The Sound

Mae,

Yesterday was a really emotionally taxing day, and naturally, that has only carried on into today. I don’t think I ever would have thought he would be gone so soon, or perhaps ever. I was sort of hoping he would live forever. 

Like a lot of the quotes I have read so far about the passing of a loved musician, this kind of ache hurts something fierce. I am relating this to the true ending of childhood, when you have grown up on someone’s voice, someone’s music, and then all of a sudden they’re gone as you’re at the cusp of adulthood. There will be no more of their music to act as sanctuary or soundtracks to new memories or pastimes. So Abrupt. Shock. Heartache--never-ending heartache, it seems, because this death will always burn.

I am pouring out an enormous amount of love and light to Chris’ family and those close to him, those that hailed him, those that will miss him. Of course, I never knew him, but goodness, what a beautiful human being he proved to be.

Chapter 7 | Close Your Eyes

Once you make it passed Olympia, the drive to Aberdeen is nothing but a graveyard of trees and stacked lumber. We killed time, nibbling on honey sticks and cold sweet potato fries, obnoxiously humming along to Physical Graffiti.

The smell of fresh cut wood invaded our air. I loved it to death. Getting out of Seattle was good for the soul. It was good for me.

At the moment, the Emerald City was the place every unsigned band wanted to be. But they, and everyone else in the world, were given the impression that Seattle was a small city full of musicians in flannels and ripped jeans, welcomed with open arms by Kurt Cobain and a recording contract. In reality, it was one of the most yuppie cities in America. Young white professionals surrounded me with their Eddie Bauer-loving, coffee-addicted, work-slaved souls. Maybe the music scene wasn’t just underground knowledge anymore, but it wasn’t mainstream. Not there. My people were local gods, but my people were humble. Most of them.

At a gas station a few miles back, I cranked a few temporary tattoos from the quarter machines. As River drove, I sat barefoot in the passenger’s seat, trying to tattoo a butterfly on his thigh. I licked the pad of my thumb, gathering enough moisture to make it stick.

“Stop spitting on me,” he grumbled.

I swatted his hand away. “Let me live my life.”

“SHIT!” River slammed on the breaks.

I jerked up, a blur of brown fur caught my eye. There was a deer, we’d barely missed her. That brief panic set something off.

I took a deep breath, ruining the butterfly. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t try to kill us—”

“You’re so pretty, Jules,” River spoke over me, petting my hair. “So, so pretty.”

“Oh, shut up.” I poked at his stomach, watching him laugh to the point of tears.

“Okay, okay, stop!” He surrendered, grabbing the bag of cold fries from between my legs.

I spent my childhood going back and forth from Aberdeen to Olympia; Uncle Rich was a lumberman for most of my youth, but DeHaan men were known for mechanics. Naturals, they were. My uncle had one of the only good auto shops in Grays Harbor—DeHaan Brothers Auto: We’ll F*ckin’ Fix It.

Just outside of Aberdeen, nestled in a wooded cul-de-sac, dogs bayed. Then there was a house, and there were scattered parts of vehicles and tall stacks of lumber, and I unbuckled my seatbelt to get a better look.

Over River’s shoulder, I saw him standing on the porch, leaning against a wooden column. I watched him toss the butt of his cigarette into the grass and walk out to meet us. A trail of yapping mutts followed. I nearly jumped out of the slowing vehicle.

“Hey, Slim,” he greeted.

“Uncle Rich.” I cocked my head, dropping my bag. He wrapped me in his arms and I was home. There was nothing like that scent. It was the scent of my childhood, of smoked cedar chips, cigarettes, and black gold.

I pressed my hand to his cheek, memorizing his face again. Tall and thin, he was the product of a youth lived under a heavy sun—overly tanned, freckled leathery skin.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” He reared back with grinning gray eyes.

“I just missed you.” I smiled, dropping my hand.

The dogs yapped louder, and River brushed up against me.

“You taking care of our girl here, Rio?”

“Oh, it’s what I live for.” He broke into a huge grin, pulling him in for a hug. “Hey Rich.”

Uncle Rich threw his arms around us, as we shuffled up the steps and into the house, going on and on about the new construction the city was moving forward with in the area.

“Did you get your job back?” His eyes brightened, cutting right to the chase.

“Nope.” I bit down on my lip.

“Well, why not?”

“As much as I love fetching lattes for Microsoft suits, I don’t think I’ll miss it that much. I’m fine, I have enough money for a month or so.”

