The Boy from the Band

Can't You Hear Me Knocking

I'm almost two weeks out of the hospital and I still hurt. The pain is bad first thing in the morning and then it wakes me up in the middle of the night. I'm proud of myself, I'm only taking the Demerol twice a day—and I haven't let Rick talk me out of any, yet.

If I had a fantasy about him coming over every day to check on me and see to my needs I'd be disappointed. He shows up about every three days to see how I'm doing—though he has sent me a flower arrangement that must have cost a small fortune.

He's talked me out of one of my spare keys so he can just let himself in, as opposed to knocking on the door and waking my neighbors. I don't know if I trust him enough to do this but I give in. It's made life easier but now I never know when he's going to show up. Well, that's not true, he shows up about 3 a.m., musician hours he calls them.

He lets himself in about the usual time tonight and since I'm half asleep it startles me. He's dressed all in black and carrying his guitar. He also must be coked out of his mind because he's got "cocaine eyes".

Yes, there really is such a thing. His eyes are wide open, and the white is completely surrounding his irises. He's also had a lot to drink because I can smell him from the doorway. He's been hanging out at his favorite bar with four of his addict friends—I don't say it, but when he's like this I wish he'd stayed there.

He sets his guitar down carefully and comes over to the couch. He lifts up my legs and then sits, replacing my legs on top of his. In spite of my objections he pulls down my pajama pants and his hand begins to rub my belly, gently running his finger across my new scar.

"Does it hurt?" he asks, now rubbing my legs, then fingering the strip where the nurse shaved part of my pubic hair.

"Sometimes," I answer, "If I try to do too much but it's gotten better. I've even made a quick trip to the store. The Demerol helps but I don't need it as much, just twice a day. What are you doing?"

He's slipped his fingers inside me and though I'm not sure it's a good idea I don't want him to stop, it feels too good. He brings me to a point where I'm gently aroused and I'm responding. He brings me gently down then looks at me with his scary eyes.

"Think you can do something for me?" he asks then pushes my legs away. I start to pull up my pajamas but his hand stops mine. He undoes his jeans and pushes them down. 

I crawl awkwardly between his legs and see he's started to get an erection. I know what he wants and I want it too. I take him in my mouth and start moving up and down the way he likes it. He takes my head in his and guides me and I'm getting aroused by this. I like the feel of him, I like that at the moment I have him at my mercy.

"Let me know if you start to hurt," he tells me softly but at the moment I'm too lost. Then I look up at him and nod and he realizes what I'm trying to tell him. He's ready anyway and I feel him release himself into me.

I hate the taste of semen, so I get up, pull up my pants, and go into the bathroom to clean out my mouth. When I come back he's laughing, and playing his guitar, trying different chords until he picks a song that he likes and starts to serenade me.

I sit patiently, listening, waiting for him to finish. His eyes have calmed down a little but the "coke eyes" are still there. When he plays the last chord of the song I decide to say what's on my mind.

"How much coke have you had? "

"Some, why?"

"Rick, it's more than 'some', you came in here with eyes that almost scared the shit out of me. You and your harp player friend aren't doing each other much good. You're too much into the alcohol, the coke, and god only knows what else. Do you have any idea how much I worry about you? You're getting behind the wheel drunk and all coked up—I keep expecting to hear that you've been in another accident."

I took a deep breath, "I'm afraid that you're slowly killing yourself. I don't think you're going to see old bones. Don't you want to see your kids grow up, your grandkids? Don't they deserve a chance to know this wonderful, crazy guy I love so much?"

He's at a loss for words, which doesn't happen often. His eyes soften as he puts down his guitar and holds out his hand to me.

I sit down next to him and he pulls me close then says, "Don't worry, I beat death once and I don't see it happening to me soon. I know what I'm doing, please don't worry."

I look up at him, "You need to go to detox and then find a doctor who can help you with your back. You can't keep this up, no one can. You guys are living on borrowed time, I know this because I can feel it. I don't care if we break up someday, though I don't want to, I just want you well and happy."

"Tell you what, let me worry about me, your job is to get better so we can make love again. And I want to see you at the studio, the guys all miss you and send their love. I think it's sweet that you're so concerned for me, you just don't need to be okay?" He tightened his arm around me, "Okay?" he repeats.

"Just take care of yourself." I've lost the battle and I know it. I wonder again if his girlfriend is into drugs and alcohol to the extent that he is. If I were her I'd be fighting to get him clean and sober, and clean up myself along with him. I play with drugs a little and I'm not a big drinker. I don't have an addictive personality but he does. Sometimes I wish he'd get away from his friends, but that's not going to happen. I'm terrified that I'm going to hear that he's died in a car crash or overdosed. He's not going to stay young forever and his lifestyle is going to catch up to him.

He's going to drive home and I'm worried. He's slurring his words and his voice has that low pitch it gets when he's had a lot to drink. I don't care how awake the coke has him, or if it's still working its way through his system. Either way, he has no business driving right now—he told me he's wrecked a few cars, but I'll bet he's wrecked more than a few. If he drives now I'm afraid he'll wreck one more.

I'd like to put him to bed but don't want to take the chance of his falling asleep. I know he's going to leave and there's nothing I can do about it. I just wish he wouldn't drink so much, the coke's bad enough but the alcohol makes it worse.

As I feared, he stands up and tells me he's got to leave. He embraces me and I can smell the alcohol. I hope he doesn't get pulled over though it might be good for him if he did.

"Drive careful," I tell him, what else can I say? I watch him walk out the door, unsteady on his feet and listen to the tires screech as he pulls out of the parking lot.

Well, I signed up for this, right? What else can I expect? I'm going to turn twenty-four soon, but I know you can't change someone. That's got to be up to him.