Songs To Sing- John Frusciante

12

September 3, 1991

Pencey

"Hey, Flea?"

He rolled over from the couch, looking at me through hooded eyes. His kit was spread out on my coffee table. "Mmm?"

"I need advice."

He pushed himself off of the couch, sitting next to me on the floor. I hadn't used that day, and I'd been somewhat clean other than my mishap in the gas station, so my mind was clear as could be. "Shoot, kid."

"I think I want to quit the band."

He sat silently for a moment, and I couldn't tell if it was because I'd said what I'd said, or because he was still high out of his mind. "Why?"

"I, uh..." I thought for a moment, swirling around the half-bottle of beer I'd been slowly drinking. That was a good question. "I just don't think I can do it anymore. I don't think I can be around them anymore."

"You did seem annoyed the last couple of shows."

"Understatement of the year, man." I placed my head back on the couch, inhaling deeply. "I just, I don't... yeah. I can't take Perry anymore. I literally can't."

"He acts like your fucking mom."

I shook my head, scoffing. "No, if he was acting like my mom, he'd be smacking the shit out of me and threatening to let the streets eat me alive. I'd rather deal with Perry any day of the week. It's not that."

"So..."

"So, I can't take being around sober people. Dave and Stephen are sober. Perry's smoking and snorting and shooting enough for all three of us, and he's insufferable when he's high. He's the fucking worst. I mean, he's always been the worst, but still. He's terrible."

Flea sat silently, shaking his head. It seemed like he didn't have a lot to add, just absorbed what I was saying. "He's just a fucking asshole. He won't admit when I'm wrong, he won't let me have any input because I'm just a kid and apparently I know jack shit about music, Dave can't say anything to defend me because he'll get kicked out of the band, and Stephen won't say anything, period."

"And have you, like, tried saying something nice to Perry? Dave?"

I started giggling uncontrollably, holding my hand over my mouth while I caught my breath. "Sorry, sorry. But what do you think I've been doing for the past year? I swear to God, nothing I tried to contribute wound up on that fucking album. Not a single thing. Not a lyric, not a bass line, not a drum beat, not an art piece, nothing. Nothing. He's a fucking control freak."

"Anthony and John get like that. You just have to, I don't know, ride it out."

"No, it's just... I can't. I can't take them shoving me under the rug anymore like I'm a fucking, like, porno mag or something. I'm literally the token that gets us ticket and record sales because I have boobs. I'm not even kidding, I've seen the reviews."

Flea saw how frantic I was getting, sitting up ever so slightly to reach my eye level instead of being slouched. "I'm sure that's not-"

"It is. It's so true." I felt my eyes welling up, not from sadness, but from anger. Frustration. Every emotion had been sitting in a pit in my stomach for the past two years, and here it was. Coming out in front of someone who I had barely become friends with other than getting high and talking about stupid shit. It was suddenly real-life shit. Shit that could affect me for the rest of the time I had left on this fucking rock.

"It's not. Pencey, I think you might be better than me at bass, and not a lot of people can say that." He paused. "Didn't mean to sound like an ass."

I laughed, feeling a tear spill over. I swiped it quickly. "It's okay. I just... Hmm. It's getting so hard to not use. Because I told John I wouldn't after what happened in July." I fell silent. "Do you know what it feels like to die?"

"I don't think so."

"Cold. It's cold. Empty. People say there's something after, but there isn't. It's just cold and dark."

He was quiet. "That's, uh, heavy."

"Literally. Now, please, tell me you have a joint. I really need something." As he rustled around in his pocket, the doorknob jiggled. Flea quickly shoved his kit under my couch while I shot up in fear.

Please don't be-

John's familiar frame appeared in the doorway, guitar on his back and a flannel hanging off one of his shoulders. "Hi, Pence. Hey, Flea. What are you doing here?" He furrowed a brow, looking at the unlikely pair before him.

"Hanging out. Talking about life. He's very philosophical."

"I could have told you that," John chuckled, coming over to kiss my cheek and squeeze my shoulder. "You're tense. Paranoia again?" I nodded. "You can sit down. No one's behind me."

I'd been having fits of paranoia just about every day, didn't matter where we were or what time it was. I could be up in the middle of the night in a hotel room in Boston, and I'd still be double-checking the locks. It was something John had gotten used to in the short time we'd lived together, and he was always really good about bringing me out of my fits. It could either end really easily, like this time, or it could end in a severe panic attack.

"Flea, you want food?" John asked, head stuck into the fridge. I watched Flea quietly slip his kit into a newsboy bag he nearly always carried with him.

"I'm good actually. I'll talk to you later, Pence. I forgot I have to meet up with a couple of friends tonight."

I sat down on the couch hesitantly, looking up. "Yep. I'll call you. Or I'll see you tomorrow, anyways." He waved and closed the door behind him, John following close behind to lock the door and ease my mind.

"Are you okay, Spencer?"

"What?"

He came and sat next to me on the couch, a hand resting on the small of my back. "Seriously. You've been acting so weird since we've been home the past couple of days. You're scaring me."

"I'm okay."

"Nothing you wanted to, like, get off your chest? I don't think you would have asked Flea to come over if you were okay." I eased into his side, feeling my facade slip and my breathing start to speed up. "Baby?"

"I think I want to quit the band."

"Pencey, what?"

I sat up, my flushed face and glassy eyes meeting his perplexed ones. His lips were parted, about to ask more. "I just can't deal with Perry anymore. And I can't be around all these, these, sober people, it makes me want to relapse and be the fucked up one."

"You didn't relapse, did you?"

"That's not the point, John. They don't fucking let me contribute. Did you even know that I don't deserve the writing credit I got on the album? They just gave it to me so I had no reason to sue. They wouldn't let me add anything to the album."

His hand began rubbing my back. "Who's they?"

"Well, I guess it's just Perry. I watched Dave try to talk him into letting me add a few lyrics, and the guy swung at him. Swung. Hard." John felt silent. "I just need time off. I need time to do my own thing. Maybe put out those demos I've had sitting forever."

"You have demos?"

God, I really haven't told him anything, have I?

"I've been writing and recording stuff since I was 18, they've all been sitting in a box under the bed. And I mean, I technically have a solo deal with EMI sitting right now. I can release something at the drop of a hat."

"So, why don't you? I'm sure they're wonderful, even if you release them as is. People love that stuff that sounds homemade."

I sat silently for a moment. "You know what?" I stood up, walked to the phone, and plucked a business card that had been wedged with dozens more in between the phone and the wall. "I think I will." "That's my girl."