Nodding, I simply replied with, “Yeah. Something like that,” and my thoughts raced back through those demons that had taken control of my life and warped it into a useless jumble of knots.
I wouldn’t look at Brittney or the camera. I just stared off at the wall behind her head. I dreaded talking about it, but if I wanted to convince everyone I was clean, I had to.
“I mean, I’d smoked pot before, taken some planks before, but never done anything hard. The first time I’d even snorted coke was to help me get through a show. I was damn near dead, delirious from not sleeping, and they knew if I didn’t do something I would ass out on stage. When I did it, I’d never felt so invincible, so incredible. I felt like I’d put on the best performance ever. In the beginning, I just did it before shows. You know, when I needed the pick-me-up. Somehow, in the matter of a few weeks, I started doing it between sets, then between songs, until one day I found myself sitting alone in my living room snorting lines from my coffee table in the middle of the day.”
“How long was it before you started using other things?” Brittney asked. I could tell she was uncomfortable asking such intimate and probing questions, which kind of took me by surprise, seeing as how my life had pretty much become the front page of every magazine, every tabloid, and every piece of entertainment news.
“I can’t remember. Not long.” I glanced down at my bouncing leg and fought to keep it still. “After you get used to the way it feels, you crave it, you need it to just be…well, to just feel normal, to feel alive. I’ve done just about everything, combined things you shouldn’t combine.” Hanging my head, I drew in a shallow breath. “Honestly, I shouldn’t even be alive. Pretty sure I should’ve died a few times by now.”
When the touring started, that was when the Jagger that I’d known fled screaming from the shell of a person I now am. You’ve no idea how hard it is to do what you love. Night after night of standing on a stage, screaming into a microphone, jumping up and down under lights that feel like heat lamps. After a show you could wring enough sweat from my clothes to fill a mop bucket. Sleep’s impossible with the amount of adrenaline that continues to pump through my body, and most of the time, it’s hard to sleep on a shitty mattress in the back of a bus that’s barreling over crappy-ass highways.
I thought about how close I’d come to dying chasing a high, trying to find bliss, and trying to make myself numb enough that nothing could penetrate me. Finally, I made eye contact with Brittney. Her eyes were focused on me and her lips were relaxed, her hands were folded in her lap. She looked like she felt sorry for me, and I hated that. I was that guy. The one who had been given every damn thing he could want, but people pitied me because I was a fucking mess.
“Well,” she said, “you’re clean now. That’s amazing. You’ve been clean for – how long now?”
Just talking about those drugs had made my mouth water. Every fiber inside my body was twitching, thinking about how good it would feel to just get something in my system. My heart was banging against my chest with anger, with the need for something that would cut the pain of being sober right out of my life.
Forcing a smile so it would appear I really was proud, I said, “Six months.” I knew I was lying, I knew it had only been two weeks ago that I had gone through an eight ball of coke, and I had just drank myself into a stupor the night before, but other than those two times, I really had been sober – I think.
Brittney beamed, relieved that part of the interview was over with. “That’s awesome, Jag. You are such an inspiration. Addiction is a hard battle to win, and to see you doing it is wonderful. I’m sure many of your fans find strength hearing you say that.”
I hated hearing that. I despised that somehow, for some unknown fucking reason, people still looked up to me. No matter what mess I got into, people still wanted to be me. Liars like me shouldn’t be role models, but that’s what happens when you’re a celebrity – regardless of how worthy you are, you become an idol.
I was too weak for fame, but she didn’t care. She broke me, and I tried to let drugs mend me. While it numbed the pain and may have held the pieces together in a nice little package, I was deteriorating on the inside, and it was only a matter of time before it would all crumble to a pile of shit. In the beginning I’d thought fame was as close to being a mortal god as you could get, and in some ways I was right. The thing I had no idea about was my ability to handle this fucking double-edged sword. I like to think of fame as a metamorphosis. You get all wrapped up in it, almost like a cocoon, and the way I emerged from it was like that moth from Silence of the Lambs, with the stamp of death and destruction all over me. I had no idea how to handle fame, so, unfortunately, fame handled me.
