NAMES

Copyright © 2017 Michael Ferrence

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

We have about 80 years. That’s it. I’m 34. I’ve had more than enough of the tedium. I’ve given all I have to a lost cause. I won’t do it anymore. I can’t. It’s an absolute waste of time. Half of every day is lost at a job I’ve never once enjoyed. Not for a minute. I was 17 and it made sense at the time. I didn’t even make the damn decision. I told my advisor I liked a sociology course I’d taken and walked out of her office 15 minutes later an elementary education major. It’s been about what I’d expected. I don’t regret it, I did what I thought was best with the information I had at the time. I was the first and last of my family- mom and dad, two brothers and two sisters- to graduate from college. I was proud of myself. I still am. And now I have a nice life. Things are good. I’m healthy. I live in a great city, close friends, decent pay, OK hours, but every second at work has always been spent dreaming of a way out. Again, no regrets, but if I don’t do this, knowing what I know, if I piss away the next 10 years like I squandered the last, if I misuse another year, or even another day, doing what I’m doing, I’ll deserve every bit of misery I experience in realizing I’ve thrown it all away.

I want to live.

I want to make the most out of life.

I’m a musician, a songwriter, not a teacher, not a principal.

Music. That’s what I enjoy completely, what excites me more than anything, what makes me feel like I’m spending my time exactly how it was meant to be spent. It’s always been this way, ever since I picked up a guitar as a kid. I think about music, music in general, but particularly my songs, all the time, everywhere. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do, it’s what I’m good at, and all my most cherished memories and beloved relationships have come about or blossomed in some meaningful way because of music. I’ve done a fair amount of traveling, but not nearly enough, and not under conditions like these. I want to be able to pick up my guitar and play whenever I want, write music every day, feel what it’s like to not only play for myself- to feel the enlivening vibration of the guitar on my chest and hear my voice fill a room, the pure elation of experiencing something beautiful made from thin air, a gift, what once was nothing more than an idea, a thought, a melody, a word, a chord, a note, a hum, an imprint, bringing that idea to life, giving it a name- but to play for others so that they can feel it too and make of it whatever they wish. I want to wake up and not know where I am, not because I’m hammered or fucked up or something, I don’t give a shit about that, I’m trying to extend my life for as long as possible and live it as completely as possible, not ruin it, I just mean that I want to do something different from what I’ve been told I should do, what I’ve told myself I should do, and what almost everyone else does just because that’s the way it’s always been. I’ve written hundreds of great rock songs, very few people have ever heard them, but the last twelve I’ve written are the best I’ve ever done so I’m taking them on the road.

I’ve resigned from my position as principal at Merion Elementary School, and have withdrawn my entire retirement benefit, $62,288 after taxes, and I’ll use it to stay afloat as long as possible. I have a house and a mortgage that I’ll keep, but no other debt. One way or the other I need something to come back to.

I’ve been in bands since I was a kid and none of them went anywhere. I’ve been in the same band, The Blooms, since I was 22. We developed a small following early on, mostly on campus at Temple, but it didn’t last. We graduated, got day jobs, and that was about it. For the last 6 years we’ve been playing every Thursday night in my buddy Al’s disgusting basement.

I kept it as simple as possible and recorded all 12 songs in my living room studio. The entire process took less than a month. I had two mikes- an SM57 and a Neumann condenser- and for every song I recorded guitar and vocals simultaneously, no overdubs. I used a Martin acoustic on 7 tracks and a Telecaster on the rest. My friend Al and I produced it, and the final product is phenomenal, dynamic as hell and as memorable and fun as anything I’ve heard, I couldn’t be happier. I called it NAMES, pressed 500 records with unique art for each album cover, and also made it available on all major streaming services. I spent a few days reaching out to various media outlets- online newsmagazines, music blogs, radio stations, local and national papers- as well as former colleagues, record labels, and talent agencies, pitching NAMES as Buddy Holly meets The Ramones out in the woods, but not one person replied so I said fuck it. I’m not going to wait around for someone I don’t even know to approve of me, or my music, while I could be out there actually playing for people dying to find something they love.

Another friend, Will, knows a guy who knows a guy who owns a great bar, Joanie Brenda’s, that puts on shows in Philly so I got in touch with him, booked my first solo show, quite incredibly, as an opener for Sean Lennon, son of THE John Lennon, the freaking Beatle, and asked him for contacts in other cities. From there, in under a week, I was able to put together a 12-city tour, playing mostly bars and small clubs across the country, legit music venues, cool places known for putting on excellent shows with both local and national acts, so I wouldn’t just be playing shitholes with nobody in the audience. I was opening sold out shows. People would hear me. I had hoped to book 20–30 shows before heading out, but figured I could schedule more along the way, keep it going as long as possible, and go from there, take it as far as I could. I’m convinced the only way this won’t work is if I stop trying.

Philadelphia, Boston, New York City, D.C., Cleveland, Detroit, Chicago, Nashville, New Orleans, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Portland. I play 12 shows in 12 cities in just over a month, and hopefully more after that.

I woke up early, worked out, went for a run through Fairmount Park, out over Strawberry Mansion Bridge and Belmont Plateau, and down West River Drive, came home, had a half glass of chocolate milk and a 2-egg omelet with spinach, showered, got dressed, had Greek yogurt with blackberries, and packed. I filled a small suitcase with 3 pair of jeans, 4 t-shirts, 6 pair of socks, 3 button-up shirts, 5 pair of underwear, a belt, deodorant, a toothbrush, floss, and toothpaste, 4 guitar picks, a pack of strings, a tuner, a capo, my computer and chargers, and running gear. I changed the strings on my guitars, tuned them, played through a few songs, and piled everything near the front door. It was 11:27 a.m. Doors opened at 8, show was at 9, I was scheduled to start at 9:15, but had to be there by 5:30 to load in, sound check and all that. I packed my car and headed to the venue.

I sat at the bar and ordered a beer. I asked the bartender if it was too early to load in and she laughed and told me yes, it was, to hold tight for about 5 hours. I ordered a half dozen oysters and stared into my beer until they came. I texted my buddies to see if they wanted to meet up early. They said they’d let me know. A DJ started spinning records and a bunch of people poured in. A couple girls sat 3 seats down and we exchanged hellos. I had another beer and started to feel a bit buzzed already. I told myself I should take it slow, it was early, and I didn’t want to get tired or loaded. This is a big night, I thought, you don’t want to start off on a bad note, feeling like shit or playing sloppy or anything. I pushed the beer aside and ordered a water.

“Nothing like spending a beautiful afternoon in a dark barroom.” She said.

I laughed and told her there were far worse ways to spend the day.

She said her name was Maria and I told her mine was Jack.

Maria said she lived in the neighborhood, was grabbing brunch with friends, grew up in the suburbs, moved to Philly 5 years ago, and graduated from Wharton. She worked as a consultant- all kinds of businesses, large and small, lots of start-ups- in Philly and New York, but with a fair amount of travel around the country. She was as pretty as it gets, and seemed as friendly and nice as they come.

I said I grew up in Hazleton, an old coal mining town a few hours north of the city, right up the turnpike, that back when I was a kid was the perfect place to grow up. I was able to do whatever the hell I wanted, go anywhere, run around in the woods with friends, alone, didn’t matter, stay out all night when I was only 10 years old, free to explore and play and use my imagination without having to worry about a thing, but it’s sad, the place has since seen much better days. It’s gone to hell, I said. Drugs and crime and depression have torn it apart. It’s terrible. I told her I went to Penn State for a semester before transferring to Temple to be closer to my high school girlfriend who attended Drexel and broke things off a week into the semester. I immediately wished I wouldn’t have brought up an old girlfriend, jokingly told her that, and we laughed about how none of that stuff matters anymore anyway, even though, at the time, it seemed like nothing mattered more.

She attended an all-girl catholic school through 8th grade before convincing her parents to let her go to public high school through graduation, one of her greatest accomplishments, she joked.

She told me all about her family and friends, her upbringing, how she wanted to be a psychologist or a pediatrician, but at the last minute, one of the only times she followed a whim, chose business, and even mentioned some of her dreams: to travel the world a few times, to meet a great, handsome guy and stay together forever, to live in an amazing apartment in New York City, to have a winter home in southern California. At times her narrative became deliberate and alive, exaggerated- nostalgic- and I could tell how much it meant to her, how fortunate she felt to have had these experiences, this life. She took time to ask about my life, but made it a point to say she liked how I actually listened. “So many people just want to talk about themselves. It’s nice having it go both ways.”

I agreed.

“It’s wild what you’ll tell someone within minutes of meeting.”

We pretty much know everything there is to know about each other. I said.

“Not everything.” She said, pulling her long, light brown hair up into an unruly bun. “What do you do?”

I was a teacher for a few years, taught at about 10 different school throughout the city, in some of the worst neighborhoods in rundown buildings, with kids who, in most cases, are deprived of all the things you need to survive, all the things you and I have had, basic, fundamental needs, so they haven’t learned like we’ve learned, naturally in our environments, by doing and exploring and playing and…

“They aren’t read to as much. Aren’t eating well. So much poverty.”

They aren’t being loved and supported I said. And when you see it right in front of your face- a have and a have-not, a kid who’s been given everything they need and a kid who has nothing- the difference is striking, the gap is immense, it’s even more unsettling. It’s complicated and you can explain it anyway you want, but it comes down to parenting. These poor kids come to school so unbelievably unequipped to succeed, having so many learned behaviors that prevent them from being successful in schools. And as teachers, as educators, I was also a principal for the last few years, in the city and for a year in the burbs, our goal is to keep them safe while moving them along as quickly and as profoundly as possible with the limited time we have. It’s tough, I said.

“I can’t even imagine how hard it must be.”

Don’t even try. I said. You’ll regret it. It’s so sad. It’s criminal what these parents teach their kids. And the last thing I’ll say is it doesn’t have to be this way. And it’s not racial or anything, it’s behavioral. It’s parenting. It’s love and affection and kindness, just meet your kids’ most basic needs. Don’t fuck them up. Be a decent person. I grew up with very little money. Tons of kids do. It’s not about not having money. It’s about our behavior and how we treat one another, how we choose to act in every single situation. About being a good person and not just thinking about yourself all the time, but thinking about giving all you can to someone else so that eventually we’re all better off.

“Maybe these parents are giving all they can. Maybe they’re doing their best but it’s just nowhere near where it needs to be.”

You’re right. I agree. I said. You’re so right. But, please, I’m the one who’s trying to save the world here. Keep your eternal optimism and transformational ideas to yourself. I smiled and said I was kidding.

She laughed and took her hair down.

But seriously, and I’ll stop after this, I promise, every parent I’ve met over the years truly wants the best for their kid, they just don’t know what that is or how to give it to them. They’ve learned all the wrong things, and they’re passing it onto their kids. It’s cultural. It’s generational. It’s societal. But it’s criminal. It’s abuse. These kids never had a chance.

“Aren’t there exceptions to the rule? Don’t some of these kids make it and turn out alright?”

