Harvey

By Maeghan Jo Kimball

Harvest Smith, better known as Harvey has been the lead signer of a band called Harvest Moon since she was 17 years old. Today she turns 30. And what has she accomplished in her life? A number one hit when she was 19. But what since then? She starts to ask the difficult questions about her life as it spirals out of control. Her manager and ex-finance, Mitch believes that she is faking the medical issues that may force the band off the road. Her band thinks its exhaustion. Only she is convinced that she is something wrong with her. Her mother dies unexpectedly in her thirties and Harvey is convinced that whatever killed her mother is now going to kill her. But what about love and the goofy Ben that she meets in the hospital? Can she gain enough control of her life to see what is really there or should she continue to blindly except what life is giving her?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maeghan Jo Kimball
• Release date: Aug 4, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310416781

Maeghan Jo Kimball

Entergetic and fun-loving writer and participant in life. Always liking for new experiences and new things to write about, Maeghan can be found at Music Festivals, conventions, or even just a walk in the woods. Always willing to discuss her writings, life, TV and movies, she loves company and craves stimulating conversations.

Book preview

Chapter One

I’m hung over, again.

Or maybe it should be still. I can’t remember the last time I was sober. As I pay my respects this morning to the god of porcelain, it occurs to me that I should try to wake up sober from time to time. Since I’m lying on the tile floor, I must have made it back to my hotel at some point last night. My watch reads four pm, but I know that can’t be right. The watch hasn’t worked in months and I only keep wearing it because if I take it off I don’t have a watch. I carefully crawl out of the bathroom to the nightstand where the alarm and phone are. They both read 1:37 pm. Too late for continental breakfast, but there may be coffee in the lobby. Of course, I was supposed to check out 37 minutes ago, so coffee may be a no go anyway. My phone is also flashing telling me that everyone is looking for me. Seven missed calls, four voice mails, and six text messages. I don’t bother to answer them, no point. I know what they are. It’s the band looking for me and getting ready to lecture me about my responsibilities.

I slid into the shower, knowing that they would figure out I was in the room sooner or later. Very rarely do I pull the girl card, but today was one of those days where they were going to wait for me. And I was right. By the time I stepped out of the shower, a couple of them were sitting on the bed waiting for me. I pulled on a pair of moderately dirty jeans and t-shirt while they all talked at me. I finger brushed my long lanky black hair before throwing everything in my suitcase and putting on my armor, dark sunglasses. Then off to the van with the rest of the guys for hours of travel time.

Mitch Headley, tour manager extraordinaire, lectured me as we all sat there and he drove. He always lectures me while we drive. I believe that he feels that the van is his office. A place where he can work and yell at his whim and we, the band, have to take it. This is so ordinary, so lacking in any way of making it remarkable, that I waited for them to remember why today had extra significance. I waited patiently as we drove, figuring that it would come up. It only comes once a year and it’s in my bio, but no one mentioned it. Didn’t matter anyway, it’s just was the anniversary of my birth that makes the day special. It’s just another day started with another hangover and likely to end the same way. Why would they remember something that only really has meaning to me? I’m 30 today. 30 years old and I’ve been performing for half my life. Half my life, I’ve been onstage, sweating under the harsh white spotlights for others. Apparently this only matters to me. I’m the only one who noticed.

I don’t know what state we’re in. I try to not open my eyes behind the sunglasses; it’s just too damn bright. They all blur together into one jumble of out of focus scenery whizzing by the window as the van speeds by. The droning of the wheels their soundtrack, punctuated by the sound of the humans in the van. People have all become like the grownups from The Peanuts. Or maybe I’ve stopped growing and learning. I keep making the same mistakes over and over and over again. I still believe that this time Lucy won’t move the football at the last second and I won’t fall on my ass. Where is my TV special to teach me the lesson of the season? That beauty is the eye of the beholder, don’t judge a book by its cover, the valley is always greener on the other side, and life is something to cherish.

But it’s all meaningless. Every word, every moment, every breath. I have no idea what this is all about anymore. I don’t know why I do this. Why I do anything. I have a life preserver, but I’m stuck in calm seas with no need to do anything, including tread water. Even when I look in the mirror, all I see is a stranger inhabiting my ghost.

We’re at another dirty, hole-in-the-wall club and the ghost is looking back at me from the mirror. I recognize the blue eyes that used to be clear and mysterious, but have turned into murky cesspools that reflect my wasted life. My black hair hung loose down to my shoulders, lank and greasy from my lack of care for it. My face is thin, paper thin and shallow. It’s also splotchy and rough from the makeup and lack of daily regime to keep that youthful appearance. The bones in my face quite clearly defined, sticking out at odd angles. I should introduce myself to this stranger looking back at me, but we rarely see each other except when catch each other in the mirror. Am I still there under that yellowed skin and tired eyes? Would I recognize myself if I surfaced, or have I accepted the ghost reflection as my own? With smeared makeup, layered on smeared makeup I don’t think my own mother would recognize me if we meet on the street in broad daylight. That would require me to up during daylight, but other than that, I don’t think it’s possible. There is no time to ask the ghost, because they are chanting my name.

