The Fab Life of a Rock Star
“Damn’t, Mib! Where’s my lighter?” Jones demanded as he dug around the couch with a slight growling sound.
Mib appeared in the doorway and narrowed her eyes. “What do ya need it for?”
Realizing Mib wasn’t going to be to happy with him, he quickly hid the object in his hand behind his back. “Just a cigarette, doll. What makes you so suspicious?”
“Because, Jones, I’ve known you for thirty five years now, and if it was a cigarette ya wanted, ya wouldn’t be this damned pissy.”
“What does it matter?” Jones sighed, pulling his hand out and sitting back on the sofa. “Give me a light, or I’ll fire you.”
Mib snorted. “After the first year, that threat ‘as never worked on me.” She walked over to the couch, threw a few pillows on the floor, and sat next to him. “What is it?”
“You sound like my mother. It’s crack.”
“I don’t sound a thing like you’re mother. If I did, I’d be shocked to an early grave that you’re doing drugs. As it is I’m a little wary. Why?”
“Why am I doing it?” Jones rolled his eyes and reached for her purse, looking for a lighter in its depths. “Because I want to. Because I can.”
“Because you’re depressed?”
“Quit playing psychiatrist on me.” Jones found what he was looking for and put the pipe in his mouth to light. He closed his eyes as he took a long hit. When he blew it out, he said, “God, I haven’t had some of this in a long time.”
“And for good reason, too. Give me some.” Mib took a hit and passed it back. “Don’t even try to lie to me, Jones. It ain’t done ya any good so far, right? I ‘eard you listening to ‘Rocky Sky’ again today. That’s three days in a row.”
“It’s none of your business what I listen to, and I don’t want you coming around here so often if all you’re going to do is tell me what it all I means. I don’t care what it all means, Mib. If I want some crack, I’ll smoke some crack. If I want to listen to ‘Rocky Sky,’ I’ll listen to ‘Rocky Sky.’ That doesn’t necessarily mean I’m depressed.”
“Oh, listen to yerself. Ya sound like a pansy.” Mib propped her legs up on the coffee table. “Tell Mib what’s wrong, Jones.”
“I hate you.”
Mib grinned cheekily at him.
“It’s nothing, Mib. Nothing important,” Jones finally said, imitating her position and throwing his head back against the wall. “Just remembering, is all.”
“Remembering what exactly?”
“The good years. Back when I was younger and more naïve.”
“So that explains the crack. Memories. Couldn’t get any coke?”
“Didn’t want a nose bleed.”
“Ah. Carry on.”
Jones stared blankly at the wall. “It’s just never going to peak again, is it?”
* * * * *
“Do you know . . . how to fly?” she whispered, leaning over the table to flaunt the cleavage displayed by her waitress uniform.
Jones gulped and looked up at her with the naïve eyes of a boy on his way to manhood. “I wish,” he replied. “And if I could find a way, I would fly away . . . I would never touch the Earth again.”
The woman giggled and sat down. “That’s the perfect answer. My name is Katie Tran.”
“Jones Aimes.”
“And how old are you, Jones?” Her eyes twinkled.
“I’m . . . seventeen.”
“Such a young age to be out drinking by yourself. Where are your parents?”
“Ran away from home.”
“Tsk tsk. What a shameful boy . . . and yet you still have innocence in your eyes. How do you keep that in tact with the world the way it is today?”
“I . . . don’t know what you mean.”
“Of course you don’t.” Katie stood up again and offered her hand. “Dance with me, Mr. Aimes.”
Jones stood up awkwardly. “Um, you can just call me Jones. If you like, I mean.”
“Jones . . .” Katie’s voice turned sultry as she pressed herself up against him on the dance floor. “I like that name. It’s strong.”
“What made you decide to talk to me?” Jones asked as his hands went tentatively to her waist. This woman was experienced, he knew, and the feeling of being dough in her hands surfaced. Hating to be manipulated, he tried to push down the sense of incompetence that was overwhelming him.
