Nondescript drabbling
He had considered the ridiculous cliche of elbows on the deck railing, head in hands staring out at the ocean but that meant standing and his body didn't want to be completely vertical right now. So he'd dragged the chaise into the corner where he now sat cross-legged on the section normally occupied by the outstretched lower appendages of the person whose head and shoulders were leaned against the backrest. Currently he was too distraught to think about relaxing and working on his tan. To his right on the flooring of the deck was a coffee mug, half full of dark brown liquid and to his left, a freshly opened pack of Marlboro Reds and a large ceramic ashtray.
He tried to pinpoint his emotions. It wasn't really stress nor could it be categorized as depression. He just felt lost. No longer was there a place in this town, on this coast...hell! In this whole fucking country where he fit. There was no one left to talk to. People he thought had been friends in the end turned out to be just more covert leaches and opportunists than the rest of the humans who would crowd around him night after night so they could walk away claiming to "know" him.
Celebrity was not what he had intended even from the beginning. He didn't want to be popular. He wanted the music to be out there and appreciated. But like every other snot-nosed twenty-something idealistic artist, the minute the first person asked for an autograph and a photo, idealism was instantly sucked away and replaced by ego. It was possibly the worst demon in the entertainment industry considering that most actors and musicians had been the outcasts whether it was as trouble makers or the nerdy drama and chorus kids. So to feel acceptance from a total stranger, especially one bearing any resemblance to the kinds of people who put them down in school, it was always bound to go to their heads.
But now here he was fifteen years later. A few gold and one platinum album hanging on the wall. He'd "done it all" from playing the most prominent venues, to being on all the right late-night talk shows. He'd played countless tours in Europe and Asia, married and divorced, drank enough to fill Lake Michigan and pickle his liver for two lifetimes not to mention every other manner of chemistry that he'd introduced into his system. He'd lived out of filthy twelve-year old Chevy vans that broke down every fifty miles and multi-million dollar tour buses with hot and cold running everything. He'd slept in flea-bag motels sharing twin beds with two other bandmates and five-star penthouses on the strip by himself on a bed the size of a football field. Still he felt empty, lost and alone. Lyrics had dried up, disappeared with his battered old notebook at the end of the last "van tour". He had a house full of guitars and keyboards but no melodies ran through his soul any more.
Yes, lost...that was what he felt. The Land of Idealism was some far off place that he couldn't remember the road back to. But he knew that finding it would be his only chance at survival. Oh, he'd been through rehab and now only drank wine and beer very occasionally and only to the point of a quiet buzz. So that part of his life had been "saved". He knew the cigarettes should have been given up too but he needed one vice. Sure they might eventually kill him but right now the cancer he was suffering from was the kind that was eating his spirit not his body.
By the time the sun had started to set, he'd made a decision. There was one hope, one person left who could help him reconnect, if he'd still speak to him. So after eating some Chinese take-out, he packed what clothes he could stuff in his favorite suitcase. He searched out and found the long forgotten, well-loved Ovation acoustic. It had been packed away minus strings to preserve the neck and bridge. He'd buy new ones once he was on the road. He loaded the cases into his Beemer. He set the alarm for six a.m. and tried to get a little bit of sleep. It was going to be a long drive.