Aspen Andersen.
Assuming she didn’t change her last name when she turned eighteen. Maybe she did and wanted to get rid of anything attaching her to the mother who gave her up. It definitely crossed my mind when I was old enough to but ultimately decided against it.
Keely ismyname, not the mother who chose getting high over me, or the piece of shit who fathered me and didn’t bother to stick around to even sign the birth certificate.
The clank of the heavy chain tethering the bag to the ceiling rings out over the blasting of heavy metal from the sound system in my basement. When I first bought thishouse years ago, I filled it with enough weights and gym equipment that I never needed a gym membership and extra exposure outside of the house. But once the band broke up and I had nowhere else to ever be, I got a membership at a boxing gym to get me out of the house. It became my haven the last year.
But after seeing Aspen the other night, I got this bag installed here until the resounding need to find her again goes away.
Especially since I know where she lives.
That makes me sound like a fucking creep, but I couldn’t stand the thought of her walking home by herself the other night. And since she was too stubborn to let me give her a ride, I did what I had to do.
But now that I know she’s in the city, so close that I can almost feel her now, I can’t get the thought out of my head.
I kick the bag with my right foot once, twice, three times before switching to the left side.
It’s like my past that has been lurking in the shadows of my mind is sneaking up on my present, colliding with it and creating a blur of the two that I can’t compartmentalize anymore.
Seeing her brought back memories of that house.
How I got there.
The relationship with my mother and how our last interaction ended.
The incident during the band’s break with my father. Prefer to block that one out the fucking most. I’d carve that from my brain with a hot, dull knife if I could.
The demise of the band and relationship with my friends.
It’s all too fucking much.
I hit the bag harder and harder, wanting to feel the skinof my knuckles split and watch them bleed. Sweat stings my eyes as it rolls down my face, and my breath comes in choppy bursts.
Ten more punches.
Maybe then it’ll quiet that voice in my head that sounds just like hers did when she sang that song I taught her.
“Unemployment boring for you?”
Who the hell does she think she is? I don’t remember her being a smart-ass, but who knows. A lot can change in one year, let alone ten.
But I didn’t expect her to get so offended when I pressed her about performing. I mean, it’s not like it was such a bold thing for me to expect that she was trying to get something from me.
The guys and I learned that lesson the hard way when we first moved here. And I had even learned that long before I was in the music industry.
No one plays for fun out here. Everybody is trying to be somebody and it’s easy to uncover ulterior motives if you have the right lens.
But then again, she seemed genuine in her outrage. Maybe I was wrong. Probably not, but there’s a chance.
It reminds me of something Arun, our manager throughout our entire career, said to me awhile back. It was a few months prior to us officially calling it but when we were still trying to work on our next album. I was sitting in his office one day after another session in the studio went completely south.
“You lost the fun in it.”
“What are you talking about? This is a fucking business.”
“Yes, but that shouldn’t be all it is. It’s an outlet. An art. You’ve all lost the fun in creating. It’s not supposed to be thisserious all the time. You shouldn’t only play because it’s a job, you should play because it’s fun. Because you love it.”
At the time, I brushed him off and left for the night without a second thought to what he was saying.
