Voices Carry: A Rock and Roll Fantasy (The Rock And Roll Fantasy Collection)

by Diane Rinella

  Yawn!

  There is no way I will avoid falling asleep at my desk today. Why couldn’t I have felt this relaxed last night?

  Music seeps into my head. My eyebrow slightly cocks as I recognize Mötley Crüe belting out “Angela”. Someone must be blasting his stereo and sharing his love of hair bands with those around him. This is totally unfair. I’m not exactly a hair band fan, but man, those songs are catchy. This one is gonna stick with me all day.

  “… not sure I am up to this,” says a female voice.

  I jerk, and my eyes pop open in a shot of panic. That was the same voice I heard last night. Again it sounded like it was inside my brain.

  My head jerks around while searching for the source, yet I come up empty. I can’t even hear Vince Neil singing anymore. What the hell is going on?

  I roll down my window and wait—listening and knowing I soon have to hear the voice again, and this time coming from an identifiable source. Instead the only difference is the sound of passing cars amplifies, and I catch the rattle of a jackhammer in the distance.

  Okay, there has to be a simple explanation. Some guy must have had his radio up and turned it down during a commercial. That’s totally normal.

  Yeah, what about the TV I thought I heard last night? Is a cat stepping on a remote normal? Sure, it is possible but—

  Oh man, I’m so wiped out that I must hear my exhaustion talking.

  Honk!

  My body flails as the guy behind me gives a not-so-gentle nudge to tell me the light has changed. I race to the next light so I can stop and listen again.

  I wait and …

  Nothing. All seems normal.

  I close my eyes and tell my brain to dump all thoughts so it can reach a state of Zen. Again music slips in. The thought of it being in my head causes my skin to prickle.

  Stay calm. It’s only music. If you were going to make up hearing things, you would never pick “Round and Round” by Ratt. Someone around here is sharing his love of hair bands with the world. Hair bands may rile you in general, but they are not a reason to freak out. Relax a bit and—

  “Long day ahead.”

  “Aah!”

  My body jerks, and I have to slam on the brake before my car rolls into the one in front of it. That was the same voice as last night! What the hell is going on? Whom am I hearing, and why does she sound like she is in my head? Once more, why do I hear Ratt playing? Is the music attached to the voice? It has to be.

  Hooonk!

  The guy behind me lays on his horn, which again sends my body jerking. I also gasp to the point where air locks in my lungs. My hand flies to my chest and presses as if trying to keep my heart from beating out of my body. Dear God, what the hell is happening?

  Again the guy honks, and it’s all I can do to pull myself together to get to the next light.

  Why did my inner voice have a sex change? Was that Amber? Has she been gone so long that I don’t remember how she sounded? How could I forget her voice? There isn’t much that could be sadder.

  I open my car door, and all is fine until my feet hit the ground and my knees start to buckle.

  I’m tired, and a little freaked out. But I am only freaked out because I am tired. Simple.

  Within a few steps I’ve gained my stride and am on a mission for coffee.

  Walking into Endeara Candies is akin to being tossed into an alternate universe. If anything about me shows I am crazy, it is working here. I swear the head of Human Resources has some kind of X-ray vision into people’s heads and makes hiring decisions based on how wacky they are. We all show up in suits and uniforms, looking like we went through cookie cutters, but outside of here we are as goofy as trail mix made with Captain Crunch and diamonds.

  Darla greets me as soon as I swing open the lobby door. “Welcome to Wednesday!” she calls from her desk. It’s said half seriously and half sarcastically. She is the perfect example of the contrast here. In the real world she dresses like the colorful, classy, and free-spirited soul she is, but here she looks professional, sans the long locks that are dyed the same colors as a peacock’s tail. I am dying to spike them up into a fan. God that would be gorgeous!

  “How’s life in the hellhole?” I ask while trying to cover how shaky my voice is. I swear to God I’m so jittery my spleen is quaking.

  “Here.” She hands me a zip bag of … grey jellybeans?

  “Since when do we make grey jellybeans?”

