Page 54 of Shame Me
“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.
Hissinging, 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 saidI 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 havemaybebeen 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 yourbare 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 saidthank youto 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.”
