by S. L. Scott
“I’m not gonna float away.”
“We’ve had that happen. I fucking did it. You know my story. I think you’re a lot like me, Derrick.”
“And this is a bad thing?”
“Nah.” He chuckles humorlessly. “I just liked to party. There’s nothing wrong with that, but the thrill is fading for you. After the show tonight we’re home for a few weeks. Take it off. Really off, like out of the limelight, and regroup if you can. Well, don’t take off from the band sessions, but the other stuff. Hang out with your friends, get laid by a girl you want to have breakfast with, and get some fucking sun. You’re pale as a ghost these days.”
If only I could have breakfast with the only girl that I’d want to. “What are you gonna do when you get back?”
“See my woman, play with the family. Just live a real life.” He drops his head back on the seat and closes his eyes. “I’ve been given a damn good life, but it comes with sacrifices. That I’m here today, has been no easy feat, and I bow down at the feet of those who got me here. That’s who I’ll be spending time with. The people who make it possible for me to do this. The people who are there for me when I fall, which as you know, I still do. But these days, I don’t fall as far.”
“Am I in that bad of shape that everyone is concerned?” I chuckle.
“No.” He looks at me. “Just that, I know sometimes it feels like you and Kaz versus me and Johnny. It’s not.” He holds his hand out to me. “Johnny once told me that being bandmates makes us brothers. I’m always here for you, brother.”
We do our handshake that the band adopted soon after we joined. There’s comfort in knowing what I’m feeling is normal . . . as normal as a rock star can be. A new perspective is loaded, the trigger cocked, and hits me right on target.
Another day. Another hotel. Another back entrance. We’re shuffled through quickly and into our rooms before the fans realize where we’re staying. Or so I thought. Five stories below, “Johnny” is chanted, the hum of fans outside penetrating not just the walls, but my head. I peek out the window before swallowing ibuprofen and lying down. Six hours before sound check. Time to settle my mind and try to get some sleep.
2
Derrick
I’m woken up by Tom Petty singing about his girl. It’s been my ringtone for years and never gets old. ’Cuz Tom Petty rocks.
Grabbing my phone, I answer, “Yeah?”
“Hi, dear, it’ s Mom.”
“Hi, Mom.” My voice is gruff and I rub my eyes before checking the time.
“You’re sleeping?”
“Yeah, I’m tired. We have a show tonight, so I want to rest while I can.”
“I’m sorry. Do you want to call me back?”
I push the button on the remote and the curtains begin to open, letting the setting sun in. “No, I need to get up. How are you?”
“I’m good. It’s been a little chaotic today. I finally had someone come fix the cracked window in the kitchen. They had to replace it in the end.”
“That’s good. It will keep your electric bill down. Did you have them send me the bill?”
“No, son. I took care of it. You do too much as it is.”
“I want to and I can afford it. You did more than you should have when I was younger. I’ve got money now, Mom, let me repay you.”
I hear the sigh. The one that reveals the battle between not wanting to accept money from her son and that strong independent woman who raised me when she had nothing but love to give. Even though she worked three jobs, she made sure there was dinner on the table every night. She only missed one of my soccer games because her boss refused her the time off. She had another parent record the entire game and watched it that night with me, cheering like it was live. We lost, even though I scored twice. She treated me to ice cream and a consoling hug while praising what a great job I did. She is literally the best woman I know.
Bringing me back to the present conversation, my mom says, “Having a kid isn’t a debt owed to me. I chose to have you because I wanted you. I love you, but keep your money this time.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too, Derrick. You don’t sound good. Talk to me.”
“I’m just tired.” I scrub my free hand over my face.
“Where are you?”
I know. This time I know. “Nashville. I’m sorry I need to cut this short, Mom, but I need to hop in the shower. Everything else good?”
“Yes. Great. Will you come over for dinner when you get back?”
“Of course. We come home tomorrow, I think. How’s the day after that?”
“Perfect. Have fun.”
