It’s been several days since our plane touched down in Singapore. The first night, I ignored Rusty’s requests to cut back on the booze and drank until I passed out. I swear it was just as bad as having Ellie with me. Every time I turned around, Rusty would say, “Don’t you think you should slow down?” or “Maybe you should make this your last one.” I’m not sure at what point he gave up completely and just sat and gave me the evil eye all night long. I don’t give two shits about his evil eye because who can say if it’s because of the drinking or the redhead who’s sitting in my lap? Yeah, she had no business being there, but eight drinks into the night, and Rusty could have been sitting in my lap, and I wouldn’t have given a shit. I just didn’t want to feel alone. Enter: the redhead.

It isn’t until the redhead reaches between her tits and pulls out an acrylic sniffer she stashed there that Rusty is out of his chair and grabbing the girl by her arm. “I think you should leave now,” he tells her as he escorts her toward our security. The music is loud in the bar, so I can’t hear what it is she is saying to him, but I’m sure it isn’t pleasant. I lose count of how many more drinks I down once she is gone, but the last thing I remember before passing out is Cayson and Rusty dumping my ass in bed.

When I wake up the next morning, I feel just like I felt for the last several years. Hungover and hating life. The only thing that cures this feeling is more alcohol. I suppose you’re wondering where I’d get alcohol at eleven in the morning. Well, didn’t you know, when you’re famous, you get whatever you want and quickly. One call to room service, and ten minutes later, there are two bottles of McCallan being delivered to my room. I pour myself three fingers into a glass and sit looking over the city as I swallow the liquid. I know I just need enough to take the edge off and nothing more. As much as I hate how I feel, I also know that we have a sound check and run-through in a couple of hours.

* * *

I sit behind my drums beating out a rhythm and sweating whiskey from my pores. My shirt is drenched by the time we complete the run-through for the night. I reek of BO and booze to the point that even I can’t stand the smell of myself. At one point during rehearsal, we had to take a break, so I could down a couple of bottles of water. I knew the guys wanted to give me shit, but they didn’t. They’ve all been in my shoes at least once or twice. When we’re done, Cayson makes sure to give me the standard lecture about priorities and making sure I have my shit together by tonight's performance.

“Look, I know you’re going through some shit right now, Rock, but I need you to get it together by tonight. Don’t forget, if your time is off, the rest of us are off. You’ve got to set the pace. We can’t do this without you.”

This is the pressure I’m talking about. It’s always me who has to keep his shit together, and I’m the least likely person in this band to be able to do that. It’s the pressure once again to be perfect. I don’t know how much longer I can do this. Back home for those four weeks with Kathy, I didn’t feel this way. Yes, the pressure was still there during rehearsals, but knowing that I’d be seeing her later made everything around me so much more tolerable.

“Yeah, CJ, I get it. You don’t have to remind me. I’ll have my shit together by tonight.”

I storm out of the building with Rusty once again following me. “Rock, shake it off,” he says while catching up to me. “Don’t let it get to you. Come on, let's grab some lunch. You’ll feel better once you have something in your stomach.”

* * *

By show time, I’ve calmed myself down mentally. I chug a bottle of water as we make our way to the stage. This leg of the tour, we’ve reverted to having me rise from below the stage. My drum set and I are locked into a metal sphere made of pipe. Our first song starts with a drum solo. All the guys are on stage except for Cayson and me. The smoke pours from the stage while the red lights swirl around. The stage opens, and I start to rise. I’m beating on my sticks, setting the tempo for Tim and Neil. The sound of the electric guitar screaming tells me it’s time for me to go to town. The crowd screams louder the further I rise until I’m locked into place center stage. Strobe lights begin to flash behind me, and Cayson begins his ascent onto the stage. His section is directly behind me, but when everything is said and done, he’ll be stepping off his pedestal and standing on top of my cage for this song. I lose myself in the music and feel the pure joy of playing. I no longer feel the pressure of being perfect. Second nature kicks in, and I go to town enjoying every moment the sticks are in my hands.