With a Little Help from My Friends

“You know, your house is just like you. Empty boy, empty home,” Violet said. She sat by the window, bathed in the pale blue light streaming in through the half opened blinds. She closed her eyes, to soak in the moon as if it were the sun giving warmth on a summer day. The house was dark otherwise; Violet had stopped me from turning the lights on.

I folded myself down onto the ground opposite her. She didn’t move; her eyes didn’t open, but only fluttered lightly as she half dreamed with a half smile on her lips. I tried doing the same. I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply, and everything turned to black. When I opened my eyes, the sight of her filled me, and my gaze remained fixed on the tiny flashes of emotion and thought I believed I could see behind her eyes. As if a whole night sky had been shrunken down and placed into her eyes; as if her thoughts were comets streaking across her irises.

“Who are you?” She asked me.

“Who am I?” I asked, and she nodded. “I don’t know. Do you?”

“No, I don’t,” She frowned. “I’m sorry.”

“I think we all are, aren’t we?”

Violet shook her head, “You can be a complete stranger to yourself, and you can be perfectly happy at the same time. It’s possible. You just have to make it possible.”

“Take things at face value, you mean? Just accept things as they are and see the better in everything.”

“Exactly,” She smiled, and placed her hand on mine. Her fingers laced in the gaps between my own, and she lifted our hands to the moonlight and watched the shadows play across our skin. “So how did you get here?”

“By plane.”

She laughed, “That’s reasonable. But I meant this point in time – how did you get to this point in time?”

“I don’t know that, either,” I frowned, “I don’t know how I let it all come to this.” Looking out into the dark emptiness of the house, I knew she knew what I meant.

“Start from the start,” She instructed, and when I went to look at her, I could only find a mild curiosity in her expression. I’d told my story so many times to so many journalists that I almost gave her that cock and bull version. But I stopped myself. I gave her everything I had, and just like that night I met my ex-girlfriend, she listened to what I had to say.

When I had finished, I could feel my hand trembling in hers. I was exposed, and the sensation of knowing my vulnerability towards her made me feel weak. She didn’t say anything at first; she just sat there and let the words I had uttered previously absorb into her conscience. Then she smiled at me.

“It’s your turn,” I told her, “How did you get to this point in time?”

But instead of telling me, she pulls her hand from my grasp and glances down at the watch on her wrist. “Another time,” She tells me. “I’m late.”

“Late for what?” I ask.

“Another client.”

Then I remember that I had bought her on borrowed time. The thought of another man doing the same as I did (and more) made me sick. I wanted to empty my bank account and have her forever. But that wasn’t how things worked, and we both knew it.

“Goodbye,” She said. Seconds later the door closed behind her. I didn’t even bother getting up. I curled up onto the floor, and I imagined that my phone had rung, and on the other side was Spencer.

How was therapy?
I hate it.
I knew you would.
Yeah, well-
I had her again today. Violet, remember?
Don’t you remember what I told you?
She knows.
Knows what? Ryan, you are going fucking insane.
I know, fuck. Why do you think I’m talking to myself in your voice?
You need therapy.

The same time I heard him say those words, I whispered them to myself, and heard both our voices bounce around the empty room and in my empty head.
* * *
My house was full of people the following morning. The furniture guys were coming in and assembling the furniture, and slowly my house began to fill with both people and objects. The kitchen was full of shiny new appliances, and the livingroom had a few comfy couches, a brand new plasma screen and other knick knacks you’d find in a house. I felt like I was filling a hole with the wrong type of cement – it just didn’t set right. It didn’t feel like it all belonged to me.

Later, when everyone had finished and the house was furnished, I went out and checked the post office to pick up my instruments. I had finally found something old and familiar to sit amongst the new and foreign. It felt like inviting old friends into my home, and the comfort of knowing that these treasures were once again with me made me almost feel like I was home.

I’d set up one of the rooms to be my study. It had a desk, a little eight track mixer, my laptop and all my instruments. A bookshelf for all the self-help books I intended to buy, and a few hundred miles of leads and extensions snaking along the ground. The room was my sanctuary. The rest of the house remained neat and untouched, whilst my study had looked as if a hurricane had passed on through and damaged the one room.

In my frenzy, I began to write. I always found my mind buzzing when I was busy, and when I was alone, all I could do was sulk and feel sorry for myself. I’d always written better music when things were moving fast. I was gaining momentum, and I knew, soon enough, that I’d be writing again.

As soon as the sun went down, the doorbell rang. I ran to the door in my excitement, expecting to see Violet, and wanting to show her how I had filled my house during the day. Instead, I found Billy, an old friend from a tour light years ago, standing on my stoop with a backpack and a rolling suitcase.

“Holy shit, you really do live here!” Billy said, and before I knew it, he was clutching me to him.

I had tried to get in a couple of words, but it was a feeble attempt. My mouth was filled with the stale material of his hoodie.

“I caught wind of you settling down. I didn’t believe it, so I came to see for myself,” he told me. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Not at all,” I tell him, and I usher him inside.

Billy, always comfortable wherever he is, set his bags in the foyer and drifted around the house. “I have to say, this isn’t very you,” He said, his voice drifting and rising as he moved closer and away, peeking his head through doorways and rooms. “Now this!”

I didn’t even have to move from my post by the hallway to know where he was.

“This screams Ryan Ross.”

“Thanks?”

Billy emerges from my study and stands an arm’s length away from me. “Bro, you look battered.”

“I am,” I told him. “The last one took a lot from me.”

“Is it the same for the others?” He asks, and he plops down into a chair when I motion for him to sit down.

“Last I heard, Brendon spent five minutes at home before jumping a plane to somewhere. Spence is holed up in the woods. And Jon went home to Chicago.”

“Jesus,” Billy took a sharp breath in. We’d had our fair share of tour horror stories, and he was always afraid of that happening to him. “I just came from a short leg. Wasn’t too harsh at all.”

I envied Billy then. His band wasn’t so big, but he had a loyal fanbase. They hadn’t made it to Europe or Japan yet, but years of being on the road in the States was just as good for them. They were still going strong, and they weren’t obsessed with creating a top chart album – they just wanted to play music.

I don’t remember the last time I ever just ‘wanted to play music’. I never a touched a guitar on my days off on tour, and after recording the album, I didn’t even want to look at one afterwards.

“So what are you going to do?” Billy asked, always the first to break a lengthy silence.

“I don’t know,” I answered, “I just wanna play.”