Chapter 3
I endured another thirty minutes of prodding into my soul, into my fuck-ups and relationships, and when the tape stopped rolling, I shot out of the chair and bolted toward the exit.
That was too much. Going over all that shit was too damn hard. It made me feel, and I couldn’t stand feeling.
My entire body was shaking and reeling. I pushed my shades down on my face, shoved my hands in my pocket, and hung my head down, hoping no one would recognize me. I walked for several blocks, trying to clear my mind before stopping at a random bar.
The walls were black, thumbtacks covering them where various flyers and posters had once been pinned, tiny pieces of paper still tacked underneath some of them. The air was stale and hot. Although you could no longer smoke inside, a nicotine haze coated everything.
It was like my senses had heightened; I could hear the bartender uncork a bottle of what I was certain was top-shelf bourbon. He poured the liquor into a cup filled with ice, the liquid cracking the cubes under its heat. Spit pooled in my mouth, watering from the idea of slamming back a bottle of bourbon. Then the guilt came, because I’d been brainwashed that alcohol and drugs were evil, terrible forces. They were a crutch. It’s just a damn drink. Alcohol. It’s completely legal. I mean, they can’t really expect me not to do anything, fuck it. I need a fucking crutch every once in a while.
I dragged the tall, beat-up bar stool out and took a seat. Although the bar was dark, I left my sunglasses on. I used to wear them not only in the hope I could have some type of anonymity, but mainly to hide my swollen pupils. Now I just wore them in the hope not as many people would recognize me, and out of habit.
A short, round guy trudged down to the end of the bar, wiping the glistening dew from his forehead with a scummy looking bar towel. “Want something?” He grabbed his wiry beard and twisted it as he waited on my answer.
I swallowed. My heart was beating so hard I could feel it in my temples. “Yeah. Top-shelf bourbon. On the rocks.” My tongue fished around in my mouth, and my breathing grew deeper. I felt guilty. I knew I couldn’t handle one drink. It would turn into two, then four – but did that really matter anyway?
Without a word, the bartender turned and grabbed the bottle. I focused on the brown liquid streaming from the silver spout, anxiously watching it slowly weave its way between the clear cubes and fill the cup. I swallowed loudly again when he handed it to me, for a moment debating on shoving it back in his direction, but the feel of the smooth glass underneath my skin was unbelievably satisfying.
He blotted his forehead again. “Want to start a tab?”
Nodding, I reached into my back pocket for my wallet, then handed him my card. He glanced at it as he made his way to the register, stopping, I assume, when he read the name. Without turning around, he said, “Man, I love “Winter Solstice.” You rock!”
“Thanks,” I mumbled, hoping he would just leave me be. My thumb ran up and down the short glass, caressing the curves like it was a woman. When I picked it up, the ice clinked against the sides. Wetting my lips with the tip of my tongue, I brought the drink to my mouth. The chilled glass touched my lips, and the spicy smell immediately caused a momentary relief in my tense muscles. I emptied damn near the entire glass into my mouth, greedily gulping it down. Just the
thought of how much better that drink could make things seem was intoxicating in and of itself.
After several minutes of working up courage, the bartender wobbled over to me with a napkin and pen in hand. “I hate to do this, but I just can’t help it. Would you mind signing this?”
I glared at him through the tinted lenses and shrugged. “Sure.” I took the pen from his hand, scribbled my signature on the napkin, and slid it back across the bar to him. “Do me a favor, and if anyone asks, I came in for a soda. Okay, man?”
“Yeah. No problem, no problem at all. You want another?” he asked, pointing at my empty glass.
I knew I should say no, get up and leave – but I didn’t want to. “Yeah,” I said, my voice slightly shaking. “Make it a double.”
Hours later, I stumbled out of the bar onto the dimly lit sidewalk with my cockiness highly elevated. Losing my balance, I fell against the concrete of the building. My body was warm and tingly, and I hadn’t felt so good since the last time I’d slipped up and gotten high. I was completely shitfaced, barely in control – and that’s the way I liked it.
