Something To Dream On (20 page)

Etta and I plan to go for a quick bathroom walk before heading off to Lizetta’s for what Paul called a
family
barbecue—just him, Lizetta, Jimmy, Judy, and me. Naturally, I’m to bring Etta, because, as Paul said, “Lizzie would roast us both if you don’t. Besides, I think she sees it as a celebration now that Etta’s all healed up.”

Once I cross the threshold, a woman in what can hardly be called a mini-skirt and long sleeved T-shirt with half of if ripped away to show her skeleton heads up the steps. Ah, shit! Laura. But long sleeves? Ten bucks says she’s gotten so sloppy about her habit that she shooting into her arms now.

Etta gets sent back inside, even though I really want to ask her to sink her teeth into Laura’s throat. Thing is, I’m so embarrassed by this girl that I don’t even want Etta to know I talked to her.

Laura glances up at me, and every bit of joy inside me shatters on the ground. God help her, she looks used and discarded. My gut twists at her sight, but because her shallow eyes and weathered skin scream heroin, I can’t let her near me. “Stop. Stop right there.”

She halts, and those empty eyes lock into mine. I take one step down, and then two more, then stop. I’m two steps away from taking her into my arms and begging her to stop using. I want her to move in with me so I can watch over her. I want to become her savior. But none of that can happen, because if I get near this girl, I will compromise myself, and I will lose every gain I’ve spent months making.

Why is it that everything always comes down to me being selfish? I quit using for selfish reasons, I freaked out over Eddie while talking to Lizetta because it could have been me who was killed, and now this. Being selfish now may be justified, but it still breaks my heart. “Whatever it is you came for, the answer is no.” I don’t even give myself the option of thinking further about it before heading back inside and locking the door. My new family can wait until my old hell is long gone before I leave this apartment—which is again, selfish.

Goodbye, Laura. My heart bleeds for you, but I can’t tell you that, or I’ll crumble.

The door shuts behind him. It’s not the respectful click of last time, nor is it the quiet walking away of when he left. It’s a slam—a loud, punctuating slam. It happened without a hello or a how are you. We were two steps away from each other when he turned his back on me, again.

I take two steps forward and whimper out the plea I should have made before he shut the door. “Help me. Please. I can’t find the strength to stop abusing myself.”

Jensen has left me no choice but to take those two steps back, and then several more while accepting that I may soon fall. He could not have made it any clearer. We’re done—for good.

Tears burn my eyes so hard that I can barely see the road. With nowhere to go, I sit in my car outside of the place I used to call home. It’s now hell, and it’s the last place I want to be.

I want to be safe at home.

Home isn’t safe.

I slip off to the liquor store and abuse the tab Larry has for when he sends me on runs. I park in a shaded spot a block from my house, crawl into the backseat, and wait for seemingly endless hours in the summer heat. My hand goes to the door, and then retracts. Again I try to sleep. How much time will pass before I start to cave again? An hour? Five minutes? I unlock the door, and then lock it again. I drink more before trying to sleep off what my brain is screaming for me to do. He was kidding, right? He would just give it to me. I wouldn’t have to …

Why should he be different? I have to do it with everyone else.

Again I go to open the door. Could I really do it? It’s just a blowjob. It wouldn’t be the first time I closed my eyes and dreamt I was elsewhere.

I chug, and then try to sleep again.

I keep playing the game until I pass out. When I wake, it’s no longer the weekend, and I have three more days to find a new trick with Larry so that I can load up again.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Saturday, July 8

It is dusk. This field is the same place that I always go when I need to think, only this time the grass looks more like streaks than blades. I must be dreaming about Mom’s painting that now sits in my living room. “This is a part of you, Jensen. It belongs in your home.”

The deep blue sky is partially obscured by clouds. I catch a glimpse of golden hair as a figure dashes past and into the distance.

Lizetta!

I'm on my feet and running towards her, yet she is already out of view. The sun begins to set. As the sky grows dark, its texture changes from a three-dimensional eternity to a wall of brushstrokes. Stars pop into the night sky, as if being dabbed on.

Did I imagine Lizetta? My body quakes at the thought of even a moment where she isn’t real.
 

The sky loses its brushstrokes and becomes clear again. Footsteps race up from behind, and I turn in hopes of greeting my love—but it’s not her.

Laura has always made my brain hazy, and in my dream, it’s no different. The closer she gets, the more my heart races. It must be fear of what she represents, but as her lips approach mine, I can't help but cave.

“No!” my brain screams. “You cannot succumb, no matter how much you love her.” Bliss consumes me. My bones melt, and I collapse. Laura looks down, and with her building smile, crackling erupts from her skull. Rubble falls, and a needle rises out of her brain. Golden light beams from her eyes and engulfs me. A silver tail trails behind as I sail upward, but my body turns gray and shatters when it drops to the ground. Medusa has reduced me to stone.

Laura runs into the distance. Her arms are open to the world while she twirls like a kite and is raised high into the wind. I'm yanked up and pulled behind her, destined for the stars.

