For the Love of a Lush (Lush No. 2)

by Selena Laurence

  The after-church crowd is starting to show up for Easter brunch, and I see the townspeople looking suspiciously at the three of us as they walk through the parking lot on their way into the diner.

  "That’s such bullshit," I bark at Mike, garnering a few dirty looks from mothers with small children passing by. "You know I have the chops to run Jenny’s career. The way I’ve handled things with Walsh has nothing to do with my job. And you’ve been pissed at me since I got here only because I interrupted your little boys’ club. You need to get some separation and realize that Jenny’s career has nothing to do with Walsh."

  "Listen, you total pain in the—"

  "Stop it!"

  Both Mike and I turn to see Walsh standing there, glaring at us.

  "I’ve got a fucking hangover and your bitching is making it worse. Plus, I’m right here. I’m not a goddamn child, and I’m not drunk anymore, so quit talking about me and making arrangements about me and generally doing everything the fucking counselors have said people aren’t supposed to be doing for me."

  Mike and I shut our mouths and look at him.

  "Tammy. What did Ronny say?"

  "Um, well, technically you’re not allowed to stay at the ranch anymore because you haven’t been dry for ninety days—"

  "Right. Those are the rules."

  "He wants to see you as soon as possible to talk about it. He hasn’t made a decision yet."

  "Okay. I need to get back there and talk to him. Then I need to get to a meeting—off the ranch. I’ll go to Dallas. Mike, if you’ll drive me to Dallas and drop me off at a used-car place, I’ll pick up something. I’m sick of not being able to get anywhere on my own, and it’s just making me dependent on people again."

  "Walsh, do you think that’s such a good idea since, well, you just fell off the wagon? I mean, a DUI—"

  "Yes," Walsh says firmly. "I do think it’s a good idea. I’m not going to use it to booze. I’m going to use it to get to and from work, because I won’t be staying at the Double A anymore, but I’m going to do everything I can to keep working there. Tammy, you should go to Dallas and Austin with Jenny. And Mike? You should get out of her way and let her do it. She’s damn good at what she does, and Jenny would be lucky to have her as a manager."

  "Thank you," I say quietly.

  "All right, man. Fine," Mike grits out. "They can go, but I want an update every day, and I’m in charge of the musical arrangements. I’m her guitarist—no one else. That clear?"

  "Got it," I say as I salute him. He flips me off.

  Walsh looks at both of us hard. "This is a setback, not the fucking end of the world. Two steps forward, one step back. As long as there are twice as many steps forward as back, I’m making progress. I’m not fucking done here. Not by a long shot. Don’t forget it."

  He turns around and walks toward Mike’s truck. Halfway there, he looks back, but never at me.

  "Are you giving me a ride or what?" he snarls at Mike.

  Mike grimaces and gives a small shrug. "Sure thing, bro."

  Walsh

  WHEN YOU’RE an alcoholic, you live in constant fear of booze taking over your life again. The never-ending cycle of slipping up, being put back at step one, clawing your way to the promised land of sobriety only to be knocked down again. The idea that this will be the rest of your life is daunting at best, suicide-inducing at worst.

  As I lie prone on the hood of Tammy’s car, my head throbbing and my pores oozing the stench of day-old whiskey, something inside me snaps. Something that’s been under pressure all these months—since I found out about Tammy and Joss—finally gives way. It blasts through me like a bolt of electricity, and I absorb it greedily. Just four little words, but I haven’t believed them or said them or recognized them in seven long months—I. Want. To. Live.

  I want to live. Not just exist, not continue to rattle around in the world like some sort of used-up husk—someone’s ex-boyfriend, someone’s ex-friend, someone’s ex-drummer. I want to live. I want to do the things I’m passionate about. I want to be in love. I want to see the sun, the ocean, and the fucking Eiffel Tower. And if it means that I have to be angry or sad or frustrated sometimes, then so be it. I want to live, and if I drink again, if I go down the road I went down last night, I’ll die. And if I continue to resent my sobriety like I have been the last few months, I’ll cease to exist.