Harvey! Harvey!

I don’t want to go. I don’t want to be HER tonight. I need to find myself among the ruins of my life. I don’t want to go. I can’t go out there and just make it happen. The show can’t go on, there’s nothing left of me. They have devoured all that I am, was or ever will be. It’s time to shoot the old useless nag.

But Mitch is there. His voice whah-whah-whahing at me. He’s chastising me for not being ready. My hair is unbrushed, my makeup scattered and a half-drunk bottle of whiskey in my hand. He grabs me by the shoulders, shaking me, demanding to know if I had drank all that whiskey. I don’t need to hear him to know what he’s asking. It’s the same conversation we’ve had a hundred times. I couldn’t hear him over his whah-whah-whah’s and the thumping in my ears anyway. I shake my head, not sure if it’s a yes or no shake. Probably a little bit of both. Then like a pissed off parent, he used my full name and that snapped me to. Harvest Morrigan Smith, what the hell is your problem?

And like Moses parting the Red Sea, the fog in my head parted and I knew what I had to do. Five minutes. I say, turning away from him. He’s thrown the switch and there’s nothing stopping me now, including my own feelings and thoughts. I was a product to be displayed for other’s enjoyment. It no longer mattered that I was having an existential crisis. I was a Rock Star and they were chanting my name.

Harvey! Harvey!

A battle cry! I was being called forth to do battle, to fight for the everyman and wear my heart on my sleeve as I sang out my demons for them. And what did I get in return? Screams. Shouts. Applause. The sharing of time and space. Occupancy of their memories, to be told around the water cooler with their friends and co-workers as they try to recall their memories of battles won on the dance floor.

I step out onto stage; a white light illuminating Harvey the performer, the singer, the artist. My soul sinking deeper into it’s crevasse to avoid the white, revealing light. No, no one gets to see that. The stripped down truth behind the glitter and lipstick and the persona that gets built to protect me. I don’t even get to see that. Don’t want to see that and ask questions and think. Because really, what is there to think about? Think about my place in my life? Band? Country? Planet? Universe? Because when we think of those things, I begin to understand how unhappy, unfulfilled, used that I am.

It’s like autopilot when I hit the stage, any stage. Like muscle memory, my body knows what to do; what words to sing; what jokes to make; how to hold the mic. No thoughts. Just do it and get it right. Not even so much as right as recognizable. Job done with a minimum of mistakes and then it is off to enjoy the fruits of my labors, which I prefer distilled. The pain can’t hurt me if I’m numb.

The show is over and like a newborn; I’m thrust into the tank with the piranhas. Still blinded by the stage lights, all the Bob’s, Mary’s and Jay’s blend together into one faceless mob, all trying to lay hands on me. They don’t even know me, but somehow I’ve become the most important thing in their lives. Cds, shirts, posters, ticket stubs and body parts shoved at me, all demanding the same things. I scribble on them in Sharpie and they disappear to be replaced with new ones, new faces, new Bob’s, Mary’s and Jay’s. Drinks arrive from the faceless piranhas and I know there will be another morning with a hangover in another hotel worshipping the only god that is ever there for me, and that with a flush. Everyone wants me to know how much I mean to them; how much my music means to them; how my songs made their lives better. How can words sung by a stranger make anyone’s life better? Have these words put to melody made my life better? Who can I idolize and listen to? Who can make my life better through words?

The lights are on and the faceless are being forced out of the club. The whiskey bottle is back in my hands, but it’s not what I want. I want food. I want greasy, calorie laden food made just for me because I ordered it. The growl of my stomach betraying me and the fact that I don’t remember the last time I had solid nourishment. They all look at me, distain across their faces. Once again I’ve screwed up something without realizing it. I start to say something, but everyone else is talking about going back to the hotel to sleep. They aren’t going to listen to me anyway. Why listen to the crazy lady? I close my mouth and follow, sunglasses on to protect me from the world. The hotel’s not far and we’re checked in by 3:30 and they are all snuggled up in bed by 4. But I’m not tired.

That’s not true. I’m exhausted. I just can’t sleep. My eyes wouldn’t close, my fingers wouldn’t stop drumming to a rhythm that only they heard. The hallways of all the hotels look the same. There has to be warehouses dedicated to housing the wallpaper, the tables, and the fake ugly flowers that fool no one. Doesn’t anyone else ever get tired of the same old wallpaper and the same old flowers and the generic pictures that grace every hotel there is? I want to scream, take Sharpies to the walls, to just do anything to mar the obscene sameness of it all. But I just pace. Willing by body to shut down and go to sleep. Sweet oblivion is miles away and there’s no chance I’ll make it there; it’s too far to go.

The night clerk at the check in desk eyes me with suspicion as I browse the tourist attraction pamphlets full of nervous energy. I head out to the trailer and van thinking that I might get my guitar out and work on some new songs. But as I rifled thru my pockets, I realize that I don’t have a set of keys to the van anymore. I lost them months ago back stage at a show. Everything is for naught, nothing pans out the way that it should. The night air is invigorating me when it was supposed to remind my body that it was supposed to be curled up in a bed. There was little for me to do and I couldn’t take being cooped up inside the cookie cutter hen house. So I started to walk. Wherever we are, we were on the outskirts of town and soon I was mingling with the others that couldn’t sleep this night. I was stepping over homeless and frightening the drunks stumbling home and marveling at the people who chose to get up this early to run or go to work or whatever people do when they wake up this early on purpose. As I walk, stepping over the homeless and the displaced, I feel at home.