“And then what?” The inevitable question lingered.

“And then I’ll sell my soul to Jimmy Page.”

“Keep your soul,” River chimed. “Sell your body.”

“And then I’ll sell my body to Jimmy Page.” I nodded.

“Well…” Uncle Rich breathed out. “I’m sort of a ‘Whatever makes you happy’ kind of man.”

My old room was decorated for the patriot within—Americana this, Americana that. Crosses and random oil paintings adorned the paneled walls. I hated that room, it drove me insane, but at the same time I loved that room. My aunt had decorated it in 1980, and it hasn’t been changed since the day she left. So in this hell of a room, two twin beds rested on either side; one was mine, and the other belonged to my cousin. Uncle Rich’s daughter wasn’t around. She never was. She was off in Las Vegas or maybe Los Angeles this time. It changed every time he spoke with her. But she never stuck around for him and I did, which is part of the reason why I couldn’t stand her. She had the gene—DeHaan women were runners.

River threw our bags on the bed. “Rich is hungry. I told him we’d go get pizza. You want pizza?”

Walking through the living room, my eyes drifted over to the fireplace. There was a photo of my father on the mantel, a faded photo from the seventies that reminded me of what he looked like. He sat on his Harley wearing a black cut with the American flag patched near his heart. He was like Peter Fonda in Easy Rider, but his looks were like that of Robert Redford. He was an angel of the night, of some sort of hippie biker commune I only vaguely remember.

River and I drove into Aberdeen, headed to our favorite pizza joint: Mystic Pizza—not at all to be confused with the Julia Roberts’ film from 1988. Our Mystic Pizza was a Pacific Northwest landmark. Stephen King named it his favorite restaurant in the state. That was a big deal for a few weeks.

“Hey, Darcy.” River waved. The bell on the door rang, eighties music ensued, and I almost tripped over the lifting carpet.

“Hey, guys!”

“Hey, Darcy.” I smiled. Darcy Jericho was all brown-eyed softness; I’d known him since grade school. He was sweet, and his family owned this place.

“How’s the rockstar life?” I heard him ask River.

“I wouldn’t know. Can we get the usual? With a side of bread sticks. To go.”

“He meant to say please,” I added.

“Sure thing.” Darcy’s fingers reached for the pencil behind his ear, and he scribbled down our order. Behind him, an overwhelming amount of Jericho family photos covered the wall. Imprinted, I scanned them. His brother was in most all of them. Nathan was the oldest, he was different from Darcy, and he’d drowned in the Wishkah River when I was sixteen. I made a point not to stare too long.

“Excuse me.” Two teenage girls materialized beside us, one of them wore a Nirvana shirt. “Are you River Phoenix?”

“Yeah.” River pushed himself off the counter and put on a smile, absently running his fingers through his hair.

“Could we get your autograph?”

“Sure.”

I leaned over the counter, fidgeting with the tip jar. Darcy whistled a familiar tune in the kitchen.

“Would you mind if we got a picture, too?”

When Running Knees first started out, River wanted to move to DC. He wanted to go where people were involved with what was going on in the world. Keanu put his foot down, because he knew something great was going to happen in Seattle. He wanted to make history. He wanted that everlasting fame, and he was getting it, because their album was about to go platinum. And River would do almost anything for Keanu.

I remember when they were on tour with Pearl Jam, they had a concert in LA the same night as Mötley Crüe. After the show, we’d discovered the tour bus had been trashed, and in red spray paint, COCKSUCKERS was written along the side of the bus. “Fuckin’ macho hair band fuckwads,” Keanu’d laughed, throwing a rock through the back window of Mötley’s bus as it tore out of the parking lot. Eddie grabbed a can of paint, and for the remainder of the tour, they rode around on a bus that read WE ARE THE COCKSUCKERS. I think the guys of Mötley were afraid, I know they were. They were going to burn out, because they didn’t speak tolerance and progressive values like Eddie and River did. Their depth couldn’t reach far enough to shape humanity.

…

It was around dawn when I’d heard it. I opened my eyes and looked around. The dogs all slept on top of each other, snoring away in the middle of the room. But River was missing, and so I knew it was him. It was like going back in time, the music that I heard.

I padded quietly into the hall. Across the way, River played his unplugged electric in that tiny bathroom. I stepped closer, with one of the dogs at my feet, listening to the sound of those unamplified strings bounce off the tile. It was soft, tempting every other measure with small whispers. He was playing in time with the heavy breaths of sleeping dogs and the wind chimes outside. Fast and then slow—his Chromesthesia was heightened—his ears were sharp. He liked the echo.

