No More No More

Seasons of Wither

December sixteenth, nineteen seventy-three.  About eleven o'clock at night:

    I was curled in bed, reading a book, when I heard a soft knocking on the apartment door.  I couldn't be sure there was really someone there.  Nonetheless, I burrowed down a little further in my many blankets.  It was freezing cold outside.  More knocking.  I was sure of it this time.  There's definitely someone.  The classic scene in a scary movie: There's no way I'm getting that door.

     Knock......... Knock. Knock. Knockknock-knockknock....... Knockknock-knockknock...... Kock. Knock.

     Na, na na, na-na-na-na... Na-na-na-na, Hey Jude.

     I leapt out of bed and raced to the door.  My parents' bedroom light was on, maybe the knocking woke them, maybe my mom was reading.  I didn't care.  I ripped the door open and flung my arms around whoever's neck it was.  Most likely Steven.  He laughs.  Not Steven.  "Joe!" I exclaim.  Behind him is Steven.  After a reasonable amount of hug time, I hug Steven so tightly I think my arms might fall off.  The expression of glee on my face is mirrored in Steven's.

     The boys were so jet lagged and tired and high and drunk from the trip they were half asleep before they even stepped inside.  Joey immediately collapsed on the couch, and Tom followed Joe home.  Brad stood awkwardly in the doorway, having never been in my house.  I tell him he can just sleep in the chair.  Steven follows me to my room, tripping over his own two feet.

      He pulls off his shirt and crashes on his back on my bed, crossing his ankles and folding his hands behind his head.  I curl up next to him, running my hand up and down his perfect chest.  I missed him.  I missed this.  He looks at me, his eyes all unfocused and drooping closed.  "Hi baby," he says drunkenly, though I can't smell any alcohol on his breath.  He's probably super tired.

      I giggle at his adorable tiredness.  "Hi."  I run my hand up and down a few more times.  "How was the tour?"

      His eyes are closed. "Fine," he says vaguely.

     "Only fine?"  I feel like I'm talking to a little kid.  "It wasn't great?  Fantastic?"

     "Okay, fine," he says, opening his eyes and looking at me.  "It was fucking amazing."  Suddenly his eyes aren't so tired anymore and he's smiling again.  "It was so great," he says, full of life, "we went everywhere!  Annie, we just got back from Hollywood!  California!"

     I laugh.  "Shh, shh!"

   He kisses my nose lightly then lays back down.  "It was like every other night we played to thousands of people.  Thousands of people paying to see Aerosmith!  Us, Annie!  We made it!"  I rest my head on my elbow, staring at him.  Slowly his eyes drift back closed.  "But you know?" he says suddenly.  "This is a million times better."  He kisses me, putting his arm around my back.  Dammit, why do we have to be in my mother's house?  What good is a reunion when all you do is sleep? Well, we'll be going back to Boston tomorrow, so I guess we haven't quite missed the 'welcome home.'

--

Because of their record deal and tour, the boys consider themselves rich. The first thing they did before even coming to Hopedale was restock. You don't really think that they sat and did nothing on a plane for five hours, do you?  Each had one form or another of some sort of drug in their suitcase.

     "How was the tour?" Mama asked.  We had gone down to Joe's for breakfast.  I took my usual seat between Joe and Steven.

     Joe didn't look up from his plate.  Mama probably thinks he's tired.  Me and the band know better: He's stoned out of his mind and probably didn't sleep at all last night.  "Good," he says lamely.