Rock Me Baby

by Jesse Jordan

  “How'd you find out?” Mary asks, curious. “Besides waking the neighbors with your snoring.”

  I chuckle, shaking my head. “I wish I had, it would have helped. I don’t snore that badly. No, I found out when I scared the shit outta my bandmate, Joey. You know, Joey Rivera?”

  “Wish I did know him, at least when he was single,” Mary quips, sipping her coffee again. “But go ahead.”

  “We were on tour and I was grabbing a quick nap in the dressing room when Joey came in and I wasn't breathing. He waited for a minute to sure, then started shaking me hard. It woke me up, but from there on, he kept an eye on me. He said that I stopped breathing several times and it scared the hell outta him,” I explain. “So, when we had a break, I mean Rocky and Cora were getting married anyway, I scheduled the surgery. I don't sing, so I let the docs do it, but they said it's not totally fixed. It'll never be fixed with current treatments, which is why I go to the support group. BiPAP's fucking blow. No pun intended.”

  “What's a BiPAP?” Mary asks, and I grunt at the mention of my savior and my enemy.

  “It's a little oxygen mask, mine's not as tight as it used to be since I got the surgery, but I wear it all night, and it makes sure I keep enough oxygen in my body so that I can get a good night's sleep. But it's tough to get used to. Now it’s my turn to ask you what you're doing there, but this isn't like we ran into each other over at the gym.”

  The waitress interrupts us, bringing four big plates, and Mary's eyes go wide as she sees the huge amount of food there. I'll admit, it's a lot. The two plates combined are about the size of her upper body. “I can't eat all this!”

  “Don't worry hon, we do take-home no problem,” the waitress says. “In fact, I think the hash browns are better the next day. Let the gravy and cheese really soak in there, know what I mean? Y'all want anything else?”

  I shake my head, leaning back. “No, not yet. But thanks.”

  “No problem,” the waitress says, sauntering off, and I turn my attention back to Mary, who considers me for a moment then shrugs to herself.

  “I'm a heroin addict. I got hooked when I was a teenager. I'm from Colorado Springs, Colorado. My mom was abusive, so I ran away. Got hooked on the shit by an ex-boyfriend who tried to use it to pimp me out. I ran away from that asshole, thinking that I could do better in SoCal for some fucked up drug-addled reason. Of course, it was a lot harder than I thought, and I got picked up by the cops. The judge gave me six months in a county rehab facility that was really a jail, and then the State of California didn't give a fuck other than having a drug conviction on my record. I met Brenda at County actually, she and I were in for the same thing. I've been out for eighteen months, trying to get my life back together. And I've been clean the whole time.”

  She says the last part with defiance and pride, and I understand why. Most people probably have looked at Mary, with her skinny body, dime-store Goth look, and a drug conviction on her record, and tell her to take a fucking hike. But she's scrambling somehow, finding strength in working her ass off, I bet. It adds to her sexiness really. “Okay then,” I reply, picking up my fork. “Well, let's eat up, see if your friend is safe. You think she's backsliding?”

  “No. I think she's jonesing, but she's with our group facilitator, Carl. I think he's solid if he took Brenda out to party like he offered to me, he might get her a little drunk, Brenda might end up fucking him, but I think she'll be okay tomorrow. She'll say yes, maybe regret it in the morning for getting her pipes cleaned by the wrong guy, but she'll be okay. I hope.”

  She's full of shit, she's worried a lot about her friend, and I can see it. I cut a piece of my steak and chew slowly, then hum. “I don't want to pry, but are you sure? I'm gonna put it simply, I don't like the idea of a woman getting taken advantage of with a guy when she's drunk or jonesin'.”

  Mary sighs, then nods. “Yeah. Brenda's been busted twice for smack, the cops have a hard-on for her, and she can't go back. Listen, can we turn this to something else? Just sayin'.”

  “Cool, cool....” I say, chewing then picking an idea out of my mind, something she might be more comfortable talking about. “So, where are you on the Twelve Steps?”

  “Step five,” Mary says matter of factly. “Steps six, seven, and eleven involve God. My problem is, I don't have too much faith in any sort of deity. So, I'm sort of stuck for a while. I've got eight, nine and ten handled, though. You know the Twelve Steps?”

