Only Summer Loves October - Ryden

Prologue - 1992

There's a bang on the door, this time more aggressive. The flimsy metal lock looks like it's hanging on for its life as Jon takes his impatience out on me for being unsociable.

"What are you doing in there? We're getting picked up in 5 minutes!" I can tell he's getting angry now, but this is what I do when I need to get away from all the bullshit.

The bathroom's always a safe bet because whoever's on the other side doesn't know I'm sat here fully clothed, head in hands, contemplating life.  I don't judge their fucked up traits (like the way Zack habitually polishes his vast collection of shoes like a maniac when he's pissed off, he thinks we haven't noticed), so they shouldn't judge me for mine.

I don't reply to Jon yet because I need a bit more time, I start counting down in my head. 10.. 9.. 8.. 7.. 6.. "Ryan!" 5.. 4.. 3.. 2.. "Okay fuck sake" Jon snaps at me impatiently. 1... I slide the lock and open the door and he's standing there, bracing himself ready to break down the door. Weirdo.

"Chill out man, they'll wait for us - they always do" I mumble.

Jon looks at me with squinted eyes, but he's not going to argue with me because he knows I won't have the energy to even try and argue back. He pushes his greasy looking hair out of his face with one hand and lets out a shaky breath. "I just don't understand you, we might be big now but it won't stop people from talking shit about us if we keep turning up late or giving them attitude. It's like you've given up on us sometimes."

Maybe he does know me, most people just idolize me but if they could only see what I've done I wouldn't be the infamous Ryan Ross in their eyes anymore. The guy every boy wants to be and every girl wants to fuck. They would hate me just as much as I do. Only one person knows my story, well - one person that I would ever need to worry about, but I'll just carry on living this life I've created because it's not like he's a threat to me. I wasn't famous back then, I was practically still a kid. Surely it was too long ago for him to care anymore - he doesn't know anything about me. Like anyone who listens to the radio, he's heard my voice and that's all.

He knows my voice, and on my worst days I swear I can hear his.

Jon slumps himself into the brown velvet couch that matches his jacket, camouflaging his body - leaving just his grumpy and plain looking face. Specs of dust fly into the air and dance in the light shining through the moldy windows. I'll never understand why Jon won't sell this shit hole, but he's the kind of guy that gets attached to people and places. Honestly though, it's like he doesn't realize he's rich now.

I look over at Jon and give him an exaggerated smile, with that he just laughs and rubs the back of his neck. "What are we gonna do with you Ry?" It's crazy that one false smile makes him calm again. You know maybe Jon's the one that's misunderstood, the way he goes from being mad to chilled in no time at all. His sudden mood change could possibly be because we're still a little high, although I think it's wearing off on me now - I can feel a headache starting to appear as 'Creep' by Radiohead plays a little too loud for my liking.

The apartment bell rings and Jon's straight back to panic mode. He jumps up and gathers my shit together like I'm his child and he's preparing my day bag. I don't care though, if he wants to get stressed out on my behalf then so be it. This stuffy room is making him sweat and isn't helping with his greasy hair situation.

We get into the back seats of the blue Buick Electra and don't say a word to each other for the whole ride. There's always been an awkwardness between us, he's one of those friends that I've known for years but have practically nothing in common with. He doesn't think it but I'm hilarious, I just haven't met anyone who really appreciates my sense of humor yet. Jon's talented though, I need him and he knows it - so I laugh at his jokes because it keeps him happy, and he laughs at mine.. because I'm me.

Our driver stops in a no parking zone, who's going to stop us? As we pull up I hear that 'Creep' song now playing on a different radio station. I can't help but feel like the lyrics were written by me: 'But I'm a creep, I'm a weirdo. What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here.'

My best friend's already propped up against the wall of the studio casually, with both his middle fingers up but a huge grin on his face just to contradict himself. His drumsticks are sticking out of his pocket as if to remind everyone of his role in the band.

Spencer - he almost gets me. Only because I've known him forever and I love him like a brother 99% of the time. He can't see me yet because of the tinted windows so I feel stupid when I return his gesture. He's wearing one of our band T-shirts with 'Weeds' in bold black print across the front. Our fans relate it to drugs but in reality it's because we were abused at school for being skinny outsiders, so we were simply and ironically known as weeds. Spencer doesn't care for fashion, he would rather spend his money 'making memories' (his words not mine) and it's not like he has to pay for the T-shirt.

I open the car door and the heat hits me. A mix of leaving the air conditioned car, a come down from the drugs and self inflicted dehydration. I really should look after myself better. I reach into the back pocket of my ripped jeans and pull out a pack of camels. I'm about to get asked all the same questions by all the same ignorant interviewers that probably don't even bother listening to the songs. Someone just tells them where to be and what to ask us. They can damn well wait until I've finished my cigarette because I'll be giving them all the patience I'm capable of when we get in there.

It was Pete's idea to be interviewed at the studio. "It will seem authentic, the fans will love the pictures" - whatever.  He's probably already in there buttering them up. I can't complain, he's a cool guy and a good manager. We all keep having to remind ourselves that he's our manager because he comes to the parties, sleeps with the groupies, even supplies the drugs. Pete tells us he does it because he doesn't want us putting ourselves in unnecessary danger, because actually taking drugs on a regular basis must be safe. Sure thing Pete.

The door to the studio opens and Pete's head pops out. "Come on you fuckers, I don't have all day! Time is money boys!" I take a long drag and drop my cigarette to the floor.

What the hell am I doing here, I don't belong here.

The air is relatively cooler in the studio and they have our latest record 'Branches' playing in the background, probably on repeat. Great.

A skinny twenty-something year old looks at me with excitement in his eyes, I kind of recognize him. "Hey Ryan you look great, that new hairstyle rocks" he almost yells as he stands up from his seat. He's probably interviewed me before, so thinks he has the right to address me informally. Ha. I just stare back at him for a second and casually avert my gaze to anything else in the room, what does this guy want me to say? Does he want a compliment? Because he looks like shit in his Reebok tracksuit, and short cut hair. He's not one of us.

When he realizes I have no intention of acknowledging his comment he slowly sits back down again as I can feel the burn from Pete's eyes on me.

Okay Pete I'll play nice now.

The questions keep coming, I try my best to cooperate and answer half truthfully. After what feels like hours, a girl in her early twenties that I didn't notice before speaks up. She's short and seductively curvy with a nose ring and heavy black eyeliner that makes her green eyes stand out. I realize I'm staring but don't stop.

"I've listened to every song on your new album multiple times and can't help but feel an inconsistency. None of the lyrics link but all seem to have so much emotional depth. Is this your own way of telling us your story without really letting us in?"

I like her. So I might give her a real answer, but not here. "Clever" is all I say for now, but give her the closest thing to a friendly smile as I can manage. She seems happy with that because it's more than I've granted anyone else in our studio.

I've had enough now and Pete doesn't stop me when I stand up to leave. As I walk past him I give him a look and whisper "I'd like to see her again." He raises one eyebrow and nods.

Maybe she can help me feel more human again, at least until I get bored.