  Ever since I found out about Tammy and Joss, I’ve wanted a drink, and I’ve resented that I couldn’t have one. I’ve let it own me by shutting down, closing people out, raging, hiding in my self-indulgent pity. But none of it changed the simple fact that I’m an alcoholic. And when you’re an alcoholic and something bad happens, you can’t use alcohol to cope with it. So get over yourself. Find another way. Figure out how to solve your problems without a bottle—unless you want to die. Then, by all means, hit the twenty-four-hour Liquor Mart and get started.

  Tammy and Joss ripped my fucking heart out and stomped all over it. It happens. To alcoholics, to non-alcoholics, to men, to women, to rock stars and bums. And when you’re choosing how to cope with something like that, you really only have one basic decision to make—do you want to live or not? I finally have the answer—I want to live.

  I explain all of this to Ronny when I meet with him in his office in the main house at the ranch. He’s somber when I get there, and I know he’s disappointed in me, but I can’t worry about that. I can’t worry about trying to please Ronny, making nice with Mike, or whether I can ever be with Tammy again. I have to focus on the here and now—and me. I want to live.

  "So you want to keep working but not live here?" he asks after I explain to him my plans to move to town but stay on as a regular ranch hand. "How are you going to stay accountable? Seems like you’re leaving your support system right when you need it most."

  "No," I answer firmly. "I’m taking charge of my life. Finally." I shift in my chair, leaning forward so I can really look him in the eye. "I’m a pleaser, man. I’ve spent my whole life trying to make other people happy, comfortable, proud. And when that got to be too hard, I turned to alcohol. I don’t need a support system. I need to take control of my shit. You know that. And the longer I have myself in these circumstances where things are so easy, the less responsibility I’m taking. It’s easy not to drink here, Ronny. It’s a dry fucking ranch, you’re looking over my shoulder all day every day, and Mike’s here with his expectations. I can barely take a shit without the whole fucking place knowing about it."

  Ronny chuckles, and I smile for the first time in what feels like weeks.

  "I need to be challenged. I need to make the choice not to drink out there—in the big, bad world—without babysitters watching me. Not my band, not my friends, not my sponsor. I need to feel shit and learn how to deal with it on my own. I’ve got to be free to do what I choose without worrying about whether it makes everyone around me happy or not."

  He agrees to my proposal, and I sign a new employment contract based on my new status. No more room and board. A paycheck instead. I’m happy. It feels good to line my pockets again, at least a little.

  As soon as we’re done, I have Mike drive me to Dallas. We don’t talk on the way, and I spend my time on the iPhone looking up used-car lots. It takes most of the money I’ve got lying around, but I find a seven-year-old Toyota pickup that’ll work. It’s got A/C and a stereo—that’s about all I need. After Mike drops me off, I pay cash for the truck, climb in, and program my phone’s GPS to get me to the nearest AA meeting.

  I enter the basement of the old church thinking of all the times I’ve been to places just like this in all sorts of cities while I toured with Lush. We spent the summer before the breakup on our first world tour, and I spent it attending AA meetings in between performances.

  As long as everything in my little world seemed like smooth sailing, I was the easiest alcoholic around. Staying sober was a delight for me in those days because I had my friends, my band, and my girl. I did it for them. Now, I don’t have any
of it, but I do have the will to live, and this time, I’m choosing not to drink for me. So I walk into the dampness of the little basement room filled with a dozen strangers and folding metal chairs. After the meeting is called to order and the floor is opened for statements, I stand up in front of them, determination alongside me the whole time as I say, "My name is Walsh, and I’m an alcoholic. It’s been twelve hours and forty-two minutes since I last had a drink."

  Tammy

  I’M IN this damn red Mustang, which I’ve decided I hate, driving to Dallas. I packed my things and hit the road. I tried to check out of Mrs. Stallworth’s but she told me, "You’ll be back, and I won’t have you wandering around town like a hussy living out of your car. Once you’ve stayed with me, your reputation is sewn up nice and tight with mine."