“A hunch,” Katie said. “I looked at your sad eyes, and I knew you were worth a conversation. I noticed you liked the music.”
“How could you tell?” Jones found himself surprised.
“You move your head to the music, almost as if you’re a part of it.”
Jones waited the rest of the song before replying. “Music is my wings. I could fly with music and never touch the Earth again.”
“A poet, too!” Katie smiled and pulled him closer to dance the song that had just started. “I think that hunch was a shining look from Zeus. Or Aphrodite.”
“I’m going to be a rock star,” Jones blurted out. He straightened his shoulders. “I write my own songs and music, and I’ve already got a manager.”
Katie laughed delightedly. “How wonderful! Will you write a song for me, Jones?”
“I’ll write you a million songs.”
“Will you teach me how to fly?”
“Only if you’re willing.”
* * * * *
Jones smiled softly at the memory. “I’m thinking about the night I met Katie,” he told Mib.
Mib ducked her head. “No wonder you’re so depressed. Your would be anniversary is coming up, isn’t it? Sorry ‘bout that, luv. Things have been so busy lately with your new CD.”
“It shouldn’t matter to me anymore, and it’s not what’s depressing me.”
“Ah ha! So ya admit you’re depressed!”
“I do hate you so very much, Mib.”
“Of course ya don’t.” Mib took the pipe from him, finished off as much as she could, and set it down on the coffee table. “It scares me to see ya doing drugs again, Jones. You’ve come so far.”
Jones turned to look at her when her voice changed subtly. “It’s a once in a lifetime thing, Mib. I felt like feeling sorry for myself. I felt like recapturing my youth. And . . . . well, Eric had a stash that he gave me for free.”
Mib laughed, but her eyes stayed serious. “Keep it a once in a lifetime thing, okay? Can’t have the press all over me again.”
“Oh, admit it, Mib. You don’t care about the papers. You care about me, don’t you?” Jones patted her hand and changed the subject. “It doesn’t seem as great as it used to.”
“What? The high?” Mib looked around. “Things aren’t the way they used to be anymore. Life lacks the flashiness of the ‘70s. It’s so drab anymore.”
“Ah, but I like the clothes much better than those god awful suits we wore in the ‘80s.” Jones chuckled softly. “I want you to burn every scrap of footage of me with that wannabe afro, okay?”
“We’ve been over this. I’ll just keep them in my apartment for another decade. Then they’ll be worth loads of money, and I can make myself even richer off of ya.” Mib crinkled her brow together suddenly. “And remind me to kill Eric.”
“Kill him? Why?”
“For giving out free drugs. He needs a lesson in finances.”
“And killing him will do the trick?”
“Shut up, Jones. I can’t think straight.”
“I suppose that was always the point of drugs. To make the glitter and the colors come alive. To let us pretend our lives weren’t a total mess.”
* * * * *
Jones’ shaking hand helped him out of bed, and he rolled to the floor with a slight crash. The blood in his veins throbbed in a painful, needy way, taking over his conscious mind. There was only one way for relief, and he was crawling to the coffee table.
“Jones . . .?” a feminine voice sing-songed from his bed. “Jones, where are you going?”
Jones ignored her and reached the table. There was still some left, scattered bits and pieces, so he used his ID card to push it in a line. Then he reached for a straw discarded on the floor. With a painful noise in his throat, he sucked up the remainder of the powder with his nose. No sooner was it gone when he emptied half of what was left in the baggy in front of him.
The female stood up from the bed, tucking a sheet around her body, and went to the table. “Can I have some, too?”
Jones growled slightly as he used his ID to push it in a line again. In less than five seconds he sucked the table dry. The faster the better, he reminded himself as his vision blurred slightly.
“Greedy, aren’t we?” the voice teased, but it sounded insecure now.
Jones laid his head back on the couch. “Go tell Mib I’m done.”
“What?”
“Go find Mib, my manager, and tell her I’m done,” Jones repeated, aggravated.
“Done with what? Why am I doing this?”