  “I work in music,” I reply, trying to not sound sarcastic. “I've seen plenty of people who are on their own journey. Unfortunately, music isn't exactly the type of industry that's good for addicts of almost any type.”

  We keep eating, and I can see that Mary's hungrier than she let on, devouring the cheeseburger in six big bites before going to work on the hash browns. She takes a bite, her eyes widening as she tries them. “Whoa, never had hash browns like this before.”

  “I discovered them on a van tour through the South back when me and the guys were still trying to get noticed. They love hash browns made a thousand different ways down there. It was a highlight of the tour. But I’m glad to be done with those nickel and dime deals. Playing in bars is better when you want to instead of have to.”

  “You guys have had a very strange year and a half,” Mary says, and I laugh. If she only knew the half of everything that's happened to us since we started working on our latest album. “Seriously, you guys are living in drama recently.”

  “A little, but at least it's come out good,” I comment. “Joey and Andrea moved into their place and he proposed to her. Rocky and Cora are doing well, too. Even I moved, It was hard for me to get together with my boys. Canoga's better, and since Rocky's putting in a recording studio, we'll be able to get together easily. What about you, where do you live? If you want, I'll give you a ride home.”

  Mary bites her lip but then looks out at the shitty weather, and nods. “Okay. Well, I live over by the airport. I just come out here because Brenda and I both go to Pierce College. I'm hoping if I do well I might earn a scholarship to maybe Cal State Northridge.”

  It's an admirable goal, and I can see in her face the mix of defiance and vulnerability, I bet she's been laughed at when she's told people she’s trying to go to college. When I smile, she's slightly surprised and defensive.

  “What?” she asks.

  “Just thinking... Cal State Northridge is pretty good. We played a gig there a few years back at their Performing Arts Center. That's all,” I reply, not wanting to hurt her feelings. “How're the hash browns?”

  “These are great,” Mary says, swallowing. She looks at my phone, sighing. “I guess Brenda's not going to call me back. I'm sorry if I wasted your time.”

  “Wasted my time?” I ask, amused. “Uh, in case you didn't notice, I was hungry too.”

  Mary looks at my two cleaned plates, then shakes her head. “You eat like that; those arms aren't going to be ripped anymore.”

  She blushes, but I laugh. I’m nowhere near as cover model built like Rocky or Joey, but it feels good that she’s noticed my body too. “Yeah well, show me your guns, why don't you?”

  Mary thinks, then shrugs off my jacket and wiggles, easing her right arm down the inside of her shirt and then out, flexing for me. She's skinny, all bone and a little bit of wiriness, but the tattoo work on her arm is exquisite, thorny roses that wrap around her arm in two interlocking twists that go from her shoulder all the way to her wrist before stopping. It adds to her sexiness, and below the tabletop I feel another tingle of heat spread. “Wow, nice ink.”

  “Thanks. How about the bicep?” Mary asks, flexing for me and making me smirk. “Okay, okay, so they need some work.”

  “They're just fine on you,” I reassure her as she puts her arm back in her shirt and then goes back to eating. “You want any dessert?”

  “No, thank you. I feel like I'm taking advantage of you as it is. I'm really not trying to mooch off you because you've got money or anything,” Mary hurri
edly reassures me. “If you want, I'll pay you back next Thursday night, I don’t get paid before then.”

  “I don't need to be paid back. Come on, let's burn this joint and get you home. You must have classes or something tomorrow, right?” I ask, pulling out two twenties and waving the waitress over. She takes them, and I tell her to keep the change, the place can use it tonight.

  Thankfully the rain's stopped when we go out, and Mary waits while I pull my Caddy forward to keep her out of the puddle. On the drive to Northridge she fidgets, and I can tell she thinks I'm unhappy with her as if she hasn't been entertaining or interesting enough. I'd like to tell her I've been through that myself, but I can't.

  “You can drop me off here on the corner, my apartment's just down the block,” Mary says, and I pull over, respecting her wishes. “Ian, thanks. Getting to meet the drummer of my favorite band and even have him buy me hash browns. That's pretty much been the coolest thing I've had happen to me this year.”

