Chapter 15 #2
At the end of the second week of the tour, we played a show in Minneapolis and then Chicago the next day—and we left right after the show.
Our tiny bus was not like the fancy one Last Five Seconds had, because we didn’t have bunks in ours…
which meant we had to try to sleep in our seats—comfortable enough for sitting, but sleeping was another matter.
We arrived in Chicago around ten that morning and ate breakfast while Mick chatted with the motel, slipping them extra cash for an early check in. I hated that we were spending even more money that we probably hadn’t earned, but when my head hit the pillow for a much-needed nap, I felt grateful.
When Mick rousted us all so we could eat lunch and head to the venue for soundcheck, Braden said, “Dude, I’m sick of eating baloney sandwiches. Do you think we could go to McDonald’s or Taco Bell for lunch?”
Zack said, “Yeah. We’ve earned it. Maybe we should figure out other stuff to buy next time we’re at the store.”
We all got on the bus—sans crew, because they were already at the venue setting up—and Zack told Mick we wanted to eat somewhere for lunch. “Somewhere cheap.”
Mick pulled out his phone, tapped a couple of times, and said, “There’s a Subway and a Taco Bell close by.”
Grinning, Braden said, “Taco Bell it is!”
The bus driver dropped us off and took the bus to the venue, because there was no place for him to park.
The street reminded me very much of downtown Denver—crowded, bumper-to-bumper parking, lots of pedestrians.
Mick told us we could either walk to the venue, a few blocks away, or we could call an Uber.
An Uber meant even more money—so we agreed to walk.
As we walked into the Taco Bell, I spotted a Starbucks about half a block away. “You guys wanna get a coffee after?” I asked, pointing to the corner where the green mermaid logo announced its presence.
Cy said, “They’re kinda pricey, aren’t they?”
“Yeah, but you only live once!”
Braden said, “I’ll go with you.”
“I will too,” Cy said. “But I probably won’t get anything.”
Zack said nothing, but as we got in line, Mick said, “Just don’t get distracted. Get your coffee and then hoof it to the venue.”
Throughout our meal, Zack hardly said a word, disappearing into that quiet place he’d been going all too often of late.
I wished I could have blamed it on the upcoming show, that he was getting into the zone, but I knew that wasn’t it at all.
It was the cloud that had been overtaking my friend’s every thought.
And still he refused to talk about it.
More worrisome was that he ate a lone taco.
He didn’t even get a soda. Fortunately, Braden carried the conversation.
Because we had a day off between Chicago and Detroit, we’d be spending the next day here and then on show day for Detroit, leave early—and Braden told us about all the free things we could do during our day off, instead of playing cards or watching old sitcoms. He told us there was no admission fee to visit the zoo or Millenium Park before telling us about all his other ideas.
Mick said, “Slow down, fella. You need to rest during your days off.”
“To hell with that. I’ve never been to Chicago before and I don’t know if I’ll ever be back. I wanna say I’ve actually seen a few things on tour.”
It was moments like those, when I could see the innocence and optimism in Braden, that I cherished my friendship with him.
But even he couldn’t pull Zack out of the crevasse he’d fallen into.
Before the rest of us finished, Zack crumpled up the wrapper from his taco. “I’m gonna explore a bit. I’ll see you guys at the venue.”
“You know where it is?”
“I got my phone. I can find it.”
“Soundcheck’s at three. Don’t be late.”
Zack didn’t even bother to roll his eyes as he stood up, taking his tray to the trashcan and emptying it before the rest of us could say another word. Mick shook his head, and I wondered if he was as concerned about Zack’s behavior as I was.
As we were getting up to go, Mick said, “I’m gonna call an Uber. Who wants to ride with me?”
That would be another expense and I didn’t know if it would cost more if we rode along, but I’d ordered less to eat at Taco Bell than I ordinarily would have to justify a latte—so I was going to get it.
The temperature felt on the chilly side when we left the building and I pulled my jacket tight around my frame. Noticing, Mick said, “You sure you don’t want to ride to the venue?”
“Only if you can wait.”
“If I’m here when you get out of Starbucks, come on over.”
I also figured if he was getting picked up just as we were leaving Starbucks, they could make a quick stop. After all, Mick would see us exiting if he was still there.