  “Since some of the guys worked late last night to get caught up on an order, were done sooner than expected, and decided to experiment. This is the result, and I got the joy of tasting them this morning. That’s how life in the hellhole is.”

  “What flavor is grey? Coconut?” What the hell. I’m game. Thinking I am hearing a voice already implies I am insane. I might as well prove the theory by eating some of the stuff we make here. Then again, supposedly if you think you are insane, you can’t be.

  “Coconut would stand closer to reason than reality. Before you try those, I am reminding you we have a lot of diversity here at Endeara Candies. Also, I suspect alcohol may have been consumed during that little experiment.”

  Against all sensibility I pop one into my mouth. My teeth break the coating, and “Holy shit!” The thing is so hot my eyes are gonna shoot out of their sockets. Darla hands me the trashcan so I can spit the thing out. “What was that? Habanero or something? They should make those red and in the shape of a flame thrower.”

  “Habanero would have been too sane. Those guys experimented with Ghost Pepper, hence they thought grey would be spooky.”

  I let out a huff of heat. “Gah! I think I might die! And here I thought you were my friend.”

  “I am, which is why I gave you a diversion from whatever is on your mind. Here.” She hands me a chocolate bar that looks so good I am about to salivate. It’s a nice thought, but what I need is to raid the First Aid kit and drink some Burn Gel.

  “We don’t make stuff this good here,” I say.

  “Exactly. No one should eat the crap we make. Traitorous chocolate is the only way to go. So, you okay?”

  Her look of sisterly concern makes it clear she isn’t asking in regard to the near death experience from the Ghost Pepper.

  Crap. What I am going through is nothing. Well, it has to be nothing because … because it can’t be the alternative. For the last few years I have gotten through the rough times by forcing myself to move forward. I’m going to say I am okay and move on. I am certain that by using mind over matter all will be dandy.

  As soon as my mouth drops open to form the words, I know Darla will see through anything I tell her. That gets reinforced when I pause to think of a new approach and the look in her eyes tells me she’s feeling every jitter along with me. God, how the hell is it that anyone else in the universe can mess with you and it’s all fun and games, yet with Darla you know the more she does it, the more she cares?

  I can’t tell her I fear I am losing my mind.

  Maybe if I get it off of my chest, hearing how stupid this all is will make it go away. After all, if I can’t talk about it, I must really believe I am crazy. If I talk about it, that will show I know it is just my mind being out of whack, and I can conquer it. “When I was at Mulligan’s last night, I met this waitress—”

  Darla smacks her hand onto the desk. “Stop right there. Any story beginning with, ‘When I was at Mulligan’s’ has a ninety percent chance of ending horribly. Let me guess, the new waitress, who happens to be named Amber, slipped you her number and it is messing with your head.”

  Oh, thank God. See, this all makes sense. I’m also guessing by how Darla is closing her eyes and fighting a cringe that not calling was a wise decision. “Yes, and before you say another word, no, I did not call her, nor do I plan to.” Darla’s eyes pop back open, and she sweeps her palm in a motion for me to carry on. I’ll roll with it so I can keep seeing how crazy it is to think I am losing my mind. Regardless, I lower my voice because no one else needs to kno
w I think I am losing it. “After that, I had the strangest dream. Well, it wasn’t exactly a dream. It seemed real to the point where I felt I heard it.”

  She returns the hushed tone. “Are you saying you’re dreaming of bimbo waitress or just her voice? Either is gross.”

  “That’s the thing. It’s not the waitress’s voice I’m hearing. That grated on me. What I am hearing sounds sweeter.”

  “This dream, was the voice in control?”

  My head jerks back as if her words have smacked me. “God, no.”

  “Is it abusive?”

  Is she crazy? I shake my head. “Not in the least.”

  “What’s it saying to you?”

  I must be slow because it is now sinking in that she is doing her own version of a sanity check. I’m taking how she still seems unfazed as a good sign. “I can only make out bits and pieces, similar to hearing a weak radio signal. Here is the thing. It’s been almost ten years to the day since Amber died. Do you think this voice is only my brain messing with me, or am I truly certifiable?”

