Cherish

Everybody Hurts (28)

"Everybody Hurts" -- R.E.M.

'Cause everybody hurts

Take comfort in your friends

Everybody hurts

Don't throw your hand, oh no

Don't throw your hand

If you feel like you're alone

No, no, no, you're not alone...

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January of 1998

Tonight wasn't just an ordinary concert. Tonight's concert would surely secure them a recording deal if the high profile producer seated in the front row was impressed with their band and music. Unsurprisingly, the members of Beat Brigade were so nervous that their palms were clammy as they waited to be called to the stage. Another band was giving their performance and though the five people within the dressing room could listen to them through the speakers piped into the room, they chose to keep the volume low enough that they could barely hear. They wanted to concentrate on their performance and what they intended to sing. In their heads, they went over the lyrics, including Lucky who would be seated along with the audience.

His back pressed to the wall as he sat on the floor thumping at his knees with a pair of his luckiest drumsticks, J.T.'s thoughts drifted from lyrics to the small vial tucked inside his jeans. Earlier in the day he purchased three vials, but control wasn't on his side because two of those were already gone. The drummer told himself that he would wait to use the remaining vial until after the concert, yet that tiny voice in his head wanted it emptied immediately. He tried to ignore it, but the seemingly insatiable voice wouldn't be silenced.

J.T.'s sudden tight grasp on the drumsticks caused his palms to ache. It couldn't wait. He needed the fix. Convincing himself that the contents of the little vial would help him on stage, he told his friends that he would be right out as he headed toward the restroom. Seated on the toilet, he pulled the precious glass container from his jeans and took a moment to study the white powdery stimulant inside. His last high wore off over an hour ago. This would help him. This would quell his nerves.

J.T. could just imagine his confident fingers dancing along the wooden sticks as he beat the drums under those colored lights accompanying Pirate on his keyboard, Diego strumming his guitar and Jaden's enchanting vocals. The crowd would go crazy. He grinned, pulling the rubber cap out with a faint pop. The girls would go crazy. Had to love those girls.

Finding a pack of matches in his back pocket, J.T. used the edge to make three even lines of cocaine on the sink. He was rolling up a twenty-dollar bill when the band manager knocked on the door. It was time for them to go.

"'Kay," J.T. replied in a loud voice, which carried through the locked door. "I'll be right out, Lucky. About to wash my hands." To sound convincing, the drummer flushed the toilet and then turned on the faucet. The tip of the bill in his nostril, J.T. hurriedly sniffed each line. Since a few crystals were left over, he touched his index finger to the running water and then ran it over the sink collecting those crystals. By the time he finished distributing the leftovers behind his bottom lip, his heart was racing.

Wanting to brush it off as nothing, he switched off the faucet and opened the door. Walking into the empty room he winced, clutching his chest due to the quickly escalating pressure. A crushing pain radiated from his chest, across his shoulder and down his left arm. Stumbling against the wall, J.T. fought to catch his breath but it was nowhere as easy as it had been five minutes ago. He wanted to call out for help, but he wasn't capable of speaking. He had dropped to his knees when Lucky reentered the dressing room to collect him.