Yeah. But it needs to be THE RULE. The exception should be the ones that don’t make it and don’t turn out all right. But like everything else, it comes down to personal responsibility and doing the right thing. These kids and these families have all the support in the world, too, but it’s near impossible to overcome the damage that has been done. It’s a seemingly simple fix, but I get that it’s way more complicated. Either way, it’s really important, never-ending work. We have to radically rethink and reshape our idea of education and, more importantly parenting and just day-to-day behavior.

“It’s really sad. I feel so bad for these kids.”

OK. Well, I ruined the day. Sorry.

She laughed and put her hand on my shoulder, said I didn’t ruin anything, not to worry. “I’m having a good time. Better than I even expected.”

Hey, let’s lighten the mood a bit. I got carried away there and never got to tell you the cool part. Let’s try this again. Here. I lifted my drink.

We clanged glasses then sipped. She smiled, her head tilted slightly to the side, perhaps still hanging onto the heaviness of our past conversation, thinking of what to say next, daydreaming, trying to figure out what to make of me.

So… Slightly more upbeat subject matter, I’m done with education. I’m done with all that shit. I’m moving on. I resigned. I’m out.

“What? What do you mean? You sound like you love it. Like you’re so great at it. What are you going to do?”

Music. I told her my plan, said I was playing in a few hours, that it was the first night of my tour, that she should…

Her friend, Megan, interrupted and said they had to get going, they were meeting some friends back at her place.

OK. I said. Well, have fun.

“It was nice talking with you, Jack. Really nice meeting you.” She said, smiling. “You’re an interesting guy.”

A handsome, great guy? I said.

She smiled and said, good luck, put on her coat, and flipped her hair over the collar onto her back.

They split, and I squared up. I have to go for a walk, get some fresh air. I’m dozing off here. Gotta liven up a bit. Big show tonight. I said to the bartender as she reapplied several layers of purple lipstick.

“OK.” She said.

As I opened the door and walked out, Maria was rushing back in.

“Oh. Hey.” She laughed. “So, I know you have a concert tonight, but I was actually coming back to see if you want to come to Megan’s place and hang out? It’s like 2 blocks away and you said you have, like, 4 hours and nothing to do so… I know we just met and I never do this but…”

We walked 2 blocks down Girard and hung a left. Megan’s place, a narrow, 3-story, newly constructed, black-bricked home, was a few doors down on the west side of the street. A bunch of girls and a few guys were waiting outside.

Maria immediately introduced me and let everyone know I was playing at Joanie B’s in a few hours. I actually knew one of the guys from college. I tried striking up a conversation, but he seemed very unenthused so I walked away.

Maria asked me to play something, pointing to a beat up acoustic guitar leaning against the wall. “No pressure she said.”

I’d be into playing, I said, but I’m not sure anyone really gives a shit.

“Just play, rock star, you better get used to it.”

I held the guitar, tuned it, propped it on my knee, and began to sing. I played 4 songs before placing the guitar upright on a chair. Everyone clapped and yelled and cheered, Maria said it was awesome, and asked me to play more. I said if she wanted to hear more she’d have to come to the show.

A girl asked what my band’s name was, and I told her it was just me, not a full band, but I was going by NAMES. She thought that was a cool name and went on and on about how great it was that I quit my job to do something I loved, said she wished she could do that. I said she could. The guy from college said there was already a band with that name and I said that was possible, but they weren’t established so I didn’t give a shit. I did my research. It doesn’t matter much anyway. I can change the name if there’s ever a conflict. I just want to play.

I didn’t remember him being such a dick, I said to Maria.

“I don’t even know him. Loser. He’s just jealous.”

Oh, I thought he was your boyfriend. I smiled. I was openly criticizing him, hoping to make you see him in a different light. Maybe cause a break-up. I’m a rock god, I can’t let that dopey fuck get the girl.

“Nope. No boyfriend.”

Everyone sat around bullshitting and drinking. I had water. I enjoyed talking with Maria, and Megan was all right, but when they weren’t around I was bored out of my skull. If you’re not drinking, people who are drinking can be extremely annoying. Aside from Maria and I, everyone was smoking pot as well, and they just kept saying how fucked up they were getting and how stoned they were.

I should get going. Thanks for having me over. It was cool hanging out. I’m glad we met.

I walked back down to Girard and turned right, daydreaming, imagining what it would be like to play, for the first time in years, in just a few hours. Then on consecutive nights. Then to be away from home, exploring cities and neighborhoods and meeting all kinds of new people. The view of the city from Girard and Frankford was incredible, sort of a fish-eye lens, bubbly, wide-angled, flat in the foreground, sky high everywhere else. The sun was starting to set. It was still. It was quiet. I was ready. And it was just about time.

I walked to my car to get my guitars, and sat down. I’m done, I thought. I’m fucking done. It’s all behind me. I don’t have to go back. No more school. I’m out. It’s over. I smiled.

I quietly sang through a few songs, and eventually and quite unexpectedly, was overcome with emotion, with the purest hope and truest happiness, a towering sense of pride and purpose and relief and fearlessness. I didn’t tear up or anything, but I came close. I hadn’t cried in years, perhaps since my grandfather’s death almost 5 years earlier. I couldn’t keep it together after my grandmother told of how, the night before he died, as they celebrated their 65th wedding anniversary over a couple ice cream cones, he looked at her said, “Isn’t this the life?” It was the perfect ending. I was fortunate to not have had to deal with much sadness in my life, and to be able to bury or brush off or handle whatever had come my way. But this was far different. This was beautiful emotion. I didn’t want to shake this feeling off. I wanted it to sink in, to swell, and to stay with me forever. I’m done. I did it. I’m fucking out. I made it. I finally fucking escaped. And now, my voice, my music, all my thoughts and feelings and questions, all that I had poured into my songs, all that time, nearly my entire life thus far, one word at a time, one long series of notes strung together, all those melodies, the memories, dreams, and soon I wouldn’t be the only one listening and that’s what made it so special, that took it to another level, made my life as close to perfect as it had ever been. I was doing what I wanted to do, that’s what it’s all about. I would be heard. And not just be heard, not just talking for the sake of talking, my story would be told and it would go on, and at just the right time. It could not have come sooner, or later. This was it. This is the life. There is something uniquely exhilarating about letting go of everything, saying fuck you to convention, vehemently rejecting preconceived notions of what life should be like, what it should look like, how it should be lived. Knowing this is one thing, I’ve felt this way since I was a kid, but actually fucking doing something about it is rare, it’s almost unheard of, it’s goddamn brave, and the full realization of all of this hit me, this complete comprehension, this understanding, this awareness, sitting there, alone in my car, letting the moment settle in, attach, and overcome me, overflowing with the sound of joy.

I went back to Joanie B’s. The bartender from earlier was no longer around, replaced by a 40-something dude with a dense handlebar mustache, red and black flannel shirt, and slight lisp. I introduced myself and he said to head right up and talk to whoever was there, he thought it was Garrett, and he’d help me get situated. He offered me a drink, but I said no thanks.

Garrett took my guitars and showed me to the green room. He said he’d come get me for sound check in about 30 minutes, to help myself to drinks or food or whatever was there.

I texted the guys and asked if they were on their way and they were. I said I probably wouldn’t be able to hang out beforehand but would catch up afterwards. I typed but deleted asking whether anyone else was coming. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. I did push ups. I drank 3 bottles of water. I warmed up my vocals, something I’d never once done, and decided at that moment I wouldn’t do that again, didn’t feel right, didn’t want to stray from whatever routine I had. Didn’t want to take myself too seriously. I sat down and looked at my phone. It had been 35 minutes since Garrett said he’d come get me. I shoved my phone in my front pocket, put my head back, and tried to meditate, something else I’d never really before done. I counted my breaths. Imagined my lungs inflating and deflating. Pictured my heart beating, my spine glowing. I saw my brain, pulsing just beneath my frontal lobe, envisioning it resting there, behind my eyes, slightly out of reach, my mind. I couldn’t keep from wandering, from drifting from my breathing, losing focus from time to time. Each time I’d veer, I immediately tried to bring it back to my imagination, my breaths, my visions, my state. I’m not sure what I did, whether or not it could be considered meditation or what, but I liked it. It felt like I was on the cusp of something big, discovering and tapping into my subconscious, a place I’d never been. I’ve read a lot about this, of the creative gifts that come from unlocking unconscious thought, and though I’d just told myself not to get too far away from my routine, not to take myself too seriously, this was an exception I was eager to make.

“Jack. Hey man, you ready?”

With only 2 guitars and vocals, sound check was quick and easy. Garrett said I’d go on in 10 minutes, to wait backstage. I asked where Sean Lennon was and whether I’d have a chance to meet him and his band. Garrett said he had no fucking idea then burst into laughter and said he was joking and that Mr. Lennon was probably back there right now.

In the 5 minutes we talked, I got the impression that Sean Lennon was just a normal dude who loved playing music. I couldn’t believe how down-to-Earth he was. No pretense. No shtick. It didn’t matter he was the son of a rock legend, that he was a multi-millionaire with tons of fame, he was happy just to play on a small stage for 250 people on a Thursday night, at a bar in Philadelphia. It’s exactly how I felt. It legitimized how I’d felt for the last few years- the difference between someone who makes it playing music and someone who doesn’t isn’t music quality, it’s not that one is a born rocker and another isn’t, or that one has stage presence and the other doesn’t, that one is a great front man or better player or more technical or a better vocalist- it’s just that they didn’t give up before getting it out there. The difference is only that they’re being heard. And there are millions of reasons for that, but none of them really matter because it really isn’t about how good or bad the music is, people love all kinds of music. What I think is the worst music of all-time is beloved by millions, and the other way around, and you see this all the time everywhere. It’s not up to me to say what is good or great or total shit, people like what they like and that’s it. Punk rock isn’t as technical as progressive rock, few would argue that The Ramones are better technicians or instrumentalists than Rush, but they were both good enough to write songs and find a way for people to hear them. Some of what I consider to be the worst music ever is the most popular music out there right now, yet it doesn’t matter because there’s enough of everything to go around. Doesn’t matter what it sounds like, it just matters that it’s being heard. So fucking cool. This is yours, I thought. Go fucking nail it.

I went out there with tremendous confidence and blew the top off the place. I tore through 12 songs in 38 minutes and walked off leaving them wanting more.

I met up with my friends at the upstairs bar and had a few drinks. They all said I crushed it, that they were happy for me, and wished they could come with me. I said they could.

“Maybe next time.” Said Al.

“We can come out and see you at least one more time on tour. One of your weekend shows, maybe Chicago or something.” Will said.

“You’re gonna have a blast, man.” Said Victor, my older brother. “I’m jealous.”

Don’t be. I said. Who the hell knows how this is all gonna turn out?

“Jack. You were great.” Said Megan.

Thanks so much. Glad you liked it. It’s cool you came. Is Maria here?

Megan pointed to Maria, who was talking to a guy over in the corner.

