The next fewshows were subdued. It was clear to all of us—and we’d talked about it—that Zack was completely off the wagon, but at least he was being as smart about it as he could. After San Francisco, he at least confined his drinking to after shows.
He didn’t apologize to anyone, but he did say a week later in Kansas City that he had it under control.
Could an alcoholic really be in control, though? I had noway of knowing…because Zack was the only addict I’d ever known. And I wanted to believe in him; I hoped against hope that he’d be okay—but, deep down, I worried.
Mick, for his part, didn’t threaten to quit, but I still had a bad feeling—and not just about him. About Cy too. Braden said the three of them had had a good talk. Instead of having to talk Cy out of bailing, they’d come up with a contingency plan for if Zack ever pulled that shit again.
We were in Minneapolis in mid-June for a show and the house was packed. But the crowd seemed less enthusiastic than many of the audiences we’d enjoyed so far on this tour. As soon as we left the stage, Zack said, “Maybe some of our other fans liked the new stuff, but these guys didn’t. I guess they have more,” he held up his fingers to do air quotes, “discerning tastes.”
Braden said, “We have chill shows sometimes. It’s not a huge deal, dude.”
“It is to me!” Zack said, losing his shit. “Why the fuck would they come if they didn’t like our music?”
Inside, I was thinking maybe they were here for the headliner, but I wasn’t about to voice that little revelation.
Braden, however, wasn’t about to let Zack mope. “Maybe it’s because it’s sticky and too warm. I feel like I need to shower—and maybe the audience does too.”
“Bullshit. They’re used to this shit. They live here.”
Cy was hustling to his dressing room while I said, “We’re gonna have shows like this, Zack—but we can’t let it get to us. We’re making more money than we’ve ever made before, so who cares if one crowd was less enthusiastic?”
“Icare. You guys just don’t get it.” He huffed off, slamming the door to his dressing room.
“We tried.”
Braden and I took a few more steps down the hall andMick appeared just as we reached my dressing room door. “Is he doing okay?”
We knew exactly what he meant. Braden said, “If okay means he’s still breathing, yeah.”
“I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news, but I’ve seen this before. Sometimes addicts have to quit multiple times before they’re able to get off it for good. After being sober this long, Zack might have thought he could handle it—and he found out pretty quickly that he can’t. He’s drinking hard and heavy again, and he’s either going to have to figure out how to quit himself or go back into rehab.”
I asked the question that had been burning in the pit of my belly for a few days now. “Are you…going to quit?”
Braden’s face was pinched, telling me he’d been fearful of the same thing. We’d both heard Mick mutter that he wanted to retire more times than we could remember.
“I’d like to, kiddo—but who’s gonna take care of the rest of you? Besides, I don’t think anybody else would want to put up with Zack’s shit. You’re stuck with me—for now, at least.”
I hated hearingat least—because it made me wonder if he was just staying because he was under contract and wanted to put a nice spin on it for mine and Braden’s sakes.
Still…I was grateful and I wrapped my arms around him before he registered what I was doing. “Thanks, Mick.”
After a few seconds, he put his arms around me too and patted me on the shoulder. “Yeah. Ol’ Mick’s got your back.”
But who had his? We were all frayed and tired—and we were just in the first leg of what would become our biggest tour thus far. Why the hell was Zack jeopardizing everything he’d ever wanted?
At the time, I didn’t know it was about to get worse.
CHAPTER 22
Aweek later, we had a show in Detroit. It had been over a year since we’d been here last, and I was growing to love visiting places where we’d been before, to experience audiences and their cities again.
Although Zack was maintaining on stage, it was clear that we were all wary and afraid that the next show would be the one where he’d completely crap out. Braden and Cy already had a plan and filled me in: if Zack was ever too blitzed to play, they were prepared to take over. They’d split the list in half and they’d both take turns singing and, for the songs where they needed two guitars, Cy would play lead—and Mick, in on the plan as well, had one of our tech guys ready to play Cy’s parts backstage for the songs where that might happen.
Of course, we didn’t let Zack in on the plan, but we all felt better knowing we could cover a show if Zack failed to perform.
It turned out that that was the least of our worries. Like in the past, Zack had figured out how to manage keeping his shittogether onstage. Once in a while, he’d let out a comment—like “I hope you guys like this next song, even though nobody else did”—showing the rest of us that the critics’ words still stung, revealing to me just how insecure Zack was inside, how fragile his ego was. Maybe his first stint with rehab had helped him deal with some of his demons, but he still had a lot of work to do.
After the show in Detroit, we all went to our respective dressing rooms. This tour was the first time the guys were consistently in their own rooms rather than having to share, but, thanks to Zack, we couldn’t really enjoy the fruits of our labor. I gave Braden a kiss and told him I’d meet him in the green room later.
