Without You, chapter 4
Standing at the door with an overnight bag was Jemma. On the spur of the moment she'd flown from L.A. to Miami to be with him. A very bad scene played itself out. Jemma left broken and hysterical. That was the beginning of the end for their relationship.
Billie snapped out of the past. His left knee popped loudly as he straightened his legs and headed for the phone. He pushed a button. Jemma's number was still programmed and every now and then he pushed it just to hear her phone ring. Also in the phone's memory was his record label, his manager, the three members of his current band, the Billie Mann Group, and several drug dealers.
After receiving no answer at Jemma's, he pushed another button. His many bracelets clinked together and a few seconds later there was a reply.
"Yeah?" spat an unenthusiastic voice from a car phone.
"It's me," Billie Joe said, swallowing, cocaine dripping down his throat.
"My main man," Jamie's voice declared like a cash register ringing. "What can I do ya for?"
"Uptown and downtown." Cocaine and heroin.
"No problem. You remember what I did for ya last night, right?"
"Yeah." He didn't.
"You owe me three bills from that shit, brother man," the dealer explained just in case memory failed.
I'm sure I got some change floatin' around. If I can't find some I'll five ya my Versateller card and you can get what I owe."
"Bet. I'll be right up," Jamie said as if he was doing Billie a favour and hung up.
"Fuckin' prick," Billie mumbled to himself. He lit up a cigarette and got himself another beer. The lid popped loudly and foam rose to the mouth hole. He watched, amused, then walked over to the black-out curtains and pulled the lever, letting bright sunlight invade his living room.
"Fuck you very much," he loudly announced, squinting, and raising his middle finger to the sky. The view from his balcony was vast, displaying the City of Angels below, yet more often than not Billie Joe kept the curtains shut, preferring not to be a part of the world outside. It was safe inside his apartment.
Against a far wall, tucked in the corner so that the ivory keys faced out toward the living room, was a vintage Steinway. He spent many pleasure-filled hours on the instrument, and even when he wasn't playing, the piano gave him visual stimulation. It was an instrument of precision and grace. Next to the piano, resting comfortably on stands were half a dozen vintage guitars: Les Pauls, Stratocasters, and Telecasters. The guitars he kept in the apartment were the ones that meant the most to him.
The buzzer sounded, waking Billie from his drifting thoughts. He went to the intercom and pressed the button that unlocked the front door. A few minutes later, Jamie Jazz was inside his apartment.
Dozens of platinum and gold records adorned the walls. Hours upon years of planning, writing, recording, and struggling had reaped these round rewards. His song writing stemmed from inner pains and his slower, more blues-influenced songs often dealt with personal hardships. Those were the songs he was most proud of and believed might stand the test of time.
The faster, more hard-rock-oriented songs often had little significance or wore their meanings on their sleeve. Unfortunately, the awards were no longer awards without Jemma.
Billie Joe excused himself and went into the bedroom. Hidden behind yet another platinum disc was a safe. He removed the disc from the wall, twisted the combination, and opened the safe. Inside were jewellery, documents, over four thousand dollars cash, a freebase pipe, and a loaded .357 Magnum. He grabbed a few C-notes and went back into the living room, leaving the safe shut but unlocked.
Jamie was seated on the black leather couch, feet up on the marble coffee table, looking casual in Green Day sweatpants (that he'd gotten from Billie) and a matching sweatshirt. He'd helped himself to a beer.
"What's the total?"
"Including last night? Six," Jamie replied, fidgeting with the beeper on his waist.
Billie handed him six bills and put the rest in his pants pocket. Judging by the look on his face, the dealer understood he wanted to be alone and took the hint.
"Call me if you need anything else," Jamie offered, exiting the apartment.
The moment the front door clicked shut, Billie'ss mind rushed into overdrive but his body refused to move. He had drugs in hand, but instead of finding a syringe, he went back into the bedroom. Something in the wall safe more powerful than his addiction had caught his eye.
He walked to the safe and pulled the door open. Inside was a photo album containing precious Kodachrome memories.