The dog scratched on the door and River stopped.

River stuck his head out. “Sorry,” he whispered. “Did I wake you?”

I shook my head. “Rich is probably waiting for us. We should get some tea and head out soon.”

“Okay, but will you do me a favor first?” he whispered seriously.

“Yeah, what?”

“Brush your damn teeth. Your breath is killing me.”

I shoved him weakly. He shoved me back.

His grave was something I saw every year. On the twentieth of August, under a flame-colored sky, I stood beside my uncle at the Aberdeen Cemetery. I did this more so for him than myself. We’d go, we’d watch, we’d pray, and before we’d leave, my uncle would scoop out a chunk of fine cut Copenhagen chew, filling his lip as he left the full can upon his brother’s headstone. This was what was left of my family.

I could feel my father’s roots in me, but I couldn’t find a way to work him into any dreamt up version of my life. I couldn’t place him in too many memories. I’d been familiar with certain things; the roar of his motorcycle, the smell of his tobacco, his leather cuts, and shoe shine… And he had these eyes like a hawk. Vincent DeHaan was The Hawk.

I never spoke to his grave. Uncle Rich did. I understood the comfort behind that, in a sense, but that wasn’t me, and I never had anything to say, so that would never be me.

My father died sixteen years ago, this morning, at the break of dawn. 

…

The knees bow, the tongue confesses. The lord of lords, the king of kings… 

I walked beside the Mother Love Bone wall. I ran my fingertips along it, closing my eyes as the wind rushed against me. I was waiting. I was waiting for a flicker of a vision to hit me, to jolt me into the past. I just wanted a little slice of it—of Andy’s song.

“Settle down,” I whispered. I could drive myself crazy dwelling on others’ nostalgia. But sometimes that was the only thing that drove me.

I saw the way Jerry looked at River, like a little brother, someone he wanted to protect. Chris was the same way. He would stare at him, just concentrating on a ghost, a ghost he would later tell me was Andy’s. They were alike in that they were both pure light. So, I guess when I looked at a photo of Andy or I heard his voice, I felt gypped. I’d missed out on the privilege of knowing him. But that’s so selfish, because they didn’t have him anymore.

Music saves. The neon lit sign on the window of this nightclub reminded me so. My people save, and would save, and will save.

It wasn’t a far walk from here to Coryell Court, and as I stood in the elevator of my apartment building, the yellow light above me flickered when the guilty thought of leaving my only family behind to play house with all these Seattle beauties surfaced.

At the end of the hall, someone sat on the ground. They were sprawled out, their hand wrapped around the lip of a bottle disguised by a brown paper bag. As I neared my apartment door, I realized they were camped out in front of it.

“Eddie?” I stopped short of him.

He lifted his head and smiled, his blue eyes bright and washed.

“Hey.” He struggled to his feet.

I smiled, confused.

“What’s going on?” I looked around, but it was just the two of us. “How long have you been here?”

He rubbed the back of his hand against his forehead, still clutching that brown paper bag. “I saw you downtown a bit ago. You walked right by me…” He motioned over his shoulder.

“What’s your poison?” I gestured to the bag.

“Oh, fermented grapes. But I brought you some hot tea.” He smiled, grabbing a lidded cup from the ground.

I took the cup and smiled, still confused. “Why, thank you.”

“I thought I should get some writing done, and then I saw you and thought maybe you would want to get some done, too—”

“You’re carrying your typewriter around?” I looked to his feet.

“I’m a fancy fuck,” he mumbled, sipping from his bottle of wine.

I nodded, laughing. “Okay, come inside before someone takes advantage of you.”

“Ow,” he howled softly, smirking to himself.

Wino Eddie was a looser Eddie.

“Mr. President.” Eddie tipped his hat to a portrait of JFK, shuffling out of his shoes.

“How about a glass?” I motioned toward his wine.

“Oh, no thanks, I’m good… It looks nice in here. You finally got a couch… I was just thinking about something Stone said the other day…”

Eddie was walking around the apartment rambling. Rambling about everything and nothing at all, he wiped his eyes, tired but awake. I moseyed about the place, cleaning up my messes, listening and nodding, trying to keep up with his late night tangential thoughts. I should have been writing all of this down for him.

“Where’s this from?” Eddie held up a photo of him and River on stage somewhere.

