4. Beau
four
Beau
L ast 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 eases just enough.
The door to the balcony bangs open. I turn my head and squint at the man striding toward me, arms swinging with purpose and mouth turned down.
I’m not proud of my snicker. “Oh, wow. You look super angry.”
Noah kicks the end of my chair with his boot, making it screech across the concrete. “Are you kidding me, Beau?”
I offer a lazy shrug. “Didn’t make a joke.”
Noah dives both hands into his fluff of ginger hair.
“You missed the interview with Heavy Verse. You missed every single sound check this week. You fucking missed a show in Seattle, Beau. A show ! You haven’t been responding to anyone’s calls or texts.
You’re always smoking. You’ve been a fucking ghost for months, man. ”
I don’t tell him that the stage lights make my head hurt so I’ve been avoiding them as much as possible or that sometimes my vision gets so bad on stage, I can’t find the effect pedals or that I spent the morning of that interview with Heavy Verse in a hospital bed, hooked up to an EKG machine and an IV.
“You work hard on that list of failures?” I taunt.
Fuck . I’m so high. I shouldn’t be making light of this, but maybe he’ll feel better if he assumes I don’t care. Maybe he’ll get over this faster.
Noah waves at the thick cloud of smoke that curls out from my parted lips in irritation. “ Jesus , Beau. What’s going on with you?”
I drop my sunglasses over my eyes. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
A long pause stretches between us, and I wait for his lecture. Wait for him to exhaust himself like he usually does when something is bothering him. Noah’s strung that way. Coiled up so tight, one day his head and limbs are going to pop off from the building energy.
I chuckle at the jack-in-the-box image playing out in my head.
“You know what?” His tone is sharper than I expect, instantly ruining my vibe.
“I’m not gonna wait around for the others to break the news.
Beau, we think you should take a break. I’ve talked with our manager and the label already.
They’ve got someone else lined up to get us through the rest of our tour. ”
Air sticks in my lungs until the blunt I forgot I was holding burns down to my fingertips. Cursing, I drop it onto the ground and try to stomp it out with my shoe, but it feels like gravity has suddenly decided to crush me into my chair.
I rub my palm over my chest. Whew. Still breathing.
My brief internal crisis has Noah tugging his hands through his hair again. It’s clear this decision has caused him a lot of grief, and I’m an asshole for pushing him to make it for me. I’m an asshole for making him feel like the asshole because I didn’t have the strength to call it quits earlier.
Pushing my sunglasses up, I take in Noah’s flustered form. I remember the day I met him at summer camp. He was round in his cheeks with a frizz of hair. Bullied, but never one to drop his head or stay silent. He was determined to go places. We were both so fucking determined…
A new feeling washes over me. A heaving, sickening one that starts in my stomach and seeps down into my bones.
Fuck , if it doesn’t taste like fear.
I’ve spent most of my life chasing this dream. What happens if this is the end of it?
“You kicking me out of the band?” I ask, careful to keep my voice from cracking with emotion .
Noah swallows and then gives a little nod. “Yeah, Beau. We are.”
Sunglasses go back on. Everything’s fine. Even if the reality of this situation is suffocating me, this moment in time is just a drop of water in the ocean.
Nope, I don’t want to think about the ocean while high.
“Cool,” I reply.
Noah deflates, dropping his arms to his sides. “That’s it? You’re not gonna fight for this?”
I drum my fingers softly on my thighs, pretending to give it some thought. “Nah.”
Noah hangs around long enough to have me squirming in the chair. Tears blur my eyes beneath my sunglasses, and the words bubble up in my throat to beg for my spot in the band.
They’ll go so much further without me. They deserve someone capable of writing hits and actually performing.
“Thought I knew you, dude,” Noah mutters.
And then he’s gone. Vanished into our hotel to share the news with the others that I don’t give a rat’s ass about the band.
I rub a hand over my aching chest, but the hurt won’t go away because it’s everywhere now.
Birds continue to circle above me. Suddenly, I want to scream at them. I want my voice to carry over the mountains. I want the world to hear me.
Truth is, no one’s listening. Learned that hard truth when a drunk driver took my mom from me years ago.
Knocking my head back against the chair, I try to rid the memory from my brain. All this accomplishes is making my head hurt worse.
What the fuck do I do now ?
It’d be awkward to stay in Vancouver with the people who no longer want me. But the thought of returning to my quiet, gated property in Phoenix has me searching for another option.
One that will give me temporary relief from everything weighing me down.