Chapter 17 #2
He leaned in and spoke against his ear. “Dory, you’re just playing music for fun.
For the hell of it. Because some part of you wants to.
Steve, Pete and Tal are here, aren’t they?
You guys rode all night in that crappy van, talked about the music you’d do, bitched about the equipment you wished you had, but when you got here, you felt that energy, that hum that said the crowd was waiting, and you knew you have something to give them. ”
DJ bowed his head, his forehead on Roy’s shoulder as he absorbed the words. He lifted it, met Roy’s eyes.
“So, Shirley Temple, extra cherries?” Roy asked evenly.
“Water, extra lemon. And a little paper umbrella in it if they have one.”
Roy smiled. Sy offered to help bring the amp, then Roy was moving away. Just like that. Abandoning DJ. WTF?
Trey had returned to the stage to check in with Miles and the lead singer, who’d returned at Trey’s insistent beckoning. DJ tried to pull it together as he approached the stage, since the lead singer didn’t look all that enthused, and he was blunt. “I’m not feeling it. He’ll mess up our timing.”
“Roy wouldn’t have suggested it if it was a problem,” Trey responded. “And this is a good crowd, Tony. They’ll roll with us wherever we want to go, as long as we keep things thrashing. Let’s give him a shot.”
Tony gave DJ an unfriendly look. “Backup vocals only,” he said. “Don’t want you trying to overshadow my voice like a braying wannabe DJ James.”
“Wouldn’t think of it,” DJ said.
Sy and Roy had returned. Giving his wrist a squeeze, Roy handed DJ the case and headed for the bar. DJ noted Roy had brought one of his less recognizable backup guitars.
“Tony, how about we do a quick jam with him before we start the next set?” Miles suggested. “You can grab another drink while we test him out.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Tony shrugged and moved away, his shoulder bumping DJ’s as he passed him. Sy rolled his eyes.
“His ego gets bigger with every barfly groupie that blows him,” Trey said. “Miles, ditch his ass. Come to NOLA and hang with us, man.”
Miles grinned. “I’m not in your league, man. Plus, I got my kid and wife here. Couldn’t believe Bree called you in for my birthday. It was a great surprise.”
“She knows what you like. And we were glad to do something for you. When you lived in NOLA, it was your contacts that got us started. Miles is a damn good garage band manager,” Sy told DJ.
“Hey, it looks like Roy sprang this on you, but he doesn’t do anything unless he thinks it has a shot at kicking ass. Ready to jam?”
DJ wet his lips, opened his mouth, and no words came out. Shit, the panic attack had doubled back on him. Though instead of not being able to breathe, he was just paralyzed.
“Man, you okay?” Trey was asking from a great distance, his voice a buzz in DJ’s ears.
Roy was beside him again, his hand on his back. He said something DJ roughly translated as “get started and he’ll join you in a minute.”
DJ wasn’t sure about that, because his head was in some weird, swirling zone where his knees might not hold him up. He kept trying to breathe, to say he was sorry, to say he was going back to the car, to do something, but he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.
He'd also blacked out or something, because Roy had his guitar out of the case and was holding it in both hands. Roy slipped the guitar strap over DJ’s head, and then wrapped DJ’s hand around the neck, slow and easy.
As the instrument pressed against his body, he felt its weight in his arms, then the strings against his fingers, the pickup under the heel of his hand.
“Dory, you’re okay.”
“I can’t…”
“Yeah, you can. You need to. Your music misses you and you miss it. You’re not whole without it.”
“I’m not whole without them,” DJ snapped harshly.
Roy tapped his chest, a firm jab that brought DJ’s attention to the implacable look on his face.
“They’re inside you. Since you came home, you’ve stood in the doorway of your home studio a million times.
You didn’t go in, no, but something kept drawing you there.
It’s where you created some of your best music together.
Your recent album was more than platinum.
Damn thing could resurrect a soul. I’ve played it a thousand times. ”
DJ blinked, startled. Roy gripped his arm. “When you were standing on that threshold, your heart was talking to them, and theirs to you. Get up on the stage and find your way to them. Find it through the music.”
“I can’t.” DJ stared into Roy’s eyes. “I just can’t.”
