Fleetwood Mac-Part III of Fritz Series

Together, Apart

March 1977

Rumors is a hit, beyond a hit. It's a phenomenon; the last semblance of anonymity I had has evaporated in the face of mega celebrity. Just as I feared and partially hoped, people love our work. Magazines have published details of our past, teen publications have all of our favorite foods, musicians, songs, colors, etc, etc. I've never seen so much money in my life and it's all a little overwhelming, and more than a little heartbreaking. Things are so great professionally that I'm bombarded with offers for collaborations, to help other bands produce albums. Concurrently, my personal life is in the tank.

Stevie and I are almost completely estranged, I saw Sara Nova and A.J. for Christmas for a total of about two hours, after which I was promptly asked to leave the Nicks' gathering. I was drunk, so that may have had something to do with it. Mom took pity on me and let me sleep over afterwards...of course she was at the Nicks' house when all of this happened so she just gave me her house key and told me to sleep it off. She's attempting to be diplomatic about this entire affair, but three grandkids apparently equals more than one of her own kids so she sides with Stevie.

The clock by my bed reads twelve-forty five p.m. we have a band meeting to discuss our upcoming tour in an hour. Just enough time for another tank of oil. Hash oil. Liquid THC for the uninitiated, working in the music business has the convenient side effect of putting one in touch with all sorts of innovative street pharmacists. The high is better and harder than just smoking grass, it also keeps my headaches at bay. Because, in case I forgot to mention, I haven't had my surgery. Should have done months ago when we wrapped production.

No house, no kids, no wife. Don't see the point honestly. They get everything if I die no matter when that may occur.

Two hits off my pipe later and I'm floating the hazy gauze of intoxication filling my mind with pleasant thoughts. Memories of Stevie and I on our first date in Redwood Valley, playing lead guitar on stage for the first time, Sara's first word. Daddy. Nova playing with his trains on Christmas, A.J. and his dirty blonde hair and piercing blue eyes, feeding him his bottle in the hospital. Stevie.

Stevie.

Stevie.

Stevie.

No matter how angry I may be with her I can't get her off my mind. I still love her as much as I ever have, but I can't shake how badly she broke my heart. So much of who we are now is because of our trust in each other. She's influenced me in an innumerable amount of ways, most if not all of my songs are written about her in some way. Concurrently she's as much as admitted that I inspire her to write, and our relationship is a major source of material for her work. So what the fuck does Iovine do for her that I don't? He listens...I listen. I always have.

She just has to be contrary, if I say black she says white and we argue about it until we meet in the middle. That's the way we've always been. It works for us, and while it's a regrettably intense part of the process it's something we've come to expect when we collaborate. Whatever, when Iovine finishes tanking her solo work and wrapping it in plastic for mass audience appeal she'll recognize how much better we were as a team.

One o'clock. Time to get up and get dressed, not an easy task with this much hash and a fair amount of scotch in me. I have enough physical dexterity and presence of mind to call for a car, no way I can drive. But getting dressed proves difficult, and I barely get my shoes righted before the doorbell rings. Briefcase in hand I stumble to the back of the Lincoln waiting for the driver to open the door for me. when he does, I pour myself inside my body draped over the back-seat sunglasses firmly over my bloodshot eyes.