A Year Of Living Stupidly

11. Ghosts

I'm twenty-nine years old and it hits me.

I'm fucking twenty-nine and I don't rule the world. I did everything I was supposed to do, but it just didn't happen. I can't make excuses. If I were undeniable, twenty-nine wouldn't matter. They'd make an exception. But I'm not exceptional. I always thought I was. But I'm borderline and on the wrong side of the border. I gave it my best shot. So what? It's meaningless if your best falls short. All the people I've let down—Everyone who wasted years backing this wrong horse. How do I apologize for squandering their faith? In less than a year I will turn thirty, the way milk turns after it passes its expiration date. There is nothing I can do about it. I will expire.

Until she can find something permanent, Threeb has moved into her Conniving Friend's one-bedroom apartment in Hollywood. Most likely the infamous three-way took place there. Get out of my brain, Images. I'm still in our place near Century City. I should move. This was 'our' place. Every inch triggers a depressing thought.

...

"Why didn't you move?" She asks.

"I don't know. Maybe I thought our separation was temporary and I should hold onto it."

...

It's suddenly important I never be the subject of conversation between Threeb and the Older Guy. I don't want him to know a single thing about me. Every word that leaves her mouth and reaches his ear robs a piece of my soul. It's not just him. I don't want anybody talking about me, or even looking at me. When one of those tourist buses passes me on the street, I turn away. That's ridiculous. Tourists are not looking at me. But still, I hide.

Television can blind me for a few hours. Jesus Christ. The first channel I land on, I see Ex-Partner impaling a vampire. I need to get out of here. Nobody's answering the phone. Fuck it, I'll go out by myself.

I make it to the scene of my last showcase. It's comforting to see people waiting to get in on a weeknight.

"Hey," I say to Beef, "Busy in there?"

"Wednesday," he says in his usual minimalist delivery. I stare at him. He stares at me. I can't help but notice the velvet rope not being raised to let me into the club. Are you fucking kidding me?

"Word's out on you, man." People I know approach. Beef lets them in without hesitation.

"Come, on-How long have we known each other?" I ask.

"Long time." He's not cracking. But we have known each other for a long time. "Tell you what," he offers, "You tell me my name and I'll lift the rope."

That's not fair.

It's a long way home from Hollywood, but once a walker. Besides, the night air feels good. Peaceful. Therapeutic. I may have reached anger.

I've always been so sure I'm in complete command of my destiny. But now, as I recall the choices I made about my life and career, things look different. I can see where I let others make choices for me. I've done it more than I'd like to think. The final song choice on our first record belonged mostly our booking agent. Our LA team encouraged us to hire a guitarist who would make our sound more 'modern.' Ex-Partner broke up the band twice. Threeb decided when our marriage was over. I've let all these people make choices for me, and it got me here. Well, if all their choices got me here, then all their choices were wrong. It's time I make a few choices for myself.

Beverly Hills. I can't be near all the restaurant crowds spilling out to the valet stations. I prefer the quiet of the storefronts closed for the night. Up ahead on Santa Monica, a neon sign on the side of the mall glows, "Paradise." Huh. Paradise is open for business but dead quiet. Perfect.