Lonely People

Hey, Kids, Want To Buy Some Drugs?

I sat on a barstool, a cigarette hanging loosely from my lips. The sounds of the club bustled around me, but I paid no attention. The only thing I knew, the only thing I felt, was pure exhaustion. 

Our shows were long and we played every night. Sundays were our only day off, mostly because the club was closed as well. The other six days a week ran on exhaustion and hard liquor. It wasn't an ideal life if anything it was more like an ideal hell, but we were getting paid for it. Money made the world go 'round, and it made five teenagers from Liverpool work until they dropped.

"Exhaustion is one hell of a drug," I muttered to myself.

My body longed for the comforts of my own bed in my own home, not the stiff things they called beds here. Sometimes, I thought it would be more comfortable to sleep on the concrete floors rather than the musty, crusty, dusty old mattress the club supplied us with. We slept in the back of a movie theater across the street, it was less than ideal. The only comfort I had were the warm smoke puffs exiting my lungs, the bite of whiskey, and the drums. That was it. Even that sometimes didn't do the trick. 

Before this trip, I didn't drink. I made a conscious effort not to drink, but the hours were long, and liquor made it easier. It gave me a new energy. I didn't drink before, but, after these grueling hours, I was left with no choice. I'd even begun smoking more than I used to.

"'Ello, Melly!"

Someone practically collided with my back. The cigarette fell from my lips as arms wrapped around my chest. I sputtered, "John, what the hell?"

The man in question released me and fell onto the barstool next to me. He looked as chipper as ever, with rosy cheeks and a genuine smile. Even his eyes were bright. Had it not been so dark in that club, I would have seen his pupils practically took up his entire face. He looked nothing like the exhausted John Lennon I had seen that morning.

"It's a beautiful day to play, yes?" John asked.

I lifted an eyebrow, "What's gotten into you?"

"A wonderful thing!" he exclaimed, "A brilliant thing!"

"What thing?"

He gazed at me, his smile one step beyond unsettling, "The waitresses, they have a method."

"A method for what? John, you're beginning to worry me."

"Don't worry, Melly, be happy," John dug in his pants pocket, "The waitresses have longer hours than us, they have things to keep them going."

John pulled his hand out of his pocket and showed me a palmful of little, white, pills. A few had lint on them, but, otherwise, they seemed to have just fallen out of the bottle. They were no bigger than the tip of my finger, and each had a thin line directly through the middle. John held them like a noble would hold diamonds. 

"Drugs?" I asked, "You're doing drugs now?"

John placed a pill in my hand and rolled my fingers over it, "Not drugs, Melly, energy. These things give you the energy of seven elephants, we can play all night on these!"

I stared at him. For a moment, I thought he was joking, but he was being completely serious. He was even excited about it.

Drugs had never crossed my mind. I had finally given up and turned to the bottle, but drugs? That was insane! People die from drugs every day. Addictions are formed, people go nuts, things don't generally go well with drugs. I had to sit through an entire school day of anti-drug propaganda videos all because one bloke brought a reefer to school.

"You've got to be joking. I'm not going to do drugs, John!" I retorted.

John grinned, "You might not have a choice. You're exhausted, Melly, we all are. This is the only way we can get through this."