Page 45 of Deliverance

“They’re the right ones, yeah?” I produce a frown, perhaps a bit more severe than intended since these days the incident in question makes me laugh. However, it wasn’t funny years ago when the shipment of my then newly announced signature drumsticks I was supposed to take with me to Asia got fucked up. And the fuck-up was major, as in, end-of-the-goddamned-world major. The manufacturer engraved someone else’s name on them instead of mine. In a fit of rage, I trashed my hotel room. Julian only noticed the day of the very first show of the leg, when the road crew started setting up that morning. We had to cancel all the press photographers. Shots of me with those drumsticks could potentially ruin my reputation and the reputation of the manufacturer. Although, in my eyes, their reputation was already as good as my own piss and building it up again would take years. And mountains of free swag. Our own photo guy received very explicit instructions that night. So did our light guy. I played in darkness, surrounded by clouds of smoke, and my ego was wounded. Even my solo was cut down to four minutes. Thankfully, our next show wasn’t until two days later, and by that time, the manufacturer had whipped out a whole box of correct drumsticks and express-shipped them to Japan.

“I had Adamson check personally,” Julian says as we wheel the case with my base drums inside his truck, where he lovingly arranges everything up to his liking.

My phone buzzes from the house and I turn around and head back inside. The call is from Leo. He wants to know if I had a chance to listen to the new tracks.

“I did, yeah. Stuff is great.”

“Thanks, dude.” I hear a pinch in his voice. “Mekhi gave you the access codes and everything?”

“Yeah, I’ve got my guy bringing the kit tonight.”

“Cool, cool.”

“Hey, man, I’ve only heard nine tracks, though. I thought you said eleven.”

“Toby and I are working on the last two this weekend. We’ve got a bunch of extra material, and I was thinking of using some of it for the album. Maybe we can throw in a couple of bonus songs on a deluxe edition. We’ll use my home studio to finish up the rest in case we need more time. The album isn’t scheduled for release until next year anyway.”

So what do you need me for? Ashby could do rehab twice between now and then, I think to myself for a moment but then realize that’s an asshole mentality. Maybe Ashby doesn’t want to record this album altogether. Maybe he’s fine and just wants a way out. Many of us do. Many of us stop finding joy in things that we loved when we were younger.

It’s the nature of the beast.

Not everyone’s monsters are as bloodthirsty as mine.

“Don’t make any plans for Monday evening. Still gotta celebrate,” Leo warns.

“All right, man.”

We go over a couple of things related to the upcoming work in the studio and say our goodbyes.

“Leo still got his voice intact?” Julian asks from the doorway once I end the call.

“Yeah. Still sounds decent.” I toss the phone on the coffee table and it rattles against the glass. “Didn’t you work with them once?”

“When they were all green.” Julian chuckles. “One tour cycle with Ashby. Leo didn’t even know how to scream back then without ripping his cords apart. The label got him a vocal coach halfway through the tour.”

Good thing they did. It’d be a shame to lose another decent metal singer to lack of technique. But from what I’ve heard so far, this new album isn’t going to be all that heavy. At least not vocally.

“Well, you’ll catch up on Monday.” I grin and cross into the kitchen to get some water.

“He probably won’t remember who I am.” Shaking his head, Julian follows me.

“He was that faded?”

He nods. “There were days, kid couldn’t remember his own name.”

We’ve all been in that rut. It’s the bane of every artist’s existence. And the bigger the fandom, the greater the curse.

I pull the fridge door open and take out two bottles. One for me. One for Julian. Old memories surge forward. The four of us are in a hotel suite; the lights are dimmed and the alcohol is flowing. Mad laughter blends with the haphazard fumbling of the guitar strings and drunken slurs. I’m high and the world feels like it belongs to me. Like I can reach out and grab it and own it, own every little heart, every little thought, every fucking breath.

And then the tables turn and the world owns me.

I don’t truly believe that the foam Chance is spitting out is real.

Fucker always liked pranks.

Someone—I’m not certain whether it’s Justice or Cruz—shoves at my shoulder and I fall back into the cool leather of the couch, my heart rate kicking into a frantic sprint.

Call the paramedics, man!a voice snarls.

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