It cracks me up that she said the same thing to me when I was eight years old and going outside to play, when I was sixteen and hanging out with the guys, and now as a twenty-three-year-old who performs in front of twenty thousand people. I hope she never stops. I kind of like that I’m her baby boy.
Fuck. What is going on with me? Baby boy?
I need to pull it together.
“I will. See you Thursday.”
“Bye, son.”
I hang up and toss the phone on the bed, lying prone a few minutes before I finally drag my lazy ass into the bathroom and shower the tiredness away.
If only showering was a cure that would last.
* * *
Sitting on the couch in Kaz’s room, I scarf the last of the pizza, and finish a can of energy drink that tastes awful, but it’s necessary.
Kaz leans back, rubbing his stomach. “I’m stuffed. The rest is yours.”
“I’m good.” I sit back and kick my feet up. “Remember eating pizza at three a.m. and passing out on the floor?”
“That sucked so hard, but five years ago isn’t as long ago as it feels.”
“We did what we had to, to survive. If that meant eating pizza about to be thrown out and sleeping on the floor until we got mattresses, we did it.”
He’s quiet, so I go quiet too. Looking around the suite, he comes back around and I know what he’s thinking.
Keeping my voice low, I say, “I think about it all the time.”
“We’re damn lucky.”
“Nah, we made our luck. We wouldn’t be here if we hadn’t played clubs every night and restaurants during happy hour. We gave up our lives in pursuit of our dreams.”
“And it paid off. Are you happy?”
I shake my head and sigh. “Not you, too.” I stand up, ready to grab my stuff and go.
“I wasn’t talking about you.”
Stopping in front of the door, I turn back. “Are you happy?”
“I’m happy we’re going home in the morning. Playing the shows are great, but I might be ready to have more.”
“Luxuries a few years ago wouldn’t have afforded us. Well, maybe you, Prince Kaz.”
He laughs, but it fades and he eyes me. “I worry about you.”
“Don’t. We’re not chicks.”
“As your bandmate, I can say that. As your best friend, I can admit that the guys are right. You look like shit.”
What the hell? I open the door. “I’m going to sleep for a week when we get back, let my liver dry out, and do nothing.”
“Sounds like a good plan.” Grabbing his phone, he gets up and follows me out.
“What about you?”
“I think I’ll move up the wedding and start working on that more I mentioned.”
The old me would have ragged on him so bad for even mentioning a future with a wife and kids, teasing him relentlessly for giving up his manhood.
The new me, if he actually exists? Having watched Outlaw and Kaz lately, how they have a stillness about them that’s linked to the women at their sides, I am starting to want the same thing. The same thing I’d been so set against in my youth. What’s more confusing is that it seems to have happened overnight. And having just spoken to my mom, who I love more than life itself, I’m reminded of the girl I let go. The one who has owned my heart for years, but until recently had been pushed to the per
iphery of my brain. Why can’t I stop thinking about her now though? Why does she own so many of my thoughts lately? It’s torture if I’m honest.
Walking into the bright lights of the parking garage a few minutes later, I realize I miss the sun, and fresh air. I miss my freedom. I climb to the back of the SUV and kick my legs up on the seat. It’s too small to stretch out, but it’s good to have the space. Now I see why Johnny likes sitting back here. It’s less crowded. More room to think.
The guys pile into the van. Johnny stops when he sees me, but then gives me a nod and an understanding grin before he takes the seat closest to the door.
I should have known better. Living in my head for twenty minutes isn’t really an option before a concert. Pre-gaming for a show is much louder than after. We’re pumped, keeping the energy high. By the time we reach Vanderbilt Stadium, we’re wired. We tour the stage for sound check and I pluck a few chords, tighten some strings, and test them again. I’m not feeling it. Last minute, I decide to change out guitars altogether. “Tommy, get me Jaymes.”