The streets were crowded. New York City was always congested, no matter what time it was. The sound of stalled engines and blaring horns whirled around my head. Bits and pieces of conversations whisked past me, and I noticed something I’d grown accustomed to missing. There was no one shoving a camera in my face, no one staring or pointing at me. The scenery was completely void of any groups of girls giggling and trying to work up the nerve to come ask for my autograph. A sense of unbelievable freedom drowned me. Then, I realized I was in the shadows, and no one could recognize me even if they wanted to. I just stood there, hiding and watching. For a second I had faded into the background of one of the biggest cities in the world. At that moment, I was nobody and it felt fucking fantastic.
I managed to make it all the way back to my hotel without ever being noticed. As soon as the hotel door shut behind me, I stripped and plopped down on the bed, the room spinning from the ridiculous amount of bourbon I’d slung back. I felt a twinge of guilt at getting sloppy drunk, but was able to justify it by telling myself I hadn’t done any cocaine, and after all, that was what I’d had the supposed problem with.
Just as my eyelids were closing, my phone rang. Picking it up, I saw that it was John, better known as my father. I hadn’t really called him Dad since I was thirteen and had decided he was worthless. I rolled my eyes and tossed the phone back down on the nightstand. I adjusted my head back on the pillow, and then the phone rang again. I answered it, mumbling, “Yeah?”
“Hey, Jag. It’s Dad.”
“I know who you are,” I groaned.
He huffed into the phone. “How you been, son?”
“Haven’t been keeping up with me in the news?” I snapped. My father had left his “goodbye, family” note the day before my tenth birthday. Since then he’d never really been around. He’d shown up sporadically on holidays, and every once in a while he’d call to make sure we were still alive. But the moment he heard we’d actually signed a record deal, he flew out to LA to visit. Sixteen years and he’d barely made a four-hour drive to come to my graduation, and here he was making a pricey, six-hour flight. I didn’t need a leech in my life.
“Jag, how many times do I have to apologize? I was wrong. I was a horrible father. But I always loved you and Stone.” He let out a dejected sigh. “I just want your forgiveness. I don’t want you to always remember me as a – as a –” He started coughing, and I took that as my opportunity to let out some of the anger I’d refused to let go of over the years.
“As a what, Dad?” I paused and sat up in the bed. “As a sorry-ass excuse for a parent? As somebody that would promise they’d make it down for a birthday, not show up, and then not even fucking call? Some guy that did a complete one-eighty on me, that went from spending hours teaching me how to play the guitar to running off in the middle of the night, saying you needed time to think about ‘things’?” By now my face was heated from anger and my voice was shaking. “Well, that’s just too damn bad. You fucked up!”
“Jag, I –”
“No!” I shouted into the phone. “I’ve kept my mouth shut for years. Do you think I’m a fucking idiot? Was it just coincidence that you showed up when we signed that deal with Deviant?” I laughed and shook my head. “Nah. I don’t think it was. I think we just finally did something you felt was worth your fucking while!” My pulse thumped and my teeth gritted against each other.
“Yeah. Well, that’s not what it was about.” He paused and drew in a breath, but instead of retaliating, he fell silent. “But I won’t bother you with that now, Jag.” He started coughing violently again. “You’ve got enough to worry about besides me. Just know I love you, son. And I wish I would’ve been a better father to you and your brother. Take care of yourself, and know that I always loved you, Jagger. Always will.”
With that, he hung up the phone. I sat there in the bed mad as hell at him. I may have been twenty-seven, but shit like that hurts no matter how old you are. What hurt even more is that I didn’t believe he meant anything he’d just said. I hadn’t seen him in almost seven years. Once he left LA I told him I didn’t want to see him again, that I wasn’t giving handouts to people who cared nothing about me. The only time I’d seen him since was when we’d played in Atlanta a year and a half ago. He left a message saying he was coming, telling us where his seats were. When I was on stage I caught a glimpse of him, and I made sure I didn’t look back in that direction again.
