Category : Books-Non-Fiction

Sub Category : Biography

**This is a continuation of my memoir under nonfiction called “Beautiful Things Can Come from the Dark: Love and Loss in Addiction”

July 2008

           Summertime, and the living’s easy. As easy as it could be when you felt trapped in an oven with a sun for a heat lamp. I was cooped up inside our house on a sweltering day. A day among some of the hottest in Texas. Thermometers were even dying of heat stroke, reading triple digits for weeks straight. 

    I was sitting on the green couch, which was originally Scarlett’s. I felt I had deserved it after we broke up, so I took it and donated it to the new house. The young ladies I lived with became some of the greatest friends anyone could imagine. They accepted and welcomed me into their house knowing full-well that I was a recovering heroin addict. I had been off of dope for only a few months when I moved in but they took a chance on me. 
           It turned out, living with women was what I had needed. Looking back at how I had used to hang around a young Tanya and the other girls, I had figured out I was much more comfortable around girls. Instead of the incessant competitiveness that lies within a group of guys, I felt more at home with women. It could’ve been from that small club we had as kids as to why I felt this way; otherwise, I haven’t the slightest clue. 
           I wasn’t gay way back then and still am not today—not that there is anything wrong with it. My buddy Mickey was bisexual, for instance, and I always enjoyed his company. There’s just something about a women’s presence that I long for—any guy can agree with that. 
           And I wanted it. 
           Needed it. 
           As a result, after high school, all my best friends were women, with the exception of Randy. And even then, I had been with Scarlett. But the women who enjoyed my company as much as I loved theirs’, before I entered rehab, had to witness the bad side of me—drunk and/or drugged. This was the side that drove everyone away. Even I wanted no part of being with myself. That guilt was carried on my shoulders night and day, even after many people had forgiven me since I was doing well,        
           … at least, for now. 

           I’m on the green couch on my side of the house with my computer while Jane watched T.V. She and Sam had made me a facebook page in secret after I explicitly had told them not to. I was fine with my MySpace page and that was it. But they insisted without my approval and went ahead to make me one. I think it only took a day before I became hooked like millions of other people. 
    I was surfing through other people’s posts when I received a message from a complete stranger. Flash Bathory was her name. A cute, rocker-chick with bright red hair with a punk, rockabilly style. Not the kind of punk-look you’d find at Hot Topic, but the kind you make yourself out of leopard print, leather and lingerie. In her picture, she was holding a white, custom-made guitar. 
           She said that she was starting an international-touring band from California with a sound influenced from The Misfits, Pennywise, Danzig and Rancid. Those were some of my favorite punk bands, so she had my undivided attention. They were a guitarist and bassist looking for a drummer and to please message them back. I wondered, How did they know I played drums? Other than my profile picture of me playing the drums, there was no other way you could know this. I know I don’t pop-up on any search engines, that was for sure. It must’ve been fate, because what happened next changed my life…
    I messaged them back notifying them that I was indeed interested. She and the bassist, Matt, told me they were holding all the auditions at the Guitar Center™ down south at 4 p.m. on Friday, and to not be late. 
      “Don’t be late, got it. I’ll be there,” I typed back. . 
    It was a day away, so I went straight to my drumset I had set up in the garage, which also was a part of the house. I believe it used to be a garage, but then had been renovated to be another room. It had been many different things, like a kitty-room and a dog-grooming station, but while I lived there, it was my jam room. 
    I practiced, and practiced, and practiced, with my headphones on, playing along to the different punk songs they had listed. Hitting those drums and cymbals like it was the end of the world. I thought about Scarlett, which made me play harder, angrier, and faster. I played my heart out, or what was left of it—thanks to the damage she had brought upon it. 
      After a few hours, my shirt and pants were soaked with sweat. All I could taste were the salty drops falling into my mouth. 
      My face and body were on fire. 
      My knuckles were bleeding, from where I’d hit a cymbal then catch it with my hand to stop its ringing. 
      There were red drops covering my snare drum from blood flying around me as my arms were wailing about like Animal from The Muppet Show™.
      I was ready.
      I woke up late the next day, something I had anticipated already. It was 2 o’clock in the afternoon and I had to be at Guitar Center in two hours. I got dressed and did a little number on my set to warm-up. After that, I felt good, confident. 
      I knew I was going to need an energy drink to play fast and hard. It was the style they were searching for. I pulled over at a gas station on the way. It wasn’t a full convenient store, only about half the size with gas pumps and a rinky-dink car wash that looked like it hadn’t been used in months. Nevertheless, I got my Monster energy drink and I was ready to roll. 
The sun was beaming down frying my hair, it felt like. When was this heatwave going to end?
      I bought my energy and a water to keep me cool, but before I opened the Monster, waves of anxiety washed over me. It could also have been laziness. For some reason I just didn’t feel up to the task. My head was crammed with second thoughts, third thoughts, fourth—
      What am I doing? I’m not that great on drums. They’re professionals. That Flash chick could wail. They could have anybody they wanted as a drummer. Why would they pick me? I should just blow it off and go back and read. 
      I almost turned around calling the whole thing off. But something inside of me told me to keep driving. I put myself into auto-pilot and cruised the four or five miles to the center while my brain was still going at it. 
      After what I could only imagine as a bloody battle going on in my head was still raging. I was here so I was going to get on with it and screw it if they didn’t like my playing. At least I’ll get to meet the attractive goddess of metal guitar—what she was known as in town. With that, the war in my head ended. 
    
    
To be continued...