The Only Living Boy in New York

TWENTY

Van
Sometime in 2o19

Everyone was upset.

I can't say I blamed them. But I also wasn't sure if I cared.

We were somewhere in western America, I'm not sure where but the climate made me feel like we were close to mountains. Denver maybe? Did it really matter?

The answer was no, because regardless of the location, the situation was not going to change. Everyone wanted to be done, they wanted to go home, and I wanted to keep going, never stopping, never slowing down. And they were vocal about the additions to the tour dates I'd begged management to throw in last minute. Johnny Bond in particular.

Lately, my old pal Johnny hadn't been much of a pal. He was less inclined to go out drinking with me and more inclined to fiddle around with his guitar and write songs. And he was pissed because the songs he was writing, I wasn't a fan of. He was great at making licks and rifts that could blow you out of the water, but he wasn't a lyricist. Well, maybe he was, but it wasn't linear with our band. It didn't make sense. It was too...out there for what we were about. It didn't align with the style of music we made, and I'd told him that.

Once I'd told him how I felt, he pulled back slowly, inching away in tiny movements that even I hadn't picked up on. Until there was a foot or more of distance between us, and he started keeping to himself more. Then I noticed. Everyone noticed.

Larry was just as bad. All wound up in a girl from back home we went to school with, worried about when he'd be getting back to her. He'd spend his evenings on the phone with her, rarely going out at all. Benji and Bob had never been ones for long winded nights out, which left me to myself, and man was I good at going out.

It was easy to snag pot and coke from the roadies. They always had a hookup or knew of someone who knew someone with the hookup. I'd gone maybe one night without any blow in the whole entirety of the tour, and I'd be damned if I was going to do that again. The routine was simple, wake up, if I'd even gone to sleep at all, pluck some strings at soundcheck, attempt to write a song or two, then have a midday beer with a bump before any interviews or podcasts. By the show, I was taking another, and depending on how the night went, I'd chase it down with whiskey or vodka, or another line, depending on my mood and my crowd. Sometimes soundcheck was last and interviews were first, but either way, the routine was set.

Early on, I wasn't the only one living like this. Bondy and I wrecked havoc on the cities we visited, and we never met a pub we didn't like. But this time around, this tour, after the release of our third album, something changed.

I could sense it in the way the guys reacted to my routines and in the way they would decline my evening invitations. But it became more and more noticeable at shows. The camaraderie wasn't there. I wasn't hanging off of Bondy's shoulders like before, or announcing Bob to the crowd before a massive solo moment. I was still scouring the crowd like I owned them all, pocketing glances to get me through and keep me on, but the guys were just getting through the set. Nothing else. No excitement, no thrill. Just, mundane, average sets where they played their instruments, and didn't look up. Benji still shared the brotherhood moments with me, but Bondy and Bob were different. Skeptical of my movements even.

It was bleeding into interviews. Bondy did most of the talking, mainly because when I started, I couldn't stop and the label didn't like my answers. I was short and agitated, and I'd talk in circles according to management. So they assigned Bondy to always tag along because he was "well spoken, kind and could keep the peace where I couldn't." I was tired of the same questions and the same journalists. It was repeat interviews 24/7. Johnny could only tell the same story about our music videos so many times before I'd lose it. I could feel the annoyance creeping in every time he started to answer a question the same way as he did the day before. I could feel the tension roll off me while he spoke. I knew I was going to lose my cool. I imagined what it'd be like if I just got up and walked away, tossed the mic I was speaking into on its side and disappeared. But instead, I'd sit there, and not comment, and wonder why everyone was staring at me oddly.