The guys wanted me to find Sean Lennon and ask him if we could hang out after the show so I took a walk around looking for him. Garrett said he was pretty sure he’d already left. I ran downstairs to see if I could catch him. I checked outside and saw him walking up the street with his girlfriend and the drummer from his band. I started to run after him, and then stopped. Fuck it. I said. I’m not chasing after the guy. This is stupid. I went back inside and ran into Maria- she was coming down while I was heading back upstairs.

“You were awesome.” She said, clearly a little tipsy.

Thanks. Thanks for coming.

She held her finger in front of my face and bent it toward her. “Come here please.” She said. “I want to tell you a something… A secret.”

I leaned in. The sweet smell of booze and perfume hung in the small space between us.

“Closer please.”

I moved closer so that we were now touching.

“Come over please. To my place.”

I said goodbye to the guys and we said we’d talk soon. I took a few steps, then turned back and gave each of the guys a hug. I returned to Maria, who was waiting near the front door, just like she said.

We walked back to her place, just her and I. She told me about what she’d been up to since I’d left- they ordered food, she showered, did some work, and ate dinner. She went on and on about how much fun she had with me and how great the show was. “I’ll definitely come see you again.” She said. “Would you like that?”

Yeah, sure. I said.

“OK. If I’m traveling and I can make it to another one, I will. It would be so nice to see you, in another city somewhere, away from here.”

You can see me right now, too, you know? I said.

She smiled, held my hand for a second, moved it away quickly so that just our index fingers were touching, then grabbed both hands and kissed me. We kept on kissing, off and on, for several blocks. At one point we rolled over the hood of a car, fell against the side of a house, and blindly crossed the street, floating along as if we were the only ones around.

She took her shoes off on the corner, dropped her purse on the sidewalk, and tossed her jacket on the neighbor’s steps. She ran ahead to unlock the door, and I gathered her things.

Her shirt was off by the time we reached the stairs. Mine was off half way up them. I flung my shoes against the wall, hers ended up in the bathroom, our pants wrapped themselves around the banister at the end of the hallway on the second floor, and whatever was left formed a pile outside her bedroom door.

A live Waylon Jennings concert ended up on repeat. We fell asleep and it was on. We woke up a few hours later, had each other again- half asleep, half awake- and it was still playing, and when we got up for good at 8:30 it was still on.

I sat up and leaned against the headboard, she curled up next to me, finding a comfortable spot near my shoulder.

It’s crazy how the mind works, I said. I had this extremely detailed dream about something I know nothing about.

“It’s crazy how your mind works. That never happens to me.” She said, kissing my chest and then my neck, sliding her hand downward from my chin, over my throat, across my chest and stomach, and into my briefs.

We went out to get bagels and coffee and she made us breakfast, omelets and potatoes.

She said she had never done something like that before, “I don’t just meet guys and take them home like that.”

Well, I’m glad you decided to try something different for a change, I said.

“I hope I didn’t say anything stupid.”

What? No way. You didn’t. You were perfect. I had such a great time.

I thought about telling Maria that when we kissed I had the urge to blurt out I love you, that I’d never once experienced anything quite like it. I wondered if she felt it too. She must have. I never believed in love at first sight or soul mates but maybe, if there is such a thing, if true love is real, then it can only happen if both people feel the same way. Unrequited love is not love at all. If I feel this way, she feels the same.

We showered, got back into bed, and stayed there until dinner. With each passing second, every kiss, every time we touched, holding her close, every word, every glance, our subtle, spontaneously synchronous movements, everything fell into place. You can’t make this stuff up. You can’t explain it. You can’t predict it. And, I think, you can’t mistake it for anything other than what it is.

We ordered Indian, and sat on the sofa and ate. I said I had to leave soon. I want to get to Boston and get situated so I’m not scrambling around before the show. She said she’d miss me.

I don’t know what to think about all this. Maybe it’s too much too soon. Maybe subconsciously the elation and emotion associated with this tour is misinforming my judgment here, or making me think I’m feeling or seeing something that just isn’t there, or making me think it’s much more that it actually is. Or maybe not. Maybe everything is as it should be, everything is exactly as it seems. I don’t know. How can she say she’ll miss me? It’s nice to hear, I’m happy she said it, but she doesn’t even know me. We had a good time together, for a day, and I’m talking about true love? Soul mates? Forever? Is this what the realization or discovery of love does to you, this dizzying effect? I haven’t believed in love or forever since I was a kid, when I believed in everything. I’ve since changed, I’ve learned, and I’m happy with who I’ve become, how I think, so why now am I reverting back to my old ways? Or am I not reverting, am I lunging forward to something altogether new?

I’ve been a part of several failed relationships. I’m not against love or anything, I want to be with someone forever. I don’t want to be alone. I want to believe in love in its truest form, and to find it, and give it everything I have, hold on, and make it last. I know that my past relationships ended because they weren’t very good. Not that I was awful or any of the girls were, I think they were all really good people, we just weren’t a good fit, or the timing wasn’t right, or we were a good fit but we hadn’t yet learned how to coexist, or how to be in a relationship, or we didn’t do what was necessary to grow together. Each relationship, for the most part, in many ways, was better than the one before, but none had everything all at once. One felt right but one, or both of us, fucked up one too many times. Another lacked adoration, but we were friends and got along very well so, for a while, that overcame the fact that we probably never should have been together in the first place. One time nothing was right but we wanted it to be. Once, everything seemed right, but it was all wrong. Now that I’m thinking of it, maybe they all had one fundamental flaw, one insurmountable weakness: the absence of true love. Soul love. It takes a while to figure it out, to see a relationship for what it truly is. It can be very complicated, with many variables- too many to list or fully account for or control- but at this point I know what I want and I believe I know how to behave appropriately and unselfishly and romantically enough to make a good relationship last. One thing for certain is you need attraction and, if it exists- and I believe it does- you need love, you need trust, and each day you need to work to keep those things intact, to never lose sight of what brought you together in the first place, to always be kind and respectful even when emotion gets the best of you, to cherish and celebrate your finest moments and limit your lowest, to always work toward the best possible version of yourselves.

After dinner, Maria walked me to the door, kissed me softly on the cheek and then the lips, and I left.

Boston, Massachusetts

I made good time, got to Boston in just over 5 hours, and tried checking into the hotel right away. The guy at the front desk said since I hadn’t arrived earlier they assumed I wasn’t coming and gave my room to someone else. There were no rooms available until the morning. I gave him hell, but it didn’t help. He apologized and said he’d get me into the first available room in the morning, and that I could make myself at home in the lobby. He offered me complimentary food and beverages while I waited. Rather than have to carry all my stuff back to the car and find another room somewhere, I stayed. Fuck it, I said. I’ll just put all my shit over here, OK? Will you keep an eye on it?

I didn’t feel like eating or drinking, so I just sat there for a while. I texted Maria to let her know I arrived safely, but she didn’t reply, must have been sleeping.

I told the guy at the front desk I was going for a run, that I’d be back in about a half hour or so. I changed in the public restroom and put my gear behind the front desk. If they’re stolen, I said, I’m screwed. I’ll be so bummed. So pissed. I don’t want to have to buy new ones or borrow anyone else’s for the remainder of this tour. That would be the worst. Please watch them closely. They’re the only guitars I’ve ever owned, between the 2 of them I’ve written all my songs, and I don’t want to be without them.

I’d never run in the middle of the night before, but figured I wouldn’t have a chance in the morning. Once they found me a room, I planned on sleeping for at least 6 or 7 hours before getting up and heading to the venue. I liked freewheeling like this. An enormous part of my life had become so routinized, so mundane. Same actions at the same exact time, every-single-fucking-day. It gets old, so being able to break away from that, stay over a girls place mid-week, drive through the night, hang out in a hotel lobby, run in the middle of the night through a new town, was enlivening. I’d read a lot about the importance of keeping your brain and body guessing by doing all sorts of exciting, new, unexpected, healthful things, it keeps you young, keeps you sharp, makes sure your brain is still growing and firing and learning, the concept of neuroplasticity, our brain is malleable throughout our lives and into old age, not just rotting away after young adulthood. I want to stay young and healthy and cool for as long as possible, that’s not happening when almost everything in my day is already planned and when what’s in store is relatively unbearable. That doesn’t happen when I walk to work and see the same people doing the same things in the same places at the same time in the same way, bored as hell, or maybe it’s contentedness, but it wasn’t working for me. It never has. I need to be doing something I find worthwhile, fulfilling, creative, and uplifting. I’m not saying I don’t want to work or have a job or a home or nice things, I wouldn’t want to be homeless yet able to play music every day. I don’t want to trade quality of life for anything, but if we’re supposed to be working toward perfection, if my goal is to get better every day, to tremendously enjoy and appreciate every second I have, to move closer to self-actualization, to outreach my perceived potential, then something had to give. And already it’s working. I feel more alive, freer, than I have since I was a kid. And, by the way, these people I’d see every day, for years, they refused to talk. They’re so locked in, so content, so blissfully unaware of their surroundings, so focused on the day-to-day, perhaps so disinterested, maybe troubled, mentally ill, I don’t know for sure, but I’d think about it a lot since it happened so regularly, that they can’t, or won’t, even return a friendly gesture, a hello, a head nod, a smile. I’ve tried, and failed, thousands of times over the years to strike up a simple conversation, and rarely, if ever, got a reply. It’s almost unbelievable. That’s a problem. I know we all have stuff going on, and I’m not trying to be invasive or make friends with everyone, but if I’m walking down the street and I pass someone, and it’s just the two of us, I’m going to say hello. I’ve attributed that disinterest, that obliviousness, to extreme tedium, among other things. Personality type, experience, upbringing, time, place, stress, social media, it’s all connected, but much of it comes down to the daily grind, not picking your head up to look around and appreciate everything going on around you. I try not to overthink or get caught up in what everyone else is doing or thinking or should be doing or thinking because when it comes down to it, his or her behavior should have nothing to do with mine. What you do, how you perceive the world, what you’ve been through, has very little to do with me. We are each individually responsible for the life that we lead, how we behave from moment to moment, so although I would occasionally get caught up in the behavior and attitudes of others, something I believe is human nature, to observe, question, analyze, predict, ultimately I was always focused on what I wanted and what I needed to do to get it, to have the life that I wanted. My life had become so fucking boring, that’s what I was left with, thinking about what the hell was going on with people, and trying to find a way out. Maybe all those years of thinking were necessary steps in inching toward the realization that there is no finding a way out, you make the way out.

I ran 8 miles in 60 minutes. When I returned, I checked on my guitars, washed up in the bathroom, ate a complimentary bowl of Greek yogurt and an orange, sat on the sofa, and waited. It was 4 in the morning. What the fuck am I going to do? I said under my breath. I closed my eyes and drifted away for about 45 minutes, but couldn’t fall asleep. I did 50 push-ups, took a 1 minute break, did 35 more, took a 30 second break, did 22 more, took a 15 second break, and did 12 more. I ordered an omelet and a glass of chocolate milk. The front desk guy joked that I should stop partying so hard if I want to make it through the tour. I smiled and said he should just get me my milk before I start throwing chairs through windows.