  I have no idea what she was talking about, but I left the things I didn’t need in my room there. I think maybe she’s lonely. I spent a lot of time helping her clean and listening to her stories over the last few weeks. Maybe she just didn’t want me to leave. It’s sort of sweet.

  But for now, I have to get away from Walsh. As I drive south, heading into the increasing development between Plano and Dallas, I realize that I needed to leave town for me as much as for Walsh. There’s nothing quite like having a guy go out and get drunk after you’ve slept with him. You know, like it was so horrible he had to drink the memory away? I hurt. Everywhere. My head, my heart—even the little finger on my left hand hurts. Although that might be because I smashed it in the car door while I was trying to load my bags and run out of town.

  I practically flew away once Walsh and Mike left the diner. Walsh didn’t look back at me once. We slept together, he told me he loved me, and then he got up before dawn, found a bottle, and crawled into it. When we pulled him back out, he turned around and walked away from me as if I were nothing. As if I were some groupie he’d picked up on a tour and fucked without even asking her name. I shouldn’t have done it. Shouldn’t have taken him upstairs with me. Shouldn’t have brought him to my bed. Shouldn’t have listened to anything he said while he was hurting like that. I knew he was a mess, and I played right into it, doing what I’ve always done, trying to "fix" it. Trying to fix him.

  But I realize now that only he can fix himself. Only he can stop drinking. Only he can figure out what to do next with his life. Only he can decide if he wants to give us another try. I might not have been as overbearing about it as I was in the past, but I still stayed true to form. I tried to decide what was best for Walsh, and I think I nearly broke him in the process. I sure as hell know I nearly broke myself.

  "Dammit!" I yell as I stop and start in Dallas traffic. How could I not have seen what I was doing? Just because I did it with a smile on my face and lunch in my hand doesn’t mean it wasn’t the same old shit I’ve always done.

  I think I need to talk to my therapist. I haven’t since I got here. I thought I had it all figured out—that I didn’t need her input and questions anymore. That was obviously all wrong. As much as I hate to admit it, maybe there is a little truth in what Mike said. I’m a steamroller, and just because I’m not a bitch at the same time doesn’t make it any less true.

  Heart sick and exhausted, I pull into the Hilton Dallas in the late afternoon. I check into the suite I’ve reserved so that Jenny can stay with me when she arrives tomorrow. I spent thirty minutes on the phone with her on the way down, and we’ve worked out the details. She’s taking a few days off from teaching to hit the clubs with me now. We’ll start her actual shows in another few weeks, when the school year is winding down. My goal is to get her a show every Saturday night for the summer then see if we can get her into a recording studio with Mike in the fall. For now, I decide I’ll just go to bed, hoping that when I wake up I won’t ache for Walsh anymore and somehow I’ll have figured out what the hell I’m going to do without him for the rest of my life.

  BY THE time Jenny arrives, I’ve got a good list of clubs that host live performances ready. I’ve reached out and tapped Dave, Lush’s former manager, as well as the management of several other bands I know, and I have referrals to nearly all of the good venues in town, so we don’t have to cold call. It’s a Monday, so a lot of clubs are closed, but I schedule three for the afternoon and a fourth via Skype. Beforehand, I take Jenny to the mall that’s connected with the hotel. It’s time to create an image.

  "You really don’t have to do all of this," Jenny says, sounding worried as I lead her to Neiman Marcus. "I’ve got plenty of clothes back at the room."

  "Listen," I say, stopping to turn and look her in the eyes. "This isn’t about clothes. It’s about an image, like I said before. You are the product—your voice, your looks, your personality. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be. I’ll never ask you to do something that degrades you, but I will ask you to help us package you in the most marketable way we can."

  "All right," she replies, looking nervous. "And what is this product going to look like?"

  "You’ll see soon enough," I tell her with a wink. "Soon enough."

  Two hours later, we’re loaded down with boxes and bags, and Jenny is rocking one of her new outfits—a pair of tight, chocolate-colored leather pants with ankle boots that have a chunky cowboy-boot heel and a cream silk-and-lace blouse. It’s the perfect combination of innocence and sex. And that’s what we’re going to project with her. She’s a combination, an enigma—sex, innocence, country, rock. Mixed-genre music is where it’s at, and she’s got the voice and the looks to pull it off.