It was my favorite photo of them two. I loved the shape of River’s hands on his guitar, of the ends of his hair curled around his face. Eddie’s hands wrapped around the microphone, his eyebrows sharp, I loved it all.

“That was the show in LA, everyone kept rushing the stage,” I reminded him 

I watched his mouth curve as he remembered. “Ah, the Mötley situation. That was a good show… You think I could keep this?”

“It’s yours,” I said.

His eyes lifted from the photograph. I think the softness of my answer must have done something for him, because his eyes were on mine, and then his lips twitched as if he’d decided against saying something to me, and so I just watched the stillness of his face in the shadows of my living room until I had to look away.

A moment later, he finally said, “Can we go up there?”

“Up where?” I followed his gaze to the ceiling.

“The roof,” he said, grabbing a flashlight from the top of the fridge.

Cold, fresh air, and a black sky enveloped us. Eddie outstretched his arms and took a deep breath. I looked to the sky.

“So tell me,” he said, as we sat down beside each other. “What’s in Aberdeen?”

I drew my knees to my chest, looking over to him. “My father’s grave.”

“Oh…” His face fell a bit. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, really.” I shrugged.

“Do you look like him?” he wondered.

Caught off guard, I took a moment before answering, “I don’t know.”

Remembering something, I reached into my jacket, pulling a photo from my pocket. Eddie moved closer and flashed the light on over it.

“What was his name?”

“Vincent.”

He nodded as if he understood. “He looked like a badass.”

“I think he was.” I almost smiled.

Eddie reached into his wallet, pulling out an old photo of another man. He sort of smiled when he saw it in the light. We held those photos of our fathers together, pointing out dimples and cheekbones, lips and noses.

“You look just like him!” I exclaimed, in awe. “Hair and everything.”

“You have his nose… look at that smile.” He pointed. “Look at your smile.”

“I can’t.” I laughed.

Eddie threw his hands up, smiling ridiculously toward the sky. His laugh was so infectious. His face was flushed, his cheeks dewy in the dark light. I grinned hard, succumbing to the infection.

I watched the laughter die on his lips, and he ran a hand through his hair before looking my way and saying, “I always forget you’re twenty-two.”

“Me too.” I took the flashlight from him, staring some more at his namesake.

“You have your whole life ahead of you,” he continued. 

“So do you.” I looked up from the photo, trying to read him, but his demeanor confused me.

“Mhmm.” He scratched his chin, staring off into the night.

I gave him a crazy look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Eddie was inherently grave, whether he knew it or not. He could take himself to some really dark places. He began to tell me this story about a night that took place when we got home from the tour. We’d all just found out about Stefanie Sargent’s death, and it hit him fiercely. He’d grabbed a bottle of wine and hid out in Discovery Park for the entire day. There were teenage girls singing their hearts out, he’d told me, singing “Black,” and he silenced them.

“I didn’t mean to take that away from them.” I heard him exhale miserably, and I couldn’t help but smile a bit.

“What?” he asked innocently, puzzled.

I shook my head, stuck in the moment, “You’re a different kind, Eddie Vedder.”

“The bad kind. Something bad, something abysmal,” he spoke, not at me, but into the night.

“No,” I replied, handing over the photo of his father.

“No?”

"No," I sighed, and looked to the sky. "I don’t think you’re a bad anything.” 

When I looked back to him, he seemed to be thinking too hard, and for a second I thought I’d said something wrong, so I reached my hand out and touched the turquoise around his neck instead. “You put it back on.”

“I keep meaning to give it back.” He reached for the chain.

“No.” I dropped my hand. “You keep it.”

With my stereo on, “Chloe Dancer/Crown of Thorns” played on repeat throughout the apartment. The windows were open, the lights were off, and Eddie and I had scattered lava lamps around us before we’d lain on the hardwood floor.

He’d told me stories about Chicago, about his family and what it was like growing up with so many brothers and sisters coming in and out of the house. His tone was so soothing, it was fascinating almost, I’d never known anyone who spoke like him. No one spoke like him.

“If you close your eyes,” he said, draping an arm over his face, “does it almost free the change?”

I opened my eyes and turned on my side. “What change?”

“The one that’s coming. Don’t you sense it?” he mumbled. “I know you’re more aware than you lead on. You’re a different kind, Jules DeHaan. A different kind.”

He spoke in his own language, and when he spoke, there was always a dim sound track under his words—the hum of warm shadows, the music of his being—recherché. He was cut from a different cloth. He was his own.

“I don’t know if I know what you mean,” I mumbled back, half asleep.