As I walk, a strange sense of ease encases me. My angst quieting down to let the world splash over me. There is no one to perform for here, so quietly like a mouse, my soul crept out. All is forgotten, except the rhythm of my walking. The buzzing in my ears receding and I can even hear the world again. But I’m calm now. No urgency to find myself or explore the ruins. Everything gets buried for a reason, why unearth it? Why torture myself with those questions of why? And how? Why should I care that no one remembered my birthday? Why care about anything at all?

I find myself watching the sunrise from a park bench, that whiskey bottle still clutched in my hands. It’s almost empty, just a few swigs left. I take a drink out of habit as the sun fell on my face. That’s the problem. Everything I do is out of habit. Is there life outside the habits and muscle memory of it all? What would happen if I decided that sunrise should be in D minor instead of G? Or why play anything at all? Maybe Sweet Silence is the forlorn lover of Oppressive Oblivion and his brother Drunken Rampage? Or do I have that wrong, too?

It was the police officer tapping me on the shoulder that pulled me from my revere. Ma’am. He said, ever so politely, the sarcasm in his voice is completely lost on me. My mind flashed on what I must look like. My shoulder length black hair had been put up in pigtails before I walked on stage, but most of it had fallen down since then and that look is only cute on three year olds. I had been rubbing at my eyes, so my makeup was smeared all over. My jeans, which were only slightly dirty when I put them on, were now gross. I had on a black cami with a dirty hoodie over it and my black boots. Cute in a dirty, hole-in-the-wall club, not so much in a family park in the morning sunshine. I was also a bit rank. Sweat, day old clothes, alcohol and other miscellaneous smells that no one else wants to breathe all mixed together. I was one of the homeless and displaced vagrants that have been my background extras in the night.

I smiled, sliding into to warm jacket of rock star. It’s just a little smug here and a little entitlement here with a small ooze of flakiness. Sorry, I seem have gotten a little lost. Could you direct me back to… I didn’t know the name of the hotel we were staying in. My wallet and phone weren’t in my pockets. What the hell was I thinking leaving the hotel without knowing which one it was and without id and phone? My hotel. I seem to have forgotten which one we’re in tonight. They all blur together. I’m sure it’s close by. Um, if you call my manager, he could give us the name and you could escort me back.

Manager? His hand going to rest on his billy club. What had I done wrong?

Yeah. He manages my band and me. Great this guy thinks that I’m some kind of loony. I’m just another crazy drunk sleeping it off in the park. I couldn’t sleep when we checked in and I thought I’d walk for a few and didn’t plan on wondering this far. He was sucking his teeth now. I was beyond loon and heading quickly to being taken downtown. I wasn’t sleeping in the park. I was watching the sunrise. I just couldn’t sleep.

Move along. Go home. He said, never taking his hand from his billy club or letting me break eye contact so that I understood that he meant business.

Yeah. Wish I could. I laughed, the irony of his statement escaping with the last of my sanity. I sound like some crazy in the park, but I really do need some help. My phone and wallet are… elsewhere and I don’t remember my hotel. Could I use your phone, just for a moment? The calm I had felt was slipping away rapidly. I was starting to sink in quicksand and he wasn’t even going to throw me a rope to hang myself with.

He just stared at me, boring holes in me. I stood there trying to look as non-crazy as I could. Name. He demanded after a few moments. He hadn’t softened, just realized that I was going to be more trouble than he wanted.

Harvey. Harvey Smith. I responded just as gruffly as he had. One of his eyes brows raised in the constant question ever since a co-worker on my mother’s had christened me with that shortened version on my moniker. No, I’m not a transvestite, or cross-dresser or anything. I shorten my first name from Harvest to Harvey, because Harvest is a stupid name. I babbled my prepared speech.

And you have no way to prove this? He rolled his eyes.

I do, just not on me. I sighed. Call Mitch, he’ll straighten all this out. He’ll bring my id and everything. I spouted out the number before flopping down on the bench again.

I am full on annoyed rock star. She’s all indignation and attitude. There is nothing subtle about her. Everything should be given to me when I want it and how I want it! All should bow at my feet and ask how high to leap!

It goes to voicemail. The officer said, putting his phone away.

He’s still sleeping. We got in late last night. Call him again. Why do I become that really annoying teenager when I’m presented with these moments?

Ma’am, I’m not here to be your personal assistant. You need to move on. Hand back on the billy club. How was I going to make this man believe me? Does he really believe that I want to be in the park with dirty clothes and an empty bottle of whiskey?

Okay. Could you at least tell me where I am? I asked, shoving my hands into my pockets.

Wisconsin. Milwaukee. Are you now going to tell me now that you don’t know how you got to Wisconsin? Now that he had said that I could hear the Midwest accent where they all talk through their noses.