I was scheduled to open for Jeff Tweedy at The Brighton at 8 p.m. At 6:30 a.m., along with what I assumed was his band and their wives or girlfriends, he checked in. I wasn’t going to say anything, but he walked right by so I introduced myself. We talked for a few minutes, he told me this was only the 3rd U.S. show on the tour, he’d been all over Europe, and was so glad to be back. He was doing small solo shows without a band, the guys he was with were actually just friends tagging along. I don’t know who the girls were and didn’t ask.

“I better get going, gotta get some rest. We’re tired as hell. Good meeting you. See ya tonight.” He said.

OK, I said. I’ll be over here on the couch with all my gear, all alone, if you need me.

They laughed and walked away.

I walked around the lobby for about an hour, after sitting around for 45 minutes staring at the ground, checked with the new front desk person, and was told a room wouldn’t be available until around noon, but they couldn’t say for sure.

This is ridiculous. I said. You guys gave my room away. I’ve been watching people check in and out for the last 5 hours. How is something not available? You’ve got to make this right.

She said they’ll do what they can, but unless someone checks-out from a room similar to the one I booked, they can’t just put me anywhere.

I said that’s bullshit, just give me whatever you have. I’ll pay the difference. Or you can, you’re the one who gave my room away. I’ve been sitting here patiently, checking in with you over and over again, you’re telling me it should be any minute, and now it might not be for another 6 hours? That’s not OK. I’m not trying to be a dick, but you gotta get me in there. I need some sleep. I have to get my shit put away. I’m going to get breakfast. When I come back, I’ll take whatever you have. Get a manager involved and fix this. This is outta control already. It’s ridiculous.

I dragged all my stuff behind the desk and went out for a bite to eat. I noticed a diner a few blocks away on my run, so I went there.

I’ll have two eggs over easy and some potatoes, hash browns or home fries or whatever, and some water please.

The place was jammed, almost always a good sign that a place is at least half decent. My eggs were fine, but the home fries weren’t any good. They were previously frozen, and had some kind of overbearing cumin and paprika seasoning.

“How was everything?”

Fine. I said.

As the waitress walked away, I added, the home fries are not good. Please take them away. Way too much seasoning on there.

She apologized, took them off my bill, and offered me a free orange.

She sat down beside me and asked where I was from.

Philadelphia. I’m on tour, I’m a nobody, but I’ve got kick ass songs and people have seemed interested, they’ve been into it. I’m in the midst of an actual, certifiable rock tour. This is supposed to be wild, late nights. Booze. Maybe a few girls. Maybe a little loud. A little rowdy. Right? Maybe not the entire time, but from time to time, but definitely to kick things off. I’ve only had one show so far, a few nights ago in Philly, but here I am in Boston, I’ve been eating breakfast food for the last 12 hours sitting around in a lobby, staring at my guitar cases. Honestly, it was fun for the first 11 hours. Now I’m tired, I smell like a hoagie, and I want to sleep and get up, and fucking play.

“Do you want to go in the back and fuck?”

…

“I’m fucking with you, man. I’m married.”

And you’re 60 years old, I said.

“Listen, if I was serious, you’d go back there and fuck me and you’d love it. And I’m not 60 you little shit. I’m 42.”

Do you have beer?

“No. I have pot. You want some?”

No. I don’t smoke pot. I’d like it for about 2 minutes then I’m stuck being high for hours. Haven’t touched it since college.

“I didn’t ask for your life story, baby. Listen, I have to get back to work. Unlike you, I can’t sit around all day waiting for something to happen. Go get some sleep, rock star.”

I went back and they had a room for me. It was almost noon. They even took my stuff up. It was waiting for me when I got in. I brushed my teeth, had a glass of water, and went to sleep.

Maria called me at quarter to 6, and I’m lucky she did. I never set my alarm. I was supposed to be at The Brighton by 6 to load in and sound check, get situated.

“I miss you.” She said. “I know it’s crazy, and I hope I’m not saying too much, too soon, but I’m just being honest. I do miss you. I’ve been thinking about you a lot. I had such a good time.”

She said a lot more, but I was rushing around and didn’t pay close attention to her, not at first anyway. I said uh-huh and yeah and OK a lot, I even said me too. I tried to make it seem like I was paying attention, that I agreed. I mean, I was happy she felt that way and that she was telling me. It sort of validated how I’d been feeling, that even if what I was feeling for her was different, or unusual, atypical for having just met someone, strange for someone like me, someone who thinks things through, tries to act based on facts and thoughtful decisions, not a feeling, but I couldn’t change how I felt, even if it wasn’t planned out. Soon, I sat down on the edge of the bed, and started listening. I responded thoughtfully and truthfully. I said I felt the same, that I’d missed her too, that I was having a blast, for the most part, but couldn’t help thinking how cool it would be if we were together. She said she’d come see me in New York if I wanted and I said OK, that would be great.

We talked for over a half hour, when I realized the time, and said I had to go. I’m sorry to end this abruptly, but I’m gonna be late. I already am. I’ll talk to you later, or tomorrow.

I got to The Brighton late, but nobody seemed to care.

“You have 2 guitars.” Said the sound guy. “You didn’t even have to show up early. You’re loaded in. Just go strum it a few times and I’ll get the levels. We’re good.”

Rather than wait in the green room, I sat at the bar and watched people pour in. Never before had I even imagined how exciting that would be. Not everyone was there to see me, maybe no one was, but they were there for a reason, to see some fucking music, to be entertained, and I was there to do just that. I was ready. I wasn’t sitting at a desk, copy and pasting blurbs into a document, or observing a teacher, or meeting with parents or lawyers, or giving the staff a pep talk, or professional development on Differentiation or Guided Reading or data-driven instruction, or going line-by-line over the budget, or sitting through a meeting with the superintendent, or any of that bullshit. I was minutes away from simply being myself, playing some god damn rock n’ roll, having a beer, and hanging out with all kinds of people from all over the world. That’s the life, right there. These realizations had happened so often of late, I had become distinctly aware of both how fortunate I was and how rare this was- to be able to make my dream a reality. To have no regrets. To crave more. To have nearly everything I’ve ever wanted in my possession, in my hands, in my mind, in my soul.

I changed the set list on the fly, varying slightly from what I’d originally intended and considerably from the Philly show, and executed the entire thing as close to flawlessly as possible, letting the momentum build from one song to the next, keeping the conversation to a minimum and the songs coming one after the next. I dropped my pick twice in one song, but didn’t miss a beat. I forgot the lyrics during an instrumental interlude, but they came back to me in time for the verse. I was even nervous, at times, overexcited, but I didn’t let it rattle me. I just kept going. This stuff takes time to work through. It takes time getting used to playing for people and moving on after a mistake, a missed chord, sharp note, a lack of energy, sloppiness, or a full-blown fuck up. I’d played so much over the years, here and there, I’d dropped thousands of picks, forgotten lyrics plenty of times, dropped my guitar, squealed my vocals, played drunk, played sloppy, every possible iteration of performance was in my mind, I’d been through it all, so now, when inevitably it happened, it was inconsequential, shaken off, no big deal. One thing I loved about playing music was the unpredictability of it- music is alive, ever-changing, dynamic- all of that shit will happen to anyone who plays. I think playing from a young age helps. When I first started, my friends and I weren’t very good. We could barely play. We tried. We could get by, but we weren’t impressive. We wrote catchy songs, but made a lot of mistakes. We were unrefined. We were wild. We did not give a shit about how we sounded. We just cared that we were playing. We had fun together, and that was more important, at the time, than sounding good or even playing properly. When you’re with friends and you’re playing for friends and you’re doing something cool and you’re making memories, you have a carefree attitude about it, you don’t take it to heart, don’t overthink anything, just play for the sake of playing, doing something you love without any predetermined purpose, no pressure, no expectation for failure, only confidence that you will soon be the most famous, beloved, greatest rock band of all time, then without effort, at your core, you establish the strongest foundation for success possible. You just fucking play and play and play as best you can, when you have it, you have it, the more experience the better. Slowly, over the course of 20 years, I accumulated tens of thousands of hours of playing time. It doesn’t matter where I played or for how many people, or if I played for anyone at all, I was getting better, incrementally, unconsciously preparing myself for when it mattered, and now that it finally does, I’m ready for anything. I keep it simple. I write. I practice. And I fucking play. Whatever happens along the way just adds to the experience. I am my harshest critic. I set the bar extremely high, I want to be great, I want to play as well as possible for me, so it sounds incredible to me, so I enjoy it as much as I’ve ever enjoyed listening to anything, and I want as many people as possible to hear it, and like it, and remember it, and tell all their friends, and to listen to it everywhere they go, to have the melodies stuck inside their minds, and to sing it all day long.

After the show I was approached by comedian Ozzy Alfonso, who was in town for a few nights, a set at the renowned Asylum Theatre, and filming something for Netflix.

“Great show, man. Never heard of you before, no offense, but that was good shit. Good for you. Keep it going.”

Thanks. I said. I’m gonna try.

“Don’t try. Just keep it going.” He smiled.

I’ll do my best.

“You want a shot?”

No thanks. I said. I’m good. You enjoy.

“Come on, man. Lighten up. Aren’t you a…”

Alright. Fine. Just one. That’s it.

“I travel all over the place and meet all kinds of people, most of them actually half decent humans, and anytime I meet someone like you, who appears to have some real talent, but is just breaking into the industry in a real way…”

I’m not so sure I’ve broken into anything yet.

“Yeah. But you have. You’re out on the road playing. You’re doing it. So, anytime I meet someone like you, who’s clearly talented, and I’m assuming this is your dream, because why else would you be doing this in your mid-30s? I always ask: Why didn’t you give up?”

I love it. It’s been my dream. It’s all I want to do. All I’ve ever done. It’s what I enjoy the most. All of that stuff. I’ve never liked anything else as much. I couldn’t give up. It never once crossed my mind. I knew I’d always play music.

“Yeah, you’d always play music, but you wouldn’t always play music in front of people, right? So, for years, I’m assuming you just played for small crowds at dive bars or parties or all alone in your basement.”

It was my buddy’s basement, but yeah, you’re right on so far.

“Exactly. This is a near universal pattern. I see if everywhere. And I always ask: Why didn’t you give up?”

I already said. I couldn’t.

“But you could have. You could have given up a million times over and over again, but you didn’t. Why?”

Well, can I ask, why didn’t you? I’ve seen some of your stand up, watched your show a few times, I’ve seen you on talk shows, and I’ve enjoyed it. Really good stuff. So funny. But you’ve only recently gotten very popular, right?

“Yes. I’ve gained more fans in recent years. I’ve had more success.”

So, what made you keep going when you were playing small clubs or not making money or whatever? Same question applies. And I’m sure as your asking this as you travel around the country, you’ve been asked before. But why did you stick with it?

