Opening my phone, I scroll through hundreds of phone numbers.
Somehow, I end up in my messages with Stas. The last one she sent me was over a year ago. It was a picture of a starry night sky. I’d sent her one back of the Tokyo skyline after we’d played a sold out show there.
As I’m scrolling through our history, I see more photos of sunsets and stars.
Did we ever actually talk?
There’s a cute video of her giggling and apologizing for a horrible view of a meteor shower she sent me from her apartment balcony.
Sighing, I shut my phone and push up from my chair. It’s a little after midnight. There’s the lingering feeling of dread, knowing it’s going tobe one of those nights where I either wake in a sweat or sleep evades me entirely.
Locking up the studio, I debate finding someone to take home and fuck into oblivion.
Maybe then I’ll be able to keep my hands off my best friend’s sister.
four
Beau
Last night was the worst performance of my life.
Between the flop of this recent album and the chords I missed on stage, I feel like I’m staring defeat in its evil face and submitting to it.
I lift and flex my right hand, glaring at it as if that will drive away the tingles running from my fingertips up to my shoulder. Already been to the ER for it.
After hours of enduring tests to make sure my episode wasn’t stroke related, I’d bowed out of a CT scan, finished up the IV they’d stuck in my arm, and rushed to hop back on the tour bus.
Should I be concerned? Probably. Do I have time to worry about it when my career is literally crumbling around me? Nope.
Still, I cave to a little self-inflicted torture, pulling up old videos of Lithos on my phone. 10.3 million views on our first track title.
Like what the actual fuck?
It’s hard to fathom a nobody like me—a wild dreamer brought up on a ranch in the middle of the Arizona desert—could achieve this kind of reach with music. Early mornings and late evenings spent on the back porch strumming an old classical guitar turned into an opening act with the notorious band Atonement.
Years later, we’re headlining our own shows. Except we’re no longer selling out venues. I’ve stressed about it. Smoked too much. Lost sleep over it.
I should be proud of what I’ve accomplished, right? So many artists don’t reach this point in their journey. Yeah, we're not a household name or anything. Hard to achieve that when you play progressive rock. Most people don’t understand it.
But fame has only highlighted the fact that this album is performing worse than our last album, and that one performed worse than our debut. We set the bar high, and according to fans, we haven’t been able to rise to that level since.
We’ve been judged and deemed unworthy.
Hard not to feel like it’s entirely my fault. Shit hasn’t been good lately. These stupid headaches I’ve been experiencing keep laying me out, and the creative juices aren’t flowing.
Groaning, I drop my phone onto my thigh. At least the weather is perfect here in Vancouver, if not a bit on the hot side. I’d snuck out here in a slouchy black hoodie and ripped up jeans, eager to alleviate the shit lingering in my head. I’m already rocking a red tint on my exposed knees.
That’ll make for a fun tan line.
Tipping my head up, I watch a flock of birds soar across the glassy blue sky, almost hypnotic in their movements.
Must be nice to have your body listen.
I’ve been popping Tylenol like it’s candy in a Pez dispenser, determined to make it through this tour. Definitely a mistake skipping that CT scan, but I’m afraid of what might be found. I’ve never been sick like this.
Or maybe I’m spinning myself up over nothing. Maybe I’m subconsciously trying to find an excuse for why I suck as a musician.
Taking another hit from my blunt, I let the smoke burn in my lungs until tears well in my eyes. My heart rate settles into a normal rhythm.Tension melts from my body, and the pain in my forehead easesjustenough.