In a van. That’s how I got to, I scrunched up my face in an imitation of his, "Wis-Con-sin."

That’s it. I think you need to come with me. He reached forward and grabbed my arm like I was some troublesome drunk trying to pick a fight just to get noticed.

No, I don’t. I pulled back, indignant that he would lay hands on me.

Ma’am. There is something seriously wrong with you. Come quietly with me. I have no desire for this to become physical. Too much paper work... He sighed reaching for me again. I stepped just far enough away from his that he couldn’t grab me.

There is nothing wrong with me. Oh, but there is, I longed to say. If going with him could fix me, I would jump at the chance. But I know if Mitch has to pick me up at the police station I’d be in even bigger trouble. Trouble not unlike the great rebels of History. I would be drawn and quartered as an example of what happens to those who disrupt the king in his self-made kingdom. Just call Mitch again.

He rolled his eyes and dialed. Before he had hung up, I knew that Mitch had not answered the phone. The simple act of not waking up to his phone had cemented my fate. I hung my head and followed the officer to his car. He didn’t handcuff me or physically shove me in the car, but the humiliation was just a bitter. I was a crazy drunk picked up in the park for loitering. Sitting at the station waiting for Mitch to pick me up with hellfire and damnation in his wake or for them to send me to the state psych ward for evaluation was quite humbling. I was told to sit, come here, and go there. I was an errant puppy who would do anything for a table scrap of encouragement. I sat next to the handcuffed prostitutes with the smeared makeup and torn hose. Their eyes were red from crying, pleading, offering sexual favors to the cops to keep them from bringing them in or booking them. They all knew their price, their place. I’ve seen hundreds of those women, each in the shroud of anger and desperation by what they had been brought to. They all felt that they had not been given a choice. As if selling their body was the only thing they were capable of. As if performing for others was the only thing they or I could do to support ourselves, the only difference was I was on a stage, under a spotlight.

It was noon, before Mitch called the police station. Even though I wasn’t the one on the phone, I could hear his indignation where I sat. It was one thirty before he walked into the police station with all the swagger than he could manage and he was ready to throw his weight around, even if it was only to show me that he had the power. My identity had already been confirmed by a guy in the drunk tank who had been at the show the night before. All I needed from Mitch was a ride and a change of clothes. He said nothing when he spotted me. No hello, are you okay, what the hell? Nothing. He just threw my knapsack at me with as much as distain as he could. He even smiled when I omphed at the weight of the bag as I barely caught it. I took the bag and scuttled to the bathroom that the officers pointed me at. I wanted to explain what had happened before he turned it into something it wasn’t, but he just wanted out of there and us on the road.

I pulled off the dirty cami and grimy pants and stared at myself in the half mirror. That pale reflection wasn’t me. Not how I remember myself anyway. The me I remember smiled. Her eyes weren’t dead and she would never have been caught dead looking that pitiful and sorry. The me I remember was full of life, able to turn lemons into Electric Lemonade and dazzle as the star of the party. The me I remember still wore black but she didn’t look like the honoree at the funeral. I had cared how I looked and the image that I had. What had happened to her?

I slid into a pair of jeans from the knapsack and a long-sleeve t-shirt. I brushed my hair and teeth, trying to figure out why. Why was I doing this? Why had I wandered off in the middle of the night? Why did I all of a sudden care about things that I didn’t care about? Why did I care that they all forgot what yesterday was? Why did I care if Mitch was mad at me? Why should I please him? Why please anyone? I had lost all motive and reason. I didn’t want to do this anymore. I didn’t want to do anything anymore. But what else was there out there for me? This was all I knew. All I had ever known. Just like those hapless prostitutes, I was never really given a choice, just shoved into the spotlight and left to wither and die in it’s cold, nutrient lacking glow.

I walked back out and held out the knapsack, which Mitch snatched out of my hand. He still wouldn’t look at me, just glare at me like I was a trained puppy who had forgotten its training and run amok causing chaos. He slammed my wallet and phone down on the counter. He turned to leave me to sign all the paperwork from the nice police. Before they had looked at me with distain, not with regret. How many daughters had they turned over to pissed off parents after a night of what was supposed to be harmless fun? My father had never bailed me out, but I imagined this is what it felt like. I was shaking with dread over the inevitable truth that I was going to walk out of here and into whatever punishment Mitch had devised for my antics of insubordination and unwitting rebellion. I followed, taking as much time as I dared. No one spoke to me as I crawled through the van to the back seat, which was my customary seat. Mitch slammed the door behind me and we were off.

Still, no words were spoken, by Mitch or the rest of the band. They pretended to be asleep or engrossed in whatever they were doing when I showed up. Since they were ignoring me, I decided to ignore them. I slid my headphones on, but never turned the music on. I just stared out the van windows at the scenery rushing by. I wasn’t really paying it any mind though, but I didn’t have anything else to occupy my eyes as my brain just rambled. Everything rushed through my thoughts as Johnny, our drummer, drove. How did I get here? What did it all mean? And could I really just walk away from it all. I had a career. A descent one. I had a good lifestyle. I pretty much could do what I wanted; buy what I wanted. But what I wanted was anything but what I had. I can’t even put it in words in my own head. My yearning to be something other than what I was, experience things that I never have and to be one of the normal people.