“Ostensibly I think about it all the time. This is a hard job. Tons of rejection, not just day to day with trying to get shows or pitching ideas and auditions and all that shit, but from joke to joke. You have to have thick skin, or, I guess, you have to fear failure or…”

I guess I just didn’t like what I was doing and wanted to make the most of the my time.

“There’s more to it, man.” He said. “Another shot?”

No thanks. I’m good.

“Two more shots, please. Whisky. Whatever that shit you gave us before was fine.”

“I stuck with it and I’ll continue to stick with it because I’m a moron who is afraid to fail and I think, hell I’ve been doing this for 30 years now, 20 of the years I was essentially anonymous, only recently do I feel like I’ve gotten any good at it, and, quite frankly this is a very lonely job, and I don’t like people very much.”

We laughed. That’s not true, I said. You’re around people all the time. This is all about people. You seem very social, very outgoing.

“Yeah, because I’m not at all. So I force myself to pretend to be all the things I’m not so that eventually I become those things. That’s the hope. But enough about me. Why do you do it? Or, why haven’t you given up?”

I’ve thought about that a lot too, actually, and if I had to choose something, some actual explanation, I would say it has to go back to my childhood.

“Doesn’t everything?”

Exactly. That’s where it all starts. Doesn’t mean we have to stay that way forever though or that we are what we are. I totally believe we can become just about whatever we see for ourselves. It’s not easy though. And part of the reason I even believe that again goes back to…

“Childhood.”

Right. So it’s always a combination of personality in concert with environment.

“Nature. Nurture.”

Yeah, kind of. Seriously, I’ve thought a lot about this, mostly just reflecting throughout life, but lately because I was hoping I’d get interviewed and wanted to be somewhat prepared but when I think back to when I was a kid, to when I was most developmentally impressionable, to see if there is something, aside from having the freedom to do what I wanted, and thankfully my parents gave that to me, why am I this way, how did I become me, why am I the way I am, it goes back to when I was 4, when my uncle died, my dad’s brother…

“Whoa. That came out of nowhere. Didn’t expect that. This is getting deep. I need another drink. You want one?”

Fine. Last one, then that’s it. I can’t even see straight, man.

“All right, Jack. Let’s hear it. Your uncle’s death…”

Yeah. He was in a terrible car accident. I don’t know all the details, and that’s not the point of all this, I think there were complications from the accident, I’m not sure. But my dad and his entire side of the family were at his side in the hospital, but they just weren’t sure he’d make it. My mom was at home with my brothers and sisters and I and the one thing I remember was her repeating over and over and over and over again, it’s gonna be all right, it’s gonna be all right, it’s gonna be all right, it’s gonna be all right, while she held us and kissed us and made us believe that it would, that everything would be all right.

“Was it? Did he make it?”

No. He didn’t even make it through the night. But I still believe, that in most cases, even when it seems like things aren’t going very well, in the end, it’ll be all right.

“Optimism. Eternal optimism. That’s how you do it.”

I guess. Who knows? It’s more than that. I’m just trying to give you something. It’s not like a few months ago I thought there was any chance this could ever happen. Nothing really has happened. I’m just playing some shows now, that’s the only thing that has changed. I’ve been writing songs forever. Now, people just get to hear them.

“So do you really think that’s why you haven’t given up?”

I don’t know. Probably not. I just think this is cool. It’s rock and roll. It’s music. I’m good at it. It’s fun. I think that’s it. I just really want it. Really enjoy it.

“And maybe because you couldn’t have it, or didn’t have it, that makes you want it more?”

I’m sure. There was a time when I wondered if I wanted it just because I’d been trying for so long and not because I really liked it.

“…”

But that’s not it. There was no quitting or thoughts of quitting because I was going to write and play music for the rest of my life whether or not it was ever heard or ever went anywhere. There was no reason to quit. No reason to ever consider giving up because I enjoy it. That’s really all I can say. It’s that’s simple.

“Good stuff.” He smiled, rubbed his stubbly chin with his right hand. “One more shot?”

OK. But this is it.

I woke up at the foot of the bed in a pristine, empty hotel room, with no one else around, no recollection of what had happened.

What the fuck? I said. Oh my god, this is fucking awful. What an asshole. What the hell?

I fought to recall something that occurred after ordering that shot, anything at all, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t even remember taking the damn thing. Mind erased, wiped clean. I stumbled over to the window and looked out onto the street. No clue.

Where the fuck…

I looked for some identifying info, some hotel branding and found it on a bar of soap in the bathroom. Fairmont Plaza Hotel. Never heard of it. I chugged water from the bathroom sink faucet, rinsed my face, wet my hair and pushed it into its usual place.

I felt like I’d been stomped on, maybe I was. My phone and wallet weren’t in my pockets.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no… This isn’t happening. Jack, you dumb fuck.

I told myself years ago, I promised myself, I wouldn’t overdo it, I wouldn’t take shots, I wouldn’t get annihilated, I wouldn’t blackout ever again.

I checked the floor where I’d slept and found both the wallet and phone under the bed. My call and text history gave no indication of what I’d been up to all night.

This can’t happen again. Ever, I said. Fuck. You could have died, man. This is fucking stupid. What the fuck are you doing?

I took a cab to the venue, but it was closed so I went back to my hotel and tried to sleep. I couldn’t do it. Motherfucker, I said. I tossed and turned, but never fell asleep. I was in pain, my head spinning, throbbing, I was exhausted, but the alcohol kept my body in an excitatory state, unable to settle itself down, using every bit of energy to rid itself of the toxins. I went out and grabbed a sandwich and a slice of pizza and drank about a gallon of water, then got back into bed, but came no closer to relaxing.

I had until the following evening to get to Webster’s in Manhattan’s East Village, but I felt like everything needed to be fixed immediately. I wanted to feel better, I wanted to get out of my own head, get out of Boston and never return. I needed my guitars. As I writhed under the covers, sweating and stinking, groaning and sighing, trying everything I could to rest, to sleep, to sober up, I obsessed over whether or not my guitars were even at The Brighton. Maybe I’d lost them forever. Did someone take them? Did I lose them? Sell them? Smash them? Give them away? Are they missing? Are they in my car? I went down and checked, but they weren’t there. Are they with Ozzy? Did we take them somewhere? I called The Brighton, but nobody picked up. I called again. And again. And again. Come on! Fucking place doesn’t open until 4, I have to get outta here! I said. I turned on the TV and immediately turned it off. I did 12 push ups and nearly vomited so I got back in bed. I started a text to Maria then deleted it. I showered. I jerked off, thought maybe that would fire up some endorphins, get the ball to recovery rolling. I went out and got breakfast at that diner. I asked for the waitress from the previous morning, but didn’t know her name, and my description of her was so piss poor that my new waitress suggested I was in the wrong place.

“Nobody like that works here.”

She was right. I’d never been there before. I’m a fuckin idiot. I said.

By 5 I started to feel marginally better. I was able to function cognitively, probably about the equivalent of an 8 year old, but my body was still all over the place. When I got back to my room, I shit for the 12th time.

You gotta get outta here, I said. I packed my things, checked-out, loaded the car, and drove over to The Brighton. I went in and asked around, and found my guitars propped against the wall behind the stage, just outside the green room, “Right where you left them”, according the sound guy.

All I could think about for the entire ride to New York was what an asshole I was. I knew I was being hard on myself, but I hated what I’d done. I started drinking when I was 15, just like everyone else I knew, and just like everyone else I learned to love it. We drank socially as often as possible as quickly as possible. For years and years it was fun. I didn’t think about what I was doing to my body. I didn’t care what I was doing. It felt good. When I went away to college, I stopped drinking for a while. Some of the music I got into, the hardcore stuff, a lot of those guys were straightedge, and though I never professed to be straightedge, I stopped drinking for a year or so, not sure why, maybe to prove a point, for solidarity, because I thought it was cool to be different. Perhaps it was the start of realizing it wasn’t the best idea in the world to drink heavily, it was the first time that thought had entered my mind, the first I’d ever considered the notion. Everyone I knew drank. My friends, my family, people I looked up to: writers, rockers, everyone drank, that’s just what we do. I never thought about how awful it was to binge, to blackout, to lose complete control mentally and physically, to say things you don’t mean and can’t take back, to behave like a complete asshole, to make yourself sick, and once I started to realize this, to understand this, I wondered how it had taken so long to figure out. It makes no sense, goes against all rational thought to drink like that, behave that way. Drinking is a deeply engrained, culturally encouraged, socially sustained death sentence. It’s not easy to stop, even once you discover this. I never considered myself an alcoholic, though at times, in college and for a few years afterwards, I thought drinking was so cool, so good for you, so personality defining, and creativity inducing that I wanted to be an alcoholic, to wear that badge. It makes absolutely no sense. I don’t think you can truly fathom this until, hopefully, you take a step back, dry up, stop drinking for a while to let your mind and body get right, and discover that all these ideas and beliefs are bullshit, they’re stupid, they don’t add up, and they’re fueled by the alcoholic mind, by chemicals that keep you wanting more and make you think it’s OK, but it’s not. And I know this. And I’ve known it for a while. Over the years, beginning in my mid-to-late 20s, I began drinking less and less, from 5–6 times a week to once, maybe twice. I would still get drunk now and then, but didn’t blackout much. And this felt like an accomplishment, to only lose my mind a few times per year. Once I hit 30, I started eating better and running more often and drinking far less, maybe once a week. I played more guitar, wrote tons of songs, and stopped taking shots. It was a rule. A promise. I didn’t blackout anymore. I wouldn’t if I only drank beer. That worked for a while, for years, until on day 2 of my tour, I threw it all out the window. It’s not even fun. I knew that. I’m an asshole, I thought. What am I doing? An absolute fucking moron.

I think what separates an alcoholic who desperately needs help and can never have another drop from what is probably your typical drinker is a very fine line. I have several friends who go to meetings, who won’t touch alcohol, who can’t, who’d bottomed out, lost jobs, ruined relationships, became unwell, and gave up hope. They were hardly different from me, or from any of my other friends who drank often but did not need help, did not lose it all. Some of those friends still drink heavily and they are doing… Just… Fine. They have good relationships, families, great jobs, relatively happy lives. What separates someone with a problem from someone with a habit or a hobby or a lifestyle is, somewhere underneath it all, the person with a problem, an alcoholic, whether they know it yet or not, has an underlying psychological or biological abnormality, a past demon, that when combined with the alcohol, with the chemicals, causes a fundamental, insurmountable breakdown. The only way to kill the demon is to rip out its heart. Either way, you’re walking down the wrong road. I hadn’t blacked out in over 5 years, hadn’t been drunk in almost 4. I made a huge mistake, and in that car, on that ride, I vowed to never make the same mistake again. You can’t. It’s just not worth it.

About an hour outside New York, my eyes got heavy and started rolling around in every direction, I almost dozed off. I opened the windows and for a while, the cool air did its job. I blasted tunes and sang along, but soon my body became desensitized to it all. My head wobbled forward and back, doing its best to jar me into lucidity, only when I awoke to the sound of rumble strips exploding beneath my car with the speedometer at 101 mph, did I react. My eyes sprung open, my heartbeat spiked, and my body shaking with adrenaline.

