Page 128 of Vespertine
When he reached his next departure gate, he dropped into acorner chair, planning to fade into the background so no one would notice him.He pulled his phone out of his pocket. He supposed there really was no gettingaround looking at the messages. Ramona or Sez might need him. Fuck managementand the label, though. Fuck them and whatever they had to say about anything.
He touched the message icon on his phone, but his attentionwas arrested by the news on theTVscreen acrossfrom him. His throat closed off as he recognized the tragic scene they were coveringnow. The Spanish Colonial Revival home was his own and he understood thefootage of a white-cloth-draped body bag being wheeled into an ambulance. Butthe words in medium letters along the bottom of the screen made no sense tohim.
Nico Blue, guitarist and songwriter forVespertine, feared dead of apparent overdose at age 34.
He looked down at himself. A weird fear gripped him. Was hedead? No, of course not. He was right here. Flesh and blood, and absolutelyalive. A laugh burst through his mouth like a hiccup of shock.
“I’m not dead, fuckers.”
A talking head type with a bob and a lipsticked mouth lookedsolemn as she discussed him in the past tense. “Despite the lack ofconfirmation from Blue’s management or the police, fans are already grieving,leaving candles and flowers on the sidewalk by the community gates mere hoursafter rumors began. Lead vocalist, Seth “Sez” Cunningham, posted a crypticconfirmation of a death in the band to his Twitter and asked for privacy duringthis time of grief. Officials from theLAPDwillmake an official statement as soon as relatives of the deceased are contacted.We’ll report back on this tragedy as more information comes in.”
“Holy shit.” He needed to call his parents. His mom and dadmust be out of their minds. He needed to call Jazz. The first number he dialedwas the house phone and it went to the machine. “Mom? Hey, it’s me. I’m notdead. I’m totally and completely not dead. I need a better manager though, anda new agent, and whatever the fuck else, but I’m alive. So don’t freak out. I’mcalling Dad’s phone.”
His father’s phone went to voicemail too, and he rememberedthey’d texted their plan to take the boat out that afternoon. His mother spentthe time reading while his dad caught fish. They always came home sunburned andrefreshed. He had no idea how good reception was out on the water, but hecouldn’t reach his dad. So he left another message on his dad’s cell phone thathe wasn’t dead and sent a text for good measure.
Then he called Jasper. There was no answer. He tried callingagain. Power dialing had never been his style but he needed to let Jazz know hewas okay before he saw the news and thought the worst.
“Hey, it’s me, Nicky. I’m not dead. I’m fine. Don’t look atthe news, it’s not true. I’m all right. It was Mick. But I’m coming home. Okay?I’ll be there in a few hours. I wish I could have gotten through to you. I’lltry callingBO. But I’m fine.”
Well, he wasn’t entirely fine. He’d watched his bandmatedie. But it was what he needed Jasper to hear, and it was the closest to thetruth he could find right then.
He pulled up the messenger app to text Jazz and his stomach fellas he read through the increasingly desperate pleas that Jasper had sent.
Please, Nicky, answer me!
Please, please! Just pick up your phone.
He was nauseous and dizzy, his heart hammering so hard hefelt it in his fingers, which shook outrageously as he responded.
I’m okay.
I’m okay, Jazz. I’m sorry. I was on a plane.
But there was no reply. Nicky quickly googled the number forBlue Oasis. It rang and rang, and Nicky had no idea where Mrs. Wells might be.He didn’t leave anything on their answering machine, but dialed backimmediately in hopes of getting through. No luck. He felt sick to his stomach.
He hung up and called his dad’s office in case someone therehad seen the news. He didn’t want them to try to get a message to his dadunless it was that he was very much of the living. He left a message with thereceptionist, who sounded very relieved and happy to hear he wasn’t dead. She’dheard the news and been in a panic about finding Adrian.
For the first time in his adult life, Nicky wished theairport was swarming with paparazzi. He stood up and looked around, trying tofind someone, anyone, with a professional-looking camera and a ratty face thatscreamed “I don’t give a fuck about your privacy,” but there was no one.Frantically, he tried to download and set up a new Facebook profile, butrealized he had no followers. If he knew the password for his professsionalpage the record company ran for him, he could login and post there. But he hadno idea how to post a message anyway. He should have let Lizzie and the kidsshow him.
He called Danvers and had to leave a message. “I am notfucking dead, you son of a fucking bitch. Fucking fix this by the time I landin Maine, or I swear to God, I will—”
“Flight 321 to Portland International Jetport will begingeneral boarding in five minutes. Will first class passengers, and allpassengers needing additional assistance, please approach the gate with yourboarding pass ready.”
First class. That was him.
“Just fucking fix it, you douchebag.”
He sent another text to Jasper.
I’m so sorry. I’m okay. I love you.Please let me know you’re getting my messages.
He called Ramona. “Holy fuck, Ramona, they’re saying I’m dead.”
She sounded like she’d been crying. “What the fuck are youtalking about?”
“Haven’t you seen the news?”
“No. Fuck, no. I don’t want to see that crap. My phones havebeen ringing like crazy. I had to take my landline off the hook, and I onlyanswered my cell because it was you.”
