Making the Album

Tom lay stretched out on the lumpy couch in the studio. A thick layer of smoke had settled over the room. Tom hadn't smoked a joint in a while, but taking recent circumstances into consideration, smoking two joints in a row just seemed like the logical thing to do.

Now he had Barry's secret bottle of vodka. Tom had seen the producer hiding it beneath the soundboard, and figured Barry wouldn't begrudge him a little alcohol. The odd part was, Tom hated vodka. His drink of choice was beer, preferably Corona. The vodka burned his throat like hell going down, and lit a fire in his stomach. But the overall effect was a dull, mind-numbing calm that spread through his body. It was like curling up with a nice warm blanket.

And Tom really needed that right now.

"Tom?"

Shit.

Barry poked his head into the room. Tom watched as the producer looked around the room. Then Barry stepped inside, coughing slightly. As he fanned a hand in front of his face.

"That's my vodka." Barry didn't sound mad.
"I know."

Barry reached down and scooped up the third joint. Tom had been saving it for the drive home, but he was too stoned to care. Barry lit it, and took a long drag. He held the smoke for an impressive amount of time, and blew an equally impressive smoke ring.

The change in him was instantaneous. He unbuttoned his shirt, rolled back his sleeves. Ran a hand through his hair and stood it all on end. He looked like Sid Vicious, eyes glittering dangerously.

"So..."
"Yeah..."
"What's the occasion for all the weed?" Barry asked and took another drag.
"Just things...loosening up."

Barry's eyes narrowed. The weed wasn't mellowing him out. It was having the complete opposite effect.

"Your dad's a real barrel of laughs."
"Try living with him." Tom said bitterly.

Tom looked at Barry, searching his face. Barry looked back, just as seriously. Something in his face, it just invited Tom to explain. Barry wanted to know. He wanted to know why there was such bitterness in Tom's voice.

"He's an asshole. Couldn't be more different from me."
"You two seemed...different."
"Heh. That's an understatement."

Tom stretched, leaning back on his couch.

"He hates rock. He hates almost every band out there, except for Beehtoven, who he only plays once in a blue moon. Hates tattoos, any sort of independant thinking. In fact, the only thing he does like is sports and 'fine, upstanding young men'."
"So...he hates you?"
"No. One time, he had a talk with me. Told me I was just like him. That I was supposed to follow in his footsteps."

The bassist chuckled. There was absolutely no humor in the sound. Barry leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees. Tom swung his legs off the couch, sitting upright.

"Scared the hell out of me. I was thirteen...so determined to be a rock star. I didn't want to be anything like him."
"I know the feeling."
"God. They wanted a different son. Someone else."
"And they were so determined to remodel you into that son that they never stopped and appreciated the son they had."
"Exactly. And when i realized it, that's when I started with the rebellion. God, I was the ultimate delinquent. Sneaking out. Got my first tattoo illegally in my friend Sam's basement. That got infected horribly. I had it redone."

Tom tapped his forearm. Barry noticed the skin looked tougher, darker underneath the black lines.

"So...you did drugs back then?"

Tom snickered.

"God. Sometimes, I think that's the only thing this band has in common. Tony was on everything, Rob was killing himself with herion...and me...I was trying to suffocate myself with weed and ecstasy."
"What about Blondie?"

Tom was quiet all of a sudden. Then he looked over at Barry.

"The first time I ever saw Blondie, I was lying in a gutter like a fucking bum, wasted out of my mind. He took me home, told my parents I'd been working on a project for school with him...basically, he tried his damnedest to fix me."
"He looks like the kind of guy who would do that."
"He let me move in. Took care of me. The entire time i was dealing with the withdrawel, he was there. And he just understands life."

They were silent. Barry puffed on his joint.

"You gonna be alright, with your dad being around?"

Tom shrugged.

"I'm not going back there. Even if it means living in a fucking box on the street...I can't go back."

Barry looked at him sympathetically.

"Like me and my family...I never told you guys about my family, did I?"

Tom shook his head. A part of him didn't want to hear about Barry's past, didn't want to know anything about the producer. But the stoned, mellow part of him wanted a story, and leaned back against the couch.

"I'm a rich bastard...I was the kid in high school with too much money and too litle responsibilty. My mom died and my dad raised me alone. Basically, I conformed to his rules, because I didn't feel like fucking around with my dad. He wanted me to be a doctor. I didn't, but I went along with him. We fought anyway, because I just couldn't stand him. I snuck out to concerts a lot. This was back in L.A. during the 80's. Basically, I saw every heavy metal band on the strip, and managed to stay off drugs."

Suddenly, Barry smiled to himself. Tom recognized that smile. It was the smile every man has on his face when he's thinking about sex.

"Of course...the women were..." Barry's stoned smile grew wider. "I remember this one time, at the Pussycat Lounge, I was playing poker with Axl Rose--"
"You knew Axl Rose?"
"Not personally. I just gambled with them." Barry paused, then returned to his story. "So we were playing poker. And all of a sudden, this girl gets down on all fours and crawls under the table. And then, like a minute later, he gets this huge smile on his face."

Tom started laughing, catching on.

"That chick was giving him a blow job right there at the fucking table! And when she finished with him, she just went around the table!"

Tom collapsed into laughter. Barry's face sobered though, as he recalled other parts of his youth.

"And then...well, I became a senior. My father wanted me to apply to this college and that college. It just got to be too damn much. I split. Called some old contacts, got a job as a temp. Worked my ass off till I began producing. My dad tracked me down. He was...not happy. We fought, had a screaming match out on the sidewalk. Basically, I told him to go fuck himself, that I was never going to be a doctor like he wanted. He told me he was cutting me off. I hadn't used his money in months. So I told him to go play in traffic, and walked away."

The producer puffed on his joint, almost burning his lip. Tom watched him, realizing Barry looked almost sad.

"I was a disappointment. And I knew it. But I got out. Made my own life. That's what you have to do, Tom. It's your life, not his."
"Thanks."

Tom stood up too quickly. He wobbled and fell over. Barry lunged for him, grabbing the bassist's collar in the nick of time.

"Nice reflexes."

Barry shrugged.

"I'm not too stoned yet...it'l take me a little while, and then I'll be flying."

Tom paused, his hand on the door. Then he turned around.

"You're a good guy...a great producer...but I'm supposed to hate you, for what you did to Tony."

Barry looked down, looking somewhat like a lost puppy. Tom felt a pang and smiled at him.

"But you listened to me bitch, and told me about your own dad. I can't hate you, not after that."

The two smiled at each other, then Barry grabbed his jacket and gave Tom a devilish smile.

"Can I interest you in a drink?"
"Hell, when am I not interested in having a drink?"

And walking out of that studio, Tom truly believed everything was going to be all right.