The sensation of being pulled jerks me awake while gasping for air. Etta goes up on all fours with her ears up while fully alert and sensing threat. There may actually be one, because when I look down, a part of me is standing up and saying hello. “Don't even think about it. There is no way you are entering that Pandora's box again. We’ve got it way too good now.”

The sheet becomes a towel for my perspiration before I roll to a cooler spot. The red glow of the alarm clock tells me that it is three thirty in the morning. Fear still runs through me. I need to hear Lizetta’s voice and know that she is not an apparition, but it’s far too early to call.

That’s crazy. This love thing is constantly proving it’s deeper than I think.

My body sinks back into the bed. I’ll focus on something else. The field was peaceful. I’ll put myself back there.

My mind lays me down in a sea of green and wildflowers. I imagine drifting away …

I spring alert. My brain told me that I love Laura.

No, that can’t be right. That has to be caused by the guilt of telling her to go away without letting her get a word in.

But in my mind, I kissed her. My body reacted.

She also turned into a syringe and injected me with bliss.

It must have been a warning. That’s all. And guilt. I feel guilty for pushing her away again, but I had to do it for self-preservation. Still …

I settle into the bed, then get edgy and toss over, then do it again. I look down at the reason. “I don’t know what got you started, but you are on your own.”

Still, he won’t let me sleep.

Self-embitterment groans out as I head for the living room. Etta stays behind. Smart dog.
I
don’t even want to be around me right now.

With my trusty axe in hand, I whip through some Stones and some Zep to loosen up, and then zip through some of my favorite, self-written gems. They sound pretty good.

Now that I’m back among the sane, I pull out my latest endeavor, a song for Lizetta. I’m so close, but I can’t get it to work. The melody is a mess—but it’s not. The chord progression is wrong—but it’s not. I need help—serious, freaking help.

Five hours later, I place a call and pray I can make magic happen.

How loudly Bertha’s door slammed when I arrived at Lizetta’s reflected a lot of things. One of them is how pissed I still am with myself for what happened with Larry over a month ago. Forgiveness for my stupidity is not an option. What did I hope to accomplish that was so important that it was worth risking everything for? After that dream last night, I think I know, and it is not cool.

Another reason for my edginess lies in approaching Jimmy. He actually stammered when I called and asked if he wanted to hang out and play today. Shoot, his voice even cracked, reminding me of a pubescent boy, when he said, “Sure!” I’ve got to tread lightly with my intentions. He deserves that.

The way my brain is flying reminds me of being on coke. That's the level of agitation I'm trying to conceal. I don’t want Jimmy to know that I am looking for someone to be Lennon to my Harrison and get his hopes up. Not only is he the brother of the woman I'm realizing I need like air, but I refuse to return to being a selfish bastard with a devil-may-care-so-screw-you attitude.

It’s amazing how much space is in this barn when the Bel Air is out. The more time I spend here—surrounded by the tools of the gearhead trade, memorabilia from old gas stations, and a sofa that looks like putting it in a dumpster would show it mercy—the more I wonder what is in store for Lizetta and me. Will I have a life like Paul’s? Surrounded by nice things and the need for a man cave such as this haven? I'm surprisingly cool with that. In fact, after the hellhole I lived in with the band, “domestic tranquility” has a beautiful ring to it.

Jimmy and I give harmonizing on “Rain” a shot. We sound surprisingly listenable. So far, I’ve only suggested playing Beatles’ songs because they are such church-worthy deities around here that if we played “Good Morning”, the chickens and dogs in the backyard would probably chime in at the right spots. Jimmy deserves every advantage possible during this stealth audition.

Jimmy’s singing is a little sharp. It could be the nerves that have his words speeding out, or he could be feeding off of my anxiety. Instead of pointing it out by encouraging him to relax, I goof it a bit so I have an excuse to correct us both. While we don’t nail it like The Fab Gods would, it’s close enough for today. Fresh air seems to breeze in as I see that this arrangement might work.

We get a little more daring. Our rendition of “Everybody’s Got Something to Hide Except Me and My Monkey” sounds halfway decent—that is, until Jimmy tries to mirror me doing Harrison’s licks. It sucks—like big time. He can’t keep up the pace, but that is fine because I just need a rhythm guy. He can easily handle that.

Jimmy is insistent that he gives it another shot. He takes a seat on the sofa, grabs determination, and dives in. As much as I respect that, his second time sucks too. He still has no idea what is going on, yet he tries again, like he wants to impress me—and he is. It’s unfortunate that it hasn’t helped his playing. It’s also making it hard for me to finish relaxing. He then gets this crazy air about him where he kicks his dweeby self in the ass and mans up. It sucks considerably less. This kid knows how to earn respect.

The fourth time, he stands, grabs a stance, and nails the riff! Like, dead freaking on! Then he nails it again, and again. We start getting creative, and soon we’ve re-arranged the saints known as The Beatles. We’re so good at changing it up together that I’m half afraid Judy’s going to run out here with a knife and off me for blasphemy.