Train
“Coffee,” Vick groanedlike a zombie,dragging his bag behind him toward the hotel’s continental breakfast bar. Wewere in Chicago, and I had quickly fallen in love with the city. Our hotel hada great view of the river and I hoped I’d get some time to explore the city alittle.
Being a lifelongmorning person, I’d already been up for several hours. I’d had my cup ofcoffee, worked out in the hotel gym, and showered. Melody was booked to playthe Johnny Gordon show and was staying at a hotel closer to the TV studio. Theband had a nine A.M. call time, which meant being in the lobby at seven thirtysharp. Most of the band had assembled and were waiting for our shuttle van toarrive.
“It’s toofucking early,” Andy said. “Don’t these people understand we’re musicians?”
“Wow,” I said.“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a bad mood before, Andy. You’re alwaysso…”
“Chipper,” Rodsaid, dryly.
“That’s it,” Ichuckled. “Chipper.”
“That’s becauseI usually get enough sleep,” he replied.
“Sleep? Whatmeans this word, sleep?” Rod asked.
We were threequarters of the way through the tour, which showed in both good and bad ways.Good, because the band was functioning like a well-oiled machine. On stage, wewere tight as a drum, and backstage, loose as a goose. This was the positiveside of being on the road together. On the negative side, we were all getting alittle burned out. Adrenaline and excitement could propel any one of us throughany show, but the road eventually takes its toll on everyone. Mentally andphysically.
“Good morning,everyone,” Brandy said, approaching our sad pile of musicians. “The van to theTV studio should be here in less than ten minutes. I have itineraries andcredentials for everyone. Where are Vick and Puddin’?”
“Vick’s overthere getting coffee,” I said, motioning to the breakfast bar. “And Puddin’hasn’t come down yet. Bill was runnin’ down to Flick’s to grab ‘real’ coffeefor them. He left a few minutes ago.”
“He probablyoverslept,” Brandy said. “I’ll go wake him up.”
“Gimmie his roomkey and I’ll do it,” I said.
“You sure?”Brandy asked.
“I’m gettin’ fatfrom the road. I’ll take the stairs and burn a few extra calories. Besides,I’ve roomed with Puddin’ before and he sleeps naked as a jay bird, and youdon’t need to see that shit this early in the morning.”
“Alright, buthurry,” she said.
As I jogged upthe eight flights of stairs to Puddin’s room, my thoughts turned to Melody.Whatever exhaustion and road wear the band was experiencing must pale incomparison to what she was feeling. I watched her night after night. Melodygave every ounce of herself to the crowd at every show, and yet still managedto give even more to me, her band, her fans, or anyone else who needed her. Shewas an amazing person and worked a shit ton harder than I could have imagined.I was glad the tour was going so well, and as tired as I was, was not lookingforward to the final show. Mostly because I was afraid that the end of tourmight mean the end of the road for Melody and me.
My lungs burnedand my legs ached as I reached the eighth floor. Opening the door to thehallway I made my way to room 883 and knocked.
“Puddin’, it’sTrain. You awake?” I called through the door but got no answer. I knockedagain, this time a little louder. “Hey, Puddin’. C’mon, man. Everyone’sdownstairs. We’re waiting for you.” Still no answer, so I entered the key cardinto the door slot, calling out as I slowly opened the door. “Hey, sleepyhead.Rise and shine, brother.”
I entered thedarkened room and turned on the lights to find Puddin’s bed still made, andcompletely empty. It was clear he hadn’t slept here last night, and I wonderedif he’d hooked up with someone after the show and ended up back at their place.
I had to letBrandy know right away that Puddin’ was missing in action, so I pulled out mycell phone, and that’s when I saw the reflection of one of Puddin’s boots inthe corner of the bedroom mirror. It was sticking out of the bathroom doorway,toes pointing to the ceiling. As I moved closer to investigate, I saw the bootwas not empty.
Puddin’ waslying on the bathroom floor. He was shirtless and his eyes were wide open. Hisskin was ice blue, and he was completely motionless. His left arm was tied offwith his belt. The syringe that delivered the deadly dose still dangling fromit.
* * *
Melody
If pain ismeasurable, then the feeling just beyond absolute pain is numbness. The inkyvoid where feelings no longer exist. A self-preservation mode that cannot, andwill not, last forever but instead serves as a temporary refuge to those whosehearts have been shattered into a million pieces. This is where I was.
Train and I satsilently in a far corner of the reception hall. Puddin’s assorted friends andco-conspirators had gathered after the funeral and were busy swapping roadstories and toasting to his memory. It’s what he would have wanted, but Iwasn’t at a place where I could celebrate his life, when I felt responsible forhis death.
I’d spoken a fewwords at the service, at the request of Puddin’s family but I barely rememberwhat I said. I know I mentioned how happy he was to have reconnected with hisdaughter. She’d flown in from London, but I could barely look her in the eyes.I felt I’d let Puddin’ down and now she was without a father.
There must havebeen signs that he was using again. How could I have missed them? I playedevery conversation we’d had since the start of the tour over and over in mymind until I was delirious. I was probably too wrapped up in my own happinessto notice any cries for help.
We cancelled thenext eight shows, and I was mentally prepared to axe the rest of the tour. Icouldn’t imagine going back on that stage, looking to my left and seeing somestranger standing where Puddin’ should be.