  She opens the door to get out, and I reach over, grabbing her wrist. After having the most fun I’ve had with a woman in months, and as drawn to her as I am, I have to take a chance. “Just a sec,” I say, and she looks back, worried. “Would you like to go out again sometime?”

  “What?” Mary asks, shocked. She sits back down in the seat though, and I let go of her arm, reassured she's not going to go running off into the night.

  “I asked if you'd like to go on a date sometime?” I repeat, reaching up to my sunshade and flipping it down. I keep a little notebook and pen there and I open up a page, writing down my number. “Here. Seriously, it's the same cell phone you used tonight.”

  Mary takes it with numb fingers, still blinking when I hold out the pen to her. “For your number, goof. So, I know you're not my creepy ex-stalker.”

  The small joke makes Mary smile at least, breaking her out of her paralysis. “For real? I mean, aren't rock stars supposed to date Hollywood A-listers and stuff like that?”

  I laugh, shaking my head. “Our lead singer married the girl-next-door from high school, and our guitarist is a Puerto Rican kid who is marrying a woman who's technically now a billionaire. Although, she didn't have even twenty bucks to her name at one point. So, no, I don't think we're in the dating celeb thing. Besides, I'm the drummer. The only really famous drummer in the world is Phil Collins.”

  Mary thinks, then nods. She writes down a number, then hands the notebook back to me. “Uh... give me a call?”

  I nod, taking the notebook. She’s got nice handwriting, loopy and feminine. Like everything else about her, it’s cute as hell. “I will. Good night, Mary Waller.”

  “Good night, Ian Ivory,” Mary says, smiling in disbelief. “Did I just really say that?”

  “Yeah, you did. Good night.”

  Chapter 3

  Mary

  The knock at my door surprises me, I don't get visitors very often, but maybe it's the postman with a misdirected package or something like that. I had that one time and ended up with a nice set of bedsheets from Ebay. In fact, I still have them, they're on my sofa bed right now.

  I'm surprised when I look through my peephole and see Brenda outside my door, her eyes hidden behind her normal daytime dark glasses. “Yo, Mare? Come on babe, I know you're in, classes are over for the day.”

  I open the door a few inches, just in case Brenda's still angry about last night, but she smiles when she sees me. “Hey.”

  “Hey, Brenda. How're you doing?” I ask, watching her face tic just a little. “About last night...”

  “No... no, you were right. You were... listen, can I come in? I really need a friend right now, and you're the best one I've got,” Brenda says, and in her voice, I hear something that worries me. Worry me? Hell, it scares the shit out of me.

  I open the door, stepping back and letting her in before I close and lock it. Brenda walks in, and I'm at least a little encouraged when she follows the one rule I've always had for her in my apartment, she takes out the knife that she always carries and puts it on my cheap table that is pretty much my coffee table, desk, and dining room table all in one. I don't have a lot of furniture.

  “Have a seat,” I say, worried when Brenda doesn't. Instead, she turns around, rubbing at her arms, and I recognize the move. “Oh shit.”

  “Yeah... oh shit,” Brenda says, her casualness outside cracking as she pulls up her sleeve on her left arm. The old tracks are healed, but the scars are still there, and I see a new hole, right along the wrist line that she used to hit up all the time. “Mary... I'm sorry, I'm so scared.”

  She breaks down and I go over, comforting her as best I can. It's the one difference between me and Brenda. When my ex hooked me on heroin, it wasn't my choice. So, while my body will crave it from time to time, I don't have an addictive mindset. My burden is that I'm one of the about twenty percent of addicts who actually develop a physical addiction. I take no mental comfort in the idea of the release the smack gives me. I hate it with a passion.

  Brenda didn't. There's a part of Brenda, deep inside her that's not going to ever go away, that needs some sort of release from reality. From what I know of her background, I can understand that, for Brenda, she has a psychological need as much as a physical need. It makes her fight twice as hard as mine.

  “Shhhhh.... we'll get through this,” I comfort her, leading her to the couch and sitting her down. “Tell me what happened. Who hooked you up?”

  “It was Carl,” Brenda says, and my blood starts boiling. “He said he had a little sugar for me, if I gave him some sugar back, and....”

