PART 1 – THE CROSSROADS
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Freedom, mate, what is freedom?
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It's a good question, that's what it is. Can you find freedom on a dark desert highway? Tearing through the night in an open '67 GTO; foot flat on the floor, engine roaring like a prehistoric monster out for blood; cool wind in my hair, trying to pull it out; the warm smell of colitas rising up through the air; is that freedom?
Or is it skipping out on your fans, dodging the press and ignoring the endless list of missed calls from your agent? Is freedom running like hell before they find out you're gone and come after you with all the mindless determination of a global zombie infestation?
Freedom… as if there really is such a thing. Certainly not for me. Goddamnit, look at me, Lennard Washford, better known as Lead Lowestone, lead singer of the Bold. Reckless driving is one of the few precious things I have left for myself. Fuck my fans, fuck my obligations and double fuck my agent. Not now, JoJo, not now. Now I'm sitting behind the wheel of my ridiculous expensive toy, trademark scarf around my neck and a bottle of Jack between my legs. That's me being a badass and I'll be damned if it doesn't make for an awesome photo op. If you didn't know any better, you'd think I was doing it on purpose just for the looks.
Like that bitch from Rolling Stone Magazine, the one who claimed I wasn't a rock star, only clinging to the stereotype of one. She had the balls to say it should be long past me at the age of 61. She asked me why I wouldn't let go and act more responsible, more sensible. Like the other guys from the old days. But not me, nooooo, not Lead Lowestone. Smug little bitch. Too bad she was a dyke. Must've been. Otherwise she'd been in my hotel room, eating her own words, among other things, and screaming for more. I let her go; I had a better time doing a couple of lines and some other dumb chick who never learned to keep her legs together.
As if life is about to end when you hit sixty. Dumb health gurus don't know the power of the chemicals we have access to these days. Tired? Coke is still king. Or some XTC, if you're out to party. Got a limp dick? Viagra is there for you, my friend. Feel a panic coming on? Xanax.
Sex, drugs and rock 'n roll, baby, that's the life. Always was and always will be. Call it a cliché if you want; it still beats the health food and exercise and regular sleep and all that crap they want you to stick to. As long as you keep your wits about you, you'll be fine. That has always been my mantra. Keep your eyes open, sonny. And truth be told, I've had some narrow escapes in the past. If I hadn't kept my eyes open, I'd be dead already. Several times over probably. Dead like that chick in '99 at KIIS FM's new year's eve party in LA. The dawn of a new millennium and the whole world was celebrating. Everything was going to be different. Without a doubt the best night to party and the only thing I'll ever remember are her eyes.
Big, round, somehow still full of the innocent surprise little kids have. Staring down from the star shaped mirror on the ceiling, back down on the both of us. Christ, it was like being sandwiched between two dead chicks. She wasn't even that hot, just an easy lay who brought her own happy dust. I should've known the stuff she had with her couldn't be trusted. My God, what if I'd gone first? It would have been me coughing up my lungs all over the sheets, veins standing out like rubber tubes, clawing at my throat as I gurgled on my own blood and my heart blown to bits inside my chest. So much blood. It was everywhere. The sheets were soaked in it. But it will be her eyes staring at me whenever I close mine.
Whopper wasn't happy, but he knew it was an accident. He knows I'm not a bad man. It was her own damn fault. But it wasn't like the Reno gig where the cops showed up out of nowhere, looking for the bands private stash. Man, that must've been our road manager's golden moment of stoicism. No, he wouldn't be sweet talking the cops out into the lobby again, while the rest of the band snuck out the back in their underwear and jumped into Johnny Burly's Caddy. When Whopper found out about the dead chick in LA, he knew it would be the handcuffs, the press vultures lying in wait and a courtroom full of people, fuck no, the whole world just aching to see him squirm. The public loves a fallen hero and they hadn't been fed a while.
Did Whopper freak out? Whopper didn't freak out. Not him. Not after what he'd seen throughout the years, babysitting one big rock star after another during their tours. That cold hearted bastard took care of it. I don't know how; I didn't ask, he didn't tell. Yet the look that was in his eyes. The look of disappointment. As if I hadn't been through enough that night, he had to go and be disappointed in me. He never stopped looking at me like that.
It didn't matter much at first. It was the guilt that had me worried. It was messing with my music, but I worked that out with enough booze and coke. Keeping busy kept me going, you know? But then every time I met up with the band, Whopper would be there with that goddamn look of disappointment in his eyes.