Jones lifted his head to glower at her. “I’m done with you, babe, and you’re doing it so she can get you the hell away from this hotel.”
The girl’s mouth opened and closed in surprise. Then she stiffened. “So last night was just a game for you?”
“My whole life is a game.” Jones chuckled ruthlessly. “Did you think you were something more than a groupie? Is that what you’ve convinced yourself? Did we have a special connection?”
“Didn’t you feel it?”
Jones shook his head. “Everyone thinks they have a special connection with me. I can guarantee you I haven’t met anyone with that connection yet.”
“What an awful way to live,” the girl whispered. She stood up again and began to search for her clothes. “I can let myself out, thank you. I don’t need your fucking manager to help.”
The door to the suite opened out of nowhere, and Katie stood in the doorway, hands on her hips as she surveyed the situation. “Who the fuck is this?”
The girl quickly hid her bra behind her back. “What do you mean who the fuck am I? Who the fuck are you is more like it. Barging in on Jones Aimes like that.”
Katie glared daggers at the woman. “I, missy, am Katie Aimes. More famously known as Jones Aimes’ wife.”
The girl froze and turned to give Jones a heated look. “What a prick!” She didn’t even bother to put on her clothes, but marched straight out of the room wrapped in a sheet.
Katie shut the door behind her and slowly made her way to the table.
“Get out of here, Katie. I don’t want to deal with this kind of shit so early in the morning.” He reached for the baggy and dumped the rest of the white powder onto the table.
“How much have you had this morning?” Katie asked softly.
“It’s none of your fucking business, Katie! Now get the fuck out of my room!”
Katie ignored him and sat down on the couch, watching as he snorted the rest of the coke, using the straw to search out any lost remnants. “Jones . . .”
Jones held a hand to his temple as he turned to look at her. “What?” he whispered, voice broken.
Katie had tears in her eyes. “You promised me I could fly.”
“What?”
“On our wedding day . . . you whispered in my ear that I was going to fly and never touch the ground again.” A single tear fell down her cheek. “I’ve touched the ground, Jones.”
Jones looked at her warily. Somewhere in his fucked up mind he knew what she was saying, and it made him freeze.
“Can you fly anymore, Jones?”
Jones cracked a smile. “I’m flying right now.”
“No, you’re not. You’re high. Or you’re sleeping with three women a night. I’ve gone through enough shit in the past year, Jones. God, we don’t even share a room anymore!” Katie stood up slowly. “I’m going to find someone else, Jones. Someone to help me fly.”
Jones watched as she walked away, and some part of him wanted to lash out, to try and draw her in, make her realize that she needed him. “How will you find someone to want you? You were a third rate lover at your best. Just a desperate little girl looking for something she’ll never have. You’ll go through the streets of every city in every country searching again. Like when I found you.” He barked out a laugh. “Searching is such a nice word for it, though. Whoring. That’s what you were, Katie, a whore. And if you walk out that door, you’ll lose everything you built yourself to be.”
Katie was crying freely as she twisted the door knob. “I guess I’ll take that chance, Jones, because the alternative is being trapped to a junkie who can’t even see straight enough to walk to his stash.”
When she shut the door behind her, Jones wanted to throw something.
But when he reached for the lamp, he became too fascinated by the yellow light emenating from it.
* * * * *
Mib listened intently as he recounted the story, and he was grateful she didn’t interject any of her usual comments. Jones had probably told her this story a million times over; it only helped him to retain every detail, every word. And this was one memory he never wanted to forget. It reminded him of what he’d been and why he was now.
“When was the last time ya talked to Katie?” Mib asked softly when it was clear he was about to retreat to his thoughts.
Jones continued to stare at the wall. “About a year and a half ago when she called to tell me she loved my new CD.”
“At least you’re talking, right?”
“I loved her, Mib.”
“I know. But think ‘bout what came after that,” Mib encouraged. “Remember the good things, all right?”
“The lies thread us all together. The lies and the drugs and the music was what it was all about by that point, and when one of them was gone, the rest couldn’t support themselves. She ripped the lies out of the seam, and I was left with drugs and music and truth.”