But Starbucks was a little slow and Mick’s Uber driver was a little fast. I got a short Caffè Mocha and Cy, obviously changing his mind, got a “regular” coffee. Braden just got a cup of water and, by the time we headed out the door, Mick was gone.
Braden said, “I wonder where Zack went.”
Cy said, “Text him. If he’s close, we can all walk together.”
But Zack never responded. And I tried not to worry as we made our way to the venue—which was almost a mile away.
Still, we got there in plenty of time for the soundcheck.
Fortunately, Braden had started bringing cards to the venue as well, because we’d have some downtime before the actual show, and none of us wanted to go back to the motel.
But when it came time for soundcheck, Zack hadn’t shown up. Mick’s face and neck, as he shouted into his phone, were almost as red as a ripe tomato. “Where the fuck are you? Soundcheck started two minutes ago, so you better get your ass here now!”
He hadn’t actually been talking to Zack but leaving a voicemail—and I flew into pure panic mode. “Should we go look for him? What if—”
Braden said, “He’s not even five minutes late. We can—”
Mick bellowed. “Doesn’t matter! He knows my rules—”
“Yeah, old man,” Zack shouted, appearing from backstage. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch. I’m here. I had to find the fuckin’ door. Did you know there are a shit-ton of locked doors on this place?”
Oh, shit. If I wasn’t mistaken, Zack was hammered out of his skull.
And Mick knew it. “Are you drunk?”
Smirking, Zack walked toward the microphone, nearly tripping, but not on anything I could see. “I just had a little to take the edge off.”
“You’ve had more than a little, son. You act like you drank the whole barrel of moonshine.”
Zack started laughing. “Moonshine. I’d like to try that someday.”
“Psst. Dude!” Braden said, not getting Zack’s attention. Mick looked like he was ready to pull Zack’s head off his neck, but our frontman was either oblivious or didn’t give a shit. Braden finally closed the gap, handing Zack his guitar.
“Thanks, man. I guess I need that for soundcheck, right?”
After Zack pulled the guitar over his head, Mick appeared on the other side of him. “I think you forgot something.”
Slowly, Zack turned his head. “Oh, yeah.” Mick handed him his in-ear monitors, devices that we’d only started using once we were on tour, and I wondered how we’d ever managed without them.
They were like earbuds, only better, because they protected our ears from the damaging loudness blaring from the amps—the best way to share our music with a huge crowd—while delivering a mix of what we were all playing so we could deliver a perfect experience for our audience.
What I loved most was that we could have the sound guy adjust our own monitors into a personalized mix.
After the first show, I’d had him turn up the bass a little bit, because Braden helped me keep time.
But it was as if Zack had forgotten about them.
Once he had the monitors in his ears and the receiver clipped to his belt, he ignored Mick and looked at me to start our practice song.
It amazed me that my drum mics rarely picked up the sound of clicking drumsticks, but it was loud and clear through my in-ear monitors.
And Zack might have been drunk, but I couldn’t tell by the way he played.
It was flawless.
His singing, on the other hand, wasn’t nearly as good. He slurred some words and completely forgot others.
When we finished the song, done with the check, I stood—because I knew LFS and the other band would have to do their soundchecks soon.
After being on the road for even just a short time, I’d grown to understand why Mick was such a stickler for being punctual—we all depended on each other to keep the concert machine running smoothly.
And, right now, Zack was a wrench in the machine, completely fucking it up.
As we made our way off stage, Mick pummeled Zack with questions. “How much did you have to drink?”
“I don’t know.”
“Bullshit. How much?”
“I said I don’t know. I lost count.”
“How the fuck do you—” Mick paused when Zack pulled a plastic mini bottle of vodka out of his jacket pocket—but it was full.
We all stopped walking in the hallway, but it was evident that the guys and I were torn.
Should we stay or should we leave these two alone?
We stayed—because we knew we had to be part of the solution, if there even was one. “How many more do you have?”
“That’s the last one.”
“Do I need to pat you down?”
Zack laughed. “I’d let a groupie do it.”
“Goddamn it, Zack. This is serious. You have a fucking show to perform in less than four hours.”
“I’ll be fine. You heard me in there.” His eyes locked with mine and I could almost believe he was sober. “I sounded fine, right, Dani?”