And suddenly I remember where I'd seen that look pop up again. It was in the eyes of the snot nosed brat from Rolling Stone, not long after she told me I'd been her hero for most of her childhood and how she was so excited to finally meet me in person. Perhaps I shouldn't have used my standard pick up line on her. How the best feeling in the world is holding my guitar in my hands, except for a pair of woman's breasts perhaps. That's when I saw it creep up. That look. Nowadays it seems all I get is that fucking look and it pisses me off.
No, I guess that's not true.
It doesn't piss me of as much as it scares me. I can't bear it anymore. Jesus, I need to get out. I need to clear my head. Perhaps just a breather. Yeah, that's it. Rethink my strategy. Let's face it; I need to do something before the life of rock and roll finally finds a way to do me in. I take another swig of Jack and let the burn slide down my throat.
Mum always said the life would kill me and don't you just hate it when mums are right? Wait, why am I thinking of her in a time like this? It's hard enough keeping this antique chunk of muscle on the road doing close to a hundred with the top down. Great, now her face looks down at me from the darkness above the road, her eyes set deep in hard lines. She always looked worried. Worried about how her good natured little son went from choir boy to rock god. From saying his prayers on his knees before bedtime to screaming that temptation is his best friend on stage in front of a crowd worshipping him for it.
Fact is, church doesn't hold many temptations. Only empty warnings against them and no explanation why, except you're supposed to go to eternal damnation for the slightest offense. Can't blame a young bloke for not taking it too serious, can you? Or for being curious? Like peeping into the girls changing room after gym. Once you find out temptations are fun, there's no stopping you. And that's when you hit the crossroads. People always think you're standing still at the crossroads, quietly thinking things over, making a calculated decision. No way in hell, mate. You're young, dumb and full of hormones. You are racing towards those crossroads and all you have is a split second. No wonder you make the wrong one so easiloh fuUUUCK!
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Keep breathing, just… keep breathing. In and out. In and out. It's all I can do. Keep my head down and keep breathing. My eyes are fixed on my hands cramped around the steering wheel. The engine has stalled, but my foot still presses down on the brake pedal so hard it hurts. My God, what the hell happened? I remember up ahead in the distance I saw a shimmering light, and while I was too busy thinking of crossroads, I completely failed to see the one coming up. Or the car turning in from the right. That guy must've had a heart attack when he saw me coming straight at him. Oh Jesus, my heart. That was close. Spots are dancing before my eyes. My blood is a drum pounding in my ears and my skin feels like it's on fire from the adrenaline overdose. Christ, how did I manage to avoid him? How could I have… What if…
I'm afraid to turn around, but I have to. I keep my eyes fixed on my hands, but I can't ignore the crackle of fire behind me. Or the smell of burning rubber.
Slowly, I turn to look back. There is no way around it. A huge pile of twisted metal, unrecognizable for the car it once was, is burning ferociously besides the road. The surrounding desert is bathed in the orange glow. Nobody could have survived that.
Suddenly I see movement. A man walks from behind the fire to the side of the road. He's holding his arm and he's limping, but otherwise he seems fine. The relief is so intense it sends my head reeling. Oh thank God he's alive. A damn miracle! I ought to go to him, make sure he's okay. Bloody bastard hasn't even seen me. That guy is in for the surprise of his life. First being run off the road and surviving a murderous car crash only to find out it was none other than Lead Lowestone behind the wheel. That'll make some story. A story? Shit!
What have I done? If I go back, there's no way to get a hold of Whopper or JoJo before this gets out of hand. Shit, I should've stayed with the band and taken the damn plane instead. Oh crap, I'm royally screwed now.
I blink, but for some reason my eyes stay close. What appears in the darkness are not just the eyes of the LA chick. It's all of them. Mum's, Whopper's, the Rolling Stone woman's. Everybody and all of them at the same time. The disappointment. Embarrassment too. And shame. It's weighing down on me so heavy I can't breathe. Everybody is disappointed in Lead Lowestone. The sad, old, washed up has-been rock star, who can't keep his shit together. No, please, not that. Anything but that.
It's too much. I can't handle it. Can't breathe. What do I do? Where the fuck is my Xanax? No! For fuck's sake, get a grip. Calm down. The guy's ok, perhaps he's in shock, but if he's alive now, he'll probably stay that way. I feel sorry for the guy, really, but he has no idea of the amount of damage this will do to my reputation and the band's reputation as well. There are so many people involved here. Depending on the band. Depending on me. Yeah, that's it! If not for me, I'd better get the fuck out of here for them.
My hand closes around the keys in the ignition. The engine comes alive with a throaty rumble. I lift my right foot off the break and gently put it down on the accelerator. The GTO rolls away, slowly picking up speed. I press down harder and the engines growls approvingly. Harder and harder I press, until I'm thundering down the road again as if nothing happened.