by Hadley Quinn
I just wanted my girls with me, and in that brief moment—when whomever it was had been trying to help me was also attempting to distract me—I realized that my life might as well be over.
You can’t always put words to those feelings, but somehow I had. This song had been the only way I could talk about that night, and it always destroyed me inside. I couldn’t believe I actually got through the entire thing this time, but I truly felt like a heap of shit as I finished it up.
I wanted to curl up and die again.
The end of the song was felt before I even realized it was over. It was like an emotional rollercoaster that finally pulled to a stop, the sudden halt in motion causing a need for me to catch my breath. I heard the room erupt with applause, and then Wes suddenly appeared next to me with a glass of water he set on a stool by the piano.
“You did it, man,” he spoke quietly, giving me a tiny nod of approval.
I took a few sips before I faced the crowd again, pausing for a moment to allow my nerves to settle.
I purposely avoided any kind of explanation for the previous song, just went right into talking about the next one that had been number one on the charts for nine weeks straight with my band. I explained how I’d gone to a Knicks game with my dad. There had been a proposal that night at Madison Square Garden, and truthfully, it was very awkward. My dad and I had laughed about it, then shared the dos and don’ts of public humiliation with each other.
Yep, it inspired a song called “Trust Me Right,” and since I’d shared the story a dozen times, I could repeat it mechanically while the current ache in my heart hid far away from spectators.
Because of the nature of this song, I knew the audience would sing the chorus with me so I strongly encouraged them to do so. I have to say it was actually one of my favorite songs to hear the crowds sing. The key to a successful chart topper isn’t always the talent behind it, you see. Sometimes it’s just a catchy tune that people love singing and dancing to in their car.
But right then, I was in fake-it-till-you-make-it mode. I didn’t want to be there anymore. I had no idea how I was supposed to get through the last two songs, so I quickly decided to combine them into a shorter little mashup. It was sort of a finale in a sense, and because the audience seemed to love it, I knew I’d done my job and deserved to get the hell out of there.
I think my departing words were gracious enough, but at that point, I didn’t give a fuck. Even with Wes telling me I did an amazing job, and Missy supporting me with the same, I still felt like shit; I felt like a failure and that my years as a performer were over.
When I got home that night, I drank until my body couldn’t keep it in any longer.
When you’re drunk off your ass and someone tries to talk to you, normally you don’t even know where you are. Or care, for that matter. This time, however, my face was unmistakably staring straight into the toilet water that wasn’t exactly crystal clear at the moment. The room was whirling around me, even though I knew I was solidly draped over the porcelain throne.
“Jude, come on, hon,” Missy spoke again in my own little tunnel world. “Let’s get you to bed.”
I wanted to argue but didn’t. Even drunk, I knew that she’d start cursing at me in Italian, and although I had no clue what else she would be yelling, I could always sense her desire to rip someone a new one when she was in that mind-set.
The room was still spinning. I had no idea what time it was, but there was only one dim light on in the bathroom and it just seemed late. She was fussing with me, wiping a wet towel over my face, and then she made me drink some water. After walking me into my bedroom, she stripped off my shirt and nudged me toward the bed.
I seriously think she tucked me in that night because when I woke up God knows how many hours later, I was under the covers in just my boxers. The room was dark, which meant someone had shut the shades, and my fan was turned on—something I always needed for sleep.
My head was pounding, and after I finally forced myself to sit up, I noticed the pain reliever and bottle of Gatorade on the nightstand. I had to give Missy credit. She wasn’t as coldhearted as Wes always accused her of being. I knew this, but sometimes her sympathetic moments were few and far between.
When I made an appearance in the kitchen thirty minutes later, freshly showered and in clean clothes, all I got was a brief glance from Missy at the oven and a cold shoulder from Wes at the table. I knew he was pissed at me, and with good reason. I’d promised him I would never binge drink like that again and I did it anyway.
“You hungry?” Missy asked, pulling what looked like homemade lasagna from the oven. I think my mouth watered at the sight of it, and because it was not a breakfast meal, I took a gander at the clock on the wall.
It was three in the afternoon.
“I slept the day away, huh?” I mumbled.
No response from Wes as he jotted down some notes on his sheet music, but Missy casually shrugged a shoulder.
“I’m pretty sure you needed it,” she answered while moving the food to the table.
I heard Wes scoff.
“Shut the fuck up,” Missy growled at him. Looking at me, her face softened. “Jude…”
She didn’t need to say anything further. Wes had every right to be mad at me and I wasn’t even going to let her be the mediator.
“Thanks, but I’m not quite hungry yet,” I said, dismissing myself from the kitchen.
I made my way back to my room and pulled the stool up to my keyboard, just as I heard them arguing with each other. With headphones plugged in, I could play all hours of the night if I wanted to—and sometimes I did—but it wasn’t the same as playing a regular piano. After I lost my wife and little girl, I spent a lot of time in my room by myself. I’d shut the door and lose myself in music for as much of the night as I could. I’d let alcohol coat my pain with a false sense of security and pass out on the bed (if I made it there) almost every night.
