by A. Q. Moser
Billy refrained from sipping his clear beverage. “Why are you sayink this?” he questioned coldly.
“Also in your video there should have been five people under the lamppost light instead of three people,” I continued in haste for fear of losing my momentum.
“Hey, I asked you a question,” Billy rudely raised his tone of voice, waving an index finger in my face. “Where are you gettink this from?”
“Why?” I was surprised by Billy’s defensive stance. “Am I right?”
Cradling his glass on one hand, Billy stepped up to my face and forcefully pushed me in the chest with the other.
“What’s your problem?” I returned as I stumbled back.
Billy prepared to strike again. “Where are you gettink this from?” he screamed. “Hey, I’m in no mood to play games. What are you some sick stalker?” He took a few quick steps and raised his hands again.
12
I raised my hands to cover my face expecting Billy to punch me. “No!” I retorted as a frightened turtle hiding in his shell. “Please I … I just thought your video was wrong because I had a nightmare about it a long time ago and I never forgot it.” I paused to catch my breath and to peer at Billy through my mesh of fingers.
Billy stood dumbfounded.
Somehow there was some truth in the connection I made. “Do you believe me?”
No response again except the eerie frown on Billy’s face.
“Also, we’re from the same city Toronto and we went to the same high school,” I added hoping to plead to his high school camaraderie.
Over the shoulders of Billy, two oversized human giants were fast approaching. Yet, I stood there motionless as if expecting a predetermined cue from Billy to have me dealt with in the most painful way possible. My body tensed up stiff bracing for another attack. Billy would most likely strike first and his goons would finish the rest of me off. J.V., Sonny-O, and the drummer headed over too. A silent crowd gathered around us struggling selfishly for prime viewing space.
Ominously frozen, Billy still bore the same face of astonishment. His silent stare was reckless, stuck in deep thought. At that moment I understood that he had no idea what to do next. It was as if I was in charge of the moment like a politician addressing a crowd converted to the whims of the politician—but the circumstances could just as easily be reverses. At the same time, I felt a weight that had been bothering me for such a lengthy time had been uplifted—all the problems with the nightmares and trial seemed to never have existed.
“I don’t know whether to trust you,” Billy secretly revealed. “That video, I dreamt it when I was a kid. I modified it ‘cause I was scared of it. The think about you beink from the same town also strikes me as weird, but … I expected it … somehow.”
Billy lost me. “I … I don’t understand.”
“You’re not the only one. I received two strange e-mails from two fans about the video—one from Toronto and one from New York. Both sayink the exact same think you just said. Do you know who they are or are you them?” Billy returned to accusing me.
“Two other people?” I replied bewildered. “Me? No! Who?” My facial expressions supported my transition from suspicious to gradual surprise.
The moment was passing me by. I was expecting a simple yes or no answer. I was not prepared for a yes response. I realized that things made less sense the more Billy talked. Maybe he was drunk or something like that?
Billy’s eyes creased revealing deep facial skin folds. How aged he looked. Strangely, I remembered him to be three years younger than me. His high end, party lifestyle must have taken some toll on him. Even the stage makeup he wore added to his age. The cracks in the makeup made him seem vulnerable. The irony was that I felt pity for this guy. All his money and fame drove him into a wanton of waste. The media portrayed him as a lost boy during his school years. He was a neglected boy, free to divulge in anything at any time. He treated others—band members, bodyguards, and girls—similar to a life that loosely held on to him.
“What else do you know about my video?” Billy spoke with a sudden burst of energy.
“Do you mean about my nightmare?” I responded, expecting Billy to accept my answer.
“Yeah, whatever,” Billy said in a hasting and discouraging voice.
I was about to say more but I held back as Billy’s band members and security guards, watched on. He signalled everyone away. The security cleared the area, so no one could hear the conversation.
I regained an urge to continue. “My nightmare—” I looked down at the floor and swallowed hard. “—had five people not three as in your video. Plus the green lampposts were curved over the beach boardwalk not pointing to the water. The lamppost was actually a …” I spoke with a volley of words that I hoped Billy would understand.
Billy was calm to my description as if perpetrated by the nightmare. The screaming of fans and the entourage in their drunken stupor made it difficult for me to hear myself talk. He motioned for me to stop and led me away to an adjacent room behind a black curtain away from the commotion.
“My video was based on a dream I had a long time ago.” Billy started to add his take on the music video. “Yeah, I agree it can be described as nightmarish. There were five people under a curved lamppost.”
I turned from eager to suspicious in an instant. “What?” My eyelids blinked twice, as this was my only response to such a comment.
“We seem to have had the same dream, somehow ... I tried to dismiss this as psycho fans playink me but you couldn’t have known this ‘cause I never told anybody about it. I changed the video ‘cause it scared me and I didn’t want a complete visual reconstruction of the dream. It was hard enough to re-enact some of the scenes.” Billy struggled with his words.
I was seriously taken back by Billy and what he was saying—finally some recognition. It was like being smacked in the face after a déjà vu feeling.
“I need a drink.” Billy stepped out of the room to the bar.
