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Without You
| Good [+1]Toggle ReplyLink» Screwhead replied on Sat Feb 14, 2004 @ 2:13pm |
 Coolness: 686310 | Here's something for all you happy people.
The story that November Rain (Guns 'n Roses) is based on. Without You By Del James Although he wanted to share the dance, Mayne could not bring himself to interrupt such beauty. Her well-toned body swayed childlike, peacefully, slowly moving to the rhythm. Her innocence was enchanting, her beauty breathtaking. Mayne knew she'd be angry at him for sneaking about, watching without letting her know, but the teenage voyeur inside his adult body encouraged him and didn't care about the consequences. Besides, this was for his eyes only. Her eyes sparkled, reminding him of the ocean, vast with beauty and mystery. A slight breeze danced through her lion's mane. A full-length see-through dress covered her shapely body and a light glaze of sweat made her glisten. She seemed too beautiful to be real. During this split second of visual euphoria, Mayne conceded that she was the only woman he ever truly loved. Her eyes flickered. She must have heard me, he thought as she turned toward him. He didn't want to ruin the beauty, only to enjoy it. Her thick lips smiled sympathetically. Then the song started growing in volume. A sharp twinge of panic shot through him when he realized which of his songs it was. Cold sweat seeped out of his pores and dread consumed him. His vision spiraled as reality distorted. Breathing became difficult, complicated. Desperation attacked and twisted every muscle in his thin body. Much worse than the pain was his fear. Unsuppressable anxiety swept through him as he started toward the stereo. Everything lost its natural texture; the walls, the floor, the air became surreal. The louder the music, the more difficult he found it to move. He had to remove the compact disc but his feet felt like large concrete blocks. He couldn't move fast enough. She already had the pistol's barrel against her temple. BLAMM! Mayne awoke covered in sweat, a mute shriek still lodged in his throat. The past six hours had been spent in a drug-and-alcohol-induced coma that he put over as sleep. Sleep was a rare commodity and was impossible to achieve without some assistance. It didn't matter whether he slept six hours or six minutes, the nightmare always managed to creep in. No sleeping pill or antidepressant could spare him. He had written the song and was forever damned by it. With unsteady hands, he wiped sweat from his brow and rubbed his fingers against the satin sheets. His silver and gold bracelets clinked together. Rolling onto his side, he stared at the digital alarm clock on top of the black night table that had a built -in refrigerator as its base. On top of the clock was a half-empty pack of Marlboros. He stared at the green digital numbers but they made no sense. It really didn't matter what time it was anyway, his time was other people's money. Next to the clock was something more important than cash or time. Slowly he sat up. Tortured eyes scanned the black marble tabletop, searching for any leftover precious brown powder. There were burned matches, bent cigarettes, and empty bindles, but no dope. It didn't matter. He could always have more delivered. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Mayne reached down and opened the night table's refrigerator door. Inside were several Budweiser's, baking soda, and a chilled bottle of Dom Perignon. He grabbed a cold can, killing half of it in one sip. He did this every morning. Instantly, his aching head began to feel better. Although he didn't want to admit it, the time had arrived to rejoin the living. He knew he had to be at the studio soon but didn't feel up to it. Besides, the recording of his latest album, Alone, had been finished over a month ago. The album was now in the final mixing stages. If Mayne liked what he heard, he'd approve it and the record would be released on schedule. If not, it would have to be remixed until he did approve. So then, what the fuck did they need him for? He procrastinated for as long as he possibly could before finally standing up. Much like his bedroom, the bathroom was a disaster area. Discarded clothes, creams, trash, cassettes, and towels dominated the view. Using radar to locate the bowl, he found the porcelain, fought off the urge to puke, and relieved himself. He reentered the bedroom, not really feeling human, more like a robot dressed in rented flesh. There was a dull pain in his abdomen that he'd grown accustomed to. It, like many other flaws in his health, could be attributed to his excessive life-style. Besides hi jewelry, Mayne only wore Jockey briefs. He stumbled over to his dresser, removed a pair of custom-tailored black leather pants, and changed. He found a dark purple silk kimono hanging in a walk in closet and put it on. In a dresser drawer was a gram vial of cocaine. Scooping with the long fingernail on his right pinkie, the tattered musician snorted eight blasts of rock 'n' roll aspirin. The kimono felt cool against his warm flesh. He wondered if he was feverish and concluded he probably was. He was always run down, as if with a perpetual fever. That is, of course, until he got his chip. He finished his beer, tossing the empty can in the general direction of a wastebasket that was already crammed with empties. Staring into a full-length mirror, the run-down recluse didn't recognize the reflection. Sure, the long blond hair and tattoos gave him away, but he looked so frail. Mayne looked like someone who was ready for hospital pajamas. His once attractive face was blue, taut, and expressionless. A scraggly beard covered his chin and his emerald eyes were no longer authentic gems, but rather costume jewelry. He needed a drink. For the past fourteen of his twenty-eight years, he'd spent the majority of his time inside a bottle. Teenage beer and wine parties turned to vodka and rum at nightclubs, which in turn evolved into straight whiskey. Exiting the bedroom, he said a silent prayer to his patron saint, Jim Beam, asking