37. Alone in a Room – Dakota
37
ALONE IN A ROOM
DAKOTA
T he tour bus rumbles beneath me, its familiar vibration doing little to calm my frayed nerves. Outside the window, an unfamiliar cityscape blurs by, all grey concrete and neon signs. My fingers drum an erratic rhythm on my thigh, muscle memory from countless bass lines. But today, it's anxiety, not music, directing the beat.
In my other hand, I clutch a crumpled piece of paper with an address scribbled on it. My first AA meeting in this new city. My throat tightens at the thought, and I swallow hard, tasting the bitter remnants of this morning's coffee.
"You sure about this?" Brad asks from the seat next to me. He's been my shadow lately, ever since I admitted I needed help. "We could run through the new set list one more time instead."
For a moment, I'm tempted. The thought of losing myself in music, in the familiar comfort of my bass, is almost overwhelming. But then I remember Lauren's voice on the phone, the disappointment and fear. I remember Roman's laughter, so pure and trusting. I can't let them down.
Not again.
I shake my head. "No, I need to do this. The show isn't for hours. I've got time."
The bus slows to a stop, and my heart rate speeds up in inverse proportion. Through the tinted windows, I can see a nondescript building with a sign that simply reads "Community Center." This is it.
"Want me to come with you?" Brad offers, his voice low.
For a moment, I'm tempted to say yes. To have someone there, a buffer between me and the raw vulnerability I'm about to face. But I shake my head. "I appreciate it, man, but... I think I need to do this on my own."
Brad nods, understanding. "Alright. I'll be here when you're done. And Dakota? I'm proud of you, man."
His words hit me harder than any power chord I've ever played. I swallow the lump in my throat and nod, not trusting myself to speak.
As I step off the bus, the humid air hits me like a wall, instantly plastering my t-shirt to my back. I take a deep breath, steeling myself. One foot in front of the other. Just like walking on stage, I tell myself. But this isn't a performance. This is real life, and the stakes are so much higher.
The community center smells of industrial cleaner and stale coffee. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting harsh shadows. I follow the signs to a room at the end of the hall, my footsteps echoing in the empty corridor. Through the open door, I can see a circle of chairs. Some are already occupied.
My hands are shaking now, and I clench them into fists. What if someone recognizes me? What if this ends up online? What if I can't do this?
A memory surfaces: my first big show with Chaos Fuel. The paralyzing stage fright, the certainty that I was going to mess up. And then the first note, the rush of adrenaline, the realization that I belonged there.
"First time?"
I turn to see a middle-aged woman with kind eyes looking at me. She doesn't seem to recognize me, or if she does, she doesn't show it.
"Is it that obvious?" I manage a weak smile.
She shrugs. "We were all first-timers once. Come on in. We're about to start."
As I step into the room, I'm hit with a sense of déjà vu. How many green rooms have I walked into, feeling this same mix of anticipation and dread? But this isn't a show. This is my life.
I take a seat, the folding chair creaking under my weight. Around me, people chat quietly or sit in contemplative silence. Nobody gives me a second glance. Here, I'm not Dakota, the bassist of Chaos Fuel. I'm just another person trying to stay sober.
As the meeting begins, I close my eyes briefly. I think of Lauren, of Roman. Of the life I want to have with them. Of the man I want to be. I think of the music I want to make, clear-headed and honest.
And just like that, I've taken the first step on a new stage. The hardest performance of my life is about to begin. But for the first time in a long time, I feel ready to face it.
As the meeting leader, a man with salt-and-pepper hair and calloused hands that speak of hard-won sobriety asks if anyone would like to share, the air grows thick with anticipation.
My heart pounds a frantic rhythm in my chest, like a drum solo threatening to drown out everything else. I've stood before crowds of thousands, but this small circle of strangers terrifies me more than any stadium ever has.
A woman across from me starts speaking, her voice trembling slightly as she recounts her week. I try to focus, but my mind keeps drifting, like a guitar string that won't stay in tune. I think of the mini-bar in my hotel room, of the drink I almost had last night, of Lauren's face during our last video chat, what feels like forever ago – the softness in her features like lyrics I can't forget.
Before I know it, the woman has finished. The leader asks if anyone else would like to share. The silence stretches, punctuated only by the hum of the air conditioner and the occasional shuffle of feet. It's like that moment before a song starts, when the audience holds its breath in anticipation.
I take a deep breath. It's now or never. Time to face the music.
"I'd like to share," I hear myself say, my voice sounding strange to my own ears, like I'm listening to a recording of myself.
All eyes turn to me, but there's no judgment in their gazes. Just understanding. Acceptance. It's nothing like the scrutiny of fans or critics, and yet it feels more significant somehow.
"I'm Dakota," I begin, my mouth dry as sandpaper. "And I'm an alcoholic."
"Hi, Dakota," the group responds in unison, the chorus to my solo.
I swallow hard, pushing down the lump in my throat. My hands are shaking, and I clasp them tightly in my lap. "This is my first meeting. I'm... I'm on tour right now. I'm a musician. And I thought I could handle it, you know? The parties, the stress, the late nights. I thought I was different."
A memory flashes through my mind: my first backstage party, the rush of the performance still coursing through my veins, Chase pressing a drink into my hand. "To celebrate," he'd said. If only I'd known then where that celebration would lead.
"But I'm not different," I continue, my voice growing stronger. "I'm just like everyone else here. I have a problem, and I can't solve it on my own. I've hurt people I care about. I've put my career at risk. And I'm terrified that I'm going to lose everything if I don't get this under control."
My voice cracks on the last word, and I feel tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. But I push on, like playing through a broken string.
"I have a girlfriend, Lauren. And her son, Roman. They're... they're everything to me. And I want to be the man they deserve. The man I know I can be when I'm sober."
Another memory surfaces: Roman's laughter as I taught him how to hold a bass guitar, his small hands dwarfed by the instrument. The pure joy on his face mirrored in Lauren's eyes as she watched us. I want that moment back. I want a lifetime of moments like that.
"I don't know how to do this," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. "How to stay sober on tour, how to face the pressure and the temptation. But I know I have to try. For them. But mostly for myself."
As I finish speaking, I feel a weight lift from my shoulders. It's not gone completely, but it's lighter. Manageable. Like setting down a heavy instrument after a long set.
The leader nods, a small smile on his face. "Thank you for sharing, Dakota. It takes courage to speak up, especially at your first meeting. Remember, we're all here for the same reason. You're not alone in this."
As the meeting continues, I feel a sense of calm wash over me. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, I feel... hope. It's small, fragile, but it's there. Like the first note of a new song, full of potential.
I may be on a different kind of tour now, but I'm ready. One day at a time. One note at a time. And maybe, just maybe, I can compose a life worth living.