Days like these I couldn’t decide what I missed more—my old band or a bed with a pillow. We’d been the classic rock ‘n’ roll cautionary tale, complete with the utter flameout that had brought things crashing down around us.
Not one members’ fault.
But all of us, collectively.
Rapid rise, utter adoration from the flocks of people who came to see us play. Whiskey, parties, tour stops all over the world. We spent money like the well was never going to run dry. Not on possessions that would last us, like homes or even cars, but on all the things we’d felt like we’d lost out on growing up.
Every amusement park we encountered we hit with the enthusiasm of teenagers, riding from opening to close with those expensive ass fast passes that allowed us to bypass lines and pisspeople off in the process, since it wasn’t just us, we bought them for our entourage too.
We went base jumping and sky diving and even shelled out cash to drive a race car.
In other words, we indulged ourselves until we cared more about the indulgences than making music and paid for our arrogance with our careers.
That was two years ago.
I’d drifted across the country since then. Restless, hopeful, driven to keep hunting for something I’d thought I’d found in the early days of our success, when words flew onto the page as my fingers crafted chords, putting together the songs that were rapidly making us famous. Fueled by raw emotion, passion, and the drive to attain everything my birth mother had denied me when she’d surrendered me to an adoption agency without even giving me a name.
A nurse had dubbed me Stone because I slept like a rock in the nursery, even when the other babies were screaming, or so the note she’d left in my file relayed. Who knew if it was really true.
All I knew was that I had to have been born under a bad star sign or something, because being adopted didn’t give me any sort of life, stability, or that home full of love that every child dreams of.
I’m sure they did love me. It’s just that I don’t remember. They were killed by a drunk driver when I was four, and into the foster care system I went.
Music was my ticket out and my redemption. Too bad I lost sight of those things along the way and chose to chase the glitz and glitter instead.
Which was why I was out here on this train station depot bench, with my battered guitar case open on the ground by my feet. A couple crumpled bills and a ton of coins rested against the velvet as I strummed the first guitar I’d ever bought. Thatacoustic wasn’t worth anything at the pawn shops that I’d sold the rest of my guitars to, so I’d held on to it, since music was the only way I knew how to make a living.
Pathetic huh?
No other skills. No high school diploma. I’d barely passed the GED test since I’d had no interest in anything my teachers had ever tried to teach me. As far as I was concerned, they could keep their books. I’d taught myself to play by ear, never taking a music lesson in my life, but I’d studied the greats, slipping an ear bud in when I was supposed to be paying attention in class.
And I’d made it.
Until I threw it all away.
These commuters seemed to have a thing for classic rock, so I moved through all the greats, from the Allman Brothers to ZZ Top, until I had enough in that case to grab a meal and maybe a bit of conversation if it wasn’t busy at the greasy spoon across the square. Hell, my audience had been so kind today that I’d even be able to get a piece of pie to round out my meal.
Talk about a fall from grace.
“Hey man, I was wondering if you were gonna drop in today,” Pete, the owner said, when I plopped down on a stool at the counter and leaned my guitar case against my knee. “What can I get for you?”
“Burger, onion rings, root beer, and a slice of Mississippi Mud pie if you’ve got any today.”
“Charlene just pulled a fresh one out of the oven not too long ago,” he replied. “And we’ve only sold a few pieces. I’ll hook you up.”
“Thanks Pete.”
Like I’d hoped, the place was practically dead. I loved that silent space between the lunch crowd leaving and the haggard, overworked folks flocking in to grab a bite to eat on their way home. Sometimes I played something new for Pete, seemed likeI was always writing new songs these days, not that I knew what to do with them.
I was thirty-five years old. Too old to start a new band. Too old to go tearing around the country searching for that rush of being up on stage.
And way too god damned disillusioned.
The music I had now was mine and I intended to keep it that way. I treated each song like a trusted friend, cherishing them, because aside from short term connections like the one I’d forged with Pete through repeated visits to his diner, I wasn’t in a position to be worth much to anyone.
No home. No car. No place to lay my head unless you counted the abandoned buildings and park benches I crashed on when I needed a rest. I’d gotten so used to being called a bum that at this point it might as well be my nickname.
“So, where did you set up today?” Pete asked when he returned with my root beer.