that there be some in the liquor cabinet. An illuminating golden glow surrounded the thick blackout curtains. A small war had gone down in the living room the previous evening. Full ashtrays, assorted liquor bottles, empty and half-empty packs of cigarettes, and beer cans were strewn everywhere. Several CD covers were caked in cocaine residue. Mayne tried remembering who had been partying there and couldn't. An empty pack of Kool cigarettes meant that one of his many dealers, Jamie Jazz had delivered something. It didn't take very long before he made the connection between the empty bindles in the bedroom and Jamie. Jamie (pronounced Jay-mee) was typical Hollywood trash who hand delivered coke, toke, crack, or smack to troubled celebrities, exploiting their vulnerabilities. Mayne searched for more clues as to who else had been over partying but came up blank. He slid behind the bar that was adjacent to the kitchen and opened a cabinet. There were several unopened bottles of assorted white liquors. A nervous surge shot through his small stomach. What if there was no whiskey? He shuffled the bottles around until he found the proper one. A sigh of relief escaped him as he twisted the cap off and made a mental note that he needed to restock. The whiskey's aroma was his equivalent of fresh brewed coffee. "Here's looking at you, love," Mayne said aloud, raising the bottle to his lips. Like every day, one sip led to another. After several sips, he started feeling right. He put the bottle on the counter and made it to the refrigerator. If he was lucky, he'd be drunk before the day started. He removed another Budweiser and went back into the messy living room. There was a dull hum inside his cranium. He couldn't differentiate whether it was cocaine-induced or the central air-conditioning. If only he could remember what day today was, then he'd know if a maid was scheduled to come by. She could bring booze. The musician sat on the couch, picked up the phone, and dialed 411. "Operator. What city, please?" "L.A." "Yes?" "What day is it? Mayne asked sincerely, lighting a Marlboro. "What?" "What day is it?" "Sir, I'm an operator." "Ma'am, you're Information and I asked you a question," Mayne corrected her. A snide laugh escaped him. After a silent moment, she answered his question. "It's Wednesday, sir." "Thanks," he said, and hung up. There would be no maid service today. This was not the way he wanted to start the day. He polished off the beer, finished his cigarette, and snorted more cocaine. After several confusing seconds, he remembered where he kept the large green garbage bags and began straightening up the mess. Moving around the large one-bedroom condominium, he picked up anything that wasn't bolted down and threw it out. Bottles and empty food containers stretched the garbage bag to a point where it threatened to rip open. After ten minutes of straightening up, the apartment began taking shape. Besides this condominium, he also owned one in Manhattan and another in Houston. He rarely frequented his Hollywood Hills mansion, or for that matter, his house in Maui. Both brought back too many memories of her. It was in the Hollywood Hills house where he and Elizabeth Aston had spent most of their quality time. As his thoughts began betraying him, thinking more about her, Mayne instinctively went to the bar and retrieved the whiskey bottle. He could think of her as long as he had a safety net. With all the money, fame, and success he had attained, it was the simple things like friendship and love that were the hardest to keep. He never meant to hurt anyone, especially those closest to him, but for some reason that's who he usually hurt the worst. He never set out to be malicious, but by living under a microscope with the world scrutinizing him, any wrongdoing, public or private, tended to blow up in his face and often wound up as Nightly News. Personal flaws and fuck-ups are not allowed of the elite. He often suffered silently, trapped by his own fame, until he needed out of his cage. But the cage was as wide as his eyes could perceive. All Mayne had ever tried to be, right or wrong, was himself. With all the doctors, specialists, therapists, fans, and everyone in his organization trying to help him, he just sank further into his cocoon, alienating himself even more. He often wondered who he really was. Was he another regenerated social security number automatically inherited at birth or a genuine reflection of society? Was he a phenomenon or just a facade? Was he a product of his own imagination or just another brick? Would he ever understand his own destiny? Inside his mind, he analyzed why his relationship with Elizabeth had failed more times than were countable. Like the scholar he wasn't, he dissected situations, pondered things he should've said and shouldn't have been caught doing. When it came to sex, why couldn't Elizabeth understand that just because he occasionally strayed from their bedroom didn't mean he didn't love her? Sex was like role-playing. He never forced her to be monogamous but deep down he knew that if he found out she was fucking someone else it would have hurt. A lot! Even with that knowledge, he couldn't confine himself to only one woman. He wanted to have his cake and eat it too. He tried being open with her but concluded that certain things should've remained secret. Sex was an ego addiction similar to the one felt onstage. Different audiences, like different partners, were more challenging and made him work harder for the applause. Like drugs, he was addicted to the rush. Even with an empire at his disposal, money couldn't buy him love, nor happiness, nor peace of mind. Nor Elizabeth. Looking around the large living room, a very disenchanted artist absorbed the modern decor. None of these possessions except a few token items had ever meant anything to Mayne. None of this shit was real. He was surrounded by trophies of a game that had no meaning. And he was tired of playing games. A sharp pain in his left ear sent him back to the dark corridor that led from stage to dressing room. Inside his ringing head, speakers