“You’d better write a song about this. I sense a good pop hit from your words,” Mib said, her words teasing but her voice concerned.
“I think I’ve written this song too many times. They get tired of hearing about the truth. People want to remember glam rock as a time of bliss, a time of freedom and happiness. If I burst their bubble too many times, they won’t come back for more.”
“You’ve got to quit moping, Jones. I can deal with anyone anytime, but I can’t deal with this. I leech the people. I tell them what they want. I tell you what they want. I’m your manager, and I’m your friend. But sometimes I think my heart is so cold from the manager part that I don’t know ‘ow to deal with you as a friend anymore.”
“Just let me talk. Once I tell you about it, once I relive it, I feel better.”
“If I was you, I’d just forget it all.”
“I wish I could forget. But . . . at the same time, I couldn’t be where I am today if it wasn’t for where I came from. I loved Katie, and it did break my heart to see her go. But I can forgive myself for forcing her to break my heart because it was her leaving that finally made me snap back into place.”
“Oh, but you were so drab back then.”
“Until I met Astra Lai.” Jones smiled slowly. “Isn’t it funny how I can remember her name and I can’t remember a single name from anyone I fucked when I was married to Katie?”
“It was an unusual name,” Mib admitted. “And you did write a song about her, you know.”
“It wasn’t her real name.” Jones shook his head. “Sometimes, every once in awhile, I wonder what happened that night. Maybe if I hadn’t snorted any coke, maybe if I had kept my head clear . . . maybe she wouldn’t have left.”
“I know, dear. Astra was a cute one, too. So shy but willing,” Mib remembered. “She had the oddest clothes on though. Remember?”
Jones tried to get a picture of her in his mind. “She wore bell bottoms, but they weren’t very big. And an Old Navy shirt. I remember because I wondered briefly if she’d actually been in the navy.”
“I didn’t think they had Old Navy back then,” Mib said thoughtfully. “Strange, isn’t it? When you look back at things and see glimpses of the future.”
* * * * *
The morning after Astra Lai, Jones woke up in the back of the tour bus. He jumped up and went into the kitchen, looking for Mib. “What happened last night?” he demanded when he saw her flirting with Vinny, the lead tour guitarist.
“We went out clubbing, you passed out, and I ‘ad the boys drag you onto your bed,” Mib explained, getting off Vinny’s lap to fix him a drink. “Water or alcohol?”
“Water.” Jones paused for a long time, staring at the floor. When Mib handed him a glass, he snapped out of his daze. “Was she real? Astra Lai?”
“Astra? The nice reporter girl ya tried to chat up?” Mib nodded. “She was a sweet thing, don’t ya agree, Vinny?”
“Very sweet,” Vinny said solemnly. “Why didn’t you take her back to the hotel room?”
“He couldn’t find her, remember?” Mib shot Vinny a look. “She disappeared in the club.”
“How far away are we?”
“Quite a bit aways. We can’t go back for someone you barely know.”
“Then call someone. Find out what magazine she works for. I want to see her again. She couldn’t have just left . . .” Jones knew he sounded like a desperate young boy after his first girlfriend dumped him, but the thought of never seeing Astra again scared him more than he’d like to admit. Astra hadn’t know what kind of a hold she had over him. Even he was shocked by the willingness he’d shown while falling for her. “Too short.”
“What?”
“Too short. Life is too short. Give me a phone. I need to call Katie.”
“Katie?” Mib looked shocked. “Ya ‘aven’t talked to her once since you divorced. At least, not directly to each other.”
“I have to talk to her,” Jones insisted.
Mib pointed him into the living area of the bus. “Do ya even know the number?”
“Of course I do. She’s living in my old house, isn’t she?” Jones kicked everyone in the living area out and picked up the phone. He had a nervous tick in his eye, and suddenly the overwhelming need to talk to Katie seemed a bit ridiculous.
