Late Goodbye

It was needless to say this morning was not one of those where I wanted to ride a flying pony. The whole last night I had drowned myself in a scotch that was in other words... sapless. The worst whiskey I had drank in years, but hey, whatever keeps my boat floating, right? I was torturing the old bar stool at Johnny’s until the bartender told me it was time to go home, which was not until at least five am. I hate to admit I was kind of an alcoholic, but getting drunk on a Wednesday night stated otherwise.

Somewhere along my blurry road, I had signed the contract. The same one that layed in that plastic folder I smacked John’s head with. Even tho my life was very miserable, I decided to make it even more miserable, because... why not? I could use a little bit of fun in my dark days. Or if we threw the sarcasm away- I wanted my life to get even more miserable. Maybe that could’ve kept the pain away.

I had slept a good amount of three hours, before I opened my bloodshot eyes and decided to go to the studio. See, I was making a change. Despite my shaking arms and heavy eyelids, I called a cab and went to meet the band. Never in my life I had wanted to meet the artists I was „working” with, but as I said, I was making a change.

I pushed the rayban sunglasses further on my nose as I got myself together and got out of the cab. Not even my sunglasses could ease my eyes from the blinding sunlight. My fingers reached to unzip my leather jacket, revealing a simple black t-shirt. As I went towards the entrance, I passed a black SUV, noticing my reflection in the window. The view was saddening. I was a little perfect mess. My dark brown, almost black bangs were made up in a loose bun, leaving a couple of strands loosely hanging down my neck. I had lost weight. A lot of it. It seemed like the sunglasses were the only ones making me look a bit decent, although not even those could hide those dreadful circles under my eyes. Even my dark eyebrows seemed like they had lost their color. I sighed loudly. This was what drinking did to you. Although I was only twenty two, I looked like I was at least thirty.

My life was a complete mess. A joke. Sometimes I wondered if I wouldn't be a producer, maybe that would stop me from hitting the bar every single night. I wouldn’t have the money to spend there.

My knee hight boots carried me past a white round table. The ash tray laying on it was already pushing it’s limits. I craved a smoke so badly, and believe it or not, but I didn’t have the dough to buy me another pack of cigarettes. I walked further and got inside only to hear a perfectly annoying sound made by an electric guitar. Please, just kill me.

As I went in to the one of recording rooms, the dreadful noise disappeared as a pair of brown eyes looked me over. I recognized it to be none other than Synyster Gates who was sitting in front of the mixing desk. Zacky vengeance and one of the engineers I didn’t know, decided to reflect the guitarist’s action. I only noticed this room to be full of guitars and stuff that was needed to make different sound effects.

The awkward silence took over the place as I decided to lean against the door isle.

„Is there anyone else in this worthless space?” My fingers made small circles around my temple, to ease the pounding in my head.

„Are you lost?” Gates had a mischievous look on his face as he and Zacky exchanged stares.

„Answer my question,” Before I have killed you. I guess the engineer did a little push in order to get his brain working and understood who I was, before he got up from his place and walked around me outside the room.

„Matt’s recording the vocals.” Zacky answered simply. Oh, how I hated rock musicians. They were eying me like I was this worthless pile of disappointment with whom they didn’t know what to do. Yeah, me neither. Only a minute passed before the engineer guy returned with Matt hot on his heels. I saw only three of them. Weren’t they supposed to be five? Not that I really cared.

„I guess I’ll start with introduction, I’m your producer,” I noticed the way Zacky and Syn looked at me. They were being very skeptical, I decided to ignore that.

„I thought we had an agreement, that,-„

„What can I say, it’s off.” I cut Matt short as he walked past me and leaned against the mixing board. I didn’t even want to know what they and John had arranged. That coke nose pissed me off too often, to say the least.

„What do you mean,-„ I raised my palm to keep him quiet,

„Look, I’m not having a good day, or even a decade, so keep your mouth shut and we’ll get along just perfectly.” He looked stunned, I sighed, before continuing, „I believe John told you I won’t mess with your work, but then I got thinking... What kind of a producer would I be, if I let my artists run on a free leash?” A great one, god dammit. I started rubbing my palm, feeling the long scar under my fingers.

„A perfectly fine one, if you ask me...” Zacky blinked a couple of times. I knew they didn’t want me around. Somewhere in my not so sober memories, I’ve heard John speaking of them willing to self-produce the album, but the big fishes not allowing it, so knowing of my work nature, I was the perfect candidate for the job. If only I didn’t feel the hatred towards rock.

„Well, I didn’t, so zip it.” Oh my god, what kind of a mess had I gotten myself into. „Seeing how I’m... here, I’d want to hear that mambo jambo stuff you’d been recording.”

„Mam,-„ Syn couldn’t even finish that phrase before I heard some awfully scratchy noises, making me want to plug my ears with my fingers. It started with a some sort of country theme. I grimaced in disgust. I’m lonely and I’m tired... and I’m missing you again. Fuck. I raised my palm not being able to listen any further. The production of this album will really be the death of me. The music stopped in an instant.

„What’s the name of the song?” I asked, massaging my fingers.

„It’s just the previous stage name,” Matt tried explaining, before my blank face made him lay it out. I got the thought of it being something stupid. „The Country rocker, but you know, it’s in,-„ It really was stupid.

„Okay, I understand what’s going on in here. You’re some joke band, right?”

„Are you fucking serious?” Synyster’s jaw dropped. Do I look like I was capable of jokes? I believed not.

„Fine,” I exhaled, „You,” I pointed out to Matt, „need a vocal coach, the rhythm guitar is way off beat, I’d suggest some jazz practice, the bass is too loud and I’ll meet the solo guitarist here at six AM tomorrow. Is that clear?” I turned on my heal to leave before they could even catch a breath.

„Can somebody tell me, what the fuck just happened?” I heard somebody asking too furiously.

„I suppose you met your producer. Jill Miller.”