Beautifully Broken

Dear Percocet

Frank

"So you recently worked with Claim of the Broken lead singer Ashley Benson. She did vocals on a few songs off your recent album, right? How was that?"

I laugh, rubbing at tired eyes. This is the question. Everyone is waiting for this answer. She's the next thing in rock and everyone wants to know just who she is. I guess I'm supposed to be the man with all the answers, "Oh yeah. That was rad."

"Did you two know each other before the record?"

High school. Ripped up jeans and skater skirts. Cutting class to smoke behind the art room. Sitting up way too late exchanging music and comics. Teaching each other to play instruments. One basement band after the other. "Oh yeah. I've known Ashley since high school. She's still exactly the same. Um, I was out behind the art classroom and she's just standing out there over this big mirror with a hammer and safety goggles. She looks right at me and is like, "do you want to break this mirror with me". Naturally, I had to ask why. She looked me dead in the eyes and was just like "for art". I was a bleed for your art type and thought that purposely giving herself seven years of bad luck was the most hardcore thing I'd ever heard. She's still one of the most hardcore people I know."

"So how did the collaboration come about, did you two plan it?"

Images of Ashley jumping around in the recording booth, getting so into the songs that she loses touch with anyone or anything else for those few hours flash before my eyes. "I've been living between Jersey and California. I was out in California and needed a place to record this album and she's got a place in her basement and so I reached out. Singing together just felt normal and kind of happened naturally. We've been in bands together before so we kind of know each other's musical styles and for this record, they happened to play nicely together."

"Is she easy to work with or is she one of those rock stars that's just a total diva?"

I try to imagine Ashley going full out diva, coming up completely blank. She's too down to earth, too willing to talk things out and have each side heard. Ashley really is the dream artist, a perfect combination of rebel and girl next door; hard-headed enough to push for her side but understanding enough to know when to back down. "No. She's so good and so driven. She really helped push me to make the record everything it could be. We each listened to the other's suggestions and it really was a total collaboration the whole way through. We sat and built puzzles and drank coffee and smoked cigarettes and made a record. It was rad."

"Awesome man, pleasure to have you on as usual. You can find Frank's new album out now." 

Her band name glares up at me from the lineup. Glowing fiery amber, burning those letters into my brain, stirring up emotions I was sure I'd put to rest. My fingers burn, begging me to cast away the paper, get rid of the nasty itch that's begun to creep through my body, digging its claws into me. It's been years, the two of us carefully dancing around run-ins and prying questions from fans and interviewers alike. My stomach rolls and I'm forced to swallow the uneasy feelings down. Suddenly, I get the urge to move, to dispel the anxious energy that's building; to get rid of the fingers that curl around my throat. We can't play these games on tour. There isn't enough room to continue our carefully choreographed routine.

"Earth to Frank," a hand is waved in front of my face, sharp snapping dragging me out of the spiral of my thoughts. "See anybody good on there?" 

Tearing my eyes from the printed letters, I stare into the face of Gerard. He's got an eyebrow raised, lips pursed together as his gaze shifts between the lineup and me, "Few bands we've been on tour with before. The Used is gonna be there so we'll get to avoid Bert for a few months. Fall Out Boy. Mikey will be happy to see Pete again. No one else we've played with before."

"Hey," Gerard snatches the lineup from my hands, eyes narrowing as he reads through the other bands. "Look Ashley's band is going to be there!" Gerard grins, tongue sticking out between his teeth. "That'll be so fun. I miss her."

I scowl. Of course, he'd be excited. Gerard loves Ashley. Feeling increasingly helpless as Gerard hurtled towards rock bottom, I called in Ashley. She knew how to handle addiction. Ashley used her own experiences with depression and drug dependency to coach Gerard through his lowest moments and recovery. She became his rock, someone he could call any time of the day or night to talk about anything. They've kept in touch, meeting up a few times a year to spend a weekend just hanging out and sharing new music. We've successfully protected him from our own bullshit, allowing Gerard to believe that Ashley and I are just too busy to put in the time needed to maintain a viable friendship.

"Did you say, Ashley?" Mikey wheels himself out into the hallway, spinning around in circles on his desk chair. "You know she called me like a month ago? She's planning on putting out new music. I wonder if she knew she'd be going then."

"Naw, she probably would've told you," Gerard pushes Mikey back into the sound booth, continuing their conversation as the door swings shut.

I slide down the wall, resting my chin on my knees. My insides continue to twist around, making my head spin. The feeling in the pit of my stomach says to run, to come up with some excuse as to why I need to bail on this hugely important tour. My heart argues, insisting that after all these years it's ready to heal, ready to reconnect with a girl that was always able to make it beat faster. We parted ways with so much animosity, so much mistrust. Will she even be willing to talk to me, share the same room? My mind wanders, picturing Ashley's reaction as she reads out my band's name. She'll take it in strides, rationalizing, coming up with a game plan. Our first conversation, if it ever happens, will be meticulously calculated and rehearsed. And then, in typical Ashley fashion, that will all go out the window the second we're actually on tour. I can't help but chuckle, covering my mouth with my hand and trying to disguise it as a cough as Bob and Ray come up the hall.

"Gotta lay off the cigarettes, dude, those things'll kill ya," Bob snickers, the back of his hand repeatedly bashing against the camera Ray tries to shove in his face. Behind the scenes Bob strikes again. I think this is the third camera Ray has bought, the other's falling victim to Bob and his intense dislike for being filmed.

"I'll keep that in mind." Something tells me cigarettes will soon be the least of my worries.

I grow increasingly anxious as the tour grows closer. It becomes almost unbearable to sit and be with myself. Wandering the streets becomes a nightly occurrence, my brain unwilling to shut up long enough to let me get more than a few hours of sleep. I smoke through packets of cigarettes, making countless trips to the corner store for more. I reorganize the living room almost every day, the ability to feel comfortable in my own space completely stripped away. The skin around my thumb will never grow back, left in a mess of scabs and scars. Even lying in bed, curled up next to Gerard, something that used to bring me immeasurable peace, isn't the same. My mind wanders, creating dozens of scenarios about how the next few months will play out. Keeping the extent of the fallout between Ashley and me private means I have no one to turn to, no escape from the emotions that threaten to burst through any second now.  I know I should hate her for making me feel this way, but I can't seem to get my heart and brain to agree. Instead, I find myself looking forward to even getting to exist within the same context as her, excited by the idea of just seeing her face.

"Dude, come on, we should've left twenty minutes ago," Ray pounds on the bathroom door, his footsteps retreating up the hall.

Sighing I peel myself away from the toilet, flushing down the physical manifestation of the war going on inside. It's too real, our unavoidable reunion hanging above my head like a guillotine happily welcoming my demise. There's nothing I can do to prolong it, no way I can back out and maintain our safe bubble of avoidance. My stomach lurches. Here I am, so close to twenty-five it hurts and acting like a teen boy with a crush. I stare at myself in the mirror, pointing a finger at my reflection. "Grow up."

Yanking open the medicine cabinet, I paw out an orange bottle, prying the lid off. I dump a few of the pills into my palm, shoving my mouth under the faucet. They sit at the base of my throat, burning. I cough, beating on my chest as I pull the bathroom door open. The pill bottle sits like a brick in my pocket, already showing that they'll willingly take the reigns, allowing me to coast through this tour. As I step into the van my fingers brush over the cap, teeth working at the inside of my cheek. Only if I need them. Only if I'm about to fall off the cliff. Just in case. Just if she's too much.