When consciousness hit each morning, I’d barely eat enough to soak up the sour in my stomach and then sit my ass down at the piano in the living room—with whatever the fuck I’d written the night before. It was pretty much a shock every time. I never remembered the words I’d written down or the music that went with it; it was just…there. But the most painful aspect of it was that everything was one hundred percent me; every word resonated my despair and every note exposed my misery.
I couldn’t escape it even when I was completely trashed.
It was depressing. I couldn’t pull myself out of it. I couldn’t write a single thing that reflected on anything but suffering, regret, loss, confusion… My dad would come by and I’d barely talk to him. Eventually we had some conversations on how I was wasting my life away, but when he would push me hard enough, I would rip through his attempts to help me by throwing my memories of that night in his face. Pretty soon he’d be crying with me and then neither of us were much good.
When my father died, he’d left my name on his apartment. Despite how hard I took his passing, I moved in right away, thankful to be back where I grew up—somewhere familiar—instead of alone in the apartment I’d shared with my late wife and child. It was still tough for me at that time, though. It’d only been two years since I lost them, and then with the passing of my dad… I just wasn’t handling things well.
After I’d hit my all time low one night, yelling and screaming at my neighbors in a drunken rage (because they’d bitched at me for playing the piano at midnight), Wes decided to move in with me. He’d been here for two years now and I was glad, but sometimes I think he’d prefer something different.
I feel like Wes got the short end of the stick and all I ever did was take him for granted.
When it was close to eight o’clock that night, I finally left my room. Wes was in the recliner reading a book, but Missy was nowhere to be seen. I knew that she’d gone home early and it made me feel like shit.
Wes stood from the chair and entered the kitchen without speaking. I only heard
the sounds behind me as I sat down on the couch and turned the television on, clicking the volume down, but when a plate was set on the coffee table in front of me and Wes returned to his chair, I took a deep breath and chanced a glance at him.
He was sitting there with his elbows on his knees, watching me studiously. But this time he didn’t look pissed anymore, he looked worried.
Finally he said, “Don’t go there again, Jude. Please.”
I picked up the fork and took a bite of cold lasagna, which was how I preferred it. Words didn’t come to me right away, so I was happy to take my time chewing.
A square of plastic dropped onto the coffee table where Wes tossed it. I barely had to look at it to know what it was. It was my solo album, the one I produced to get Aaron off my fucking back over a year ago. It contained all of my bitterness, anger, regret, and resentment…nicely packaged up into ten songs.
It was only titled Aftermath—which went against Aaron’s wishes. I’d hoped it wouldn’t draw too many of my fans, but that had been a lost cause. People bought them right and left, making it a platinum record. “The tragedy of Jude Collins” was a common phrase thrown around by the media.
And people ate it the fuck up.
“That right there?” Wes said to me, “is invaluable. Do you understand that?”
I shook my head. We would never see eye to eye on this subject. Pointing with my fork I answered, “That right there is a miserable excuse of an album. That right there is a pile of drunken nights and a shit ton of luck. I can’t even believe it got produced. Jack Daniels should be a proud sponsor of that shit.”
“Well him and Jose Cuervo would have to split the royalties.”
Wes never meant to be funny at times like this, but I laughed. He was right. And even though it really wasn’t a laughing matter, Wes laughed too.
“You’re such a fucker,” he chuckled, shaking his head. He added something in Italian but I didn’t bother to ask for an interpretation.
I couldn’t disagree with the fucker part, but after a few bites of food, I was already feeling ten times better. Wes grabbed the remote and turned the game on louder, and for the next few minutes, I ate in silence.
“Was Missy upset?” I eventually asked.
He slowly shook his head. “No, but you better call her. She was actually nice to you when all I wanted to do was leave you to rot in your own vomit.”
I nodded in agreement. I wouldn’t have been mad at either one of them for that.
“Maybe it’s just something you’ll be able to do if, you know, you do it a few more times,” Wes added carefully.
He was talking about performing my solo songs, but I really wished he hadn’t brought it up. It felt like a lost cause, like I was never going to pull myself out of the hole I’d been in for four years. I’d feel pretty good sometimes, like I was almost out of the darkness, and then something would pull me back down to the bottom. I wasn’t sure how long I was going to go through the cycle, or if I could really do it anymore.
“Why doesn’t anything seem to work?” I finally asked. “I’ve done everything I can, Wes. Everything I can think of. Why the hell is this still happening to me?”
He took in a breath of air and slowly let it out. “You still have too many questions about all of it, Jude.” He paused and studied my response. I didn’t have one. “Maybe you should try some counseling, man.”
I couldn’t do that. There was no way I could put myself in that position; no way I could allow myself to be vulnerable to other people. I felt I’d already ruined my father’s legacy. I was the Collins that had let his talent go to waste; the one that couldn’t suck it up and get on with life like everyone else could.
But I felt my circumstances were different, and I was upset with Wes for even suggesting that other people would understand. And my music was my therapy. I poured the truth out on sheets and sheets of paper… What more could anyone ask of me?