Placing the drugs on top of the messy night table, he fell on the bed, and began flipping through the leather-bound book. Captured in photos were images and feelings so intense that it made him warm, as well as suicidal.
Billie snapped out of the past. His left knee popped loudly as he straightened his legs and headed for the phone. He pushed a button. Jemma's number was still programmed and every now and then he pushed it just to hear her phone ring. Also in the phone's memory was his record label, his manager, the three members of his current band, the Billie Mann Group, and several drug dealers.
After receiving no answer at Jemma's, he pushed another button. His many bracelets clinked together and a few seconds later there was a reply.
"Yeah?" spat an unenthusiastic voice from a car phone.
"It's me," Billie Joe said, swallowing, cocaine dripping down his throat.
"My main man," Jamie's voice declared like a cash register ringing. "What can I do ya for?"
"Uptown and downtown." Cocaine and heroin.
"No problem. You remember what I did for ya last night, right?"
"Yeah." He didn't.
"You owe me three bills from that shit, brother man," the dealer explained just in case memory failed.
I'm sure I got some change floatin' around. If I can't find some I'll five ya my Versateller card and you can get what I owe."
"Bet. I'll be right up," Jamie said as if he was doing Billie a favour and hung up.
"Fuckin' prick," Billie mumbled to himself. He lit up a cigarette and got himself another beer. The lid popped loudly and foam rose to the mouth hole. He watched, amused, then walked over to the black-out curtains and pulled the lever, letting bright sunlight invade his living room.
"Fuck you very much," he loudly announced, squinting, and raising his middle finger to the sky. The view from his balcony was vast, displaying the City of Angels below, yet more often than not Billie Joe kept the curtains shut, preferring not to be a part of the world outside. It was safe inside his apartment.
Against a far wall, tucked in the corner so that the ivory keys faced out toward the living room, was a vintage Steinway. He spent many pleasure-filled hours on the instrument, and even when he wasn't playing, the piano gave him visual stimulation. It was an instrument of precision and grace. Next to the piano, resting comfortably on stands were half a dozen vintage guitars: Les Pauls, Stratocasters, and Telecasters. The guitars he kept in the apartment were the ones that meant the most to him.
The buzzer sounded, waking Billie from his drifting thoughts. He went to the intercom and pressed the button that unlocked the front door. A few minutes later, Jamie Jazz was inside his apartment.
Dozens of platinum and gold records adorned the walls. Hours upon years of planning, writing, recording, and struggling had reaped these round rewards. His song writing stemmed from inner pains and his slower, more blues-influenced songs often dealt with personal hardships. Those were the songs he was most proud of and believed might stand the test of time.
The faster, more hard-rock-oriented songs often had little significance or wore their meanings on their sleeve. Unfortunately, the awards were no longer awards without Jemma.
Billie Joe excused himself and went into the bedroom. Hidden behind yet another platinum disc was a safe. He removed the disc from the wall, twisted the combination, and opened the safe. Inside were jewellery, documents, over four thousand dollars cash, a freebase pipe, and a loaded .357 Magnum. He grabbed a few C-notes and went back into the living room, leaving the safe shut but unlocked.
Jamie was seated on the black leather couch, feet up on the marble coffee table, looking casual in Green Day sweatpants (that he'd gotten from Billie) and a matching sweatshirt. He'd helped himself to a beer.
"What's the total?"
"Including last night? Six," Jamie replied, fidgeting with the beeper on his waist.
Billie handed him six bills and put the rest in his pants pocket. Judging by the look on his face, the dealer understood he wanted to be alone and took the hint.
"Call me if you need anything else," Jamie offered, exiting the apartment.
The moment the front door clicked shut, Billie'ss mind rushed into overdrive but his body refused to move. He had drugs in hand, but instead of finding a syringe, he went back into the bedroom. Something in the wall safe more powerful than his addiction had caught his eye.
He walked to the safe and pulled the door open. Inside was a photo album containing precious Kodachrome memories.
Placing the drugs on top of the messy night table, he fell on the bed, and began flipping through the leather-bound book. Captured in photos were images and feelings so intense that it made him warm, as well as suicidal.
