“How you doing?” I walk over and give him a quick hug.
“Not bad. Not bad at all.”
“You feel like going out to dinner?”
He shakes his head. “Now, you know the answer to that.”
My dad never goes out. He hates it, says it’s a waste of time and money getting all dressed up so someone else can cook for you. Then you have to pay them. If he’s gonna get dressed up and hit the town, he would rather be getting laid, not having a meal.
“Got steaks in the car.”
“Gimme ten minutes to finish old lady Smith’s car and get washed up.”
“The grill have propane?” I ask.
“Sure does, but how about charcoal tonight?” He smirks.
“On it.”
I walk out and around to the back, smiling when I see the patio off the back of the apartment he added on to the garage after the fire. A brick fire pit was built in the far corner. There are a couple benches, even some shrubs, and a couple pots that have flowers planted.
“Place looks good, right?” my old man asks, slapping me on the back.
“Yeah, it does.” I smile. “Where’s the charcoal?”
“I can get it after I take a quick shower.” He walks toward the sliding glass doors that enter the palace.
“Dad, where is it?” I laugh.
He points to one of the benches. “Bags are in there.”
I open the bench, grab the charcoal and lighter fluid, and carry it to the pit.
When he comes out, he’s in jeans and a sweatshirt that says Carhart. I laugh to myself because, back in the day, anything with that logo was our equivalent to a fucking Armani suit. I send him Levis and Carharts every Father’s Day and every year on his birthday.
“Looking good, old man,” I say as I pull out my Zippo and light it up.
Dad shakes his head when I stand back.
“What?” I ask.
“You still got Glenda’s lighter.”
“My life changed that day. It’s a reminder.”
“All of our lives changed that day. She went to jail, you got hauled away to foster care, and me ... I sat in it.”
“Sat in what?”
“Shit.” He motions toward our old place.
“And it still stands,” I remark, looking at it.
“Took me forever to convince them I wasn’t fucked up like her so that I could get you back.” He snaps his fingers. “Then in the blink of an eye, you were gone.”
“Had things to do,” I say, feeling the weight of his words.
“Made a name for yourself.” He smiles. “I’m proud of you, son.”
I look at him, never having heard him say that before. He winks and then looks at the old place.
“Looks like you’re doing well, too, Dad. Just one thing needs to go.”
“What’s that?”
“That fucking relic.” I laugh, bending down to grab the lighter fluid. “You feel up to a bonfire?”
“You have her lighter; I have that pile of shit.”
“I’ll use the lighter to spark that pile of shit and toss it on. Neither of us need the reminder.”
“You forgive me finally?” he asks.
“Forgive you for what?” I have no clue what the hell he’s talking about. He didn’t do a damn thing.
“Not booting her ass before she fucked everything up, burnt down our place, and got you sent away.”
“Wasn’t your fault.” Never thought it was. He was the only consistency I had.
“I knew what she was doing. I fought it, but my words fell on the deaf ears of a junkie I was enabling. I should have booted her. If I had, you wouldn’t have been sent to that place, and you would never have lost the girl and—”
“I don’t blame you, Dad. Hell, I don’t even blame Glenda anymore. Don’t even think about her.” I turned it off like a switch, one that, when turned back on, was like a scene from a hoarders show, roaches scattering back into the darkened corner. I would rather leave the light off.
“But you don’t come home,” he says quietly. “Can’t blame you.”
“I was finding my way, and I found it, Dad. I’m home for a couple days.”
We stand quietly, looking at the ruins.
“I want that fucking thing gone. You game?”
He smirks. “I think we got ten minutes before we throw those steaks on.” He nods. “Better be damn good steaks, too.”
“Got a bag of clams, too, old man.”
“You don’t say? What are you, making millions now or something?”
“No.” I laugh. “But I won’t stop until I do.”
“That’s my boy.” He pats my back.
I reach down to grab the lighter fluid.
“Son, that ain’t gonna do shit. Let me grab the gas can.”
***
I spend two days with my old man. The first, we eat steak and clams, his favorite, and the next, we rake up the burnt remnants of the old tin can. Then we eat steak again.
At night, while he is sacked out in his recliner, I message back and forth with Sonya, who is busy getting her boy better. I understand and respect that a hell of a lot more than she will ever understand, but I miss her.
Taelyn and she talked. Sonya’s okay to stay at home for the next ten days. Apparently, X’s and her son was a preemie, too. As a result, they totally get what she is going through.
Two of the tour stops are in Cleveland, and I will be making damn sure I get to see her then.
When I get back to Florida, the auditions for the opening act are in full swing.
Sonya and I send messages daily—several times a day, actually—about work, the opening acts’ social status locally and globally, and how they would benefit us as a group. She is also apparently designing a website for the band. She calls it a portal through the wall of Steel we hide behind. I read some of the bio stuff, and she is a wordsmith for sure. She makes a group of otherwise normal guys sound like a mysterious group of musical magicians with mysterious and mystical talent. She also sells the hell out of what she calls our sex appeal. It was something she was against when she was hanging with the chicks with dicks crew.
I smile, thinking I brought her out of that just in time. Now she is a chick who likes my dick and my dick loves her.
I am doing my part. Well, as best I can when I’m not deep in my head. I am on a road of contentment for the first time in years in both my personal and professional life. I am in a lyrically lucid headspace as far as my music, and personally, I feel the cracks in my soul being magically healed, all because a couple weeks ago a girl terrified me, and I couldn’t walk away. Such a tiny, little thing to be afraid of.
Orlando is amazing, and Tampa is just as good. After that, we are in route to Atlanta, where apparently a new tour bus is waiting for us. Fucking crazy. Abso-fucking-lute insanity.
The rest of the world doesn’t know it, but that one fucking song Memphis’s ass tricked me into singing fixed something upstairs in the old brain. For once, as fucked up as it sounds admitting it to myself, I felt accepting of the applause at the end.
River is high all the time, astronomically so. I try to reel him in, knowing damn well it won’t work—never has before—so I just become the safety police to an out of control drummer. I don’t mind. Billy tagged in while I was tripping on my own shit; therefore, the least I can do is give him a break.
When we walk out of Philips Arena in Atlanta, and a big, black, shiny bus pulls up with the words Steel Total Destruction in silver splashed over the faded shocker symbol, we all kind of freak.
“That is one sexy bus,” Memphis claps his hands together and rubs them up and down. “Tales, only groupies allowed on this bus, babe.”
“What?” Her smile falls and she looks mortified.
“You’ve got to start thinking about my needs as a fucking rock star. I can’t be just a boyfriend. Hell, I have a bus to prove it.” He is teasing her, but she doesn’t seem to be catching on. “You don’t mind the groupie thing, do you, Tales?” He reaches out, but she pulls back, so he grabs her and pulls her into his arms, whispering in her ear. She starts giggling and covers her mouth. “You up for it?”
She nods and throws her arms around him. “Heck yes.”