Jenson

 

Time helps, somewhat. But there are reminders everywhere, moments when I’m trying to go about my business that hit me like a bulldozer. The little things. Bare feet bumping against cabinet doors while she chattered on about something in my kitchen; remnants of black coffee in a mug, berry lipstick on the rim; the click of a shutter while she messed with her camera, lens directed at me; dark hair against a pillowcase; how she smelled a little like me and a little like her after using my shower.

It’s the absence of those things that threatens to tear my world at the seams every time I remember them. She left bits of herself everywhere, both physical and imaginary. I can’t cleanse myself of her. So it’s just me versus the come-down from the high Lindsey left me on, and although physical endeavors leave black marks on your skin and your conscience, they do nothing to penetrate the layers of hurt in your heart. Still doesn’t stop me from trying, though I prefer to do it alone.

I broke the news to the band a couple days after the show. Their responses were predictable. There was anger from Travis and Korey, a kind of smug, I-told-you-so look between James and Nick. Ross was pissed, and understandably so. He demanded answers, wanted to know why I hadn’t let them all down sooner. His anger was pointless, though, because I saw him for what he was: a greedy businessman who saw dollar signs in place of people. It’s no sweat off my back.

Carter’s reaction held the most weight, and when I saw the acceptance in his posture, admiration in his eyes, I knew I’d done the right thing. Not just for me, but for everyone. I’d believed that if my worst habits weren’t inflicted on anyone else but me, they were relatively harmless. I was digging my grave, not theirs. But Carter has a way of making me see sense, and not in an I-know-better-than-you fashion. By hurting myself, I was hurting the people who cared most about me. My best friend, my mom, Raven, maybe Lindsey. I was devaluing their feelings, telling them they weren’t good enough to pull me from the deep end. I understand that now.

Alcohol blurred things to the point that I lost sight of the man I wanted to be, the man my teenaged self wanted to be. Not only was I poisoning everyone around me, but I was staining my dreams with black, taking the future that was given to me, that I’d fought for, and crumpling it up like paper. I owe it to the kid who wrote songs instead of taking notes and daydreamed about giving his mom everything she’d given him. It just took time to realize that. Time, and maybe a certain dream catcher.

After quitting the band, I wanted to switch my phone off and shut myself in my apartment to withstand the first days of sobriety. Block everyone out, spare them from seeing the worst parts of me. But the best people in life want you and every one of your dark places. So I gave in to her longstanding offer of helping me through my struggles, and I went to my mom’s house.

It wasn’t easy letting her witness those early days—me vomiting like I’d either caught a stomach bug or was suffering a monster hangover, when really, it was neither of those things. I was fighting my demons but they were doing a hell of a job kicking my ass on the way out. My anxiety spiked and, considering I’d just thrown in the towel on a career that opened countless doors for me, doubt and fear of what was to come grew bigger when there was nothing keeping them at bay.

What’s worse is I couldn’t even sleep it off. I couldn’t sleep at all. So I was left awake, lying atop the quilt in the guest room while I sweated my ass off, reliving every questionable moment in my life. They played out like a depressing movie right before my eyes: my home, the one I’d provided for my wife, ablaze, everything we owned burning inside; Raven telling me with vacant eyes that she couldn’t do it anymore, my pleas and statements that I would be better for her falling on deaf ears; the fallout after she left, dozens of articles using her as the scapegoat for not being able to save me, and me not bothering to step up and set them straight when I knew the truth.

I hadn’t even made it to thoughts of Lindsey before I slumped over the edge of the bed and heaved the contents of my stomach onto the bedroom floor. Which reminded me that one of the first things I need to do after all this is over is get my mom’s home professionally cleaned—she’d need a biohazard suit to stay here otherwise.

I guess she’d been doing her research, because my mom urged me to ride out the withdrawals in a detox center, spouting off statistics about how serious cutting alcohol cold-turkey can be. Things like seizures and hallucinations came up. I met her halfway and consented to regular visits from a physician. I covered all the costs, of course, and it’s hard for me to fathom not being able to. The twice-daily visits and medications dispensed all make me much more aware of how dire alcoholism can be for those who don’t have the motivation or the resources to conquer it. Or just a solid support system. If I had drank more, been further down the rabbit hole, before receiving my wake-up call, I might not have survived this. There are people who don’t. So, even though they didn’t quite work before, I say my prayers and thank my lucky stars it wasn’t worse. It could always be worse.

And somehow, nothing my mom’s seen has chased her away. It seems twisted, being back in this position, under my mom’s care. After all, I’d vowed to take care of her the rest of her days after my career took off. I guess that was just another promise I lit a match on. She’s been relentless in her care for me. Making my favorite foods turned into putting together the blandest stuff she could find in an effort to keep it in my stomach. There was no shortage of wet wash cloths placed on my forehead during the fever stage, bottles of fluids touting electrolytes placed on the bedside table. She made, and still makes, single-parenting her bitch, and I pity the man who left my mom all those years ago. I pity he’ll never get to know that kind of goodness.