“Yes, you do.”

I listened as he drifted off near me. He has such a cool, calm soul, I kept thinking. I wanted to drown in it. I fell asleep shortly after, to the light hum of my neighbor’s television.

When I awoke the next morning, I was on the couch, covered in blankets galore. Eddie was gone. 

On the breakfast bar, a piece of paper with his typed words read: Thank you for staying up with me. Awfully embarrassed and sorry about anything stupid I might have said last night, Ed.

…

On this night, August 22nd, 1992, Layne Staley turned twenty-five years old. Tomorrow, my River beloved turned twenty-two, and so it was decided they’d both be celebrated on this cool Saturday night at Chris Cornell’s place.

“There’s blood on the moon tonight.” River pointed toward the sky.

I walked beside him, our boots upon the gravel walkway. I loved that sound. Many a vehicles were parked along the curb, up on the grass. The porch light flickered.

“Just barely,” I said, glancing up at the moon; blood touched its edge.

“Here, wear my tiger’s eye.” He reached into his jacket.

“Don’t be so serious,” I whispered. “Put that away.”

“Suit yourself.” He latched that choker around his neck and tossed his arm over my shoulder.

Walking into the house, marijuana smoke hazed lazily. It was packed, I hadn’t met half the faces here and I don’t think Susan or Chris had either. Everyone seemed to have brought a plus one, or five. Chris spotted us and ran across the room, knocking River on his ass.

“Happy Birthday, little man.” Chris straddled him, planting a wet kiss on his lips. “Somebody get this guy a drink!”

I laughed and looked up, locking eyes with the one and only Mark Lanegan. He was always mysterious, always brooding. He waved from across the room, in conversation with Jerry. I waved back. The two of them together was striking—the kind of strike that could demand a lot of attention. If they’d ever written a song together—just record together—it’d be so much bigger than the both of them. Jerry looked up at me and then away. He was in a weird mood today, and this morning when I met the guys downtown for breakfast, he didn’t really have anything to say to me, and when he did, it was out of pure patronizing boredom. He’d become the asshole everyone made him out to be.

Susan greeted us in the kitchen, and I stripped out of my flannel, tying it around my waist. Someone greeted River; it had me doing a double take. Standing over the stove, this blond rocker was cooking up something delicious. He wore a shredded tank top, tiny metal skulls adorned his belt—a heavy hitter—he had me dreaming up dying roses. He turned to us all, buzzed and excited. Duff McKagan.

The moment I met him, I fell in love. Like… fuck, you have to walk away it’s too good.

In one of the back rooms, a bunch of the guys were playing music. I stood in the doorway, watching them smoke Swisher Sweets amongst the madness. McCready stood in a corner, swaying back and forth as he played. His fingers were bleeding, but he looked unfazed. Out on the road, he was constantly biting his cuticles raw. I thought it was just out of habit, and partially it was. But one night, over a box of discount donuts and Mello Yello, he’d told us he’d missed that feeling of first learning how to play. His fingers had become so callused, so numb to the feel. Biting them raw ensured that pain, and more blood. “Reminds me I’m still alive,” he’d said. I’d written that down. I wanted to remember that, because it’d moved me.

“Anyone have any meth?” Some guy yelled over my head.

“Oh,” I whispered to myself, shocked for the briefest moment. Knocked off kilter, I took a step to the side, staring at this freckled redhead.

“You can’t do that here. Susan will have Chris’ balls.” McCready continued swaying, never breaking focus.

“So, no meth?”

“No.”

“Was that a no?” Redhead cupped his ear, yelling over the music.

“Look, no one has any meth. Who are you? Whatever, man, we’re trying to jam. Get out.” Stone pointed to the door, irked. 

I slithered out quickly, shutting the door behind me.

In River’s favorite leather dress, I twirled around in the empty darkness of that hallway. Axl Rose’s voice poured from the speakers, I capsized into it. “Where do we go? Where do we go now?” The way Slash played was enough to blow all rationale straight to hell. I cursed under my breath when the song ended.

“Where are those peaches? Has anyone seen a crate—just a crate of fresh peaches? Anyone?” Chris spoke with his hands, commanding the room.

“What for?” Sean stumbled up behind me.

“For River,” Chris huffed out, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“Wasn’t that name of a stripper you fucked? Peaches.” Jerry laughed into his hundredth beer.

“Me?” Sean pointed to himself.

“No, Jules,” he retorted, and then yelled, “Peaches Galore!”