I followed, watching Billy pour a hefty shot of whiskey straight up.
Suddenly, there was a loud scream. I turned around. A thin, elderly man dressed in a pinstriped suit stood out from the crowd. “All backstage pass holders out! The band’s gotta rest.”
People shouted in dismay. Guys hurried to grab more alcoholic drinks from the bar and girls tried to pawn themselves off to the band members. A horde of bodyguards scrambled in as best they could with their three hundred pound stature. Each one reached for the closest person and shoved and tossed them like sacks of sand to bouncers behind them, all leading towards the exit. Drinks began spilling everywhere as people yelled in defiance. Another group of bodyguards surrounded the band members including Billy in an identical protective fashion as the police did for me at the courthouse.
I stood by expecting Billy to intervene. In his drunken stupor, he was hunched over the bar sipping on more whiskey. My desperate situation seemed not to faze him at all. Suddenly, two huge hands grabbed me by the shoulders and thrust me in a backward motion away from Billy. I tried to call out but lost the words as the situation was growing out of my control. I felt I had paid for an expensive hour with a psychiatrist and for my burdens received no advice after revealing personal information.
“Hold on a sec,” I explained rationally, “I was talking to Billy.”
But the guards followed their routine of ignoring any pleas.
“Time’s up. Band needs their rest. You can see them at their next concert,” the pinstriped suit man repeated.
Dismayed voices erupted in surround sound from opposing ends of the room, as I was tossed from one bouncer to another. The room rotated chaotically and I tried to correct it by struggling counter to the rotation.
As I lost sight of Billy, I forgot my whole conversation with him. The sudden weighing pressure of the Mister Popularity trial and the nightmares returned. It was a harsh reality of self-consciousness. All my worries of what I said and what I should have said bounced in my head as
I was tossed out of the band’s room and into the hallway.
The constant tugging from all directions made me trip over two girls who had fallen to the floor in a crying tantrum for being escorted out against their will. In process of falling to the floor, my head struck the concrete wall. The craziness of the situation left me dazed. The constant shuffling of nearby feet and I reacted by protecting my head as best I could, I cradled into the fetal position as any scared child would.
As the crying sounds diminished, a conversation could be heard.
“Who? Him?” The welcoming words were for me.
I felt an abrupt tug on my left foot. I sat upright on the floor rubbing my head thinking I should be in pain, if not for the overwhelming confusion.
“Stand up,” a neatly dressed guard ordered in an authoritative voice.
Billy stood by the guard’s side, sipping his whiskey drink.
“Are you okay?” the toe-tugger asked, inspecting my head. He was groggily dressed with the one-piece overalls matching more an individual ready to clean a washroom then serve a rock star.
I had no idea what to say. “My head hurts,” I said what I believed I should be feeling. I was not trying to get sympathy points but my head was spinning not knowing which direction I was facing at any given moment. In the distance, I could hear the girlish screams but I had little interest in seeing who was making them.
The toe-tugger braced me under my left arm and hoisted me to my feet. I kept my right hand on my head trying to locate a bump on my head. He kindly pulled down my long-sleeved shirt, as it must have crumbled up above my bellybutton and looked around me checking for any loose items I may have dropped.
“Let’s get you on the couch.” The toe-tugger wrapped his arm around my shoulder and leaned me on his side as he attempted to carry me in an upright position into the room that I was so easily thrown out of.
The neatly dressed guard, who ordered me to stand up, stepped aside from his post by the door. He came across as bitter as if I was breaking some cardinal rule of his.
The toe-tugger released me and I sat on the couch. “Do you want me to get you a drink?” he thoughtfully offered.
“Can I have a glass of ice water?” I requested, in a voice similar to one I would use when conversing with a sweet, old lady.
“I’ll be back,” the toe-tugger gracefully obliged.
“Thank you,” I thanked the toe-tugger for trying.
J.V. approached Billy and leaned in. “What’s wrong?” he whispered but I still heard him. It was strange to see J.V. He was shorter than Billy, probably closer my height. He donned a dark leather trench coat that flowed down past his feet dragging on the floor. A beer bottle hung precariously from his left waist pocket. His stubble gave the impression of a vagabond.
“That’s what I’m tryink to figure out,” Billy replied back without the need to be discreet.
“Do you want me to get—” J.V. twitched his head to his right.
“I can handle this.” Billy waved J.V. aside.
Regaining my composure, I was aware of the penetrating eyes of six guards lined up shoulder-to-shoulder behind Billy. It was the feeling of being out of place so I sat there without even a muscle twitch waiting for my drink. Beyond the oversized human wall, someone was shouting orders of some sort. The room, a venue of loud partygoers, was silent other than the diminishing shouting.
I was taken back, as a cold beverage was placed in front of my face. I followed the glass from the hand to the arm to the face.
“Its water,” the toe-tugger validated.
I reached for the glass and took a few quick sips to quench my parched throat. “Thank you.”
“You okay?” Billy pushed the toe-tugger out-of-the-way. “Hurry up and finish it,” he ordered without waiting for a reply.
