Page 68 of Shame Me
Once we were backstage again, I asked, “Zack, are you feeling all right?”
“Never better.”
Cy asked, “You sure, buddy?”
“Yeah, why?”
Even Braden joined in, making me grateful that we all cared enough to show Zack our concern. “You seemed to have some problems with your voice tonight.”
I said, “So I wondered if maybe you’re coming down with a cold.” As exhausted as we were all feeling, it wouldn’t have surprised me—and it made me wonder how he’d do a show in a day or two if he was coughing all the time or had a constantly runny nose.
“No, I feel fine. My voice is just tired, I guess.”
“Bullshit,” Braden said. “I’m calling bullshit, dude. We played shows three or four nights in Denver every fucking week and this never happened.”
I’d never seen Zack’s eyes grow so scary looking. His pupils grew so wide, I could barely see the green in them. “What the hell are you accusing me of?”
“I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m just telling you to pull your head out of your ass. You’re killing your voice because you won’t stop drinking.”
“That doesn’t have anything to do with it.”
“Bullshit.”
Mick appeared a second later. “Am I gonna have to put gloves on you two? Knock this shit off. Get your asses in your dressing rooms if you feel the need to fight.”
His intervention, however, ended the argument—and Braden went to his dressing room, Zack to his.
And what nailed our suspicions was later that night. Before we left, Zack pulled out the bottle again. Grabbing a towel, he started coughing into it. Then he said, “Maybe Iamgetting sick.” His voice was raspy, as if he’d been swallowing bits of glass—and then he followed it up with another swig.
I was certain Braden was right—and I thought I could see in Zack’s eyes that he did too…but it wasn’t nearly enough to make him quit.
By mid tour, I knew drinking was the problem with his voice. He never did come down with a cold, and two nights later, I said, “Maybe save drinking till after the show.”
“It helps me perform, Dani.”
“But I think it’s trashing your voice. Please…just try tonight. For me.” I distracted him with a quick hand job, successfully taking his mind off the bottle. And that night he sang like an opera star with stamina and power, hitting every note like he was supposed to. Although I never mentioned it, I hopedhewould make the connection.
Unfortunately, when we saw the social media comments about our Portland show and the next few after it, it was obviousthat the fans loved his “rock and roll grit,” and I knew that would give him another argument if we tried pressing the no-drinking-before-the-show suggestion again.
Two days later, we had a day off—and a stay in a hotel—in Boise, Idaho. Most of the roadies were going to check out some kind of prison museum that afternoon and invited all of us to go with them, but Zack said he needed to sleep, so I stayed behind. Cy and Braden went along, wanting to do something “normal.” I wound up reading an ebook while sitting in a chair next to the window, looking at the snow-capped mountains in the distance. They reminded me of the Front Range back in Denver.
And I was hit with a quick jolt of homesickness.
We’d been so busy, we hadn’t had time to think of much more than the day-to-day of tour life—but with a few hours of alone time, it was hard to keep my brain from going there. And I didn’t get much reading done because my mind kept distracting me—because not only was I homesick, but I was worried about Zack.
Finally, I turned the television on low and watched a couple of movies before drifting off on the bed next to him. Later, when I awoke, Zack was at the small table in our room.
Drinking.
I couldn’t avoid it anymore.
“Hey.”
“Hey, babe,” he said, his voice cracking much like it had been for the past week.
“How long have you been up?” Getting up off the bed, I walked over to the table, sitting in the other chair.
“Not long.”