Frowning, I slowly shook my head. If he’d been in Cy’s position, he would have maybe been fine, but his backup vocals still would have sucked.
And I couldn’t lie to my friend. We’d been turning a blind eye to his drinking, but I couldn’t ignore it anymore. It was clearly a cry for help, and we hadn’t responded properly. Once more, I felt immense gratitude to our tour manager who was currently giving Zack a heavy dose of tough love.
“You sounded like shit,” Mick said. “How many bottles did you start with?”
Frowning, Zack’s mouth hung open as if his brain had gone completely blank. “I spent my whole per diem, so, uh…”
“What? Your whole—weekly or daily?”
“Daily, man. They didn’t have enough for—”
“So how many?”
At first, I thought Zack was continuing to struggle to find the answer, but he was shaking his head—and Mick figured it out first. “Not here.” Although he started leading Zack quickly to his room, they didn’t make it, and Zack puked in the hallway.
“Goddammit. Braden, Cy—get him to the dressing room and clean him up. Dani, stay here so no one trips on this shit and I’ll find someone to clean it up. ”
While everyone left me standing next to a puddle of vomit—the contents of a half-digested taco and lots of liquid—I felt my own anger begin to simmer with Zack.
I knew he was suffering, but he was now putting our entire future in jeopardy.
It wasn’t long before the anger turned to myself, because I felt like I had let him down.
But it was impossible to open a door with your bare hands that was nailed shut.
Zack either needed to open that door willingly—or we had to figure out how to force him to confront whatever it was inside him that kept making him feel like numbness was the answer.
When Mick returned with an older guy rolling a bucket with a mop, he said thank you to both of us. Then, as Mick and I began walking toward the dressing rooms, he told me, “It’s a good thing he threw up. Otherwise, he might have gotten worse instead of better.”
“Will he be okay by showtime?” Never having kept tabs on how much Zack drank or precisely how much made him drunk or how long it took him to sober up, I had no idea what to expect.
And I had so many questions, but I suspected Zack had simply walked inside a liquor store and purchased it himself.
Because he was so tall and he’d let his facial hair grow out a bit on tour, I knew he could easily pass for over twenty-one, especially since he was almost that age anyway.
Then again, he might have encountered someone who didn’t really care what his age was.
It was also possible he’d gotten someone else to do it for him, but Zack probably wouldn’t remember by morning how he’d gotten it.
“I don’t know, kid. All I know is I’m getting too old to be dealing with this kind of shit.”
Jesus. Did that mean he was considering bailing on us? Despite Mick’s often gruff demeanor, he’d been exactly what we needed—on so many levels. If Zack would open himself up to the possibility, Mick could even be a bit of a father figure.
Well…maybe not, but I knew we could have gotten stuck with much worse.
“Out of you, Cy, and Braden, who knows the lyrics best?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know if Zack will be able to sing tonight—and it’s way too early in your career to start pissing off fans you don’t even have yet.”
I wasn’t about to throw my band members under the bus, but Braden’s voice was sometimes flat.
He was great as a backup singer, but he’d need vocal training to take center stage.
And there was no way I wanted to be under that kind of pressure, even though every word of every song was emblazoned on my heart—even the songs that made me angry at Zack, like the one about getting it on with a girl he barely knew.
And Cy? No way. It had been hard enough talking him into singing backup vocals.
There was no way in hell he’d sing lead.
So I lied.
“I don’t think any of us know the songs as good as Zack.”
“Fuck.”
We continued walking a little further, and I felt inspired. “What about cutting off his mic and playing the lyrics from one of our CDs?”
Mick’s laugh filled the hallway, bouncing off walls as it reverberated in my ears.
“That takes planning—and you guys aren’t doin’ that Milli Vanilli shit, not on my watch.
” Pausing outside my dressing room, he said, “If you’ve ever prayed in your life, pray now.
I’m gonna have him take some Tylenol and down a big glass of water, find something for him to eat.
The rest of you will deal with the press, but I’m not gonna have him talking to them in the state he’s in.
Then I’m gonna have him sleep until half an hour before showtime.
A cold shower and some strong coffee after that—and then we fuckin’ pray he can pull it off. ”
And pray I did.