He sucked in a deep breath and dialed the number to his old house in California. After a few rings she picked it up. “Hello?”
“Katie,” Jones greeted softly.
“Jones?” She sounded shocked. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
“It’s nothing. I . . .” Jones gulped. What was it exactly he was expected to say? “I’m sorry, Katie.”
There was a stunned silence. “Jones, are you high?”
Jones wanted to laugh, but the fact that she asked that question made his life suddenly seem sad enough to cry for. “Haven’t had anything but water since I woke up.”
“You’re sorry?” Katie repeated incredulously. “Eight months, and you’re finally sorry? What exactly are you sorry for?”
“Everything. I wish I could have made you fly, Katie, but . . . how can I let you fly when I’ve got two broken wings?” Jones sighed and rubbed his forehead warily. “I’ve changed since you left. I want to say I’m sorry you left, but I’m not because . . . not having you there has shocked me back into being a normal person. Well, as close to a normal person as I can be.”
Katie was silent again, processing his words. “I can tell you’ve changed just by the fact that you called. Listen, Jones . . . I still care about you. I don’t want us to lose touch, and I’m willing to forget those things you said to me that last day, those things you did to me while we were married. I still want to be your friend.”
“I would like that a lot, Katie.” Jones felt relief flood his system, and it was clear why he’d called in the first place. “I wanted to mend this thing between us. You were the first girl I ever loved. I should have treated you better.”
“Yes, you should have.” Katie paused. “But some of those things you said were true. When I met you, I wasn’t looking for someone. I was looking for anyone to take me out of that life. We weren’t meant for each other. But for awhile . . . I was happy.”
“Me, too,” Jones whispered.
“Call me again sometime, Jones. And get me a backstage pass next time you’re in L.A., all right?”
“Of course.” Jones hung up the phone after that.
“Are we allowed back in, now?” Eric, disgruntled, asked from the doorway.
Jones looked up, ready to be annoyed at his friend for listening in, but instead he felt nothing but an overwhelming urge to write a song. “Bring me my guitar, Eric.”
Eric looked surprised, but he quickly went to Jones’ bed and pulled it out. When Jones had it in his hand, he pulled his lucky pick out of his jean pocket. Jones never went anywhere without the pick; just in case he was struck to write a song.
“Notebook?” Eric suggested, throwing one onto the coffee table.
Jones nodded, distracted, and opened up to the first clean page. “Write the words down as I sing them, all right?”
Eric sat on the other couch and picked up the notebook and a pen. “Play ahead.”
Jones strummed a light, general tune for a minute or two, thinking about all that had happened in the past few days. Then he slowed the sound to a soft, yearning beat. “When I watched the world with sad eyes,” he sang, “she stood in front of me and lifted my head . . .”
* * * * *
“That was a great song,” Mib reflected. “But I’ve always wondered why you acted so passionately about someone ya knew for just one night.”
“Because . . .” Jones struggled to put his feelings together. “Astra was . . . she was like a light in the tunnel. She clarified things for me. She made me feel like I wasn’t alone anymore.”
“You sure connected fast.”
“She knew what ‘Rocky Sky’ was about.”
“Oh. You-you never told me that before.”
“Nobody knows what ‘Rocky Sky’ is about,” Jones continued as if Mib hadn’t spoken. “And it wasn’t just that she knew what it was, but she knew everything. I told her she had the soul of a songwriter, and she told me she could never do it. I wanted to help her. I was thinking about teaching her an instrument. I guess I took too much for granted too fast. But I was so eager to reach out to somebody. I just wanted . . . somebody.”
“She stepped in for me when you needed a friend and not a manager,” Mib said softly.
“In a way. Nobody’s quite like you, Mib. I think it was because she was so fresh and different. I’d never met a reporter like her before. I’d never cared enough about women to get to know them well enough to compare to her.”
“Are you still obsessing over Astra Lai?” Mib asked suspiciously. “That was nearly thirty years ago.”
“Not anymore. But whenever I hear that song on the radio . . . I think about what might have been.”
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