Without You, chapter 2
Besides his ring, Billie only wore Jockey briefs. He stumbled over to his dresser, removed a pair of custom-tailored black leather pants and changed. He found a dark red silk kimono hanging in a walk in closet and put it on. In a dresser drawer was a gram vial of cocaine. Scooping with the fingernail on his right pinkie, the tattered musician snorted eight blasts of rock 'n' roll aspirin.
The kimono felt cool against his warm flesh. He wondered if he was feverish and concluded he probably was. He was always run down, as if with a perpetual fever. That is, of course, until he got his chip. He finished his beer, tossing the empty can in the general direction of a wastebasket that was already crammed with empties.
Staring into a full-length mirror, the run-down recluse didn't recognize the reflection. Sure, the long black hair and tattoos gave him away, but he looked so frail. Billie Joe looked like someone who was ready for hospital pyjamas. His once attractive face was blue, taut, and expressionless. A scraggly beard covered his chin and his emerald eyes were no longer authentic gems, but rather costume jewelery. He needed a drink.
For the past fourteen of his thirty-three years, he'd spent the majority of his time inside a bottle. Teenage beer and wine parties turned to vodka and rum at nightclubs, which in turn evolved into straight whiskey. Exiting the bedroom, he said a silent prayer to his patron saint, Jim Beam, asking that there be some in the liquor cabinet.
An illuminating golden glow surrounded the thick blackout curtains. A small war had gone down in the living room the previous evening. Full ashtrays, assorted liquor bottles, empty and half-empty packs of cigarettes, and beer cans were strewn everywhere. Several CD covers were caked in cocaine residue.
Billie tried remembering who had been partying there and couldn't. An empty pack of Kool cigarettes meant that one of his many dealers, Jamie Jazz had delivered something. It didn't take very long before he made the connection between the empty bindles in the bedroom and Jamie.
Jamie was typical Hollywood trash who hand delivered coke, toke, crack, or smack to troubled celebrities, exploiting their vulnerabilities. Billie searched for more clues as to who else had been over partying but came up blank.
He slid behind the bar that was adjacent to the kitchen and opened a cabinet. There were several unopened bottles of assorted white liquors. A nervous surge shot through his small stomach. What if there was no whiskey? He shuffled the bottles around until he found the proper one. A sigh of relief escaped him as he twisted the cap off and made a mental note that he needed to restock.
The whiskey's aroma was his equivalent of fresh brewed coffee. "Here's looking at you, love," Billie said aloud, raising the bottle to his lips.
Like every day, one sip led to another. After several sips, he started feeling right. He put the bottle on the counter and made it to the refrigerator. If he was lucky, he'd be drunk before the day started. He removed another Budweiser and went back into the messy living room.
There was a dull hum inside his cranium. He couldn't differentiate whether it was cocaine-induced or the central air-conditioning. If only he could remember what day today was, then he'd know if a maid was scheduled to come by. She could bring booze. The musician sat on the couch, picked up the phone, and dialled 411.
"Operator. What city, please?"
"L.A."
"Yes?"
"What day is it? Billie asked sincerely, lighting a Marlboro.
"What?"
"What day is it?"
"Sir, I'm an operator."
"Ma'am, you're Information and I asked you a question," He corrected her. A snide laugh escaped him. After a silent moment, she answered his question.
"It's Wednesday, sir."
"Thanks," he said, and hung up. There would be no maid service today. This was not the way he wanted to start the day. He polished off the beer, finished his cigarette, and snorted more cocaine.
After several confusing seconds, he remembered where he kept the large green garbage bags and began straightening up the mess. Moving around the large one-bedroom condominium, he picked up anything that wasn't bolted down and threw it out.
Bottles and empty food containers stretched the garbage bag to a point where it threatened to rip open. After ten minutes of straightening up, the apartment began taking shape.
Besides this condominium, he also owned one in Manhattan and another in Houston. He rarely frequented his Hollywood Hills mansion, or for that matter, his house in Maui. Both brought back too many memories of her. It was in the Hollywood Hills house where he and Jemma Aston had spent most of their quality time.
As his thoughts began betraying him, thinking more about her, Billie Joe instinctively went to the bar and retrieved the whiskey bottle. He could think of her as long as he had a safety net.
With all the money, fame, and success he had attained, it was the simple things like friendship and love that were the hardest to keep. He never meant to hurt anyone, especially those closest to him, but for some reason that's who he usually hurt the worst. He never set out to be malicious, but by living under a microscope with the world scrutinizing him, any wrongdoing, public or private, tended to blow up in his face and often wound up as Nightly News.
Personal flaws and fuck-ups are not allowed of the elite. He often suffered silently, trapped by his own fame, until he needed out of his cage. But the cage was as wide as his eyes could perceive.
All he had ever tried to be, right or wrong, was himself. With all the doctors, specialists, therapists, fans, and everyone in his organization trying to help him, he just sank further into his cocoon, alienating himself even more. He often wondered who he really was. Was he another regenerated social security number automatically inherited at birth or a genuine reflection of society? Was he a phenomenon or just a facade? Was he a product of his own imagination or just another brick? Would he ever understand his own destiny?