Everyone thinks I have the perfect life. I get to sleep in most days, but people forget that I’m up to all hours of the night. Yes, I sleep till noon most days, but I go to bed between four am and six am. I get to travel all over the world, but I’m so exhausted or I have to travel out as soon as I’m in. Then there is the bit of fame I get. That’s even funnier to think about that as a perk. Everyone thinks they know me. They listen to my music and my lyrics, and they believe they have an insight. Knowledge about how I feel and think and what I need and what I want. People introduce themselves as if I should trip over myself to call them friends. I don’t know them. I rarely remember their names. John, Joe, Jessica, Jennifer, and Joy. It’s a litany of names and faces that I’m supposed to care about meeting. No one ever introduces themselves to me just because I’m there or I look like I may be interesting. I would like a friend. A real one. One that doesn’t know or care that I’m Harvey Smith, of the band Harvest Moon. One that doesn’t know about the singles or about my father. Or anything. I just want things to feel natural, real. I just want to be.

Okay, I know this is crap. I’ve got a job I hate. Obligations that suck. So what makes me special and able to complain? Nothing really. I really have no reason to complain other than I can. I can drink on the job. I can wear what I want. Cuss if I want. Hell, be a child pretty much, if I want. But I’m just so tired of it all. I want to have to get up at seven, be a work at eight. Lunch happens at noon. Traffic at five and then sitting on my couch watching TV with a boyfriend until I fall asleep. Then I get to do it all again. I long for that some days. Someone to talk to, confide in, share dreams and nightmares. Someone to think I was more than a product to parade out every night to crowds. Someone who remembered by birthday because they knew I had feelings.

Brooding gets me nowhere and as the sun goes down, we pull into the club for the night. Everyone disembarks and as I shuffled out, Mitch grabs me by the arm as I exited the van. Whatever is going on with you, Harvey, it needs to stop.

I thought hard. What did I want to say to him? I had all day to think about it, contemplate the nuances of every word I just went for a walk. I was trying to clear my head. I needed to think and I…

Don’t care. You need to get you head out of the clouds and start performing. If you can’t hack it, then let me know. Anything else, get through it. He snapped at me, shaking me. What was another set of bruises compared to the ones I already had? I was little more than bruises and misery.

I can’t hack it. Or rather, you can’t without me. I pulled my arm from him. I’m tired, worn out. I need a break.

When the tour is over. We just released an album. He shook me again to make sure that I knew that we had just spend several months in a studio writing another album that was the same crap that I had written on the last album.

That’s six months. I can’t… I struggled to get through it.

He changed his tactic and pulled me into a hug. He’s rarely touchy feely with me anymore. A hug, like other things, only happens once a year. I forgot. I’m sorry. He whispered in my ear. I’ve just got so much on my mind. I couldn’t keep my head around it, the quick change from mean to nice.

I need out. I can’t do this anymore. I whispered right back, thinking that this time I may have gotten through to him. Maybe this time he will understand that I can’t keep living like this.

You can and you will. He let me go and off he went. Leaving me alone and reinforcing that I was trapped. This was it. This is my life. And those who care about me the most are not going to let me throw it all away because of a little depression. The discussion was over according to Mitch. He had ruled and I just had to deal with it.

Chapter Two

It’s all routine.

Nothing ever varies from the routine.

Every moment of every day. Everything blurs together. There are very few things that make a day standout and be different from all the other days, weeks, months that have already passed me by. It’s another dawn that I am seeing from the wrong end. Another 24 hours without sleep.

Not that I’m upset. I would have to be able to feel to be upset. I’m too numb for that. Too numb to do more than notice how unhappy everyone is. We’re all so painfully miserable, but no one ever does anything about it. We just accept it. People are so miserable that they don’t even realize that they are miserable. They are no longer able to see that they are stuck in a routine and that the lines are blurring together. They no longer see the beauty in a sunrise, even when they show up on the wrong side of it.

So here I am again, greeting the sun, trying to decide what to do next. Should I sleep a few hours? Get in the car and drive until I can’t keep my eyes open? Maybe go get some breakfast to help hold off this hangover?

I turn to face the room where some of them are sleeping. Mitch is there, on his left side, right arm hugging the pillow I put there so he wouldn’t realize that I had gotten out of bed. He’s quite handsome when he’s innocent like this. His face is soft, gentle without the worries of the day, the band. His blonde hair falling across his face and the stubble of his beard just starting to show and scratch at the soft case of the pillow. Even his strong arms wrapped around the stand in pillow suggest safeness. I want to feel safe and wanted in those arms, with his warm breathe on my neck. I remember all the cute and sweet things that drew us together when he’s like this. Once upon a time, I believed what we had was love, but it was just loneliness and a need for validation. He knows me the best out of everyone, but he didn’t know me at all at the same time. He knows the Harvey that everyone else knew, not the one screaming to be heard in my head.