 

Ten days in, and I haven’t given in to stocking up on whiskey at the neighborhood liquor store. Ten days in and things have gotten a little easier. I begin venturing farther from the corner of the house I was confining myself to, joining my mom for meals and sprawling on the couch while she takes the armchair during her favorite nightly TV shows. They’re mostly trash, but I don’t care. My presence is the least I can give her, and, judging by the contentment on her face when I do, I can tell it’s all she ever wanted from me.

It’s the end of January when I crack open my notebook again and pick up a pen. I’ve been wanting to write my redemption for years. Now that I’ve taken the first step of it, maybe I can. I put the pen to paper, and I scratch out the first verse of a song. This one won’t be about women or drinking, it won’t be about getting high off the smell of dark hair or the softness of the skin on her neck. It’ll be about life, and living, and overcoming the things that once held me beneath their thumb.

It’ll be about rebuilding bridges instead of reminiscing on the ones I’ve burnt. 

 

 

Lindsey

 

So, bleary-eyed introductions are exchanged over steaming cups of coffee and fast-food breakfasts. There’s Kingston, the tattooed lead singer; Bryant, the broad, bare-skinned lead guitarist who’s wearing fringe and might be able to crush me like an aluminum can; Nate, the tattooed and pierced bass player; and Natalia, the pink-haired drummer. They’re a diverse bunch, but at the present, they appear equally out of it.

All except one.

“So you’re the one who’s gonna turn us into America’s sweethearts again,” one of them says in a lazy drawl, and my eyes settle on Kingston, possibly the only one of the four who’s alert and concerned at all about the job I’m going to do. He’s a pretty boy. Those blue eyes and raven hair have, I assume, gotten him everywhere in life.

“Well, I’m not a fairy godmother and I can see you’re no Cinderella. So really, it depends on you,” I respond.

“But that’s the sole reason you’re here, yeah? To clean us all up, make us look better. Catch my drift?”

“I can edit a photo of shit all I want, but at the end of the day, it’ll still be shit. Catch my drift?” I snap my mouth closed, but the words are already out. I blame my bold tongue on sleep deprivation and briefly consider backpedaling, when Kingston responds with a slow, lopsided grin.

“Touché, spitfire.”

Ugh, again with the nicknames. My irritation aside, I’m grateful to have not been immediately fired after that comment, and I tell myself I won’t let him provoke me. “Nice to meet you,” I amend, and Kingston gives me a little salute before the band members follow their tour manager into a private lounge, and Sal and I take our seats with the normal folk.

“Was I overstepping my boundaries?” I ask Sal later, when we’ve boarded the plane and are safely out of earshot of the band. Coach is a long way from first class.

“Nah.” He shakes his head, untangling a pair of earbuds. “They need that. Good to set the tone.”

I just nod, hoping he’s right and it won’t be an issue. Our task will be difficult enough without battling the very people we’re supposed to be casting in a positive light. Otherwise, this trip, the majority of which will be spent in close quarters, will be exponentially more painful than necessary.

Our first layover is in Chicago, followed by a long connecting flight over the Atlantic to Madrid. We’ll recoup at the Madrid airport for a few hours, then, finally, head to our final destination of Berlin. After that show, we’ll zig-zag the country westward over a period of four-months. Along the way is a schedule packed with press junkets and appearances, music festivals and headlining shows. Dare and Fall’s team tried to schedule as many intimate events as possible to get the band members face to face with their fans, and Sal and I will have our work cut out for us to capture it all.

In Chicago, I try reading the paperback I’ve been meaning to get to for months, though focusing on anything in a crowded airport is a struggle. My attention is occupied just enough that I don’t notice anyone approaching until Bryant drops into the seat beside me. 

“You have anyone back home?” he asks.

I do a double take to confirm he means what I think he means. “Don’t you cut right to the chase.”

“Is that a yes?”

“It’s a no,” I say too quickly, too harshly. The partial lie echoes between us, because although I don’t technically have anyone, we both know what he’s implying.

“Ah, cool,” he says despite my tone, his head bobbing. He can’t be flirting, not this early.

“You realize I’m basically a complete stranger, right?”

The corners of his mouth twitch. “Not for long, sweetheart. We’ve got a long road ahead of us. Might as well get to know each other.”

I close my book and give him my full attention. “Look, this is going to be a fun time. We’ll probably learn far more than we want to know about each other, but I just want to be clear that my focus is on one thing. I’m only here for one thing: to do my job. Let’s not make it harder than it already will be.”

His expression turns solemn, and for a moment I think he’s caught on. Then the dubious smile reappears, and he pats me on top of the head. “Whatever makes it easier for you to be in my presence, spitfire. I look forward to enlightening you.”

He stands and walks away backwards, his eyes still on me until he rounds the corner to go do whatever it is rock stars do when they’re stuck in an airport. So this is how it’s going to be. I open my paperback again and continue reading the same page I’ve attempted a dozen times.

This job is the stuff of dreams, I remind myself, and after our trans-Atlantic flight, I’ll no longer need a reminder. I’ll be experiencing it, living it, and things like Bryant’s pathetic attempts at flirtation won’t compare to what I’m about to see. I’m certain of it.