  She touches my arm, and her voice returns to a normal volume. “There are a lot of people around here I know are nuts. You, Brandon Wayne, are not one of them.”

  This is great! See, normal as can be. “I don’t even know why am asking you this, but do you have any idea what could be going on?”

  “Well, you are asking me because my real name is Lucy and you owe me five cents.” My head cocks. She’s lost me. “Okay, when people don’t get Peanuts’ jokes, then I think they are crazy. Seriously, cut yourself some slack. You’ve been up against a lot over the last few years. Losing Amber, returning to school so you could graduate, moving across the country, leaving your family, changing your friends—those are all huge events.” Darla lightly squeezes my arm. I didn’t realize her hand was still there. “People who have lost loved ones have been known to hear voices, so it could be a result of missing her. It also could be your brain trying to put itself in a better space. Or it could be survivor guilt. When tragedy strikes, we often find ways to blame ourselves because it is the only way to express our hurt.”

  The fact I can’t catch on to a simple Peanuts’ joke is proof my mind is not in the right place. I’m not crazy; I’m tired and being way too hard on myself, which explains last night’s dream. It also must be the reason I am hearing things. “You’re right. Her death isn’t my fault—not a single aspect of it.”

  Something in her forced slip of a smile causes my heart to ache. She takes a moment to consider her wording. “Have you ever noticed how quick you are to point out how you are not to blame? We’ve talked about Amber a zillion times, and never once have we found anything that could put you at fault, yet you seem to feel that way anyway.”

  I do know every decision leading to Amber’s death was her own. If it were my fault, I’d have reason for this despair. Maybe I would even take myself out. Instead, I’m left wallowing and not knowing which way is up. If I didn’t know better, I would think my feelings are disguising something deeper. “Yeah, I need to move on.”

  “Great idea. Just don’t do it with the waitress at Mulligan’s. I’m telling you, that girl is bad news.” Darla’s phone rings. She looks at the caller ID and sighs.

  “Bailey again?”

  Her eyes stay on the phone. “Yeah, she is having a hard time accepting how much she is being taken advantage of. At least she is aware that being a nice person isn’t doing her any favors right now. You know, sometimes it is hard for me to be the one people turn to, especially when they often hope I will help them make light of a situation. I’ve run out of steam on this one.”

  I wish I knew how to help Bailey on Darla’s behalf and give them both a break. I hate that all I can think to do is give Darla a smile and a heart-felt tone I hope conveys how much I appreciate her. “Thanks, Lucy. I owe you a nickel.”

  She gives me a smile and answers the call with forced cheer. “Hey, good morning, or is it afternoon there yet?” As I head off to the elevator, Darla takes a moment to listen before sounding resigned to Bailey’s misery. “Anytime I’m in this chair I am open for business. What’s wrong?” Right as I enter, I hear Darla ask with hesitation, “Are you really sure you want me to say it?” As I turn to hit the button, I catch the sadness in her eyes—despite how she catches a breath and forces out words that sound as if she is making light of another person’s pain. “I told you so.” Her eyes rise to meet mine, and her words confirm the reason why she suspected Bailey called. “Let me guess—Carlos is cheating.” By the time the elevator doors close, her forced demeanor is long gone. The concern radiating in her eyes makes me wish I had siblings.

  There is no comfort in knowing I am not the only one suffering from matters of the heart.

  It'll Be Alright

  Tabloids litter the coffee table in my dentist’s waiting room. The world’s fascination with celebrities truly amazes me. You would think living in Los Angeles would make people immune to star lust and thus tabloids wouldn’t sell within a hundred mile radius, yet they’re inescapable.

  And to think that on my way to work yesterday I feared I was crazy. To me, how people lust after celebrities and follow their every move is kinda nuts.