She never takes a breath, the Harvey in my head. She’s a constant siren attempting to lure me to the rocks with her one note symphony. I knew the words by heart; every nuance of that single note. Endless waves eroding my will. Every sleepless night brings her closer; killing me just a little more. I lose the ability to pretend that I am one of them. Pretend that I am a human, who can connect with the other life-forms who inhabit the same time and space that I do. I work with humans or so I’m told. Not sure I believe it, but what else is there to believe, other than these friends of mine; coworkers that are so hard to connect with. They are here but they’re not. They play the notes I tell them and the sing the words I write, but are they touched by them? Touched by the angst that my words are supposed to provoke, inspire? No, their misery is total that questions and feelings are beyond them. They are those people who sink so easily into alcohol induced slumber at the end of every night because the endless questions that rattle through my head don’t bother them. They are able to hit that moment where they are content and able to let their minds rest, while I sit here and ponder. Lying awake for another day. Trying to discover the truth hidden in the words that people make up to express what they don’t understand, what I don’t understand.

Poetics don’t affect the routine, but they enhance the pattern. They cause the lilt in a walk and the smile that stretches all the way to your hairline. The way the words interact and compliment the bass line of the melody. The syncopated rhythm of the poetry is all I have to elevate the screams in my head. The never ending drone of alienation and loneliness pushing me ever closer to the abyss.

Mitch yawned and snuggled closer to the pillow that was standing in for me. I suppose I could settle with him. Once I thought that was a great idea. Once it was a dream come true to be Mrs. Mitch Headley. Once my happiness was intertwined with his. But now, he was another person who populated my nightmare and perpetuated my misery. There had to be something redeeming in the man, because once I had feelings for him. He’s not bad looking; he’s the Emo musician type. He’s not losing his hair and above all, he does care for me. He practically worships the ground I walk on. But could I forgive all the things that he has done to me? Take in his bastard children and pretend to love them as much as I pretend to love Mitch? We could marry and have a little gypsy family out here on the road. If only I loved him or at least cared half as much for him as he did for me. I sound like a cold-hearted bitch even to myself. Never my intention but this is where we are. He doesn’t hear me when I tell him these things, so here we are stuck in this endless loop where he still believes we are some sort of couple. We are loneliness trapped together. We occasionally have sex to help both of us remember what it’s like to connect with another human being. Once upon a time, he was my best friend, confidant, shoulder that I cried on. But now, he’s my jailer. My Schultz who takes his motto of I know nothing to heart. Anything that upsets him is shuffled into that category of things he chooses not to see, hear or deal with.

I grab my jacket and shoes, making sure my wallet and phone in the pocket. I don’t want a repeat of what happened in Milwaukee. And there it is, the low tech way to make sure I don’t leave the room without Mitch knowing—Gaffers Tape on the door, set to rip everyone awake if I open the door. Trapped in my hotel prison with the sleeping Mitch as the Warden with a heart of gold.

My legs can’t support me and I slid to the carpet, defeated. I was shaking with the need to escape, to get out. The walls weren’t inching, they were talking gigantic steps to crush me like an annoying fly. I couldn’t breathe; the air was being sucked out of the room. The scream inside my head was getting louder, more insistent. She needed someone to listen to her. The me trapped in my head wasn’t going to stay silent anymore. The Siren’s symphony was going to lure me to the rocks; there was nothing left to stop her.

Harvey? The frantic question came through the fog. It was shouted just as loud as the scream in my head, but couldn’t quite make it through the wailing. I reached, like a suddenly blind person, desperate to make contact any contact. I needed to know that the world was real that it was really there. Harvey! I felt hands on me, a soothing touch on my face, spreading the tears. I wanted to breathe, but the elephant on my chest wouldn’t get off. I reached for Mitch, I could see him just within reach, but I was underwater and just couldn’t reach. And then there was nothing.

***

Tangible. Tangerine. Tigress. Temples.

Dimples. Dapper. Darling. Doctor.

There was a doctor, or so the white coat on the gentlemen led me to believe, bent over me, smiling a slightly creepy smile. He was speaking, but it was taking all my focus just to keep my eyes open. Then there was Mitch leaning over me, and he too was talking.

Talking. Telling. Titillating. Terror.

My brain didn’t want to stay on point. It wanted to play word games while the rest of me wanted to sleep, deep dreams lacking in melody. But that man in the lab coat was poking me.

Poking. Prodding. Pondering. Pissing me off.

Their words were starting to come through the fog. …just a panic attack. Mitch commented.

"But it could be a symptom of something else entirely. She should get a full work up and then we can see what this is. The doctor sounded like he had said this several times already. There’s blood work to look at. I can’t just give her Valium and send her off with you." I could tell that this argument had been going on for quite some time and neither side was willing to give in. I had to do something to tip the scales.

I’m already on anti-anxiety meds. I whispered, trying to sit up but my arms didn’t want to respond to me, plus there were all these IV’s all tangled about, so I flopped back down.

This could be a one-time thing. She’s been stressed, barely sleeps. Give us something to knock her out and let her sleep and this will all go away. Mitch pushed on as if he hadn’t heard me. Typical Mitch, hearing only what he perceives as important.

