Long Road to Ruin

In that moment, I had several different thoughts; some good, and others quite the opposite. Despite the bitter cold I could feel warmth now, present in the erection that was now pushing up against the zipper of my jeans. Shame immediately flooded through me like a drug. I couldn’t believe that I had allowed myself to be even the slightest bit turned on by that whore.

I did my best to ignore it in hopes that it would soon subside, and I continued to stare at her from afar. She hadn’t yet noticed that she was being watched by one of her most recent victims. A vague sound rang out from her direction and her hand methodically shot to her pocket, pulling out some sort of likely expensive electronic device. Sure enough, it was a phone.

“I bet that I paid for that,” I thought wistfully.

After finishing her conversation she shoved the phone back into its resting place, took a brief look around, and ducked into the cover of what appeared to be a shabby apartment that was much like Jay’s.

I really hoped that I hadn’t hurt him too badly. It was never my intention to do any harm. He had just chosen to call me names at the wrong time, and I overreacted.

I sat down on the ground and took the next twenty minutes or so to think about what Adrienne had said.

“You’ve spent far too much time pretending that you could handle a family life, a marriage, kids. But I know you better than that. You are a true rock star and that trait runs in your blood. We are two different people, Billie, and I can’t take this anymore. I want a divorce.”

I knew that she was right. Every bone in my body wanted to argue with that statement, but I agreed nonetheless. I guess I was just reluctant to believe that that one night was going to change my life forever. Divorces, in my opinion, are for people who are no longer in love. I still loved Adie very much, I knew in my heart that I always would, and the thought of my wife falling out of love instantaneously after sixteen years of marriage was unrealistic.

After a while I got up and began to pace back and forth, staring glumly at the tall trees and decorative shrubbery, leafless skeletons in a world of white. A trash can collapsed as it was met by my foot, scattering garbage everywhere within a close range.

I was angry. Calmer by far than I had been recently, but that same anger that had been begun boiling in the pit of my stomach months ago was now making its way to the surface, like a predator preparing to attack its prey. This anger was not directed at the prostitute specifically, nor at myself; instead, I placed the blame on life in general. The life that had given me a one in a million shot at fame. The life that had forced depression upon me. The life that was taking my family away. The fucked up life that was undoubtedly going to be the death of me.

A sudden nicotine craving was met with disappointment when I realized that I had no more cigarettes. A simple frustration, but it pushed me over the edge. I cried out angrily.

Why did nothing ever go right for me?

I stormed across the street, heading towards the alley in which I had seen the prostitute. Her car sat dormant in its parking spot and I glanced through the window as I passed. A pretty average array of things was scattered across the seats: tampons, water bottles, and spare change. My wallet was nowhere to be seen. If I hadn’t taken a second glance, just to make sure, I would have never noticed that she had left the keys in the ignition.

An idea crossed my mind at that moment. At first I brushed it aside. This was one of those infamous cases where any morality I had left was trying desperately to refrain from giving in.

It failed.

I made damn sure that no one was watching before I pulled open the car door and sat down. With a simple turn of the key, the engine roared to life. This car was nothing short of a beautiful piece of machinery, from the glistening paint job to the thickly upholstered leather seats. She had obviously worked hard for it. That is, if sex for money can really be considered ‘work’.

The scenery flew by as I drove, deliberately disregarding the speed limit. I had nothing to lose. I was already breaking the law. Instead of taking the main roads I decided to stick to the alleys to avoid being seen. Why was I doing this? Even I wondered about the answer to that question. Maybe it was just simply for revenge.

Walls of colorful gang graffiti decorated the Chicago slums. I couldn’t help but notice that one of the juvenile artists had written “Rage and love, story of my life” amongst an array of symbols, words, and silhouettes. It had been scrawled in red paint. That was one thing that I did like about fame. That lyric, my lyric, was part of someone’s life, someone who lived several thousand miles away from my studio. My thoughts were all over the world, in vivid color. It made me feel at home wherever I went.

For a brief moment I left car and picked up a stray can of pain that had been discarded next to the dumpster. Underneath the line of graffiti I wrote:

“Me too, kid. Don’t let those fuckers bring you down.” –Billie Joe

The artist most likely wouldn’t believe that it was actually me that had written it, but in my eyes, it was worth a shot. Maybe I could make someone’s day instead of ruining it for once.

The drive continued. It had been a long time since I had driven a vehicle, and it was liberating. I switched on the radio, which was blaring Sex Pistols at the moment. I was perfectly content with that. I looked in the rearview mirror. My hair was tousled, and my face was abnormally pale. My eyes appeared as if they had sunken into my head. I laughed. I still looked like hell. That laugh was cut extremely short when I noticed something else in the mirror. Lights. I could hear the distant scream of sirens, piercing shrilly through the nighttime air.

“Oh shit,” I muttered. There are plenty of crime cases in Chicago, but I knew that they were coming for me.

I slammed the gas pedal to the floor and off I flew, a blur of black and chrome under the street lights. The speedometer must have hit eighty miles per hour before I was able to temporarily evade the trailing police. I drove the Cadillac right off the road, into the snow, behind several tall bushes that had retained some of their leaves. I could already hear the sirens again. In that moment, my heart was racing faster than the car had been. This wasn’t the only time in my life that I had stolen a vehicle, but the fear of being caught seemed like a new experience with each crime committed.

The sirens were getting louder and closer. It was almost as if I was frozen in place. Frozen in time. For the first time, I didn’t know where to run. I sat paralyzed in the driver’s seat. All that I could do now was wait for them to come for me. It was then that the car door flew open. Before I could tell what was going on, I had been forcefully dragged out of the car and thrust face first into the snow. I picked myself up and turned around to see a familiar face.

Jay.

How he followed me here, I didn’t know, but I knew what he was trying to do. I wasn’t going to allow him to take the fall for this. Only I would suffer for my sins.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I exclaimed loudly. “Are you insane?”

“You’re asking me if I’m insane?” he retorted. “I’m not the one stealing cars, man, and to answer your question, I’m saving your stupid ass yet again.” He sounded rather pissed off, and his voice was altered thanks to the fat lip that I had given him.

“You don’t need to-“ I started.

“Save it,” he hissed anxiously. “You’re thirty-seven. I’m twenty-five. I have a twelve year advantage. I have no family, career, or place to be. You do. You’re my idol, and I’ll be a martyr if I have to. You can thank me later. Now run, you son of a bitch, before both of us end up behind bars tonight.”