Jesus Christ! What the fuck? I said.

I called Maria and while the phone rang, I hoped like hell she’d pick up. After 4 rings, “Hey.” She said. “I was just thinking about you. How’s it going?”

I told her everything.

I really fucked up. I said.

“No you didn’t. It’s OK. It wasn’t the best decision in the world, but don’t be so hard on yourself. Nothing bad happened.”

But, it could have. Actually, I have no idea if something bad happened. Maybe it did. Maybe I…

“You’d know if it did. You would have sobered up, or if it was really bad, you’d be arrested or something. You’re not a bad person, Jack. You got drunk. It’s not great, but it could be worse.”

Yeah, I could have just killed myself and others while sleepdriving at 100 miles an hour. I’m a fucking idiot. And now I’m calling you to stay awake, going on about all this shit. I don’t even know you. You don’t know me. And now all you do know is I’m a loose cannon.

She laughed and said I was overreacting, that everything was fine. “Just stay awake, and get to New York, and sleep. Tomorrow is a new day. Start over. It’s not all bad, right?”

Not at all, I said. Mostly it’d been great. Met you and played a cool show in my hometown. Played really well and met some cool people in Boston. I just hate when I do dumb shit like this. It’s not how I wanted to start things off and, I know you don’t know me, but it’s not how I act, it’s not me, so I’m just kind of ashamed, I’m disappointed in myself. I know I didn’t fuck anything up and nothing bad happened, it’s not the end of the world, thank goodness I didn’t end it all, but I just hate doing this shit. I haven’t for so long and just didn’t want to do this.

“You let loose one night. That doesn’t make you a bad person or a loose cannon or annoying or dumb or anything. OK, it was pretty dumb, but it doesn’t make you dumb. Just don’t do it again.”

I won’t.

“I believe you.”

Well, thanks for listening. And for keeping me awake. And alive. I’m just about there now. There’s hardly any traffic, I’ll be there in like 15 minutes probably.

“You don’t have to thank me, but you’re welcome. It makes me happy to talk to you, and to hear from you, even though you’re off being a rocker, doing all kinds of stuff you’d never expected, I’m glad you’re thinking of me.”

I’ve thought about you a lot. Are you going to make it to the show tomorrow?

“I think so. I’d like to. That’s my plan. If you’re OK with that.”

That’d be so great. I’d love it. Just get in touch in the afternoon or text and let me know where you’re at. Depending on what time, we can meet. I should be free most of the day. Maybe we can do something beforehand. No pressure, if not. We can see how it goes.

“I’d like that. I want to see you.”

OK. I’m pulling up to my brother’s buddy’s place now. I better go. I have to let him know I’m here, carry all my stuff up, and find a parking spot and everything so…

New York, New York

My younger brother Scott lived and worked in Wilkes-Barre but, along with his new girlfriend Sarah, was spending a few nights at his friend’s apartment in Chinatown, right on the corner of Canal and Mulberry.

When I got there they were playing a board game and listening to music, “some hardcore band from Tokyo with an old jazz drummer from Mississippi, two Japanese girl singers, and, like, this 30-some-year-old former Navy Seal from Brooklyn going back and forth between bass and guitar. Pretty badass.” Scott said.

He asked if I wanted to order some pizza or go grab a 6-pack or something, and I told him no thanks. It’s late and I had too much to drink last night anyway. I’ll probably fall asleep pretty soon.

He said, “I’m not really drinking anymore. I was getting out of hand with it.”

I know what you mean, I said.

Scott was 2 years younger than me. We were inseparable as kids, as close as you could get, but had grown apart through the years. Nothing bad had happened between us, but he went his way and I went mine. The things that brought us together as children no longer existed, and our differences seemed greater than ever. I’d always wanted us to remain close, like we had been, but that just wasn’t going to happen. I think over time we both tried, in our own ways, to rekindle what was lost, only to realize that it was gone for good. I still liked seeing him, catching up, reminiscing, making sure he was OK, and though I’m closer now than ever to accepting our relationship for what it is, somewhere deep down I’m holding onto a glimmer of hope that our past life could in some way become our future. As much as I’ve accepted that things will never be the same, that Scott and I will never be more than we are, part of me will always wish we were.

I sat on the couch reading articles on my phone while they played video games.

I woke up a few hours later and they were still there, sitting on the floor in the same spot, playing. I said could they keep it down, turned over, and covered my head with a pillow. When I got up in the morning they were still in bed. I had a glass of water, did as many push ups as I could for a minute, then 45 seconds, 30 seconds, 15 seconds, and 10 seconds with 30 second breaks in between, and then went out for a run. It was about 10 after 7. At around 2 miles, I saw Leonardo DiCaprio sitting on a park bench, but ran right by. What am I going to say? I thought. Hey man, I’m not big into movies, but I’ve seen a bunch of yours and liked them. I quit my job and I’m playing at The Bowery tonight, come check it out. What the hell are you doing sitting there at 7 in the morning? I thought about that for about ½ mile or so, what was he doing there? It wasn’t a bus stop or anything. Did he live nearby? Was he waiting for someone? Was he filming a movie? Maybe I missed the crew. That’d be cool if you were in the movie, I thought. Run by later if you want, maybe he’ll still be there, you can see what’s going on. I crossed over Houston at Allen St. and headed west. Left on Forsyth down to Canal then right and back up alongside the park on Chrystie. At Grand about a thousand rats surrounded a garbage can overflowing with fish parts.

Holy shit, I said. Fucking gross. Fuck, that stinks.

A little, old guy wearing a blue plastic raincoat hopped off his bike, opened his coat, threw what appeared to be 4 geoducks onto the wall of rats, and began feverishly snapping pictures, and I sprinted across the street to get the hell away.

What the fuck? I said, laughing. That was goddamn crazy. This place is wild. You see it all.

I crossed over and turned left on Delancey, and in the middle of the block I stopped in front of The Bowery. I hadn’t planned my run, wasn’t even sure where the place was, but thought it was really cool, kind of special how I ended up there anyway. I suppose it wasn’t very unlikely, it was in the neighborhood, but it still felt meaningful to me. A small pink flyer on the window read: The Luminators with special guests NAMES. These people have no idea who I am, I thought. Special guests? It’s just me. There are no guests. It’s guest. Who the hell are The Luminators? I wasn’t as locked-in to all the new bands as I was when I was a kid, but I followed current music pretty closely and had at least heard of most popular bands, even in genres I wasn’t particularly fond of, so to not have heard of The Luminators was surprising. Then I remembered I was supposed to be opening for Drummer, the side project of the drummer from the Black Keys where every member of the band was a drummer in another band. I took off my armband, removed my phone, and Googled them. Other than a Myspace account that hadn’t been updated in almost 12 years, there was no mention of The Luminators. Whatever, I thought. The show is sold out, and if not, fuck it, just play. It’s New York City, you’ve never played here before, Maria will be here, it’s your third show, this shit happens all the time on tour, I’m sure, I figured, doesn’t matter who you’re playing with, it’ll still be fun and a chance to get your stuff out there, and you never know who might be in the crowd. Just because they didn’t have a strong web presence doesn’t mean The Luminators weren’t legit. They’re probably really big and you have no clue, I thought. Doesn’t matter. This is still awesome.

I ran down into the subway and took a train uptown to Central Park. I ran through the park, thinking of rearranging my set list a bit, maybe adding something that wasn’t on the album, an older tune, or maybe even debuting something new I’d been working on. What the hell, why not? I thought. I sang Places and All The Time and In A While before coming up with a brand new melody and mumbling temporary lyrics as I experimented with the melody itself, phrasing, and tempo. I thought of a chorus melody and went back and forth between verse and chorus, locking the tempo in with the pace of my footsteps, adding a beat with my teeth and tongue. I decided I wouldn’t add anything new to the set list, that I’d stick with my original plan of only playing the 12 songs from the album. They’re all really good. No reason to veer from the plan already, I’ve just begun. Vary the order of the songs, but not the songs.

I ran through a softball field and saw Jerry Seinfeld roaming around with a cameraman. Again I considered saying something, and again I kept on running. What would I say? I never really got into Seinfeld. I just saw DiCaprio. Want to come to my show tonight? I’m playing with a band no one has ever heard before that somehow sold out a 500-person venue. Hey Jerry, until today, the last time I saw two celebrities in one day was Marisa Tomei and Mick Jagger back in 2000. Now this morning I see you and DiCaprio, pretty cool, huh? Fuckin ridiculous.

The unexpected tranquility of the park made it appear more deeply beautiful than ever before, and it made my mind wander even further.

I started humming the new melodies again, over and over and over, changing a note here and there, holding out a note a little longer, blending it into the next, cramming a bunch of syllables into the end of a phrase to add a little intensity, make it more fun, more memorable, repeating it again and again so that it became engrained. I didn’t want to forget. You could stop running and voice memo it, I thought. But I didn’t want to stop. I wanted to keep going, keep thinking, keep moving, see some more people, and write another song. Write two more. Write another album. Keep them coming. Never stop. Just keep singing, keep writing, you’ll remember. Don’t let it out of your sight. You can record everything as soon as you’re done, once you get back.

I stopped running outside Carnegie Hall, hopped in a cab, and took it down 5th Ave to the Flatiron Building. I walked down Broadway to Union Square, got an egg sandwich, an orange, chocolate milk, and a bottle of water from a vendor, ate it in the park, took the subway to Chinatown, and went back to Scott’s friend’s place.

I had to call 4 consecutive times before he answered.

Were you still sleeping? I said.

“Kind of.”

Shit. It’s almost 10 o’clock.

“So. We were up late. We’re on vacation.”

All right, man. Whatever. Do you have plans today? A friend of mine from Philly is going to be in town. I’m going to meet up with her at some point. Do you guys want to do anything today? Do you want to come with me? Hang out?

“Whatever.”

Well, let me know as soon as you know. I’d like to have a plan.

“We’ll do whatever.”

OK. Well, I’d like to get showered and meet up with her. If you’re ready to go and want to do that, cool.

He looked at Sarah, who said nothing, and looked back at me. “We don’t want to interfere with your plans or anything.”

Dude, you always do this. It’s not interfering. I’m here to see you guys. To hang out. Have fun. I don’t have an agenda or anything. I don’t have to do anything in particular, but I want to have a little plan so I don’t end up doing nothing or scrambling to figure something out last second.

“OK. Yeah. Whatever. Well, let us know. We’re probably just gonna hang out here for a while.”

We’ll probably go out for a drink or walk around or grab a bite to eat or something, maybe shop around, I don’t know. If you have anything you want to do, let me know. Otherwise, that’s what I’m doing. If you’re in, cool. If not, whatever. That’s fine. Do whatever you want.

