The Second Night
The stronger Vicodin made me sleepy. I fell into a strong, deep sleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. I dreamt of running from gangsters and monsters in downtown Manhattan. I dreamt of monsters that were my family members and my other personal demons. I couldn’t face them, so I ran from them. I woke up in the mid-afternoon, having a low blood sugar. There was a persistant knocking at the door to the suite. A note that had been lain on my chest tumbled to the floor when I sat up. More knocking. “Alright!” I called out. I stumbled from the bed to the doorway, and opened the door. S was there. “How’d you find me?” I asked, dizzy from the low glucose. “It’s not that hard. You okay?” he asked. I shook my head. “Got any more of that Vicodin?” “I brought six more, but…” he held out another ziplock baggie. I snatched it, said I’d be back, and shut the door.
Stumbling to the mini bar, I wolfed down something sweet and sticky. I barely chewed it. I just had to get it down my throat and into my blood stream. I felt disassociated. The room was crooked. That annoying knocking had returned to the door. “Don’t make me talk through a door! C’mon, let me in. I promise not to cross any borders,” S called in to me. “I’m not well,” I called back. “Come back in an hour,” I finished, looking for more sweet, sticky food. S tried to reason with me, but I wouldn’t answer him anymore. I had drank an entire bottle of ice cream topping and I was still shaky.
Getting up off the floor, I sat down on the bed and checked the time. It was well after 5pm. I had slept over eighteen hours. At least. I saw the note on the floor, picked it up, and read the two lines that Dennis bothered to leave me: Kids with groups. I’m out till ten. Hm. I wadded up the paper and tossed it into the nearest trash can. Why didn’t he wake me up?
I vaguely remembered getting up this morning, taking my meds, and then climbing back into bed, mumbling something about having awesome dreams and not wanting to be disturbed. Maybe that is why he continued without me? Why was I even there? Once again, I felt the tightening in my throat, indicating that I was about to start crying again. No. Not tonight. Tonight I wasn’t going to sit around, feeling sorry for myself. I pulled on a clean tee shirt and some jeans, tossed the Vicodin in my clutch and opened the door to the suite to find S standing outside the room. “That was quick,” he commented. I smiled. “Want to go pass through some more bottles of wine?” I asked. He nodded, and we went down to the wine room of the resort.
The room was noisy but not with the same chatter that was in the dining halls. Once again, I was racing through a bottle of white wine. I wanted to be drunk more than anything else in the world. The more I drank, the more I poured out my irritations to S and the more I insinuated that I wanted to fuck him. He took the clues pretty well. We talked about all the groupies that he had over the years, then we talked about my conquers. Who was the best, why they were the best. What I liked, what I wouldn’t do. I remember I went through two bottles of wine tonight. The night was young, and I hadn’t eaten, once again, and as I staggered back to the suite, I mentioned that there were no condoms in the suite. S shrugged. “I don’t carry, either. How can a groupie not carry?!” I had to laugh at that. I was a groupie coming out of retirement. Why not? There was so much to gain from this. I know that things happened on Dennis’ days on the road. In the beginning, I ignored them. I assumed that some day we would over come them when we had children or got married. But children and marriage doesn’t change a person’s core. If you’re bisexual or a bi-groupie when you get married, you will be one after you get married.
On the ride in the elevator, a thousand memories came flooding back. Marilyn Manson concerts, Ozzfest, Billy’s failure back a few years ago. Oh wait, that wasn’t voluntary.
I remembered all the back stage mischief. I remember the fun. I remember the photos that Michelle had snuck of James Hetfield that night Metallica played at the BOK Center. Out of all of the metal and rock concerts that I have attended, the one that people question me the most is … that Davy Jones concert I attended in October 2003. Thinking about that, I burst out laughing for no reason in the elevator. S gave me a funny look. “I was thinking about things,” I said. He smiled.
Stepping off the elevator onto the floor where our rooms were, I checked the time on my phone. It wasn’t quite ten yet, but it was too late to do anything sexual. I sighed and explained the time stress to S, and he walked me to my suite. I wasn’t sure if the kids had been tucked in or not, but I invited him back in. Fumbling with the door card, I dropped my phone. The photo of me holding baby Everly was on the wallpaper. S picked up the phone. “Is she your’s?” he asked. I didn’t reply. I was still fumbling with the credit card door key that did not work. “She’s pretty. She looks like you..” I snapped the phone back. “Her middle name is Miracle, but it should be Mistake,” I mumbled. “Why?” “Kids screw up relationships. Or they did mine. I’m not an equal partner anymore, but a baby factory. A baby maker and raiser. It sucks,” I replied. The door finally opened. S took my hand and placed four more Vicodins in the palm of my hand. “You have a lot of pain. I hope these help,” he said. I wanted to melt into the butterscotch-y rug in that hall way. Human contact, how I missed you! Understanding, where have you been?! With another smile, he turned and left me there in front of my suite. I watched him leave.
Entering the suite, a nanny was watching TV inside. I told her she could leave, as I sat down on the bed and began pulling off my shoes. I placed the Vicodin on the nightstand and finished getting undressed. I was able to slip into my pajamas and settle down on the couch, popped a few Vicodins to help me sleep. And here I am. And Here I Am. Dennis isn’t back yet and I sit here, plucking at a computer while heavy narcotics flutter through my blood stream. Sleep has not come to me yet. I’m not even shaky from not eating tonight. Hoping that I run into S again tomorrow. Maybe we can go to the dance hall. Human contact and Understanding does much for me. I crave it constantly, and now that I was given a little taste of it, I want it all the time. I want it now, but I know the best I can hope for is one of the kids to need me in the night. Such is life.