He returns with my most treasured guitar. I usually don’t bring her on the road with me, but I found myself carrying her on to the plane when we left LA. Maybe that’s why the woman behind the guitar has been monopolizing my thoughts. I strum and tune and then sit on the edge at the front of the stage and let my fingers play the song they can play in their sleep. She used to say I did.
Our song, the one we wrote together sitting by a fire pit made from old bricks we stole from a construction site, runs through my fingers onto the guitar. The nights were chilly, but that fire felt just right. Just like the girl. She would play along with me and sing like a little songbird, hitting all the right notes, hitting me in the heart. I remember the night I gave Jaymes her first guitar . . .
“Two hundred. I can’t take a dollar less.”
“I’ve got one seventy-six. C’mon, Tank, cut me the deal. It’s Jaymes’s birthday present.”
Tank doesn’t usually negotiate. Given his size, there was no need to explain his name, but under the wall of muscle and bad attitude, he is a softie at heart. He sold my mom my first guitar five years earlier. He claims he got the full hundred out of her. She once told me she paid fifty. I don’t blow his cover. I think he just wants to help us local kids find something better to do with our time than sell drugs or pretend to be badasses with real guns.
“I’ll do the deal for Jamie, but on one condition.”
“Name it,” I reply with a wide, winner’s grin.
“You both play my grandmother’s ninetieth next weekend.”
“What?” I’m offended to even be offered the gig, much less be told I’m playing at a grandmother’s birthday party. “Fuck, man, really?” He grabs the neck of the guitar roughly and lifts it from the pawnshop counter. “No. No, that’s cool. We’ll be there. Just tell me the time and place.”
The guitar is set back down and his open palm waits as I slap every dollar I have left after buying groceries, paying some bills, and passing some cash to my mom. Six months of savings and my goal of saving to fix up the truck went out the window. My girl is worth it. Every penny. Every minute of hard labor on that construction site. All worth it. If I can’t follow my dream, I’ll sure as hell do everything to help her achieve hers.
Three hours later, I’ve picked Jaymes up from her job at the sandwich shop. Our dinner wrapped neatly in the wax paper between us. Two Cokes in the cup holders clipped to the window sill. Tom Petty playing on the CD player. A sky full of stars and a truck cab full of dreams. We make our way to what feels like another land, a land where wishes come true. Through the Los Feliz neighborhood, we drive to Griffith Park, and closer to the Observatory.
Parking off by a trail entrance, we hop out. I don’t have much time. She’ll spot her present when we climb in the back. So I say, “Close your eyes.”
On the other side of the truck, she smiles, knowing she can trust me. Always trust me. Her hair is the color of night. Her eyes sparkle under the moonlight—looking more gray than green in the dark. “What are you up to, Derrick?”
“No good. Just the way you like me.”
“I like you good. You’re good through and through, Masters, and you’re so good to me.”
Leaning on the opposite side of the truck from her, I reach out until she follows my lead and reaches for me. The tips of our fingers touch and I say, “I’m good because of you.”
She’s emotional, always wearing her heart on her sleeve for the whole world to see. I tell her people will notice and take advantage of her kind heart if she’s not careful. Deep down, it’s one of the things that drew me to her. She’s soft when the world we live in is hard. She loves openly and had somehow reached in even though I had closed myself off. My songbird sings of hope and impossible things when the rest of us struggle to keep faith. “Close your eyes,” I whisper again.
This time she does, our hands falling away. I remove the blanket and pick up the guitar with the deep pink bow. Her favorite color. Coming around the back of the truck, I hold the guitar and say, “Happy birthday, baby.”
Her mouth falls open, but her hand is quick to cover it as her eyes go wide. “You did not.”
“I did.” I move closer. “Do you like it?”
“Derrick.” She says my name like it’s a warning, which makes me laugh.
“Don’t worry about the money.”
“How can I not worry about the money?”
I move until she has the guitar in hand and I have mine wrapped around the back of her as she strums. “Just promise me you’ll always sing.”