  We’ve put her golden curls into a loose updo, and she’s wearing a pair of big, gold hoop earrings and a leather thong choker that has a delicate gold angel dangling at the hollow in her throat. She looks like she could take you to heaven by doing really naughty things to you. It’s fucking perfect.

  When we get to the parking lot, I snap a picture of her with my cell phone and text it to Mike. His response is quick and tells me I’ve hit the mark.

  Mike: Fuck. Me.

  Me: You like?

  Mike: You’ll have to answer to me if you let any of those fucking slimy club owners touch her.

  Me: Settle down, Romeo. I’m not about to sell my client’s virtue off the first day on the job. Maybe tomorrow or the next day…

  Mike: Tammy!

  After that, I quit answering his texts and start driving. Eventually, he gets so frustrated he calls Jenny’s phone. I can hear him yelling from across the car.

  "Michael," Jenny says in her best teacher voice. "Do not use that language with me. And don’t talk about Tammy that way either. She’s working hard to help me out here and you need to simmer down and be grateful you don’t have to drive me all over Dallas begging clubs to let me sing."

  I really wonder if Jenny has any idea at all who she’s dealing with. Mike is an asshole. Certifiable and licensed in being a dick, and he treats women like shit. I guess I should probably give her the full story before she actually gets too far involved with him. Once they hang up, I decide to do a little probing.

  "So you and Mike… Are you two…?"

  She blushes and bites her bottom lip. "You mean are we dating?" she asks quietly.

  "Well, yeah. If that’s what you want to call it. There are things you probably don’t know about him. And you might want to before getting too far in."

  "We’re not dating. Or anything else. Just friends. I, uh… I’d like to be more, but he won’t." She quickly looks out the side window so I can’t see her face.

  "Wait. He said no? To you? Mike?"

  She turns back to me, and there’s actually anger on her face—an emotion I didn’t think she was capable of.

  "Yes." Her tone is clipped. "I practically threw myself at him and he turned me down. Said he just wanted to be friends."

  I open my mouth then snap it shut again. Mike turned down a good-looking, available woman? I think the world might truly be at an end.

  "Yeah," she mutters. "Not much you can say to that, is there? I mean, the gu
y who’s slept with half the free world won’t fool around with me. It was one of the most humiliating experiences of my life."

  I’m still speechless. And of course, I realize something that she doesn’t. This is major. Really. Major. Mike Owens has fallen for a woman and apparently grown a conscience. Wow.

  "Maybe it’s because he cares enough not to use you?" I suggest.

  "Lord," she groans. "You sound just like him."

  "Huh."

  We enter downtown traffic, and because I’m pretty much speechless, we leave the topic of Mike along the roadside somewhere.

  When we pull up to the parking lot of The Steel Cowboy, I can tell Jenny’s getting nervous. Her hands are clenched in her lap and she’s biting away at that lip like she’s going to gnaw through it.

  I shut off the engine and shift in my seat to face her. "Hey. Let me walk you through this. We’ll go in and meet with the club manager"—I check my phone—"Eric. He’ll chat with us for a few minutes, ask you stuff about your music. Just mention the kinds of things we discussed at the hotel this morning. How your roots are in country and gospel but you want to make them contemporary. That you’re a Texas girl through and through. You love your Willie and Waylon but also Stevie Ray.

  "Then he’ll ask you to go sing a couple of songs. I’ve got your background CD right here, so you know the music. It’s not hard. After that, he and I will discuss the pay and contracts and dates and you can just relax. It’s simple, I promise."

  She nods and swallows. "Okay."

  "Come on. Let’s go get you your first gig."

  When we come out forty-five minutes later, Jenny is ecstatic. We climb in the car and she starts squealing. "Oh my Lord, oh my Lord! Tammy! He hired me! He really hired me. I’m going to sing in Dallas!" She reaches across the console and grabs me in a tight hug.