I gulped the water down as a shot of whiskey and sought for a place to put the glass down. Billy seemed to reach out for it so I made the effort to hand it to him but instead he was pointing to it for someone else to fetch it. The toe-tugger retrieved it and disappeared.
Billy leaned on the couch with one leg raised high over the couch arm. He produced a frustrated look similar to the one a teacher would express to an incorrigible student. “What am I supposed to do with you?” His tone of voice was disturbing.
I was almost wishing that I had been thrown out—it quite possibly would have been the safer venue. Why was Billy being this way—so interchangeable between respectable to disheartening? I poured out my deep inner thoughts to him and still I was treated as an inferior.
“There’s somethink about you that I don’t like.” Billy continued his cross-examination by expressing his prejudice against me.
I lowered my chin and opened wide my eyes to look at Billy from under my forehead. “I’m sorry to have bothered you. I need to go now.” I was ready to leave. I pushed off the couch with both arms.
With the sound of fingers snapping, I was jerked back on the couch. A guard wagged his finger in my face. His pencil-thin moustache seemed to follow his finger’s motion like an old movie from the early television era. “Billy’s not done yet.”
“What’s your name?” Billy shouted with the interest of an investigator on a suspect.
“Joel Daniel Taw,” I responded with the sincerity of an honest salesman.
“Good,” Billy contented. “Now, Joel, what do you do?”
“I work downtown at a computer manufacturing company as a packager.” I reached for a company business card with the address of the company and handed it to his moustache guard who stood watch over me.
Billy snatched the business card from the guard and studied it. He rubbed the card between his fingers sensing the paper quality. And then he flipped it over expecting more information on the back. “Hold on to this.” He returned the card to the moustache guard and he turned to me. “Can I reach you here?”
I nodded twice.
“Can I call you at work?” Billy continued.
I repeated the same head motions. “I’m off from work this week.”
“I’m goink to check out this company and make sure that things are on the level,” Billy affirmed. “I also want your home phone number. Write down your cell phone number on the back,” he ordered.
The moustache guard handed me back the business card and a twist pen. I scribbled my home telephone number just instead and handed the business card and pen back. My cell phone was out of commission.
“What Billy is trying to say is that there have been a lot of crazy people who have been causing problems. He wants to be safe about this,” the moustache guard explained with a rational approach.
“I understand,” I agreed. “It’s a real unusual circumstance.”
“When did you have this dream?” Billy finally returned to something I felt more comfortable talking about—although not by much.
“It started just after my eighth birthday,” I recalled with confidence.
“How old are you now?” Billy interrupted.
“I’m twenty-eight,” I answered, prompt so not to disappoint.
“Twenty-eight?” Billy repeated in what sounded as a mocking voice of mine. “You don’t look twenty-eight.”
“I get that a lot.” I smirked at the comment but Billy did not see the humour in it.
“Are you on some type of youth-enhancing gene medicine?” Billy was reaching for some very personal information.
“No!” I exclaimed in a repulsive manner. Actually, on second thought I should have been flattered by the comment. Yeah, I should be flattered. I held my chin high with my inner eyebrows perked up. I owe it to him for being so observant. Or was he being vain in his observation?
Billy crossed his arms in suspicion. “You exercise?”
Were we on the road of becoming friends or was my original notion of Billy showing through? “I walk a lot and try to eat healthy.” Let me see what he thought of this.
“Yeah, I exercise too.” Billy bounced his head to an imaginary beat played o
ut to each syllable of his statement. He turned to his right-hand man and waved him and everyone away. “Did you come here alone?”
“No.” I shook my head left than right. “I came with a friend.”
“Girl?” Billy asked with a subtle upward drift of his head.
I nodded not knowing where Billy was going with this conversation.
“Is she hot?” Billy checked.
Since Marie was my friend, I agreed to Billy’s response with a nod.
Billy bobbed his head again. “What did you think of the concert?” He continued with his meddlesome stare. His line of questioning definitely lacked any real direction.
“The concert was really nice. Your Dolphin song kind of gave me the shivers because … you know.” I had inadvertently returned to my purpose of getting the backstage passes. Actually I would not be here if Marie had not forced me to come backstage. Where could she be?
“Yeah, I know.” Billy looked away from me, more focused with the wall behind me—possibly because he could see right through me. “Truthfully, it gives me the chills and the band really doesn’t like that song too. I keep thinkink of the video and the dream and all that stuff. The fans like it when my voice trembles as I sing it; it seems to add that little extra to the song.”
“Yeah, it sounds good like that.” I never noticed it but it was true; his trembling voice did add to the song. “Did you write the song for the nightmare?”
Billy paused in deep thought. “I have to admit that all my songs have been influenced in some way by my dreams. The Dolphins know the way song, in particular, flowed from a dream. I can’t explain it but it seemed that the song was meant for that dream and the dream was meant for that song.” He shrugged his shoulders as if he were downplaying his involvement in the creation of the song—natural in his admission but truly unsure of his creations.
Why dolphins? They never appeared in my nightmares. “But there were no dolphins in the nightmare—”
“I know,” Billy interrupted. “It’s from another—” He stopped abruptly.