Page 68 of Deliverance

“Only if there’s a happy ending.” Toby snorts.

Stevie shakes his head and plucks the cigarette from his mouth. “Get in line, assholes.”

“I don’t see one,” Jacob calls from the back seat of the car.

“Your mama made an appointment first.”

We howl with laughter and load into the Navigator.

The night is warm and clear and carries the promise of a good time. Just not for me.

But I go with the flow. Like a fish in the river, drifting downstream because it’s convenient, because it’s easy, because it doesn’t require much effort. And effort is something I can’t seem to conjure right now. Not after a fourteen-hour day behind my drum kit, walking the razor’s edge. That’s how I see it, anyway. The moments when I have to let go and allow the animal in me to take over.

We end up driving to a club in West Hollywood called The Spot, which is known as the hottest hang-out for celebs who are either making rock music or are into rock music. Or have enough wits not to wear band T-shirts with the names of bands they’ve never heard of. The difference between the Sunset Strip relics of the dying rock’n’roll scene and The Spot is that the latter is frequented by a much younger crowd—the spawns of the elite with shitty attitudes and expensive cars they have no business driving, the magazine-cover-material actors who hit it big by starring on mediocre teen TV shows, the desperate-looking Kurt Cobain and Eddie Vedder wannabes in their flannel shirts and extra-ripped jeans.

Basically, rich hipsters with too much free time.

Just like any other place in L.A. that caters to the crowd with money, The Spot is hard to get into unless you know the right people or show enough swag at the door. Even then, it all depends on who’s inside on the night in question.

The club occupies the greater half of a three-story building tucked against the side of a hill overlooking the bustling city, and I’m positive I’ve been here more than once, but my memory of the past visits is hazy. Meaning, I was probably faded.

At the door, the bouncer recognizes Leo right away. They shake hands and he lets us in without checking our IDs. Even Stevie gets a free pass. We’re greeted by a petite brunette in a fitted black dress, who then escorts our group upstairs and to the back patio, where a private corner booth with a view stretching all the way to downtown has been prepared for us.

The waitress, a carbon copy of the girl who we just met in the lobby, shows up the moment my ass hits the chair.

“Gentlemen!” She flashes a smile and hands out the menus. “What can I get you to start with this evening?”

“Let’s start with champagne, sweetie,” Leo says, shimmying out of his jacket. He snaps his head in my direction and jabs his index finger into the empty space between us. “You out-fucking-did yourself today, dude! Album’s gonna be lit.”

“Yeah, sounded really tight.” Stevie nods from across the table, eyeing the girl’s behind as she walks off to get that champagne.

Toby and Jacob throw in their two cents as well and stick their noses into the menus.

The waitress returns with the bottle shortly after. “Do you need another minute?” She’s fiddling with the pencil in her hand and I can tell she’s nervous.

Fame does that.

It intimidates others.

Why?

Because for most people, fame is synonymous with assholery and suspect behavior.

I find this notion unwarranted. I’m a firm believer that a person is what he or she wants to be, regardless of status, income, or skills.

Being fair and decent is a state of mind, which leads me to the question I’ve been asking myself more and more lately.

Am I a good person? Am I someone deserving of all that I have?

“We’ll get a bottle of Grey Goose,” Leo says, voice strained over the live music bleeding onto the patio from downstairs. “And some appetizers.”

The waitress rattles off a few options and waits for us to decide.

“Hot wings,” Jacob barks. “Extra sauce.”

“You still have those jalapeno poppers?” Toby asks.

The girl nods and shifts her attention to me.

---