“I do.” Her vow echoes through my soul and I hold her closer. “Thank you. It’s the most beautiful gift I’ve ever been given.”
“I feel the same about you.”
. . . Damn, I loved her.
Last I heard, she had shacked up with my ex-friend. I moved my mom out of that dump of an area and told her to never speak of her again. Curiosity is starting to get the best of me.
What does she look like now?
How has time changed her? Age? Life?
Me leaving?
Does she still hate me or can she forgive me?
Does she still like The Resistance, still listen to the songs, listen to me playing them?
They used to be her favorite band.
What does she think of me being a part of the band? Is she happy for me? Or does she hate that I got out and she didn’t?
Maybe I should look her up when I get back home? Or maybe it was good I left. Maybe we were never meant to be. Or maybe—Nah, no use dragging old feelings into my current life. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that leaving that life behind is the only reason I have the life I lead now. It may be lonely, but I don’t wake up ready to hit the floor and hide from cops. I don’t worry about being pulled over and the police finding a gun under the seat or drugs in the trunk. I don’t go to bed thanking God for letting me survive another day, but maybe I should.
I push up off the stage and walk to Tommy. Handing him the guitar, I say, “Save her for another day. I’ll use the Stratocaster.”
“You got it.”
He hands it off to a roadie, and I add, “Careful.”
Another roadie runs on stage with Old Faithful. I stroke the sleek design when I take it in hand, plug in the cord, and tap my effects pedal when Kaz and Johnny walk on stage with their guitars. We work as a well-oiled machine, so sound check never takes long. Two songs for the crew to work out the kinks and we’re done.
Backstage I spy some hotties lingering around near the exit doors. I smile. They wave. I wink. They giggle. I head their way. They stand straighter, their lips are licked, and whispers exchanged between them.
“Hey.”
Tommy’s hand anchors my shoulder. “Hello, ladies.”
“Hi,” they reply in unison with an expression that is more than a little friendly. The redhead holds her hand out. “I’m Cherry.”
“Did you know my favorite
pie is cherry?” I take her hand and kiss it.
“I’m glad to hear you like pie.”
The euphemism isn’t lost.
Tommy’s already scoring a phone number when I hear Dex down by the dressing room yell, “Get down here, fuckers.”
The girls look anxious, their opportunity slipping away. I take a step back. Cherry steps forward. “Let’s hook up after the show.”
Her phone is out and I glance down to it, then back up to her. “I’ll find you.”
As I’m heading to the dressing room, she says, “Promise?”
I look back, give her my best sure, sweetheart smile, but keep going. How is it that girls willingly beg a stranger for a random hookup? To promise they’ll bang them later. I hate that I’ve never been good at keeping promises. I sure as fuck ain’t keeping one to a stranger looking to score with any celeb that glances her way.
The door to the dressing room closes behind Tommy and I head for the couch next to Kaz who’s fixing a broken guitar string. I grab the yo-yo from the table on the way and sit down. The toy is spinning down and back up before my ass hits the vinyl. It’s a substitute, a distraction from a craving that hits me every now and again. It’s not the drugs I want. I was in deep, but got out before I went deeper, before they controlled me. It’s the habit. The smoking. Jaymes. The nerves I try to suppress. The habit of having something in my hand to occupy it when I’m not playing my guitar. In my old life, I’d raise hell to burn off this restlessness. In my new life, I do tricks with a yo-yo while hanging out with my best friend. My how times change.
When Dex, Johnny, and Tommy leave to eat dinner, Kaz and I hang back, still full from the pizza we ate before leaving the hotel. I work on a new song, fleshing out the second stanza while he plays Word Wobble on his phone. He gruffs out loud, “Damn it.”
I look over.
“Ignore me.”
“It’s hard to ignore you when you’re shouting about a word puzzle game on your damn phone.”
“I missed an easy one.”
Trying to block him out, I strum the next chord, but he pipes in again, “How’s your mom? My mom wanted to invite her over soon.”