“Pussy galore from Peaches Galore!” Sean remembered.

“You guys are fucked, her name was Clementine,” Mike said, passing through.

Demri was tiny. She was smiley with big eyes, and threw herself on everyone—but in an innocent way. I was never that free. And she talked a lot. Jerry could only stand being around her for so long. We’d never really had much of a conversation until this night. I was sitting on Chris’ black leather couch with Tyler when she sat beside me and began rambling about something Keanu and Layne were doing in the other room. I couldn’t quite hear her, but I know Jeff was walking around with my polaroid camera and snapped a photo of us. So this photo exists somewhere, probably packed away in someone’s basement or garage… but her hands are on my face and my hands are on her shoulders, and we’re smiling at each other. God, the expression she made was just beautiful. I would never see that photo again.

Slash plugged in his guitar, and a heavy birthday melody fell from Eddie’s lips. Jeff got real close to the cake, snapping photos of it. Keanu grew impatient and snatched the camera away. “You can have this back after you eat, Jeffy.”

“Jules DeHaan.”

“Michael Starr.” I turned on my heel, caught in a crowd.

“Ooh.” He cringed. “My mother calls me Michael.”

I smiled, momentarily distracted by his long locks.

“Come dance with me.” His pretty pouty mouth worked its way into his signature smirk. His dark eyes dazzled, and I saw the appeal. I truly did.

“I don’t really dance.” I winced at the idea.

“Oh, come on.” He grabbed at my fingers, but I shook my head.

“No, seriously. I’m really bad.” I laughed it off, pulling my hand away.

He grinned. “Come on, Jules.”

“I’m fine, Mike.” I went to turn away, but bodies crowded my exit.

He reached for me again, circling my waist with his arm. “Loosen up a bit,” he whispered. His breath slid across my ear, his voice stirring something dark.

I lowered my eyes and looked away. Sudden claustrophobia crept in.

“Hey, hey, hey…” Keanu playfully wrapped an arm around Mike’s neck. He shot me an unreadable glance.

“Come on, I need another drink,” he said, grabbing the beer from Mike’s hand, dragging him away.

I stared at the back of Mike’s head, watching him disappear around a corner. I felt the anxiety churning my thoughts. I snatched my flannel, tossing it on before heading out the front door.

I dropped down on the porch steps, forcing down the bile that was my incessant anxiety, my peaking panic. I was due for another round of attacks, I could feel them creeping in. Reaching into my shirt, I pulled out my spare cigarette and held it between my lips.

Boots kicked at the gravel, and over strode that heavy hitter. He slipped the butt of his cigarette into his pocket and smiled for a beat before stopping short of me. I stared at his boots.

“You stalking me?” he asked, digging his hands into his pockets.

“What?” I breathed fast, blinking up at his face.

“I knew it.”

“Was that supposed to be funny?” I blinked.

“Depends… You got a sense of humor?”

“Depends.” I held my breath for a moment, trying not to look as uneasy as I felt. “You funny?”

He laughed with his chest and crouched down in front of me. “You have excellent control of your breathing, by the way.”

Duff pulled a new cigarette from behind his ear, slipping it between his lips. He moved closer and, with effortless speed, lit us both up. I inhaled deeply, and let the smoke escape through my lips.

“I’m not that skilled when I feel an attack coming on,” he muttered. “We haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Panic, nice to meet you.” He outstretched his free hand.

“Anxiety,” I laughed humorlessly, shaking his hand.

“So what triggered it?” he wondered, squinting as he took a long drag.

“I don’t know.”

“Yep.” He inhaled. “That’ll do it.” He sat beside me, watching me breathe for a few moments.

Guns N’ Roses were on tour with Metallica, a tour Kurt Cobain refused to open for. But it was on hold at the moment, something about James Hetfield injuring himself in Canada, so Duff and Slash popped in for the weekend. I watched him pick at his chipped nail polish, inhaling and exhaling fumes with shaky hands. He sighed, shooting me a sidelong smile that I’m sure put a stupid smile on my face.

“I actually can’t stand the thought of being a smoker,” he began. “I hate the aftertaste.”

“I hate smelling it on my hands—”

“—But, you love the smell when someone else is smoking it, right?”

“Yeah.” I laughed, watching the cigarette die between my fingers.

“Yeaaaaah.” He smiled, his eyes alight with humor. “Yeah.”

We both jolted at the sound of a crash within the house, and laughed when we realized we weren’t that concerned to go see what it was.

“Have you had anything to drink tonight?”

