Volume X: The Industry of Chemical Artistry - or - The Age of Rockism

9. Re-Invention

I got upstate after a fashion, meeting up with Caine at his father’s inn. They had a room ready for me when I got there. I had left the keys to my apartment with Irish, along with instructions to keep it safe. There was nothing alive in there to take care of, there was just the point of making sure the dust bunnies didn’t get too out of hand. She promised to keep it well, make sure my artwork was safe, all that good stuff. I was on some good painkillers for the wound, which were making me feel all kinds of happy. I took them orally for a week then started snorting them. I knew I was going back to my old ways, the habits that tore me away from my parents. But it was part of my escape.

Caine was a good friend, true and loyal. An addict in denial. He smoked like I did, and he was constantly working on his guitar play. He’d hit it big someday and we’d have to pay to see him. He was in talks with producers - recordings were made. He’d be big someday, hopefully soon. The room I was in was free of charge, a favor of some sort. I passed money to Caine anyway, so his father wouldn’t lose money from my presence. I just needed a break until things settled down. I tried to put all stress from my mind - all worry and pain. I spent my free time writing, painting, or drawing. I took pictures when I could get a worthwhile subject. Caine knew everyone in town, he was more than happy to provide a few models. I went to every show Caine played at, met all his friends, becoming accustomed to how he lived. I had a lot of respect for what he did, the way he lived, going from place to place. Things were peaceful for ages; I became acquainted with the calm. It was soothing.

I couldn’t play, despite Caine’s rigorous efforts to teach me. Some of my writing pieces I lent to him for song ideas. We had a great partnership, which bred into a strong friendship. I tried to stay on the outside of things, but Caine insisted that I become part of the circle and live. So I did. It was warmer than I’d ever realized.

I didn’t go to college, another reason that my parents and I had been pulled apart. They wanted me to continue in their footsteps. I decided that I had my own path to follow. I had the business to keep me financially stable, as well as other investments. I was trying not to appear too eager to spend my inheritance. The police would think that I was irresponsible. My sudden disappearance wouldn’t look good for me either, but I needed that bit of mental space. I needed that step backwards. A slight pause to set things right.

Upstate, there was little to do but go to the weekend shows. Beyond those, there was nothing else. Except the races. Due to the open roads, wide spaces, it was perfect for racers to take control. And by racers, I mean bikers. And I don’t mean cyclists, you know, those health conscious yuppies that bike because it means cardiovascular health. No. I mean bikers, motorcyclists, those rebels of old that take their lives in their hands and laws are insignificant. The cops had been trying to pull the plug for ages, but they were ultimately a failure. In the end, they just limited the kids to certain roads. As long as they got to race, they didn’t care. It was all the same to them. They raced, the gamblers bet, and the show went on. In the city, there was the bar and the freak show. Here they had their own bars, and their freak show was the races.

There was a sort of leadership, a hierarchy, if you will. The kids that ran the show were my age, early twenties, all tough as nails. They were the hardest riders, the most weathered, toughest overall. We called them the Wicked. There were four of them, just like the infamous Horsemen. And the story was that only the worthy got to see their faces. The rest dealt with visors and helmets, nothing more than a dark shine.

I found that I got bored easily with one idea. Watching just rock shows bothered me after awhile. When I was younger, I used to watch my parents work. It fascinated me, how much they knew or how much they seemed to know. How their patients would just bend to them, telling them whatever dark secrets they possessed. It was amazing. I longed for that kind of power. But as I got older, I saw it for what it was - control. And I gave up on that conquest in search of a better dream. I found art. And the rock shows. And I’ve made due with them ever since, but I need to keep adding or else I’ll never be happy. So I keep changing. The bikers interested me because it was something new. A subculture to rock and roll that I knew nothing about – a new playground of sorts. Such is life.