Page 29 of Broken Melody
“We have, yes. But we know this is going to happen. A woman is going to join us. But you told us we would get to choose,” Rocco says politely, yet sternly, “And we’ve done so. And we want the best. And we think we’ve chosen that as well.”
He throws his arms up in the air, “Fine. I’ll offer it to Sailor. I’ll go and give her a call to come in as soon as she can. I want your practice schedule for studio time on my desk ASAP.”
“We can do that,” Henley says.
“But, I’m telling you right now, if for some reason singing with you is not the decision she makes, we will be right back here picking someone else. And I expect your full cooperation. Got it?”
“Yes,” Nixon says.
“Why wouldn’t she decide to sing with us?” I ask suspiciously wondering if he had hoped we would miss that comment.
“Well…because…” He throws up his hands. “I’m going to hopefully make her another offer she can’t refuse.”
“I knew it,” I growl angrily.
“I would be stupid not to. I am after all running a business here, and that’s just good business. So prepare yourself. Got it?” With that he stalks out of the room and we all look at each other in irritation. I’ve got a feeling of doom in my belly, and I hope it’s unfounded.
Jace interrupts my thoughts, “What the hell has gotten into you guys? You can’t speak to him like that for fuck’s sake. Me? Yes, you can speak to me like that, but I can and will if needed speak to him like that myself. Trust me, you do not want to piss him off at this point. He’s your only lifeline right now and could pull your contract out from under you any time claiming breach of your terms. Don’t you get that?”
“Sorry, Jace, we get it. But come on, we had to fight for Sailor. We like her. We want her. It’s insulting that he even thinks these people could hold a candle to her. Frankly, we didn’t hear you speaking up for our position.” Rocco says.
“You ‘like her’ and ‘want her’? Since when?” he asks with irritation. We all just stare at him not willing to tell him about our dinner with her, but he knows us well. “Yeah, fine. Whatever. Keep your secret. I just hope that it all works out. Now get the hell out of here. I’ll contact you once I know something.”
He doesn’t have to ask us twice. We’re all up and out of our chairs in seconds. “Later,” I call to the guys as I head to my car and they all call out their goodbye’s too knowing we will see each other at practice soon enough.
I head home, eager to spend as much time there as I can. The next couple months are going to fly by and before long, we’ll be on tour. A three-month tour isn’t bad, but it’s still time away from your own place, your own bed. Living in a bus with three other guys is not my idea of a good time. They’re annoying, loud, and let’s not forget smelly as hell. This time, there will also be a female in the mix - that will change things even more.
Stepping into my house, I sigh in relief. It’s a quiet day, the housekeepers were here yesterday and no one is here but me. My mind instantly returns to dinner last night with Sailor. My fascination with her keeps growing and I’m not sure how I feel about it. I haven’t learned much about her yet, but the little I do know, I like. She’s happy, fun, engaging, determined, and she doesn’t take my shit. I have a feeling practicing and touring with her is going to be an experience unlike any other. I’m both looking forward to it and dreading it at the same time.
In my bedroom, my guitar beckons to me from the corner of the room. Writing songs hasn’t been easy for me lately. Truth be told, I’ve had block from hell. Every time I pick it up and try to come up with something new, the urge inside me is buried. I can’t dig it out no matter how hard I try. It’s almost like it shriveled up and disappeared altogether.
When I’ve tried to push past it, flashes of my past rise up out of nowhere. It’s like those feelings are buried in my heart and soul and until I deal with them, each time I dig deep, those are going to be the ones that are revealed first. It’s a conundrum. Because those thoughts, my failure, her tragedy…it all makes me freeze, unable to think clearly, let alone write. Isn’t that my luck? I know that sometimes crises and similar situations cause people to pour their heart and soul into their work. I’ve heard of songwriters becoming elated when bad shit happens to them because it gives them a renewed focus and they pour all of their pain into their lyrics and music. But that’s not how it is with me. I can’t do that. These thoughts, my feelings…they imprison me; and I can’t find the key to unlock the cell.
When the images come to me, they’re horrible and vivid. Despite the fact that I wasn’t even there – and have no truth, no certainty in what actually occurred – my mind conjures up the worst images imaginable. I cling to them and sometimes expand them - and view them as though they’re factual. I see her pain, I hear her screams and pleas for me to help her - I see her horror. I can taste it on my tongue, hear it in my ears, it’s as if an oily film coats my skin and I can’t continue. Either I put the guitar down and grab the closest available alcohol to wash away the pictures, thoughts, pain and inevitably my feelings. Or I dash to the nearest bathroom to hurl the contents of my stomach.
Many times I held my phone in my hand, punched in her number, let it ring, and listened to her voicemail. I did it obsessively until her phone service was shut off. Then, and now, I’ve thought about what I would say to her a million times. Played it out in my mind over and over again. The worst part is that since I can’t hear her voicemail anymore, I’ve forgotten the sound of her voice.
Staring now at my guitar, I wonder if I want to even try. Do I really want to put myself through the pain once more? I want to push through, I do, but it’s so impossibly difficult. Part of me wants to forget it and grab some whiskey instead and drown myself in sorrow and memories. I almost walk away. I almost head to the kitchen. But something stops me. Suddenly, I see her. Sailor. And in this moment, I allow my feelings to surface, gurgling for life, and invoke honesty that I’ve submerged since I first heard her sing. Her laugh, her voice, and her obvious love for music. I see the way her body moves when she sings and how her face lights up with joy from doing so. And for the first time in a long time, through her, through the magic of having had the chance to watch her sing, I find inspiration.
Slowly, as if moving too fast would make it fade away, I take my guitar from its stand, and sit down, cradling it in my lap. I run my fingers down the strings of her neck, stroking her like a lover. With my right hand, I strum a couple random chords. Closing my eyes, I play a song, an easy one, one that’s as familiar to me as my own face. When the thoughts I want to avoid enter my mind, my fingers clench momentarily making me skip a couple notes, but I do my best, try hard, to push them away. Sweat beads on my forehead and my upper lip, nausea hiding just beyond reach. I push past the agony, fight my way through the tunnel of despair that has me in its grip, and somehow at the end, I see a smile. I hear a laugh. And finally, I hear a beautiful voice that washes away the pain.
A new sound starts to come from the instrument I love. I play it over and over again; find the melody, memorize it. It’s Sailor’s song. I didn’t mean to have one, it doesn’t even make sense, but how and where an artist finds inspiration doesn’t always have to. Its been so long since I’ve felt like this, that I hold onto it, I revel in it, I laugh out loud, unwilling to stop and let this feeling go. God, I’ve missed it so much. I let myself become the music; we are one.
As I continue to play, a few words hit me here and there but nothing concrete. I write down what I have, not wanting to forget them, but I don’t worry. I know the rest will come in time.
What has to be hours later, I finally put the guitar down, a little hesitant to do so. Standing, I head into the shower and quickly wash up and then eat something before I go to bed. For the first time in a long time, I fall asleep with a smile on my lips instead of alcohol. And that night, my nightmares stay away.