  “Oh sweetie,” I whisper, holding her as she sobs on my shoulder. “Oh, Brenda, why'd you go with him? Why didn't you call me?”

  “I was stupid,” Brenda admits. “He'd been dropping hints to me for weeks, and he said that it'd be easy, I just needed to do what he'd already had me do before. I mean I hate it, but it's just fucking... and then he brought out the candy. That's what he called it, his candy. And I couldn't stop myself....”

  I sigh, wanting to call her full of shit but knowing different. My last time I hit up, I didn't even know I was doing it until I looked down and the needle was already in my elbow. People who have never been addicted to something can't understand it, the way the mind will black itself out. They say we're weak, that it’s a choice and not a disease. Maybe there is a part of us that's weak.... but if so, it's in all of us. I think almost everyone is an addict, people like Brenda and I just found out the hard way about it.

  “You said Carl?” I ask, wanting to be surprised but not. Instead, I'm just horrified.

  It's too perfect. Carl's been the leader of our group for years. He looks like the perfect rehab case, even making speeches to local high schools on drug abuse and avoidance. He drives a slightly used four-year-old Lexus. He works a full-time job apparently, and he has community connections. From the gutter to the pinnacle of respectability, all before he turns forty.

  “Tell me what you know,” I tell Brenda as the sobs become sniffles, and she starts rubbing at her arms again, as if it itches. It's one of the things that drove me nuts during my using days. The constant need to rub at where you just shot up makes things twice as bad.

  “He’s all bullshit, Mary. All of it. His job, his front, the group. I wasn't the only one there. There was Keith the speed freak, and I think he took a call from Yolanda too,” Brenda says, sniffing. “I don't know how big he is, but he's a regular fucking pharmacy. He pulled out his cock and showed me the cooking kit. I had to suck his dick while he cooked it up for me, and then he popped me when I showed him that I'd swallowed.”

  I nod, at least it was just a blowjob. I don't know where Carl's dick's been, but I know for damn sure he hasn't exactly been Mr. Clean with the thing, and Brenda, well, she's gotten lucky so far. STD tests are part of our parole requirements. “How're the symptoms?”

  “I hurt all over,” Brenda complains. “Mostly though, I'm scared, Mary. I can feel it, I want it again, and I know where I c
an get it.”

  “Brenda, you shouldn't be alone,” I reply. “Come on, stay, you're my best friend.”

  “And the worst thing a best friend can do is, be nice to a junkie, we both know that,” Brenda says. “You're an addict too, remember? I didn't know where else to turn.”

  “I need to talk to someone about this,” I tell Brenda, reaching for my phone. “Don't worry, I won't mention your name, but I need someone to talk this over with.”

  “I understand,” Brenda says, depressed. It's another sign of withdrawal, the one I had the most. “Listen... my stomach's okay, can I raid your fridge?”

  “There's a half gallon of Albertson's French Vanilla with your name on it,” I reassure her. “And if you stick around long enough, maybe I can make you a grilled cheese.”

  “I don't think I can. I got a late shift at the gym tonight, and if I call in sick, they're going to piss test me, they know about my past. I can't lose this job, not now,” Brenda says, heading for the kitchen. “Thanks for the ice cream though.”

  I'm stuck. I grab my phone and dial the only number I can think of, Ian. I must admit that the butterflies in my stomach aren't all from worrying about Brenda as the phone rings in my ear, three times, four times, he must have given me bullshit last night, no way would a guy as famous as Ian would be interested in...

  “Hello?” Ian asks in my ear, and I let loose a nervous, happy laugh. “Who's this?”

  “Ian? It's Mary, you know, from last night?” I reply. “I guess you didn't program my number in your phone yet?”

  “Ah... no, I'm terrible with this stupid thing,” Ian admits with a chuckle. “Until six months ago I had an old-school phone, not a smartphone. I can add someone once they call me, but putting a number in raw, I'm sorta hopeless. Sorry. What's up? Thinking about that date idea?”

  “Well, yeah some, but more... Ian, I could use a little help, I don't know who to call. You know that friend that I told you about last night? It seems... well, I found out that my group facilitator might be dealing.”