  I dig through stacks of tabloids while hoping to find something else. Shoot, I’d read one of Shane’s ancient issues of Creem or even, God forbid, The New Yorker over a tabloid. Unfortunately, my only choices are People, Star, and—

  I turn my head at the sight of Parents before moving on to the next stack as if the current one were diseased. One time I saw a woman who reminded me so much of Amber that when she stepped away from the stroller she was pushing, I had to look inside. The green eyes of the cooing, little girl reminded me of Amber’s while the deep shade of her hair matched mine. I knelt to say hello, and her smile touched me so deeply that, for a moment, I let myself imagine the hell Amber endured never touched us. The little girl giggled, and the beauty caused tears to run down my face. Walking away from her was as painful as leaving Amber’s grave right after we set her in it.

  This is too much. All this wallowing has to end.

  I’m quick to grab an issue of Star. If I am going to lap up celebrity gossip, I might as well go for the king of the rags.

  Two pages in, I feel someone has dropped me on an alien planet. Vibrant pictures of people I don’t know are paired with headlines in bold, yellow letters—a look designed to bring forth my optimism and convey these are friends I am happy to see. I’ve never understood what causes people to be fascinated with others because they appear on TV. Yet when I turn the page, a photo of a girl with brilliant, green eyes that sparkle with life puts my heart into my throat and causes me to take pause. Isn’t this the girl I saw on the TV at Mulligan’s? Again she is stealing my breath like the glow of heaven.

  The headline drops weight into my gut. “Kason Alert! Katherine Miller at Toronto hotspot with boyfriend, Jason Day.”

  Jason Day? She’s with him? The thought makes the world seem empty.

  Yeah, there is no way that is gonna last. Give up on it now, honey. You need someone who’s not a total ass.

  Wow, what happened to my head? And where did that dickwad thought come from? Thanks to nightmares, I had another rough time last night, but that is no excuse to be a jerk. Also, how is it this woman grabbed my emotions?

  Oh no. Please don’t tell me I have a celebrity crush. I’d rather be certifiably crazy than have one of those.

  Instead of tossing down the magazine, I let Katherine’s eyes draw me in. Maybe I’ve now crossed over into fantasizing, but something in my soul tells me my suspicion she hasn’t found what she is seeking is real. I also can’t help but think she loves to dance in the kitchen, she lives for long walks on the beach, and she would take peanut butter and jelly sandwiches any day over lobster.

  I rattle my head and snap out of my dream world. This is ridiculous. Why am I projecting ideals on to a woman I have never met?

  Maybe I am not projecting. Maybe it
says something about those things in this article, and my eyes latched on to words that painted a picture. After all, everything in these rags is marketing. Since I am a marketing guy, I need to read this and see how they hooked me.

  Yeah, that is crap. I have a crush on a celebrity even though there is nothing about this woman that makes her my type. Then again, it’s been so long since I have had anything more than a few dates with a woman I am no longer sure what my type is.

  The article tells the sighting happened at Harblano’s right after “Kason” participated in a marathon for Rays Of Love, a non-profit benefitting the families of victims of violent crimes. Jason founded it in memory of his brother, Ray, who died in a convenience store robbery five years ago.

  Oh, dear God.

  My stomach squeezes as my mind rewinds to getting out of the passenger seat of my friend’s car, my hands trembling, my feet unsteady, and my head in a fog. How was I going to tell Amber’s parents the police were at my door, saying their little girl had been taken from this earth by someone who thought texting about work was more important than staying safe and keeping Amber alive?

  I feel for Jason. I feel for anyone who buries a loved one, especially one as young as Amber who had so much ahead of her.

  My eyes become weighted with sorrow, and I have to focus on catching a deep breath in order to stop the tears from forming. Losing someone you love in such a violent way messes you up. I need to think about something else quickly—anything but where my mind is headed over thoughts of young people dying.

  I close the magazine with plans to grab another one, and an issue of Parents locks me in a stare down, reminding me how much Amber and I lost. With a hearty sigh I toss the issue of Star over it.

  My stomach rumbles. Harblano’s sounds like a damn tasty Cuban restaurant. I need to grab lunch the second I am done with this appointment. Are they a chain? Maybe there is one on my way back to the office.