Chapter 17
The second leg of our tour began mid-November, and I was shocked at the difference a week could make. I wasn’t a fool and I didn’t believe Zack was “cured,” but he was healthier and stronger by the time we left.
Mick had delivered on his promise to Zack, convincing the label to let us continue.
But I got the feeling that it wasn’t too hard a sell—after all, they wanted us making money for them.
I knew, though, that we weren’t big enough yet for them to not hesitate to cut their losses if this sort of thing kept happening.
Zack was in the hospital for a whole day and they released him the following afternoon.
He’d been tired and moving slowly, but he said he was ready for “real” food.
The roadies had already been sent home on a plane, so it was Mick, the band, and the bus driver—and Mick found a restaurant that served big burgers.
And then we had a long talk.
The plan was to finish out the tour—and, in the meantime, Mick would send Zack a few recommendations for various rehab facilities so he could choose one. In the meantime, Mick wanted us all in on the plan.
Zack would be allowed to continue drinking, although we all urged him to drink as little as possible, and Mick encouraged him to continue taking his Xanax—but only as prescribed.
Zack swore, “Nothing else.”
We all offered to be there for him, whatever he needed—support, talking, a shoulder—but Zack had already put up a masculine front, and I didn’t know if it was to reassure himself or us.
And, as promised, he talked to his mom. Even though we didn’t witness it, I believed him. How else would he be able to explain rehab? And he wouldn’t be able to stop any of us from talking about it.
We encouraged him to rest—even when we came over to play videogames with him two nights before we hit the road again.
There had been no press at all about his overdose, so we’d dodged a bullet.
Zack had been right to push for the second leg of the tour, because this was a moment when we got to reap the benefits of all our hard work.
We were the only opening act for, of all people, Ashen Retribution—the band of assholes we’d toured with earlier in the year.
This time, though, they had their first headlining tour and Mick told us they’d actually asked to have us with them.
What?
Maybe we really had earned their respect.
That leg, four weeks, proved to us that we had earned our spot—on the charts, in rock history, in our fans’ hearts.
We believed it even more when, one week in, Mick told us we had a third leg booked for January and February—in the UK and Europe supporting a famous UK band.
And we weren’t the opener. The opening act was a German metal band.
We had never felt so legit.
Mick had admitted that the third leg had already been booked—but the label would not book any more dates until after rehab.
We should have enjoyed our first international tour.
But, as the days ticked by, I witnessed Zack beginning to close himself off again.
He talked less and drank more, but at least he allowed us to babysit him.
While on tour, he was always accompanied by one of us—and, even though it rankled him some, he let us do it, because he knew his future and his life depended on it.
Braden and I did some sightseeing when we could, but it was difficult if Zack didn’t feel up to going with us. Nearing the end of our time in Europe, every day was a struggle.
What happened with Cy the second-to-last night of the European leg didn’t help Zack’s mental state at all.
As it was, Cy had been quiet, seeming to be containing his anger at a low simmer.
Once or twice, I’d tried to get him to open up, but he refused—so, near the end, I was taking many of his turns to be with Zack.
It didn’t hurt that we’d started playing cards again regularly—but it was often just Braden, Zack, and me.
Cy made it clear through his actions that he didn’t want to spend time with any of us.
I tried not to take it personally.
But when he asked just the three of us—me, Braden, and Zack—to join him for dinner at a little inn in Budapest, we all knew something was up. Fortunately, the staff at the restaurant spoke decent English, so ordering was easy.
But the atmosphere was tense and it was all because of Cy.
Zack couldn’t wait any longer. As soon as we’d ordered, he asked Cy, “So what’s up?”
Cy had been growing his black hair longer again, so it once more reached his chin. It was thick and straight, so it hung in his eyes on stage—and the girls loved it. Here and now, though, it made it harder to read the expression on his face.
He shook his head slightly to get the hair out of his face before leaning back in the chair. “I’m considering something that I think you guys should know.”
“Well, spit it out,” Zack said. Although he’d seemed stronger over the past couple of weeks, the last few days had felt like he was only hanging on by a thread. Would Cy’s news push him over the edge?