You’re already on anti-anxiety meds? The doctor turned towards me, finally acknowledging that I was more than a piece of furniture in this conversation, I was the piece of furniture.

Yeah. Have been for about a year. I sighed, yawning so hard that my eyes watered. Panic attacks. Usually don’t pass out though, that’s new. Usually they manifest with heart palpitations and shortness of breath. Sometimes a little bit of vertigo, but he is right, I haven’t been sleeping and things have been a little crazy lately.

How often do you have these attacks? The doctor pushed Mitch out of the way and grabbed the remote to the bed. He raised me up so that I was talking to them instead of up at them. He made me part of the conversation rather than just the subject of it.

She’s not on any meds. I would know. Mitch complained. She’s probably talking about her vitamins. He was still addressing the doctor and not me. He wasn’t even looking at me. She’s delusional from lack of sleep. I’ve read that can happen.

No, I’m not. I’m talking about Xanax. Things were starting to get clearer, easier to understand. Dr. Lee prescribed them to me. I have his number in my phone and his business card in my wallet with my next appointment on it.

And then we talked, simply, the doctor and I, while Mitch interjected useless denials and comments. He wanted to believe that I was nuts, not in the psych ward way, but the truth of the matter was very different. I had been, not necessarily in secret, seeing a shrink on and off for the past few years. Whenever my schedule allowed me time, I would go see Dr. Lee. He’s the one that figured out that I was having panic attacks. He also thought that there was more to it, like depression, but I had never been able to commit to seeing him long term, so nothing was ever resolved in that matter. It had always been tabled until it caused a problem, like now.

The doctor didn’t stay long after our quick talk, but it was made clear that I wasn’t going to go anywhere until psych came down to confirm that I wasn’t a threat to myself or others. I’m not, of course. I can’t say that the thought never crossed my mind, but never with any serious consideration. At worse it was a passing thought born out of curiosity. But Mitch wouldn’t hear of it, he wouldn’t listen to anything I had to stay.

He just sat there in the visitor’s chair, glaring at me, as if I had just revealed that I had a penis or something after dating for two years. The fact of the matter, which he will never agree to, was that I did tell him. I handed him all the info about my meds for to keep in his medical files and I said, I’m on Xanax for panic attacks. He chose not to listen to me. It disrupted his concept of the perfect little lead singer and complicated his life, so he chose to ignore it, just like he chose to ignore so many things in our lives. He was the king of turning a blind eye to the things that he didn’t want to acknowledge.

I’m sorry. I said after a while, even though I felt that I had nothing to feel sorry for, but felt the need to say something. He huffed at me, licking his lips. I watched him through my half closed lids. He was wrestling with saying something to me. I’m sure I didn’t want to hear it, but he needed to say it, so I waited.

You’re an ungrateful bitch, bent on self-destruction and willing to take down everyone around you. He finally blurted, launching to his feet. I can’t trust you not to wander off in the middle of the night. You’re keeping medical issues from me. You’re drunk and combative all of the time. What else are you going to do to me, Harvey? He demanded, ending his rant by holding onto the bed railing, face red with effort. I watched his heart breaking through his eyes, and felt nothing. My heart had been broken for so long that I had forgotten what it was like to feel anything. When did you stop trusting me?

I wanted to laugh, but knew that was the wrong response. This whole thing with him as the martyr was just too much drama even for a drama queen. I didn’t stop trusting you, you stopped listening. I was suppressing the laughter barely. He was using gaffers tape to keep me in hotel rooms. He was forgetting birthdays. He was getting indignant because I was sick; like I had done this just to piss him off. I became a product, something for you to show off. I stopped being human, stopped having feeling, and you fostered it.

What are you talking about, Harv? He sighed, picking up my hand and holding it between his hands in an effort of show me some affection. You’re the love of my life and always have been.

But you’re not mine. All the mirth from the moment before was gone. I meant it and he knew it. Mitch was not the love of my life and he only briefly belonged to me.

You’re confused because of the medicine and the panic attack. We’ll talk more when you’re better. He patted me on the head, kissed me on the cheek. He looked into my face, trying to find something that I was no longer able to give him. I wanted to feel something, anything, but there was nothing. Just the thumping of my heart, which couldn’t care less if Mitch was in the room or not. He finally just walked out of the room, leaving me alone with no hope of anything more.

***

I was released a little over 24 hours after being brought into the hospital. Mitch wheeled me out to the van and we were off. The guys mumbled good to see you as I crawled through the van to my usual seat. Mitch had yet to mention our conversation and I knew he wouldn’t hear me until he was ready anyway, so I said nothing. I sat in the back with my headphones on, but the music off, just staring out the window.

I said nothing all day, actually. At lunch, Mitch ordered for me—a house salad with Italian dressing on the side and the soup of the day, which was chicken noodle. I had opened my mouth to order something else, but he just jumped in. It wasn’t what I wanted, but I was so shocked that I didn’t say anything. He hadn’t ordered for me since we were dating and he still hasn’t figured out what I like to eat. So, here we are, moments from stage, and I haven’t spoken since before I left the hospital. I’m ready, insofar as I’m dressed and my makeup is on, but I’m right back where I started. I’m the monkey and Mitch is the guy turning the crank of the calliope. I don’t want the banana that he is dangling in front of me, even though it’s dipped in chocolate and rolled in sprinkles. All of them, but especially Mitch, act as if the last few days haven’t happened. As if I’m invisible to them until I perform, until the lights hit me on stage.

