Head Trauma
two.
There’s no circulation in my legs, blood flow paralyzed by the pile of luggage that’s burying me like the tour-bus corpse I am, and a couple of bags slide off the seat as I force my knees to bend, provoking an annoyed grunt from Mikey, who’s sitting shotgun in front of me, watching the oncoming traffic speed by, probably as fucking tired of this as I am. I ignore him and drag the closest bag back up on top of me, blocking out the painful glare of six p.m. sunlight from the window to my left.
They said we’d arrive before seven, so it can’t be long now.
And finally, the highway melts into choppy city roads, and the van pulls up in front of our hotel, a miserable dirt-streaked sandstone affair that nonetheless looks pretty inviting. Exhausted and about at the point of total collapse, I stagger out onto the cracked pavement after Ray and Mikey,
And I think I’ve finally just walked straight into a fucking nightmare, because there’s a set made out of fake amplifiers and a coffin sitting smack in the center of the hotel lobby, and my guitar, and cameras, and this goddamn perfect little blonde girl with a clipboard is pasting a huge smile on her face, heading straight for us. And oh, everyone’s acting like they knew this was happening, a photo-shoot, fucking wonderful, but no one told Frankie.
And then the blonde’s pink nails are digging into my arm as she practically drags me over to the set, glancing at the clipboard for my name, “Frank! Right this way, doll.” Someone shoves my guitar into my hands, and things start to pass by in a familiar robot blur; sit, stand, smile, frown, look at the lens, that’s it until she stops and says “Frank. Frank, you need to look more dangerous! We want some edge!” She laughs. “Looking cute is not good enough, hon!”
And I get that she’s just teasing; that she doesn’t even know me; that I’m overreacting, but I’m a fucking pussy, and none of that matters. There are hot tears burning behind my eyes, and it seals the deal when she bends to look through the camera lens and announces “Oh, so much better, Frank!”
I grit my teeth and nod like I’m not dying, and the rest of the shoot passes by in a whirlwind of color and noise and flashes of light. I’m standing alone, I’m standing with Mikey, I’m standing covered in fake blood with Gerard’s tongue halfway down my throat, convinced that this, by far, is the most realistic picture. Frankie’s guts all over the stage floor. See how fucking cute I am now.
“Get your ass upstairs, Frank,” Mikey says afterwards, as the camera people pack up their stuff, handing me a bunch of piss-yellow paper napkins. “Take a shower and get ready… We don’t have much time.”
I blink blankly at the napkins, Wendy’s Restaurant napkins, until he slowly says “There’s fake blood in your eyes” like I should be able to feel the sting; like I’m not totally, utterly numb.
“Oh.”
He rolls his eyes and walks away, and I press the napkins to my face as I get to my feet and follow Gerard, who I’m assuming has the room key.
And shower, hair gel, clothes and eyeliner later, I’m standing backstage behind him, waiting for the lights to go off, wondering what a heart attack feels like and all too aware that tonight, the show feels like suicide instead of entertainment. The rough surface of the temporary plyboard walls they’ve set up as our entrance hallway is embedding tiny wooden splinters in my fingers as I drag my hand across it, and I can be your fucking Sid Vicious, I’m thinking, heart beating a raw tattoo on the inside of my ribcage; I can be just like him, I can die before I’m thirty with ‘gimme a fix’ carved into my chest, and if cute’s not good enough then I can be downright fucking ugly… Don’t even push me, I’ll do it. I know I’ll do it; whatever I’m threatening.
“Go Frank!” Mikey hisses, and the lights are off and I stagger forward, after Gerard, out onto the stage. It’s pitch-black; just find that fluorescent tape, Frank. Where the hell is the X? There’s supposed to be an X. But the stage must already be set up for The Used, because they get preference or because their tech crew beat the shit out of ours, since all I can see are the messy letters ‘J-E-F-F,’ not that that’s even how you spell it, applied sloppily to the surface of the stage in fragments of tape.
Finally I give up and just stand there, where Jeph will be standing later, and shake until the lights go up and my body takes over; on autopilot, just like always. I wish I could get just a hint, a flicker of what our very first show felt like, when things weren’t so monotonous, but I was too drunk to remember anything but the taste of the vodka coming back up later on. Tonight, I don’t feel anything for half the set; not until things are getting really insane, when the strobe light comes on and makes me nauseous, and flashbulbs resonate under my skull. Looking cute is not good enough, and now I’ll make it fucking ugly for them.