Chapter 4
The next morning I woke up to someone pounding on the hotel door. My head was throbbing and I groaned, smothering my face under the pillow. A few seconds later they were banging on the door and shaking the handle.
I sat up, clutching my head as I tossed the covers off of me. Another loud thud came through the wall, followed by Stone shouting, “Come on, Jag. Open up!” The handle shook harder, and then it sounded like Stone kicked the door. “Come on!”
I tripped over my own feet on the way to the door, catching myself on the wall and stubbing my toe. “Fuck!” I twisted the lock and yanked it open, quickly turning around to go back to the bed. “Man. I don’t want to hear it. It was just a little bit of bourbon.”
Stone tossed his hands up and followed me inside. “I’ve tried calling you for the past hour! Mom’s been trying to call you…”
Swatting my hand through the air, I flung myself back on the bed. “My phone died.”
“Did you talk to Dad last night?”
I snorted, “Yeah, sure did. Finally told the asshole exactly what I thought about him.”
I expected Stone to comment, but he said nothing. When I rolled over to see why he was being so quiet, there was a stunned expression falling over his face.
“What?” I said, throwing my hands up in the air. “He can’t just think it’s that easy to be forgiven for a lifetime of disappointments. Don’t act like you don’t feel the same way!”
Stone leaned back against the door and, without looking at me, said, “He’s dead, Jag. Mom called this morning. Dad died last night.”
“What?” I immediately sat up in the bed, my head pounding from the force. “What!” I shouted again.
Stone nodded and looked up at me. Tears gathered in his eyes, and he sucked in a deep breath to force them back. “Evidently, he’s been sick. He didn’t tell anybody.”
I buried my face in my hands, fighting back a multitude of emotions. It had taken me sixteen years to tell him how I felt, and the day I finally did it, he died. I didn’t fucking hate him, I was just angry. He was my dad, and the fact that the last words I’d said to him were filled with anger hit me hard. Burying my face in my hands, I let out a long scream, my entire body shaking from how forceful that verbal release of pain was.
Stone ran his hands down his face, then glanced up at me. “The funeral’s the day after tomorrow. Thought we could leave tonight and fly out there. Mom’s upset. You know she never stopped lov
ing him.” Stone reached for the door. “James already canceled the bit we were supposed to do tonight on Saturday Night Live. I’m gonna go get my shit together.” He paused. “You gonna be okay, man?”
Nodding, I said, “Yeah. Yeah. Just shocked – I’m fine though.” It felt like I should add something to that. “Not like we were close, anyway.”
Stone let out another hard breath and walked out the door.
I paced across the room, pulling my hair back in my hands. I was unable to stop the thoughts racing through my mind. Images of my dad flipped through it like a video. The memory of him handing me my first guitar as we sat on the front porch swing and him telling me I could do anything I wanted, if I was stubborn enough and told life to fuck off. I could still hear his laugh like it hadn’t been damn near two decades since I’d really heard it. I couldn’t take back the things I’d said, and I couldn’t help but wonder if those were the last words he heard. The guilt ripped through me, and before I knew what I was doing, I slammed my fist through the wall. Tears threatened to seep from my eyes, and I shook my head to stop them. I refused to cry. I didn’t cry. And when I felt enough to make me want to, I found something to numb it. I grabbed a shirt, yanked it over my head, and stomped toward the door.
As soon as I stepped outside the hotel, I was swept up in the crowd of strangers plaguing the city sidewalks. I wanted to scream. Here I was, on an emotional downward spiral, and the guy in the suit that just bumped into me was having a cup of fucking coffee. That girl over there was laughing. And let’s not forget the swarm of people who recognized me and were snapping pictures with their phones. Fuck these people. Fuck feeling. Fuck it all! I pulled my phone to my ear, listening to it ring several times before the person on the other end picked up.
Jag (Pandemic Sorrow #1) Page 3