“No,” I said, looking back to his face.

“Good.” He smiled to his feet, flicking nail polish remnants from his boots.

“Why?”

He shrugged. “I’m actually pretty sober right now, too…”

Which is rare, the silence seemed to say.

He plucked the dying cigarette from his mouth, putting it out on the bottom of his boot. When he glanced back to me, I shot him the same sidelong look he’d given me, but then his glance grew longer. He was studying me, the way I studied Layne sometimes…

“You’re making me nervous,” I whispered, blinking away and then back to him.

He leaned in slowly, parting his lips with a flirty half-smile. Goodness, I thought, staring at his mouth. Barely brushing his lips against mine, as if to give me time to back out, he closed his eyes and kissed me. I leaned into him, kissing him back. His lips tasted like Carmex lip balm. “Carmex: It Soothes. It Heals. It Protects.” When he deepened the kiss, all I saw was a bouquet of dying roses. But I thought he was mighty fine, mighty skilled, this Duff McKagan.

“Hey, you guys got any meth?”

Startled, I gasped lightly, pulling back.

Duff cleared his throat, sitting back before answering, “Nah, man.” He waved his hand airily, shooing that itching redhead away.

I clicked my tongue, trying not to laugh at this night.

“I’m getting married next month,” Duff blurted.

“Oh, my God.” I couldn’t hold it any longer. I slapped my hand over my mouth, laughing absurdly into the palm of my hand.

“I think.” He laughed at himself, thinking I was laughing with him. He licked his lips.

“You think you’re getting married?”

“No, I think I love her.”

“Points for thinking.”

“I mean, I like her most of the time… It’s a lot more complicated than I care for it to be. I probably just have that broken-home syndrome.”

My mind ran off for a moment, picturing a younger version of him. “So you’re going to marry her?” I recovered.

“Points for following through?” He furrowed his brow, looking around.

“Points.” I nodded.

“Oh, shit, Duff. What’s up?” Slash stumbled onto the porch, blood dripping from his hand.

“Nothin’ man, just, uh,”—he smiled in my direction—“striking out.”

“Ah.” Slash scratched his back, trailing blood along his shirt. No one asked.

Jerry poked his head out the door, sweaty and mischievous. “Duff! Come back in, we’re jamming in the back.”

“Okay, yeah.” Duff nodded quickly, looking back to me.

“He’s not coming, is he?” Jerry scratched his cheek, cocking his head.

“Nope.” Slash shook his head.

As if a light bulb had gone off in both their heads, Jerry and Slash’s eyes lit up. They grabbed Duff’s hands and feet, dragging him inside. Duff laughed and cursed. Escaping Slash’s grip, he held onto the doorframe for dear life.

“Pull his pants off!” Slash yelled.

“Fuck you!” he laughed.

I watched in amazement.

“I think I might love you?” Duff spoke, his bright eyes on me. “You think you might love me back?”

I smiled, watching him struggle. “What would your fiancée say?”

“She’ll understand,” he assured. I withheld a smile.

“Well…” I stood and shrugged.

“Oh, Jules, your nonchalance is so cool.”

“All right, all right.” I gave in. “I think maybe I could—”

“All right, I’ll take it.” He nodded, letting go.

And then the door slammed behind him, and I was left in the cold with the ring of deafening silence and moist lips. I watched my breath hang in the air.

“Cready! Creeeaaady…” his voice carried in the wind.

“River?”

He came from the darkness, running a hand through his dark gold locks. “There you are,” he spoke, wiping his mouth, “Have you seen Mike?”

“No,” I answered, trying to remember when I had. “Is everything okay?”

“Help me find him? He’s out of it right now.” He looked around, concern resonating from his face.

“Of course.”

River walked back around the house. I headed inside, squeezing through the crowded room. I whipped around when someone grabbed my shoulder.

She was a tall glass of water wrapped in fishnet. “Have you seen Jerry?”

I shrugged out of from under her touch. “No. Sorry.”

That’s when I caught sight of him leaving the bathroom. “Mike?” I called, but he didn’t hear me. He wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve, and I saw red.

Someone turned the stereo up louder, and I lost him momentarily in the crowd. He held his hand to his nose, catching blood. The smell of alcohol oozed from his pores.

I spun him around, shutting the bathroom door behind us.

“Do you get these a lot?” I grabbed tissue as he stood over the sink.

He nodded quickly and tilted his head back, blood running down his neck. I pulled the ponytail from my hair and tied his back.