And would it really matter? Now that his stay at a rehab facility somewhere in Arizona was imminent, maybe it would be okay if Zack couldn’t keep it together these last few days.
Then again, there was also the matter of our final show in Europe.
Cy’s expression hadn’t changed when he finally spoke. “Ashen Retribution has offered me a slot as a second guitarist.”
“And you’re jumping at the chance to take it?” Zack all but spat.
“I’m thinking about it.”
“Don’t just think about it, Cy. If you’re so goddamned unhappy, just take it. I think we’re all pretty sick and tired of your shitty attitude.”
“My shitty attitude is because you’re a fucking mess.”
A man at the table next to us stood as if expecting our table to erupt into a fight—probably because Cy and Zack’s voices had grown too loud and angry. Braden leaned over and I said, “Guys, you should probably keep your voices down a bit.”
Zack sat back and Cy glared before shrugging his shoulders. Braden said, “Zack, I get why you’re pissed—but, Cy, I also get why you’re looking.”
“I wasn’t looking, man. They asked me. And they might be dicks half the time, but they have their shit together.”
“Well, you can go be your dickish self with them,” Zack said.
“Stop it,” I said. “Let’s try to be calm.”
“It’s pretty hard to do that when you wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for me.”
Cy nearly snarled. “That’s the shit you gotta stop. If you want me to stay, you gotta stop acting like you’re the only person in this band. You’re not the only one who matters.”
Zack opened his mouth to say something and then stopped himself—as if Cy’s words were finally hitting him.
Cy took the opening. “I love this band, but you’re a mess, Zack.
When you asked me to join, I was excited, ‘cause I never thought of doing something like this with my life—but I loved music and I knew if I practiced, I’d get good.
And I did. I love playing, and I’ve grown to love performing too.
But it’s exhausting not knowing if you’re gonna be sober…
if you’re gonna be able to play a show without sounding like shit.
Ever since you went to the hospital, I’ve been wondering how long till that happens again.
How long is it gonna be before we find you dead or…
braindead? How long before you kill yourself?
And then what happens to the rest of us? ”
Zack’s face slackened as Cy’s words sunk in. It had felt at first like Cy was rejecting us, rejecting Zack; instead, he felt like he’d been treated like his opinions—and fears—didn’t matter.
He said everything I’d been thinking…and more.
Zack sat up, and the crack in his voice gave away just how much Cy’s words had affected him.
“Man, I…know sorry doesn’t cut it, but I hope you know I invited all you guys ‘cause I couldn’t imagine life without having my best friends share in my success.
Back then, I didn’t stop to think I’d be bringing you along for my failures too.
I…I’m trying to get my shit together. I’m taking the idea of rehab seriously.
I want to get clean and I want Riot to be successful.
We are this fucking close,” he said, holding his index finger and thumb close together so that just a few hairs could fit between them. “I can feel it.”
“Can you?” Cy’s voice was softer, the edge gone.
“Yeah…and OD’ing…that scared me. I was that close to being gone forever, from being wiped off the face of this planet before I leave my mark. I don’t want to go there again. So…I get where you’re coming from.”
Braden nodded—and I blinked, trying to stop myself from crying again, something I’d been doing far too much over the past few months.
Zack said, “If you gotta go…I’m not gonna stop you.
If you think you’ll get what you need with AR, you got my blessing.
But no one can replace you in Riot. I want us to earn our first gold album together.
I want us to tour the world together. I want all four of us to make perfect album after perfect album, songs we’re proud of that will speak for us long after we’re gone.
I could get another guitarist in a heartbeat,” he said to Cy, leaning on the table, “but nobody could ever replace you. If you leave, there will be a permanent hole in this band.”
Cy’s dark eyes were hard to read as they shifted from Zack to Braden to me—and then back again. “I want to stay with Riot. You guys are my family…and I know you can’t make any guarantees, but I want a promise that you’ll try.”
“I am,” Zack said. But he wasn’t exasperated.
Instead, he seemed to be saying that he wouldn’t be able to believe in himself anymore unless we did.
This man—the one who’d believed in our success back when we were kids and playing nothing but covers poorly—he’d given us his all and now he needed it back from us.