I got in the shower. Oh my god, I thought. Fucking annoying. That’s what I mean about being different. We can’t even make a plan to do basically nothing at all. He’s laid back or disinterested or carefree, almost to a fault. And then his timidness. I don’t know where that came from. He wasn’t like that as a kid. Maybe it’s Sarah, I don’t know. Maybe she’s not very social. I have no idea. I don’t want to blame her. Maybe they just don’t want to do anything and they’re afraid to say so. Whatever it is, holy shit, just make a decision. I see you like once a year. Show some excitement. You’re in New York City and you won’t leave the apartment.

I started singing the new song again. I’d lost it for a while, but as my mind unraveled in the shower, it came back to me.

Just do whatever you want. He can do what he wants. And that’s that.

I dried off, put on deodorant, brushed my teeth, got dressed, pushed my hair into place, and texted Maria.

You in town yet?

“Yes. I’ll be free in about an hour. No later than 1:30. Can you meet?”

Yeah. Any idea what you want to do?

“You.”

OK.

“Lunch and then go from there?”

OK.

“I’m sure you have stuff to do before your concert so just let me know when you have to leave.”

I have plenty of time. I’m psyched to see you.

“I miss you.”

Same.

We planned to meet at Gran Electrica in DUMBO at 2.

I told Scott and Sarah my plan and he said “We’re gonna stay put and do our own thing. Hope you don’t mind. Sarah isn’t feeling that great and we’re kind of beat and we don’t have a ton of extra money and…”

I’ll pay for you guys. It doesn’t matter. It’s not a big deal. If you want to hang out, you should.

“I wouldn’t feel right about that. You always pay for me when we hang out and I appreciate it, but I just think we… It’s not only that. I just got paid, I can definitely afford it, I just don’t think, we were kind of planning on just relaxing here and watching over the place and not doing too much. We even brought some food from home so we might just cook and, like I said, she isn’t feeling great anyway so…”

How often do you come to New York City, man? You just want to hang out in here all day? There’s so much to see out there. You don’t have to spend any money or anything either. We can do something else. We can hang out in the park and just enjoy the weather and talk or whatever. Super low key.

“What the difference if we just sit outside or sit in here?”

A huge difference. You’re seeing something. You’re interacting. We’re talking and not just sitting here staring at the wall.

“Just because you don’t like it doesn’t mean we can’t.”

You’re right, man. I just thought it would be nice to get outside and talk and hang out and do something different since we don’t always have the chance.

“Well, we…”

It’s fine. I’ll catch up with you later. Are you going to the show tonight? It’s close. I can call you a cab or come pick you up or walk over with you guys.

“I think so. As long as…”

When I got out of the taxi, Maria was there waiting for me. She looked awesome, and I hold her that right away. We kissed and she held my hand, and when we finished kissing she gave me a hug and I didn’t want to let go.

I didn’t realize how much I missed you until just now. This is crazy. I can’t believe how happy I am to see you. I mean, not that you aren’t totally beautiful and super nice and fun and we really get along so well, but just that it feels so awesome so soon.

“I know. I feel the same way.”

I’m trying not to overthink it. It feels great so I’m going with it. Why hold back, you know?

“It’s crazy, but I can’t stop thinking about you. I’ve already told like everyone I know about you. I’ve wanted to text and call you so much, but I know you’re busy, but it just feels so good to be with you and I just want to call you and hear your voice and talk more and see you.”

I know. It’s unbelievable.

I told her that I wanted to tell her I loved her when we first kissed the other night. That I was overcome with happiness when we were together and that at first I wasn’t going to tell her and I was telling myself that it couldn’t be love, that it was too soon, but I’m not going to tell myself that anymore. I don’t know what it is. I’m not going to say flat out that I love you, that would be a little to soon, but I’m telling you flat out that I’m feeling stuff I’ve have never before experienced and it’s exciting and I want to keep seeing you.

She took my face in her hands and kissed me and told me that makes her happy. “Let’s just keep this going and see what happens.”

After lunch we walked over the Manhattan Bridge. She planned to take a cab back to her hotel and I was supposed to go get my stuff and get ready to load in. I told her I had such an awesome time and she asked me to go back with her so I did. Only because you said please, I said.

We couldn’t keep our hands to ourselves. Her clothes were nearly off in the elevator. “Jack! We can’t.” She laughed. “Someone will see.”

Whatever you want, I said.

The instant the door to her room closed, she undressed and fell onto the bed, her arms out to her sides, her head tilted to the side, her legs closed and curled and crossed. Her smile stretched for miles. I undressed hurriedly, not nearly as smoothly as she, as my shoelaces knotted, my jeans turned inside out and got stuck on my feet, and in an attempt to simultaneously be funny and get my goddamn shirt off, I tore the thing open sending buttons flying around the room.

Fuck this, I said, laughing. I can’t wait anymore.

We spent an hour effortlessly exploring every inch of each other. Never before had I been so absolutely attracted, so genuinely interested, so honestly affectionate, never had I felt so thoroughly comfortable, unconditionally intrigued, impassioned, never was I so open about what I was thinking and how I was feeling, and to feel it all in return, all of this all at the same time, to know it wasn’t just me, but the two of us, to be certain, was nearly indescribable and made it all the more singular. Despite all this, my awareness that we were in the midst of something truly special, despite my exceeding excitement, I forced myself to go slow, to enjoy the moment, to savor every second, every single kiss, every movement, every glance, every breath, to feel it all, to remember it, to hold it near, to let it in, to make it last. If my eagerness got the best of me, as it did quite often, Maria reminded me, “Slow down”, “Stay right there, just like this”, “Don’t stop”, “Don’t move”, “Come here”. At times we were still, connected but motionless, our breathing imperceptible, our thoughts reduced to only one another, to that instant, our eyes entangled, fixed, staring into each other, suspended in time, spinning through space, two souls become one.

This is what I mean. I said. Do you feel that? Maria? Do you?

“Mmm hmmm.”

Isn’t this awesome?

“Mmm hmmm.” She said. “Yes.”

I love this so much.

“I love this too. It’s amazing.”

I went to get my things from Scott’s friend’s place and they’d just gotten up from a nap. He helped me carry one of my guitars out to the car and said they’d probably see me later. If not, he said, “Have a good one.”

We hugged. I’ll see ya later. I said. I knew he wouldn’t be there but, again, that part of me that held out hope always won-out, and spoke up over the part of me that sometimes knew better.

I brought in my guitars and put them in the green room, took a piss, and sat down on the coffee table. The sound guy told me to wait there, and for a while I did. After about 10 minutes, I started walking around the place, checking everything out. I’d been to The Bowery for shows before, always had fun, the sound was usually pretty solid, and I was overjoyed to be able to carry all the momentum I’d built, not only with music, but with the way things were going with Maria, and my running, and my head was finally clear and I was doing what I loved and, already, it was immeasurably better than work had ever been and just feeling great about my decision to do this and make this my best show yet.

I sat on the stage and strummed my acoustic, adding chords to the melody I’d come up with earlier. F-B#-C for the verse and C and F for the chorus. I came up with an instrumental part, just a cool, sort of out-of-sync strumming of F and B#, that I quickly decided to use as a bridge and an outtro. The lyrics would take a little while. I had an idea, and just mumbling the melody was fine for now, but I always took the time to get the words just right. Every word was critical, the phrasing, spacing, timing, how one word rolled into and out of the next, not too literal, not too ordinary, just the right combination of meaningful, relatable, and far-out. Most of my lyrics were about love, finding someone, what it would be like, the things we’d do, somehow weather and weather patterns always found a way into it, and lately, space exploration, but it was always put together in some vague way, not too weird, nothing too specific, nothing too revealing, and never anything I’d ever heard before. I started with a rough idea, the key melody, and then usually mumbled through over and over again until I started hearing words and phrases, which then became an idea or theme or series of thoughts. Once the lyrics flowed perfectly, I then edited each word to be sure I positively loved it, and that was it. Sometimes it took 10 minutes to finish a song, other times it took a month to get it right, depending on how much time I spent on it, whether or not the lyrics I came up with were good enough, whether I thought the song was good enough to keep working on. Usually it was. I never saw writing or thought of it as a burden or a job or if it took a long time that I was experiencing writer’s block or anything. Nothing about it was negative or difficult, nothing. It was a process, and I was completely enamored with it, creating something from nothing, making something that could last forever, seeing something through from beginning to end, and it’s music, everyone fucking loves music, it’s embedded in everything we do, every moment we’ve ever had is associated with some song, it helps us learn, defines us, makes us who we are, becomes our friend, it’s social, music takes you places, so making it and now, finally, sharing it with others, is what I’ve always wanted and even greater than I’d imagined. I just love it so much, find it to be a worthwhile way to spend my time, and couldn’t be happier that it was finally mine.

I sound checked quickly, but rather than go back to the green room to wait, I just stood near the stage until it was time to go on. The place filled up pretty quickly and I asked a dude about The Luminators, Who are they? I said. I’ve never even heard of them.

“You kidding?” Said a 20-something kid with long, oily, brown hair.

Not at all.

“It’s fuckin Arcade Fire, man. They’re playing under the name The Luminators, doing last minute shows at smaller venues on off days from the big shows.”

Really?

Just then I made the connection. I’d read that they were coming out with a new album called Illuminator. On their previous album, Reflektor, they played unannounced as The Reflektors.

“Yeah man. This is gonna be fuckin huge.” His buddy showed up and handed him a beer. “Later, dude.”

See ya.

Holy fucking shit, I thought, as the enormity of the event sunk in. I’m playing with fucking Arcade Fire. I was jubilant. Euphoric. I never felt that way before. Not like this. Just completely and utterly blissful. Every second seemed to bring with it a new day, a dream realized, but better than that, this was something I had never dreamt of, it was out of the blue, coming from out of nowhere, and it was real.

I texted Maria and told her.

“So awesome! I’ll be there soon!”

I texted Al and Will, my mom, Victor, and Scott. I turned my phone on silent and stood on the side of the stage.

“Five minutes.” Said the sound guy.

Is Arcade Fire really playing? I said.

“No idea.” He said.

I checked the green room, but it was empty.

I checked my phone.

Al said, “Kill it, man.”

“WTF? How the hell did that happen?” Said Victor.

I guess they’re doing pop-up shows under a different name. Who knows? I go on in a few minutes.

“Let me know how it goes. Talk soon bro.”

“Shit. We were on our way but decided to head back. Have fun!” Said Scott.

“You’re a rock God.” Said Will. “Ask if we can tour with them.”

Nothing from my mom.

“You’re up.” Said the sound guy.

I’m going on now.

“I’m here!” Said Maria. “You’re gonna do great! Cannot wait to see you and to hang out after the show.”

I played as good as I’d ever played. As fired up as I was, I managed to keep it cool, didn’t rush the songs, kept the tempo just right, as I’d intended, I hit all the right notes, even the ones on the far end of my range that could sometimes get away from me. I’d played hundreds of shows, and people had been into it, and it made the experience better. Playing live, by nature, having people react to you and the music, is at once enlivening and motivating, not that I needed external motivation, but goddamnit this was different. I’d never before experienced such a powerful, meaningful reaction, such an energetic back and forth, a mutual fire, connectedness, authentic, spontaneous interaction, never before had I shared such an emotive response.