The kimono felt cool against his warm flesh. He wondered if he was feverish and concluded he probably was. He was always run down, as if with a perpetual fever. That is, of course, until he got his chip. He finished his beer, tossing the empty can in the general direction of a wastebasket that was already crammed with empties.
Staring into a full-length mirror, the run-down recluse didn't recognize the reflection. Sure, the long black hair and tattoos gave him away, but he looked so frail. Billie Joe looked like someone who was ready for hospital pyjamas. His once attractive face was blue, taut, and expressionless. A scraggly beard covered his chin and his emerald eyes were no longer authentic gems, but rather costume jewelery. He needed a drink.
For the past fourteen of his thirty-three years, he'd spent the majority of his time inside a bottle. Teenage beer and wine parties turned to vodka and rum at nightclubs, which in turn evolved into straight whiskey. Exiting the bedroom, he said a silent prayer to his patron saint, Jim Beam, asking that there be some in the liquor cabinet.
An illuminating golden glow surrounded the thick blackout curtains. A small war had gone down in the living room the previous evening. Full ashtrays, assorted liquor bottles, empty and half-empty packs of cigarettes, and beer cans were strewn everywhere. Several CD covers were caked in cocaine residue.
Billie tried remembering who had been partying there and couldn't. An empty pack of Kool cigarettes meant that one of his many dealers, Jamie Jazz had delivered something. It didn't take very long before he made the connection between the empty bindles in the bedroom and Jamie.
Jamie was typical Hollywood trash who hand delivered coke, toke, crack, or smack to troubled celebrities, exploiting their vulnerabilities. Billie searched for more clues as to who else had been over partying but came up blank.
He slid behind the bar that was adjacent to the kitchen and opened a cabinet. There were several unopened bottles of assorted white liquors. A nervous surge shot through his small stomach. What if there was no whiskey? He shuffled the bottles around until he found the proper one. A sigh of relief escaped him as he twisted the cap off and made a mental note that he needed to restock.
The whiskey's aroma was his equivalent of fresh brewed coffee. "Here's looking at you, love," Billie said aloud, raising the bottle to his lips.
Like every day, one sip led to another. After several sips, he started feeling right. He put the bottle on the counter and made it to the refrigerator. If he was lucky, he'd be drunk before the day started. He removed another Budweiser and went back into the messy living room.
There was a dull hum inside his cranium. He couldn't differentiate whether it was cocaine-induced or the central air-conditioning. If only he could remember what day today was, then he'd know if a maid was scheduled to come by. She could bring booze. The musician sat on the couch, picked up the phone, and dialled 411.
"Operator. What city, please?"
"L.A."
"Yes?"
"What day is it? Billie asked sincerely, lighting a Marlboro.
"What?"
"What day is it?"
"Sir, I'm an operator."
"Ma'am, you're Information and I asked you a question," He corrected her. A snide laugh escaped him. After a silent moment, she answered his question.
"It's Wednesday, sir."
"Thanks," he said, and hung up. There would be no maid service today. This was not the way he wanted to start the day. He polished off the beer, finished his cigarette, and snorted more cocaine.
After several confusing seconds, he remembered where he kept the large green garbage bags and began straightening up the mess. Moving around the large one-bedroom condominium, he picked up anything that wasn't bolted down and threw it out.
Bottles and empty food containers stretched the garbage bag to a point where it threatened to rip open. After ten minutes of straightening up, the apartment began taking shape.
Besides this condominium, he also owned one in Manhattan and another in Houston. He rarely frequented his Hollywood Hills mansion, or for that matter, his house in Maui. Both brought back too many memories of her. It was in the Hollywood Hills house where he and Jemma Aston had spent most of their quality time.
As his thoughts began betraying him, thinking more about her, Billie Joe instinctively went to the bar and retrieved the whiskey bottle. He could think of her as long as he had a safety net.
With all the money, fame, and success he had attained, it was the simple things like friendship and love that were the hardest to keep. He never meant to hurt anyone, especially those closest to him, but for some reason that's who he usually hurt the worst. He never set out to be malicious, but by living under a microscope with the world scrutinizing him, any wrongdoing, public or private, tended to blow up in his face and often wound up as Nightly News.
Personal flaws and fuck-ups are not allowed of the elite. He often suffered silently, trapped by his own fame, until he needed out of his cage. But the cage was as wide as his eyes could perceive.
All he had ever tried to be, right or wrong, was himself. With all the doctors, specialists, therapists, fans, and everyone in his organization trying to help him, he just sank further into his cocoon, alienating himself even more. He often wondered who he really was. Was he another regenerated social security number automatically inherited at birth or a genuine reflection of society? Was he a phenomenon or just a facade? Was he a product of his own imagination or just another brick? Would he ever understand his own destiny?