feeding back ignited and exploded. He was experiencing another rock 'n' roll side effect, ear damage. The dull hum lasted only seconds but the memories of his final show with his former band, Suicide Shift, would never fade. For reasons he couldn't remember, Elizabeth had been unable to attend the tour's final show. The band had been on the road for the better part of fourteen months, over 285 concerts. Every few weeks Mayne had flown her to whatever city he was performing in and she'd stay for a few nights. The final concert of any tour is an important night. It was Suicide Shift's first headlining tour and Mayne wanted to share the experience with her. It was the culmination of many miles traveled, many hours worked, and the celebration that went on afterward was well deserved. He called her several times to offer her plane tickets, trying to persuade her, but she couldn't make it. The gig was well over two hours of electric ferocity. Of course Mayne consumed plenty of drugs and alcohol before and during the show (he did every gig), but it was the Florida crowd's enthusiasm and knowing that he'd be able to sleep for a month that gave him extra spark. Every time he took a solo, he tried to best any previous soloing effort. Every time he approached his microphone to sing backups, his voice surged with whiskey vigor. For him, this was rock 'n' roll at its best. The 4,000-plus crowd acknowledged this with deafening applause. After the final encore, it was time to celebrate. Mayne wound up with two eager females in his hotel room. In the privacy of his bathroom he injected a little heroin. Not enough to make him nod out but enough to get him good and high. The two nubile females would only make him feel better. After struggling to get his wet brown suede pants off, he joined the nude women, and thus the revelry began. The dope clouded his not-so-good memory but Mayne remembered a very drunk Peter Terrance walking into the room. The band's drummer had mistaken Mayne's room for his own. In the spirit of celebration, Mayne offered him a girl. Terrance declined saying he'd find his own and left. The menage-a-trois continued. Shortly afterward there was a knock on the door. Thinking it was Terrance taking up the offer, Mayne called out, telling whoever was at the door to enter. Standing at the door with an overnight bag was Elizabeth. 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. Elizabeth left broken and hysterical. That was the beginning of the end for their relationship. Mayne snapped out of the past. His left knee popped loudly as he straightened his legs and headed for the phone. He pushed a button. Elizabeth'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 Mayne Mann Group, and several drug dealers. After receiving no answer at Elizabeth'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," Mayne 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 Mayne a favor and hung up. "Fuckin' prick," Mayne 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 Mayne 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 Mayne 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 songwriting 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 Elizabeth. Mayne 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 jewelry, 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 Suicide Shift sweatpants (that he'd gotten from Mayne) 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. Mayne 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, Mayne's 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. Elizabeth had challenged him intellectually while stimulating him sexually. She'd mothered him when he was sick, which was quite often. She'd set free inner feelings that he'd often tried avoiding. Her beauty, both inner and physical, was something he wanted; yet when she was his, he did everything conceivable to lose her. He turned to the second page. He had no idea how many times he'd masturbated to this photo. Every other day perhaps. It was just a snapshot he'd taken of her while on vacation in Las Vegas. In photo form, the wind blew her long hair away from her face and she was smiling. Behind her was the Caesar's Palace hotel where they'd spent the better part of two weeks in the penthouse suite. It was a typical tourist photo but it was her smile that turned him on. It was so free from pain. Mayne would do anything to have her smile for him like she had in the photograph. He'd do anything to have her lips, her body again. He unbuttoned his leather pants. Before beginning his self-stimulation, he pulled himself over to the night-table refrigerator and removed an unopened bottle of Dom Perignon champagne. The bottle opened with a loud pop and smoke billowed from the top, but no liquid spilled. Sipping deeply from the bottle, he flipped through the photo album that was all too short, carefully avoiding the final page. He rarely looked at the last page. As always, he wound up back on page two. With the bottle two-thirds empty, he pulled his pants and briefs down to his knees and poured the remaining champagne onto his palms. This was part of the ritual. Fine champagne was something he and Elizabe |
| Good [+1]Toggle ReplyLink» Lady replied on Sat Feb 14, 2004 @ 2:24pm |
 Coolness: 183250 | whoa |
| Good [+1]Toggle ReplyLink» neoform replied on Sat Feb 14, 2004 @ 2:24pm |
 Coolness: 340385 | too long. |
| Good [+1]Toggle ReplyLink» Screwhead replied on Sat Feb 14, 2004 @ 2:26pm |
| Coolness: 686310 | Just like my dick! |
| Good [+1]Toggle ReplyLink» Lady replied on Sat Feb 14, 2004 @ 2:27pm |
| Coolness: 183250 | pfft hahaha.. nice one |
| Good [+1]Toggle ReplyLink» ApR1zM replied on Sat Feb 14, 2004 @ 2:28pm |
 Coolness: 165520 | cuz it feel so empty without ME |
| Good [+1]Toggle ReplyLink» ApR1zM replied on Sat Feb 14, 2004 @ 2:31pm |
| Coolness: 165520 | hehe its funny cuz its not TRUE |
| Good [+1]Toggle ReplyLink» michaeldino replied on Sat Feb 14, 2004 @ 3:25pm |
 Coolness: 69695 | Everything falls apart?
It's not as much fun to pick up the pieces? |
Without You
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