“Okay. So start with me. Choose something and find me in the lyrics, Dory. Because it’s scaring the shit out of me, how you’re fading away.” His hands were on Dory’s waist, sliding up to his prominent ribs. “I’m calling you back from the dead, dragging you into the here and now with me.”
As they stared at one another, Roy’s expression reminded DJ of the day he’d stepped between him and the boyfriend shooter. Roy didn’t know exactly how to stand between DJ and this, but he was going to figure it out. He would take any kind of bullet for DJ.
That kind of sacrifice meant DJ had to pull his head out of his ass. Try to do as Roy asked.
Try to do what his Master commanded.
Roy stepped back, but didn’t go far, just braced himself against the wall and looked at him. I’m here, his face said. Now get to it before I kick your ass.
But that wasn’t the only message he’d just given DJ, and it countered his panic with something even more earth shaking. What Roy had just told him about his album, how he’d told DJ to find him in his music…
Roy Bloodwell loved him. Was in love with him.
He’d probably never hear it come from Roy’s mouth that way, but that wasn’t Roy’s style. Nor DJ’s. When he told Roy how he felt about him, the words would be something that meant something to both of them. Just to them.
But to write that song, he had to start by finding his music again. Just as Roy said.
He didn’t want to. The part he had to wake up to do this wanted to stay asleep. Wanted to be dead, if he was being honest. Wanted to be beyond feeling.
But he knew what pain was. He knew how to endure it, and he knew what he could find on the other side of it.
DJ moved to the stage. He dropped to his heels to check his amp and straightened, testing the guitar and stompbox settings with random licks that blended with what Trey, Sy and Miles were doing. They’d started a bluesy kind of jam, killing time until he shit or got off the pot.
Find me in the lyrics. DJ joined in, connecting to the rhythm they were playing. After a few seconds, the worry dropped from their faces. Sy gave him an encouraging flourish on the drums and called out. “You know any early Metallica? Miles is all over their stuff.”
A subtle hint that they needed to stay in Miles’ comfort zone, or take it easy if they went outside of it.
That energy was building inside of DJ, and suddenly the rip current he’d been flailing against wasn’t something to fear. He was the rip current.
He transitioned to a different riff. A powerful and very recognizable one.
“Master of Puppets,” by Metallica. He'd spotted Miles' distortion pedal, and if he was “all over their stuff,” DJ figured he could take the chance. He heard a shit from Trey, saw Miles’ eyes widen. Sy’s mouth spread into a grin from ear to ear as he jumped in with the drums, up for the challenge.
The song dealt with addiction, which made DJ think of Tal, but it was the sheer technical challenge of the song he embraced, the fantastic power, the way it could pull in everyone listening to it with its crazy battle-in-the-heavens-between-the-angels sound.
He didn’t have to think. He just followed where it led him.
As he stepped up to the mic, he was aware of Tony at the high top with the women, his eyes narrowing.
He launched into the first verse. The music already had the metal-heads in the place head bobbing, fists striking the air. Even the non-metal heads responded to this song, the vigor of it getting everyone revved up and tight. It was sex, life and death, dancing, joy and rage. Everything in a song.
Then there was the word Master, used over and over again. The context—addiction—became far less important to him.
More is all you’ll need…
Obey your Master.
Master.
Master.
Master.
Call his name, because he’ll hear you scream…
Roy had heard him screaming, deep inside.
DJ turned his gaze to him, locked and held.
His fingers moved over the frets, and his pick struck the strings with the precision born of thousands of hours of playing, pounding out the song, working calluses that had become soft.
He was aware of the crowd’s energy going through the roof, of Sy laying down the drums with precision, creating a sweet scaffold for Miles to hang onto, even though they were working their asses off to keep that solid pocket.
His voice was out of practice, hoarse on the screaming notes, but that was good. He needed to make sure he didn’t sound too much like himself. Plus, it was a song meant to be edged with savage pain and despair.
There was a bridge in the song where the music wistfully wandered off, then built back up to the hardcore sound. He didn’t want that. Instead, he stepped back after that last Master and signaled a song change. He looked toward Sy. “How about Down? You choose the song.”
Down was a New Orleans sludge metal band that really leaned into those blues roots, and they were heavy without being fast. Sy and Trey would certainly be familiar with them, and since Miles used to play in NOLA with them, DJ figured it was a safe bet he was, too.
