’m on the phone with Dale who is in Canada.

  I force my view downward and see what I know is real—my hands gripping my chair.

  “Yo! Brandon, you there?”

  The sudden volume of Dale’s voice causes me to flinch and gasp. My brain fully snaps back into my surroundings and the reality of sitting behind a metal desk. The sterile walls of my office that I have covered with colorful concert posters pop to life with such intensity that I start smacking my hands on the desk to make sure it is solid. A montage of thoughts flows through my head. I was eating toxic gumdrops at a place where we are required to dress professionally, yet no one bats an eye at Darla’s peacock hair and my choice of décor. My reality is almost as strange as my make-believe.

  That was make-believe, wasn’t it? I feel trapped within my own mind. Am I really here?

  “Brandon!” Dale yells. “Did you choke on one of those gumdrops?”

  I run my fingers through my hair, and pat myself down. Yes, I still have a body. Wait, am I still—

  A peek into my pants brings relief. Thank God the gift He gave me is still there.

  “Brandon!” Dale yells.

  “Yes! Yes! Sorry!” I brace myself against the desk. “Someone distracted me with work. What did you say?” Dammit, my voice cracked.

  “I won’t be able to meet up this weekend as planned. Hell, with the way things are going, I may ask you to break into my apartment and send me some stuff.”

  “N-No problem.” What just happened? Why did it happen? My words sound as disoriented as my head feels. “Where did you say you were again?”

  “Tor-on-tow, Can-a-da,” he says so slowly he practically spells it out. “I may need you to get some stuff from my place and send it to me. Man, what is with you?”

  I shake my head again, further clearing it. Right. Dale is away on business. “Sorry, let me know what you need. I still have the spare key from when you lost the last one.”

  He laughs. “You mean from the time some girl at a club stole it, and you helped me get the landlord up at three in the morning to prove to the locksmith I lived there. I was certain if I couldn’t get the guy to change the locks, an axe murderer would slay me. Lesson learned. Catch you later.”

  This is all so … so what? I don’t even know. So unlike me? I’m no stranger to missing Amber, and then a celebrity crush was bad enough. Why has yet another woman of mystery entered my life? I need to get a grip.

  I start to take a seat but jerk back before my butt hits the chair. It’s gonna be a while before I sit there again.

  I pace while trying to make sense of everything. There has to be a reason for this. I am not crazy!

  Am I?

  Okay, enough with the thoughts of insanity. I must know that woman somehow.

  I try to think of women I have met—girls I went to high school with, ones I met in college, the ladies here at work, and those I saw while sitting in traffic. Nothing. None of them look like the woman in my vision. This has to do with Amber’s anniversary. It has to.

  No, if it did, I would see Amber, and she certainly would not be reading a book written by a rock star. There has to be another explanation.

  My eyes drop to the gumdrops on my desk, the ones that long ago only contained simple ingredients. Maybe it is the chemicals.

  Someone poisoned the candy! I have to get down to the plant.

  I dash off and get all the way to the elevator before realizing I’ve heard the voice without having eaten any of our products.

  Okay, good. I didn’t turn into a screaming idiot. At least I have some rationality left.

  I return to my office and finish gathering myself but again stop shy of touching the chair. Instead, I grab my coat and head out. We’re all supposed to meet at Mulligan’s soon anyway. I could use a damn drink, or maybe eighty of them!

  Paranoia Is Freedom

  My hand quakes as the cool bottle of beer touches my lips. Given what I experienced earlier, along with what I am gathering the courage to do now, it’s amazing this is only my first drink. Into the browser on my phone I type “hearing voices” while fighting the urge to add the word schizophrenia for fear of what I might learn.

  After a gulp of air and another swig, I glance down at the search results and click on a page that sounds authoritative. Still it takes a little more air before I can face what is written.

  “At some point in their lives, most people hear voices that have no apparent physical source. If you have thought someone called your name, only to turn and see that no one was there, you have heard voices.”

  Man, I know a lot of people that has happened to. Thing is, the voice I am hearing seems to be in my head, not around me. The phone call today with Dale was the exception.

  I would be able to move on with only this information if I were only hearing my name called. In fact, I haven’t heard my name at all. Is that good or bad?

  “A good example of this is getting a song stuck in your head, also known as ‘having an earworm.’ Something triggered the song, and you feel it is constantly playing, no matter what you do.”

  If getting a song stuck in your head means you are crazy, Shane, myself, and millions of others should have been locked up at birth.

  I take another swig of beer. Maybe it is the alcohol, but I am starting to feel a speck of comfort. Still, what about the damn vision that still has my insides vibrating?

  “Hearing voices can be a sign of severe mental illness. However, many psychics claim to hear voices as well as receive visions as a type of foreshadowing. Additionally, research shows people who have lost a loved one often hear voices during times of duress, right after a funeral, or on monumental occasions involving the deceased.”

  I swallow hard, close my eyes, and set down the phone. I could allow myself to think I am experiencing memories of Amber if I could recall her saying what I am hearing. Not only can’t I, none of it is in her voice.

  Amber believed that we are composed of energy, and we leave an imprint wherever we go and on whatever we touch. Maybe the energy she left behind is messing with my mind. That doesn’t make sense though, because not only had she never been to Los Angeles, I don’t have any of her possessions in my car, nor do I have any at work. I can’t see how she could be tied to this.

  I start to reach for another swig but go for the phone instead. It is time to brave researching the “s” word via a bona fide medical journal.

  “Schizophrenia is a disorder that tends to run in families. It may also be triggered by viral infections or highly stressful situations.”

  Viral infections? That’s scary.
There is no mental illness in my family that I am aware of. Also, Amber’s death may be depressing, but it doesn’t have me any more stressed now than before.

  “Warning signs of schizophrenia include hearing or seeing something that isn’t there (Check.), feeling as if you are being watched (No, but I have felt something brewing around me. Does that count?), nonsensical speaking or writing (People still seem to understand me, I think.), feeling indifferent about important situations (Lord, I wish. If I were indifferent about this, and you can’t get much more important than mental health, I would not be researching it.), weak work or academic performance (Hey, it’s not my fault our products suck and are thus hard to market.), poor hygiene (I showered this morning and am wearing clean clothes.), withdraw from social situations (I’m sitting in Mulligan’s, waiting for co-workers.), inability to sleep (Yes, but I am having nightmares about an auto accident. My lack of sleep is not without reason. However, those dreams are stressing the crap out of me. Maybe I have found the reason after all.), odd behavior (Define odd.), and/or a preoccupation with religion (Umm … No).

  The only thing I am getting from this is that at some point, everyone thinks he hears something, which I happen to be pretty good at right now. Stress can be a huge factor, but I wasn’t stressed until I started having nightmares, which came after hearing the voice the first time. Nightmares are a normal part of life. Also, the only thing mentioned regarding visions implied I could be psychic. Wouldn’t that be a twist?

  When I had that experience today, I knew who and where I was. I could think independently and exercise free will. Those must be huge indicators that I am not nuts.

  Enough. I am going with the stress angle. Time to put my attention elsewhere, such as the Red Wings’ game on TV. A man should have his priorities. See, I am not indifferent about important things.

  I look up as The Capitals nail one into the Red Wings’ net. Crap! My eyes cringe shut. I should call Dad. His rant right now must be epic. It may have happened decades ago, but he still talks about how The Capitals were once so bad that fans wore bags over their heads. Knowing that, every time they score against us the world seems lame.