“Thanks—” he paused abruptly.

“Mike?”

I watched him close his eyes and spin around, puking on the floor.

“Shit,” I whispered.

He crawled over to the toilet, puking violently into the bowl. My eyes burned. I grabbed the nearest towel, running it under cool water, and knelt down beside him. He looked miserable, but there wasn’t much else for me to do.

“Can you not tell Ed about that. He’ll just… I…”

I didn’t know what he meant just yet, but then there was a loud rap against the door and in walked Eddie.

“Eddie?” Mike mumbled before spitting into the bowl.

I stood to my feet and took a step back, suddenly feeling like I’d just walked in on something that was none of my business. Eddie stared at the blood and vomit before helping his friend. He put a hand under Mike’s armpit, helping him to his feet. Mike didn’t say a word after that.

“I’ll find somewhere for him to sleep it off.”

“I’ll—I’ll clean this up.” Near the toilet bowl was a small Ziploc bag of coke. It must have dropped out of Mike’s pocket.

Eddie made a face of what I thought was embarrassment or disgust. Mike made a noise and he finally nodded. “I owe you.” 

I couldn’t remember the last time I had to clean up someone else’s puke. And I’m a strange admirer of blood, but there was nothing poetic about this crime scene. I shoved the Ziploc bag into my boot and locked the door, spinning for this night to be over with.

…

In the pocket of River’s corduroy jacket was my gift for Layne. I grabbed the leather bound journal and wrapped that crystal choker around it, sticking it into the pocket of Layne’s jacket. He’d find it later. On the inside bind of that leather journal, I’d written the words he’d said to me one night when he was sober and feeling lyrical, words he’d asked me to remember for him: God is the voice that says, “I am not here.”

The party was only beginning to die down at that point, but I’d been there long enough, my energy was drained they were all fucking vampires. I wrestled into my flannel and found Tyler playing pool with Barett Martin and Jack Endino.

“I’m gonna go home.” I motioned toward the door. “I’m gonna go.”

“Yeah?” His baby blues were bloodshot. “I’ll take you.”

“No, you stay here. I’m just tired. I have to go see Cameron in the morning. Tell River. I can’t find him.”

“Okay. Here,” he reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys. “Take my truck.”

“I’ll take her,” Eric said. “I’m headed that way anyway.”

“Thanks.”

"No problem."

“Jules!” Layne caught me squeezing out the front door. He followed us out and said, “You leaving already?”

“Yeah, I’m taking off. I’m a working woman now.” 

He laughed, sprawling his hand across his throat. “Thanks for coming.”

“Happy Birthday, Layne. Don’t get too crazy.”

“I never do.” He smiled coyly, his blond hair and lashes illumined by the porch light. 

I smiled, admiring his face, thinking about how much he looked like an angel right then and there; a dark angel. “Goodnight.” 

“Night, Jules. You guys drive safe.” He pulled a hand from his pocket, waving goodbye as we pulled out of the driveway.

The Rolling Stones played on the radio, “It’s just a shot away. It’s just a shot away.” Eric pulled onto the dark back roads of the city and the trees enveloped us.

It was a silent ride between us, and I rested my head against the window until he rolled his down and said, “It smells like it’s gonna rain soon.”

“My place gets so hot,” I thought aloud, staring at the bloody moon.

“Oh, are you on the top floor?”

“Yeah. It’s killer.” I tapped my fingers against the armrest, too tired to maintain conversation. We didn’t really have much in common anyway. I don’t want to say he didn’t fit in, because I don’t think any of us really fit in, but Keanu had made it sort of clear that Eric was only part of the band because he was a great drummer.

“Do you like it there? Is it safe?” He looked in my direction.

I opened my mouth to answer, but the car jerked at the impact—we’d hit something in the middle of the road. I felt the dread fill my chest, the panic rising.

“What was that? Eric?” I sucked in a quick breath. “Eric!”

He peeled his eyes away from the road and jumped out of the car. I sat stunned for a moment and then scrambled out after him. The rain poured down on us and Eric crouched down by the deer’s body.

I knelt down beside it, wishing I could do something. Eric stood to his feet.

“We have to take it somewhere. It needs help,” I yelled. My hand rested on the dying deer, its warm body in the middle of the road made my heart ache.

“Close your eyes.”

“What?” I looked up. Eric knelt down, and before I knew what was happening, the blade of his knife sliced into the back of the animal’s head. I fell back, slapping my hand over my mouth to mask the sharp cry.