They were. Sy enthusiastically offered “Temptation’s Wings,” a great choice.
When the drums kicked in, the world around DJ swam away. It was Tal laughing out loud, shouting a joyous “Fuck!” as he beat out the rhythm.
Steve swiveled around and pointed his guitar at Tal like a machine gun. Then he and DJ nailed the harmonizing solo, moving around one another, tight spins on a ridiculously small stage.
They’d gotten spoiled, hadn’t they? Pete’s expression was blissed by the music, hips rocking as his fingers flew over the fretboard.
DJ went shoulder to shoulder with Steve, lining up their instrument necks and headbanging the rhythm together before DJ sprang back to the mic.
When they finished up the song, the crowd was screaming their appreciation.
DJ absorbed the waves of enthusiasm, a drug he’d always loved, but it was a drug meant to be shared. He’d never wanted to stand on a stage and absorb it alone.
The thought made the wished-for fantasy around him fade away, and he saw who was really up here with him. Sy, Trey, Miles.
Knowing he had to avoid the crash that wanted to take him down, he made a hand motion that suggested they reduce the frenzied pace before the crowd tore the place down.
The others nodded. He was willing to let them choose again, but Steve shot him a broad smile. “You’re on a roll. Your choice, man.”
Trey, not Steve. The faces kept blurring and changing.
Daughtry, “I’m Coming Home.”
Roy had said Steve, Tal and Pete were here, with him, and he was right. He’d fucking felt it. They still were.
Still, the song tore his guts out.
Tony had been turning into a volcano, but DJ made a come back motion in his direction. The man looked surprised, but he joined DJ at the mic. They matched voice to voice long enough for the transition, then DJ stepped back and let him take over.
DJ met Sy’s gaze. The man’s concerned look told DJ his face didn’t look right. But he understood what DJ needed and made the appropriate motions to the others. They adjusted their playing as DJ flipped off his amp, yanked out the cable and stepped off the stage.
He respected the hell out of his instruments. But he had no choice. He almost dead dropped the guitar against the wall before he bolted.
The nearest exit led into an alley with garbage cans and parked service vehicles.
He made it out the door right as he started heaving, the force of it capable of driving him to his knees.
He tried to catch himself against the brick wall, but then Roy was there, his arm around his waist, holding DJ up as he vomited up the pain. Dizziness swamped him.
“It’s okay, kid. It’s all right.”
DJ was weeping. He clasped Roy’s biceps with both hands. If he let go, what was left of him would disappear. Roy hefted him up to walk, leaning against his side. He walked them straight to their car and put DJ in the back seat. DJ curled up, folding his arms over his head.
Roy got into the other side and lifted him up so DJ was in his lap like a baby, though a baby with miles of long legs that had his shoes pushing against the door on the other side. He pressed his face against Roy’s neck, hard enough to feel the crash of his pulse and inhale his aftershave.
“Guitar…and gear.”
“We got it, don’t worry. You did good, Dory.” Roy’s voice rumbled against him. “You did it.”
He didn’t say something stupid, like it would get easier from here. But DJ had crossed a line back toward his music, and he wouldn’t retreat from it, no matter how much it hurt.
“Roy, I’m so tired. I want to go home. Okay?”
“I’ll take care of it. You just hang back here.”
Roy found him a car blanket and a pillow. DJ felt sick and empty, and stayed curled up in that ball. Later he’d find out that Sy had brought out the amp and guitar, and helped Roy stow it, so DJ was never out of Roy’s sight.
Roy started the vehicle. Over the next couple of hours, DJ drifted and slept. He assumed Roy would find them a motel with a king-sized bed. Instead, when Roy finally pulled off onto a bumpy side road and shut off the vehicle, DJ heard a familiar female voice.
He’d told Roy he wanted to go home, and Roy had decided that DJ meant the only real home he’d ever had before he bought his own. The wave of relief drowned out any dread DJ felt about what that would make him face.
Home made you face shit, but it also helped you do it.
Roy helped him stumble out of the car. Then Marjorie’s arms were around him. She was so short, he just fell to his knees against her. She curled her strong arms around him, his face buried in her ample abdomen and breasts, while Roy’s hands remained on his shoulders.
“You’re home,” she whispered. “It’s okay, DJ. You’re home.”
I’m coming home. I’ve come home.