“I don’t need counseling, Wes,” I answered with as much patience as I could muster. “I’m doing what the ‘experts’ say,” I mimicked with finger quotes. “I already know all the fucking ins and outs of therapy and shit, okay? I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing!” I raised my voice.
He stood from his chair and nodded his head. “I know you are, pal, I know you are.” Heading for his room he added, “I just don’t know how else to help you and that kills me.”
6
All over social media! Everywhere! Man, I can’t tell you how brilliant you are, Jude. Sorry I doubted you, okay? Give me a fucking call back.”
I deleted Aaron’s message as soon as it was over. I really did like the guy, and he was only doing his job, but sometimes I felt he didn’t give a shit about my feelings or even believe I was still struggling.
The message was from two days ago, which was literally less than a day from my set at The Urchin. I knew that people had been recording my performance, and I knew video and photos would be plastered all over the place from it. The media had already had a grand ol’ time printing articles and airing news stories about that night and what all of it was like.
Bottom line, there were mixed reviews. The people that had seen the show in person? Lots of praise. Those that saw blips of it or criticized from behind their computer screens and televisions? More cynical. Not a surprise. Some said I’d returned to the scene with a solid, heartfelt presentation; others said it was a poor attempt to reinvent my music. I have pretty thick skin, but it cuts when people say shit that isn’t even true. I couldn’t care less who I gained as a fan these days. My life had been ripped apart four years ago and the media felt like they had a say as to what mattered to me?
They could go fuck themselves.
I was pissed, which startled me. Wes, too, since I rarely let the public get under my skin. I was mainly upset because I had known what to expect from stepping in front of the public’s eye again—I was prepared—and then it ended up affecting me anyway.
I also felt terrible because I wasn’t going to play at The Urchin again, and I was headed there the next week to let Blake know. Maybe I’d pop in now and then and play a few cover songs to compensate for my change of heart, but I wasn’t going to let him book the night out like before.
It was one o’clock on a Sunday when I arrived to have a talk with him. I wasn’t surprised that it looked vacant inside through the window, but something else caught my eye… The sign on the front of the building had different hours—fewer hours—and they were even closed now from Monday to Wednesday.
I pushed through the heavy wood door and let it swing shut behind me. There wasn’t a face in sight until someone came from the back carrying a large box that seemed heavy. It was the female bartender—I thought I’d heard Blake call her “Ree” but I wasn’t entirely sure.
“Hey, let me help you,” I said, but I’d barely got a hand under the box to help her set it on the counter and she basically did it all herself. The bottles of alcohol clinked together and then settled into silence.
“Thanks,” she smiled. Pulling out a bottle at a time, she asked, “What’s up? What can I get you to drink?”
I knew I shouldn’t—I didn’t necessarily need alcohol in the middle of the day—but because she asked… “Uh, usual I guess.”
She smiled again, which she did pretty well. I sat at the bar and watched her methodically put a drink together. Setting it in front of me she paused, eyed me for a second, and then said, “I don’t feel like you’re here for anything good. You seem a bit down.”
I bobbed my head back and forth in thought. “Yeah, I guess so. Just need to talk to Blake about something.”
She narrowed her eyes, almost defensively. “Like what?”
I didn’t quite know why she deserved to know, but I refused to talk to the bartender about it before I talked to Blake first, so I didn’t respond.
She went back to work, pulling out bottles of liquor to line up along the glass shelf on the back wall. I finished half my drink by the time she
turned around, and even though I didn’t like the silence before, I didn’t like the look on her face even more.
“You’re backing out, aren’t you,” she said.
It wasn’t a question, it was a statement. No, an accusation. She seemed upset, even though her expression was fairly neutral. I could read it in her eyes, though. Well, maybe she wasn’t upset as much as she was hurt, and that confused me.
“Right? You’re not going to play here anymore?” she finally drilled me with a definitive question.
I sighed, feeling a bit unsettled about what was going on with her. I really needed to talk to Blake, so I stood and set some cash on the bar without finishing my drink. “Some things just don’t work out,” I answered.
“For who? You? What are you still needing to work out?”
What a broad question, but seriously, why the hell was she hounding me? I leaned my hands against the bar and looked straight into those dark green eyes of hers. “I’m not a little play toy you can toss around and giggle about, and then discard whenever you fucking feel like it. Okay?”
She raised her eyebrows at me and held that position for several seconds. “Seriously?” she finally scoffed, crossing her golden-brown arms over her chest. “You actually think…?”
Ree left the sentence unfinished. Shaking her head, she pressed her pretty lips together and took a deep breath through her nose. It was almost like she was trying not to throttle me. Did she have anger issues?
She took a step away, but as she did, her face fell. For a second I thought she was going to cry, but she shook her head slightly as she busied herself at the bar.
I walked away at that point. I didn’t know what the hell her deal was, but I didn’t have to stand there and have someone make me feel guilty for something I wasn’t comfortable doing anymore. This wasn’t the direction I needed to go right now. I’d tried and failed, and I was just going to go back to my own little private hell and quit.