My father felt the same way, I remember him telling me on one of those rare occasions when he spoke to me as an equal instead of the unwanted child that I was. I was 15 or 16 years old and I was opening for whichever act dad was touring with at the time. It had made him happy that I had taken to the guitar so quickly and that I had a decent voice to boot. Even when I was just the throwaway opening act, he was proud of me. I loved that feeling, of my dad being proud of me and in turn I was so proud of him. He had caught a couple of lucky breaks. He was the guy everyone wanted on tour with them. He had worked in the studio on a couple of hit records and singles for some big hitters and everyone wanted his magic to rub off on them. Everyone wanted to share the stage with him. He was never the star though. It was never his name on the marquee, maybe that’s why he pushed me so hard and always fought to get me those 20 or so minutes as an opener for whomever we were touring with. I opened the shows with a sort of blues rock/singer-songwriter thing with him on lead guitar and me on rhythm. He wrote the songs and picked the covers I did. He controlled everything, but I happily let him. He was the adult and I was the kid who didn’t know any better. I trusted that he wanted the right things for me. I trusted him because fathers love their daughters. It was a fact that everyone knew. Daddy’s Little Girl, right?

It was after the show that I got a glimpse of the real person that my father was. I was a little drunk, no one policed the back stage alcohol and no one would have cared anyway, but Dad was wasted. So there we where, sitting just outside this club, Dad’s fingers raw from playing all day in the studio, then with me, then with the headliners. It was a good time for him. Steady work that had afforded us the opportunity to buy our own van. But he couldn’t keep this pace up for long, his fingers were just so raw and they never got to rest long. The horse liniment that he was rubbing on his fingers caused the beer bottles to slide from his grasp. There were several broken at his feet. He looked old, tired and I felt sorry for him.

He put his hand on my shoulder, but never looked me in the eyes as he spoke in a soft whisper, having sung his voice out to almost nothing. Harvey, you don’t know what it’s like when they see right through you. You’re not there to them ‘til you fuck up, then you’re replaceable. And there are hundreds that will take what you’ve worked so hard for without a second thought. You don’t matter to the band unless you’re the face of the band. Then he puked, barely missing my boots.

I remember thinking at that time that I did understand what it was like to have someone look right through me, he always did, but know I truly knew what he had been talking about. My band didn’t see me, only what I produced and if I didn’t produce, they’d leave me and find someone who did. Dad had been wrong. Even the faces of the band can be invisible.

And then I step on stage. Then the whole world is staring at me. Everything I am, will be and was, laid bare for the feast of gentiles. I could be no more exposed, even if I ripped off my clothes like some cheap wrestler. Every time I walk onto that stage, I walk into my Judgment. Every sin, thought, feeling is there tearing at me, demanding me to explain the why, the how, the who. I can never live up to the expectations, the demands, the disappointment. But there is armor in those lights as well. I become a more stylized and fictionalized version of myself. Up there, I’m invincible. I’m a master at deflecting the barbs, the arrows, sticks and stones that want to hurt my bones. Witty comebacks and the ability to turn a joke come as easy as breathing. There’s nothing up there was that truly harm me. I have bathed in Zeus’ Blood and I am flawless. I am here and I shall rule this stage with compassion. I control the emotion in the room and it hangs it’s very breath on me. But it’s exhausting being her. The armor too heavy to carry all the time.

I feel alive on stage. Being in the raw like that is better than a shot of caffeine without the side effects. More than anything, I yearn for it and fear it.

It’s after set and everyone wants to talk to me, meet me, and touch me for a quick second like I’m the messiah. I’m not. I’m a sweaty, exhausted singer who needs to be left alone to come down. When I need Mitch to protect me, he thrusts me out to them. Out there I have no armor, I’m at the mercy of the mob. Many are kind, many mean to be kind, and others, want to be hurtful. A small prink that gets under my skin and festers. I could see it coming so clearly, but I couldn’t run. Inside, I was standing on the theater seat yelling at myself to run from the evil slasher that was rapidly approaching.

Great set tonight. He said as he took my hand and shook it vigorously. "Just wow. I didn’t think that you were a washed up Rock star who peaked at 19 with Daddy’s Little Girl. He hadn’t let go of my hand. Everyone’s been saying it and with you canceling last night and ending up in the hospital, people were starting to say drugs and alcohol were a factor and have been, but I didn’t believe ‘em. You wouldn’t drink yourself into the grave like you father, no, you’re better than that."

I nodded, smiled, even gave a little laugh. I continued to give hugs and handshakes until there wasn’t anyone there. Then there was Mitch, standing protectively over me with that look in his eyes like I was the most important thing in his life. I wish he’d stop looking at me like that. We both knew it was fake and put on. We’re about done here. You can go wait in the van. He slid his arm around my waist and supported me as he walked me out. I was too numb to resist, so I was placed in the van like a chastised child waiting for her