The Trouble with Rock Stars: Jackson's Story (Access All Areas 3)

He went on with a lot of medical talk that I didn’t really follow. How is a man meant to understand all that? I just wanted the bottom line.

“So, when can I get out of this joint and get back on the road?”

“The road?”

“With my band. It’s our first night before we head out on tour. I don’t have time for this hospital malarkey, I need to get working.”

He didn’t meet my eyes. “You’re a guitarist?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. Oh.’

He pulled up a chair and sat down. That was when part of me died. The look on his face, said enough, he didn’t even need to talk. He explained what had happened, that my hand was pretty much useless.

“But I need that hand. I can’t play without it.” I shifted in bed, trying to intimidate him with my stare. I wanted answers and I wanted the right answers. None of this wishy-washy shit.

“We can operate. The surgery has a fifty percent chance of working. If it all goes okay and you do the rehabilitation.”

I didn’t hear the rest of what he said. The anger welled up in me. I got myself up and tried to get off the bed. A couple of orderlies ran in and held me back.

“I’m not having your fucking surgery,” I screamed at the doctor. “I need to play tonight. And every night for the next six months. I don’t have time for this shit.”

They sedated me then.

The next day, a couple of the guys came in. They postponed a few shows, they were getting a new guitarist. Just like that, I was replaced. Washed up and forgotten. They’d leave town and there’d be nothing for me. They couldn’t even look at me.

“I bet Fred’s happy about that.”

Blue stared out the window and said nothing. Pig shuffled in his seat. Then they made excuses and left. I never heard from them again. All those years of playing together. All those years of sacrifice and work. All gone in an instant. We’d been friends once but that friendship had been killed dead.

I’d had a burden of guilt so heavy, no man should carry it. Looking back now, I don’t even know why. Just that I’d always been the one to hold things together. When we swerved too far off the tracks, I was the one to swerve us back. Then the whole house of cards came falling down. The whole she-bang.

I wanted to kick and scream and punch walls in. I didn’t want to lay around in a hospital bed waiting for things to heal. I didn’t have the patience for that. I was an angry man.

I’d fucked it up. I’d fucked everything up. No wonder they hated me. One stupid mistake and they’d been screwed over, not as much as I’d screwed myself, though.

The doctor wanted to keep me in for observation. Not a chance. He tried to talk to me about the alternatives, I didn’t want to listen.

The next day, when the drugs wore off, I got out of bed and hunted around the room for my clothes. I could barely dress myself, not one-handed. I managed to get my jeans on by hooking my bung thumb through the belt loop. I could zip them up but that button was impossible. It’d do until I got out of there, though.

The nurse rushed in. She tried to stop me but I was determined. They can’t keep you in there against your will and, since the only thing they could give me was bed rest, I figured I could do that myself.

She took the splint off my hand and helped me put my t-shirt and jacket on. Without the splint, I could grip with my finger and thumb, it wasn’t as dire as it could be but it was as dire as hell.

The doctor tried to stop me but I’d fought him off even with one good arm. I guess I had the advantage. He didn’t want to injure me any further. I had no qualms about injuring him.

They shoved some papers at me and told me to sign them. I scrawled my name, then grabbed a taxi. I didn’t even stop off at home first, I headed straight for Trouble. I never even knew the place that well but it was close to the hospital and it had whiskey. I stopped in for a few drinks and I’d stayed for the next five years.

I’d carried that burden of guilt for those five years. I’d tried to hide it, to push it down. I’d distanced myself from those memories. They hurt like hell but it wasn’t like the band had been ruined. They’d just shed me like a snake sheds its skin.

What would happen if I did go through with it? I’d be no worse off than I was now. All it’d cost was money and time, they were things I could spare.

At the back of my mind was a voice saying I wanted to fight. That instinct that had died within me was coming back to life. If I did this, I might think I was worthy of that woman’s love. Because she believed in me. Not many people did but her eyes shone with belief. I wanted to live up to the man she thought I was.

Maybe I’d left my run too late. I had no idea. When they’d told me the options at the beginning, I hadn’t listened. I’d go back now though, my tail between my legs, and see what they had to offer. It didn’t even matter if I couldn’t play guitar again. Just to have the functionality back in my hand.

When I’d walked Gina home, I’d wanted to grab her hand and hold it in mine. Just hold her hand, nothing else. To feel the warmth of her skin. But she walked on my left side. Fuck it all, I couldn’t even grab that beautiful woman’s hand. Of course, she hadn’t realized, and we’d both had a fair bit to drink by then. The thought wouldn’t have even entered her head. But how can you tell someone to move to your other side because you are too dysfunctional to even hold their bloody hand?