MARIGOLD // Dave Grohl

XIII: Carbs and Limes

Tacoma, WA

June 6, 1994

Sarah sped down the highway, cigarette lodged between her fingers, Black Sabbath's Paranoid blasting through the speakers at the highest volume humanly possible. She was sure that the speakers would rupture in addition to her eardrums. The song fit the mood, though. She hadn't heard from Dave in days. He never picked up her calls that day after he left the message about his panic attack.

She had tried to rationalize with her own thoughts, assuming that he was just busy, or had somehow found out about Paul, but then she recalled a certain phrase that brought her back to her senses and drove her to reach out to him: Confidants Post-Best-Friend-Mortem. She had promised to stay by his side as a support system no matter what.

She had resorted to calling James in the middle of the night, freaking out. "What if he's dead, James?" she cried into the phone, and he frantically attempted to calm her down. "He definitely isn't dead, Sare. He's gone through a lot. And I heard he performed his first gig since Kurt recently. That must have taken a lot out of him."

"Yeah," she replied, sniffing pathetically, and she heard him exhale on the other end. "Just go visit him, like you said." So here she was, driving her 1988 Honda Accord to Dave's apartment, hoping she would encounter the best case scenario. Or, if anything, not the worst case. Anything but the worst case. God, he had to be okay.

When she arrived in the parking lot, her heart was nearly beating outside of her chest. She could barely breathe. She never should have called Paul back. He was nothing but pure distraction. The amount of guilt she felt was unbearable. Kurt had always dwelled upon the concept of guilt in his journals, and in his songs. Was this how he felt all the time? No wonder he killed himself.

She walked up to the door, standing there for a few seconds contemplating whether or not this had been a good idea when she saw her arm move and do the knocking for her. "Dave, please open up. It's me."

No answer. She waited another minute or so before knocking again. She was getting genuinely worried. She opened her mouth to speak again, but no words came out. She couldn't feel any air escaping her lungs. She felt absolutely helpless. But she had to speak, or she would never know what the future held.

"It's Sarah. Dave, at least let me know you're alive."

After seemingly an eternity, she heard the glorious sound of the door's lock clicking and watched as the door opened to see Dave standing there, dark circles under his eyes and his beard grown out. He looked exhausted.

"Hey."

"Hey? That's all you have to say?" Sarah ran a hand through her hair, pushing it back. "Goddamnit, Dave, did you disconnect your phone or something? I've been trying to call you for ages!"

Dave nodded. "Yeah, actually. I was tired of getting calls asking for interviews following the gig." Sarah's eyes widened in curiosity.

"Interviews?"

"Yeah. I majorly fucked up. I thought I was ready to play again. It was a minor gig, nothing too high-profile, but afterwards the press got wind of the performance and tore me apart. One of the articles was titled, Nirvana Drummer Dave Grohl: Too Early to Rock and Roll?. I was so wrong to believe that I was prepared. I mean, fuck, Sarah, one song in and I looked up and I swore that I could see Kurt instead of the lead singer. It was so fucking vivid. I can't do it without him."

Dave looked down at his feet, and Sarah observed how short his fingernails were; they looked bitten down to the furthest possible point. She couldn't help but feel a slight sense of pity for Dave. His head snapped up, and he stepped to the side, gesturing his hand to the space beyond his front door.