"My shirt, it doesn't fit." The thumping of the bass line was already pouring from speakers that surrounded the small group of musicians and friends that hung behind thick velvet curtains in the New Jersey club. Heartbeats were pulsating like clocks so profusely beyond the protective shells of ribcages. Excitement was tactile and fingertips were stretching for it; hundreds of fingertips that pushed against one another in the multitudes of fans that stood beneath the stage lights, roaring in anticipation. The instruments were gleaming under the wandering spotlight; introductory harmonies beginning to lilt as a sign that the show was ready to start.
"My shirt, it doesn't fit!" one of the musicians repeated, eyes suddenly appearing swollen and red. The crowd was relentless, screaming themselves hoarse now. Forty dollars a ticket – they wanted their money put to use. They craved the lyrics to thrum beautifully from microphones and melodiously intoxicated lips. "Connyr, calm down. Your shirt fits fine. Just go out and do the show and when you're done we'll get you another one, all right?" the youngest of the girls assured as she grabbed his hands which had begun to tug and tatter the seams along the bottom of a vintage polo. Lines and crevices of anxiety were lining his countenance, not to mention the faces of his band mates. Each was a fourth of a well marketed media sensation. It was as though each were a separate piece of a necessary bridge and without even one, the show crumbled into dust. Connyr squirmed about, clambering free of the girl's clutch as he began to scrunch fingertips against the material of his baseball cap rigorously.
"Connyr, cut the shit," muttered a few from the surrounding group. The lights were dim and the curtains were beginning to sway from the momentum of the mass of bodies just outside their reach. Chanting; they were chanting the band's name religiously now as though they could not wait any longer – not a simple second for they were about to destruct. Unable to handle the jeers and resounding chorus of desperation the tallest of the musicians grabbed the remainder of the group and literally dragged them across the wooden stage; past the duct tape markings and chipped amps. The shouts became deafening at such close range. There was no other sound but the ringing in one's ears, a sensation that dribbled all the way to their toenails. Eyes alight with anger and self consciousness, Connyr finally took his place at the front of the stage – front and center, behind the sticker painted microphone stand. Beads of sweat were already slipping down his cheekbones like strands of iridescent pearls.
"Let's fucking rock and roll." Timid though he may be, when that drum began to pound like a headache that had become all too familiar, he was an animal on that stage. Rushing about, emptying his soul to a throng of strangers as they sang along in unison, pushing against one another in a tangled web of fury and delight. It was about feeling alive, feeling liberated, feeling unique, feeling destructive – feeling anything. Hollywood had slowly smothered emotion and there was almost a sense of gloom and despondency that showed in his face that night. He just wanted to envelop himself in the music, escape even himself but that was damn near impossible – his pulse was starting to slow. Four songs in and the adrenaline was erasing itself completely the way winter vanished all stars in the sky.
The crowd watched as Connyr Rosel, their musical hero of a punk rock nation, began to deteriorate. He appeared sluggish but frightfully alert; the microphone still pressed against suddenly ashen lips as he mumbled incoherently, hands motioning sporadically. "- my shirt," he whimpered miserably once more before darting off stage in an uncoordinated manner, lollygagging each step. The speakers exploded with feedback as the microphone crashed against the stage, a loud whine filling the club's hall as the crowd retracted and quickly shielded their ears.
As he reached the opening between those crunched and splendid curtains, dozens of hands and arms groped about; grabbing him fiercely and seating him on the ground immediately. "Otley!" Connyr wailed, eyes darting about for the young girl he'd spoken with right before the show had began. "Otley, it doesn't fit," his voice was warbling unsteadily now and reservoirs of plump, salty tears were streaming from lash to chin. The small girl made her way through the multitude of concerned and frustrated bystanders, her brow furrowed and complexion practically translucent from fear itself. Chaotic dark strands of hair fell across her forehead and face as she quickly knelt beside the hysterical musician. She embraced him momentarily, placing a soft kiss against the bridge of his nose.
"Connyr, baby, you can't do this. I know you have serious anxiety but you have a show to do - a job to do. I thought the therapy was helping," she whispered with concern as she stroked the epidermis of his palm, hoping to soothe him in some faint way. Connyr had been in therapy for the past seven years for a variety of matters. The most significant, however, had been issues dealing with self image and body confidence as well as common bouts of stage fright and general anxiety. At twenty four, he wasn't exactly the epitome of health. Living on the road – rather living on one drive thru's burger and fries to another's, would take its toll on anyone. There had been nights of sobbing and mirrors smashed with fingertips bandaged across the entire surface. She could vaguely recall family members stepping in when it became known to their attention that he couldn't even shower without a shirt on, he had become too self conscious. Connyr wasn't even that overweight, but in such an industry where image is so involved it revolved in a hideous cycle of ignorance and obsession. He was chubby no doubt, however certainly nothing that called for such dramatics. But that had been so long ago, nearly two years previous – and Otley had thought it had been a bridge burned.
"No, you're not listening," Connyr argued fervently as he gripped Otley's wrists tightly. His features were wincing as though something was causing him extreme pain and his speech had turned languid. "My shirt – this shirt, it fit this morning. My shirt doesn't fit. I only had a sandwich today, okay? Okay, Otley? My shirt does not fit." Words and syllables were becoming more and more impaired and dulled by the second. Disgruntlement and irritation were taking over as he found it harder to communicate, a desperation that was leaping from his lungs now to the point where they ached from trying so hard. "Look," he flared as he straightened his knees at once to stand, proving that in fact what he had been saying was true. The fabric was hanging slightly above his waistline, an inch or two of his belly poking through. "My shirt does not fit." It was beginning to feel like a broken record, starting and stopping – starting and stopping. His heart; it was doing the same – or so it felt. Beating, dead, beating, dead, beating, dead, beating, racing, dead, beating, racing, dead, racing.
"Connyr -," Otley interjected as her eyes widened at once but Connyr interrupted without hesitance.
"No, no! I know what you're going to say. I'm not crazy." His body was starting to seize with shudders of tears so intensely that he was unable to hear the disappointment from the crowd outside. The band had continued to play but it was clear that they felt cheated.
"Connyr!" Otley exclaimed once more, her fingertips pushing at the belt of his jeans and the edge of the suddenly smaller polo shirt; exploring with scared interest. "Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh, oh holy shit." Incapable of speech, the small girl stared intently horrified of what was in front of her. Distended and practically inhuman, Connyr Rosel's abdomen was now in plain sight of the entire entourage that had circled him the moment he crashed backstage and now they understood why; why he had loped away from the adoration and screams of those who paid his paycheck and made him famous, why he was crying mercilessly and tugging so feverishly on the brim of his baseball cap with jitters and energy all the while sweating bullets like a fiend. It was swollen and gray, the skin around it murky and sickly looking and dull blue veins protruded so close to the surface that it seemed sure they could flee at any moment from his body.
Astonished, perhaps overwhelmed by the situation or whatever had plagued him, he quickly fell back onto the floor as he wailed like an adolescent, cradling his face with his hands. "Baby." He was writhing about now, twitching relentlessly as white trails of foam leaked from his pink lips in rapid succession. "Somebody call a goddamn ambulance! What the hell are you all waiting for? Call them now!" Otley shouted over her shoulder with trepidation as she clasped her hands over his. His voice was hardly audible now to anyone but her. "Baby, I feel sick. I think - " Unable to finish his thought, Connyr Rosel, musician extraordinaire, gave a slight jerk of the elbow and with no warning at all slipped out of consciousness. Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital suddenly had itself a brand spanking new and certainly unusual patient.