Chapter 41

41

I’m taking my first shower in over twenty years while John cleans up the kitchen after our steak dinner. The water, hot but not scalding, falls like tiny prickles that penetrate my body as each drop falls upon my skin.

I stare closely at the showerhead and try to imagine each drop of water’s origin, where its hometown is, what its mother does for a living. I meet several men and woman with differing hopes and dreams before I settle into a droplet named Peter, who was born by caesarian just twenty-six short years ago.

Peter has dreams of being a rock musician. He’s a self taught guitar virtuoso who has started a garage band with his best friend Chris, a drummer who was born in Virginia Beach just three weeks after Peter. The two so closely resemble one another that they are referred to as brothers even by those who know better.

The two started writing songs together, hundreds of them, carefully honing their unique punk rock sound. Peter develops a distinct vocal definition that one could compare to early Mick Jagger recordings. Chris begins to pound his drumheads with a Keith Moon like precision. They begin to exist as a collective identity, and in turn, grab two-dozen songs to reap the rewards of their labor.

They play show after show, week after week, slowly developing a grass roots following of fans. At first they see the same faces in the crowd, past lovers and close friends who drown in drinks while singing along with Peter’s garbled chorus. Eventually the crowds become thicker and the friends become lost in a sea of unfamiliar people. Eventually, after a sold out show in their city’s most prestigious venue, they are approached by a manager who lands the duo a record deal.

With the release of their first album Peter and Chris are heralded as the saviors of rock and roll. They tour America, Europe, Japan and everywhere in between. The shows, small at first, sell out, and the two high school friends make the cover of several top music magazines.

Millions of fans and millions in CD revenues and merchandise make the band and everyone associated with them extremely rich. Chris begins his own record company, propelling his name and stature in the hustle that is the recording industry. Peter, meanwhile, meets a man known only as Johnny who puts a needle into his vein after a successful concert in Belfast.

As time goes on Peter becomes more tangled into Johnny’s world, spending every royalty check received on drugs and booze. His behavior becomes erratic, his situation more isolated. He stops showing up for rehearsals and makes a habit out of disappearing just prior to a scheduled performance. Chris decides, after a year of attempted intervention, that the band is better off without his wayward companion. This culminates with a heated incident in the studio during which voices were raised, punches were thrown and Peter finds himself tossed out into the street.

Instead of a wake-up call, Pete flounders. His initial reaction is to contact Johnny for a fix. Johnny obliges and takes Peter’s last thousand dollars and disappears into the night and is never heard from again.

Years pass by and Peter is hunted down by a reporter sent to discover the whereabouts of a once revered pop star. After weeks of searching, the reporter finds Peter living in a dilapidated apartment complex of the east side of town. The reporter knocks on Pete’s door, the hallway itself littered with garbage and smelling of shit and vinegar.

Peter is a shell of his former self, the drugs relegating him to a skeleton; his skin, pale and emaciated, clings to his bones like a wet t-shirt. The reporter sits down upon a concrete floor spray painted blue and green by a rock star with too much time on his hands. The reporter pulls out his pen and notepad to scribble notes to a story that has already moved years beyond its climax.

Our virtuoso is shirtless, penniless, a destitute shell of popular culture. The article has written itself into the track marks along both arms. Chewed up and spit out by the industry that created him, Peter reminisces about the fans that used to adore him and the groupies who willingly gave themselves to him. When asked what he’s been up to lately the man replies that he’s been writing songs, hundreds of them, chronicling his life since his last album. The reporter asks to hear them but Peter refuses. He wants to be paid for the performance. Pitifully the reporter declines then promptly leaves, closing the apartment door quickly behind him.

I stand amazed as that droplet of water named Peter falls from the showerhead. And as he becomes lost among the millions of similar droplets headed toward my body, I can hear him softly singing to himself, “I used to be a libertine. That used to be my everything.” It is his voice that cleanses my conscience and reminds me of fame’s great misfortune.