They said we’d arrive before seven, so it can’t be long now.
And finally, the highway melts into choppy city roads, and the van pulls up in front of our hotel, a miserable dirt-streaked sandstone affair that nonetheless looks pretty inviting. Exhausted and about at the point of total collapse, I stagger out onto the cracked pavement after Ray and Mikey,
And I think I’ve finally just walked straight into a fucking nightmare, because there’s a set made out of fake amplifiers and a coffin sitting smack in the center of the hotel lobby, and my guitar, and cameras, and this goddamn perfect little blonde girl with a clipboard is pasting a huge smile on her face, heading straight for us. And oh, everyone’s acting like they knew this was happening, a photo-shoot, fucking wonderful, but no one told Frankie.
And then the blonde’s pink nails are digging into my arm as she practically drags me over to the set, glancing at the clipboard for my name, “Frank! Right this way, doll.” Someone shoves my guitar into my hands, and things start to pass by in a familiar robot blur; sit, stand, smile, frown, look at the lens, that’s it until she stops and says “Frank. Frank, you need to look more dangerous! We want some edge!” She laughs. “Looking cute is not good enough, hon!”
And I get that she’s just teasing; that she doesn’t even know me; that I’m overreacting, but I’m a fucking pussy, and none of that matters. There are hot tears burning behind my eyes, and it seals the deal when she bends to look through the camera lens and announces “Oh, so much better, Frank!”
I grit my teeth and nod like I’m not dying, and the rest of the shoot passes by in a whirlwind of color and noise and flashes of light. I’m standing alone, I’m standing with Mikey, I’m standing covered in fake blood with Gerard’s tongue halfway down my throat, convinced that this, by far, is the most realistic picture. Frankie’s guts all over the stage floor. See how fucking cute I am now.
“Get your ass upstairs, Frank,” Mikey says afterwards, as the camera people pack up their stuff, handing me a bunch of piss-yellow paper napkins. “Take a shower and get ready… We don’t have much time.”
I blink blankly at the napkins, Wendy’s Restaurant napkins, until he slowly says “There’s fake blood in your eyes” like I should be able to feel the sting; like I’m not totally, utterly numb.
“Oh.”
He rolls his eyes and walks away, and I press the napkins to my face as I get to my feet and follow Gerard, who I’m assuming has the room key.
And shower, hair gel, clothes and eyeliner later, I’m standing backstage behind him, waiting for the lights to go off, wondering what a heart attack feels like and all too aware that tonight, the show feels like suicide instead of entertainment. The rough surface of the temporary plyboard walls they’ve set up as our entrance hallway is embedding tiny wooden splinters in my fingers as I drag my hand across it, and I can be your fucking Sid Vicious, I’m thinking, heart beating a raw tattoo on the inside of my ribcage; I can be just like him, I can die before I’m thirty with ‘gimme a fix’ carved into my chest, and if cute’s not good enough then I can be downright fucking ugly… Don’t even push me, I’ll do it. I know I’ll do it; whatever I’m threatening.
“Go Frank!” Mikey hisses, and the lights are off and I stagger forward, after Gerard, out onto the stage. It’s pitch-black; just find that fluorescent tape, Frank. Where the hell is the X? There’s supposed to be an X. But the stage must already be set up for The Used, because they get preference or because their tech crew beat the shit out of ours, since all I can see are the messy letters ‘J-E-F-F,’ not that that’s even how you spell it, applied sloppily to the surface of the stage in fragments of tape.
Finally I give up and just stand there, where Jeph will be standing later, and shake until the lights go up and my body takes over; on autopilot, just like always. I wish I could get just a hint, a flicker of what our very first show felt like, when things weren’t so monotonous, but I was too drunk to remember anything but the taste of the vodka coming back up later on. Tonight, I don’t feel anything for half the set; not until things are getting really insane, when the strobe light comes on and makes me nauseous, and flashbulbs resonate under my skull. Looking cute is not good enough, and now I’ll make it fucking ugly for them.