I broke from my tendency to play the songs precisely how they were written, improvising an extended chorus on a few songs, rocking a little longer on a riff-heavy section, and for the first time ever, without thinking twice, without thinking at all, shouting whoo-hoos and yeahs all over the place.

Maria had a spot right up front and now and then, when I drifted away mid-song, falling into a trancelike state, locked in, flowing, letting my instincts, my routine, my habits, my memory, my practice take over, my subconscious leading the way while the rest of me floated off somewhere just out of reach, taking it all in, almost completely controlled by the music, I found myself staring at her, smiling, wondering. She’d parted her hair differently, right down the middle, and it hung over her shoulders and swayed. She tucked it behind her ears. She waved a couple times. She smiled back. She bobbed her head. She was perfect. Electrifying. Astral. Radiant. I couldn’t believe what was happening, how it all seemed fantastical but was all so very real, how it made me feel exactly like I’d always wanted to feel, how extremely happy it made me, how vastly more beautiful everything seemed.

I finished the set, said thank you, and left my guitar lying on the stage, the amp screaming.

For almost 10 minutes they called for an encore, but the manager told me I couldn’t play any more, that I was contractually obligated to stop at a certain time.

That’s bullshit, man. I said. Two minutes isn’t going to fuck anything up for anyone. I could have been done by now.

“There are rules for a reason. You don’t just change them because someone asks you to.”

Whatever, man.

I was pissed for a while, but he was right. And besides that, not playing more left them wanting more and that was a good thing. Maybe they’d want to come see me again. I just didn’t want anyone to think I was being a dick or didn’t want to play more.

I met up with Maria and she went on and on about how great the set was. This was, by far, the best time I’ve ever had playing. I said. Having you here made it even better. It was awesome seeing you there, right up front, you look incredible and it was sort of entrancing just being able to see you there with all of that going on. I can’t really explain it, but thanks so much for coming and for being you, for being so pretty and fun and for giving a shit about me. I never expected this. I know we just keep on saying that, but I mean it. I knew this would be a great experience, but meeting you has taken it to another level, something I never imagined was even possible, and just the combination of everything, the music and what we’ve been going through, how great we feel about each other, I’ve never felt like this. Never. I’ve never been as open or felt so compelled to talk about it so much. I love just getting it out there and I know I’m going on and on and on now and not letting you talk, but it’s been just indescribably great having you feel the same and telling me and…

She stared at me, sort of smiling, not biting her lip but just pressing her teeth ever so softly against her bottom lip.

Is everything OK? I said.

“Oh my god, yes.” She said, putting her hand alongside my face. “I’m just listening and thinking about how into you I am. How I feel the same. I’m so happy you’re saying this. I’ve never met anyone who says what’s on his mind like this. And not in an annoying, overbearing way, I mean just how honest and open you are.” She kissed me. “It makes me feel so happy. I’m really really happy with you. You have no idea. I know it’s crazy but…”

I do. And it’s not. That’s what makes it so cool. It’s awesome.

A bunch of people approached me and said they loved it and were so glad they got to see me, and I said thanks and told them I wanted to play more, but couldn’t.

We got pretty close for The Luminators, a few rows back and off to the right. They were out of this world. Every song was great. They played so well together, managed to pull off stadium rockers in a small space, even the new stuff I hadn’t heard was captivating. So often it takes time to get to know a song before appreciating it or really liking it.

These guys are way better than I ever thought. They sound so good I said. They know how to do it.

Maria smiled and said, “I can’t hear you.” She held my hand then turned toward me, let go of my hand, and kissed me.

“We have two more songs tonight.” Said Win Butler. “Thanks for showing up. It means a lot to us.”

The place went nuts.

“I want to ask NAMES… Where’s Namath? Is he here?”

Everyone pointed and soon a spotlight found me.

“Come on up. We really got into your stuff and I know they wouldn’t let you encore, but we will. Play 2 songs with us.” The place erupted, and as was becoming the norm, the night, and my life, got even better.

“Oh my god!” said Maria. “Go!” She kissed my cheek. “Jack, go!”

I jumped over the barricade and climbed onto the stage. They handed me a guitar. “Play any two songs you want. Nothing you played already.”

I thanked them repeatedly and approached the microphone and said thanks again. This has been one of the greatest days of my life. I’m not even exaggerating. It’s been totally unexpected and better than anything I could ever have imagined. You’ve been great. The Luminators, just so awesome, and I can’t thank you enough and I’m so glad you’re into my songs and that you asked me to come up here. It’s unreal. Thank you. I backed off the mike and told them the name, key, and chord progression for both songs and we turned the place on its head.

At that exact moment, life had become more magnificent than anything I had ever imagined. Reality had become more precious, more beloved than any dream.

And, somehow, it got better from there. Maria and I hung out with the band afterwards, had a few drinks, and talked a little bit about everything, not just current events and world news but our back stories, how we got into music, where we came from, stuff like that.

Win said they had to call it a night. I thanked him again, said it was good to meet you, and let him know how much it meant to me. He said they had a great time too. We turned around, I put my arm around Maria, opened the door, and he said, “Want to play a few of our songs with us tomorrow at The Garden?”

I said of course, holy shit, yes. We briefly went over details, exchanged numbers, and Maria and I went back to her room.

I had the day off, no shows booked- not that it would have mattered because I would have canceled anyway to be a part of this- and was to arrive at Madison Square Garden 5 hours prior to show time to rehearse and get ready. Win said they had some interesting stuff planned and wanted to fill me in so I could be a full participant rather than an onlooker. I’ll do whatever, man. I said. He said there might be a few other special guests.

“We’ll probably have you play on Wake Up and Here Comes the Night Time. If you want to practice those beforehand, go for it.” Said Win.

I practiced for about 2 hours the next morning then put my guitar away and got back in bed with Maria.

You never know how shit is gonna turn out. Life was totally fine. I was happy. I just didn’t like my job. OK, I hated everything about it but… I could just as easily have quit and still been sitting on my couch writing, waiting for something to work out.

“But you’re not. You made all this happen.”

Yeah. But I’ve tried before and it didn’t work out. For whatever reason. Maybe my songs were terrible. Maybe my effort wasn’t enough or in the right place or maybe it was a combination of things, but it’s just incredible how it all works out sometimes. This time, it actually worked. I made one connection to get all these shows set up. That was impressive enough. Or unexpected enough. I was happy with that. Just being able to play. I wasn’t sure where it would lead. I wasn’t overly sure it would go anywhere at all. Maybe it would be 12 shows and done. Maybe it still will be. But everything that had to happen to make the experience this incredible, this huge, already, what the hell are the chances a world famous band like Arcade Fire is playing a secret show and that they’re cool enough to ask me to play and now to take it a step further?!

“It’s really amazing Jack. I’m so proud of you. I don’t know what you were like beforehand or how hard you’ve worked at this, but I can tell you love it and from what you’re saying you’ve done so much to make it happen and you never gave up and it’s really inspiring. It’s impressive.”

Thanks. I kissed her. I’m happy you’re with me. That we’re here together. Makes it even better. I took her bra off and slid her underwear down over her hips. She arched her back, lifted her leg, and flung them from the bed.

I’m just going to keep it rolling. I said. All of it. The music. You and I. Everything. I kissed her cheek, her chin, her neck, her chest, her stomach, her hip. See where it goes. See where it takes us.

When I arrived at Madison Square Garden, MADISON FUCKING SQUARE GARDEN, I was immediately escorted to the stage where Win and the rest of the band were running through sound check. At first, momentarily, I felt out of place. I know these guys invited me, I thought, I know they want me here, but this is fucking wild. What the hell am I even doing here? I can’t believe this is happening. I was antsy, eager to say something to them, to get going with whatever it was they had planned for me, for us. I just couldn’t wait to play. I fidgeted, uncharacteristically, shaking my leg as I sat, rolling my shoulders, sliding my fingertips along my triceps, standing up-pacing-sitting down, opening and balling my hands, rubbing my fingers, picking at the skin around my fingernails, chewing my lip.

Fuck this, I said. I’m not just gonna stand around like a fucking idiot.

I moved much closer, no longer off to the side, and listened, taking it all in from beside one of the monitors. It all sounded so good, but I was drawn to the drums. The drummer, Jeremy Gara, was playing out of his mind, he was way better than I’d ever known, I guess I just hadn’t taken notice before, I thought. He was impressive, technically solid but with his own style, jumping seamlessly from genre to genre, defying convention, all within one song. An EDM type repetitive loop-blast beat-medium tempo, slow developing ride cymbal swing-closed roll on the snare-march sequence that took an already great song to another planet. I played along on my thighs, looking out into the empty arena, imagining it packed, me behind the drums, not Jeremy, rocking songs with The Blooms. I pictured myself playing alongside Jeremy-dual drummers- to tens of thousands of screaming, singing, yelling, leaping, lunging, flailing, insatiable, out-out-their-mind fans, then I saw myself playing guitar, up front, on the edge of the stage, leading the way, singing one of my newest songs- Places- with Arcade Fire backing me up, bursting into an enormous, unforgettable chorus. You found a way to take us places all over again. Our voices, all of us together, voices ringing, roaring, endless layers of harmony took flight, lifted, soared, filling every single corner of The Garden with my music, my words, my thoughts, my reality, our music, our words, our thoughts, and now our reality. This is all I’ve ever wanted. We’ll be here long before we’ll ever have to leave. For an instant, just a few seconds, I was taken back to my childhood, this time when I was around 10, playing alone in my backyard after a day out with friends. I don’t recall specifically what I was doing out there, what I’d been thinking, how I was feeling, but I remember standing there, along that beat up, white wooden fence, on a searing summer evening, looking out toward Buttonwood Street, into the crumbling factory on the other side of the road, at the cars going by, blurry headlights every couple minutes, streetlights overhead, and I started singing this song about an old car engine or something, probably had to do with the piece of shit car my dad had just picked up. I put one foot up on the cellar doors and stomped a steady beat, and I pictured in those headlights, in the streetlights, and in the stars, the faces of thousands of fans cheering me on, singing with me. I looked back on another time, not that long ago, standing in the kitchen of my home, alone again, I put down a glass of water and looked through the dark dining room into the dimly lit living room and out into the quiet, hazy street, and saw myself on stage looking out into the crowd, singing a song I’d recently written- Along A Road- on tour, playing in some great city, headlining a humongous summer festival, with The Blooms backing me up on the chorus. Along a road with you. And all the things we always do. Along a road with you. Is everything I ever knew. Within that several second span, time was suspended, it had disintegrated. I ran through and relived all the times I’d ever done something like this, dreamt of some great performance, some epochal occasion, maybe not this exact moment, but one that closely resembled this one. Not the same song or the same place or time, nowhere near the same circumstances, nothing I’d ever dreamt of came close to this, and I’m not sure if all of this, all of these memories, these premonitions, I don’t know if it stemmed from my love of music or whether it meant anything at the time or not, but looking back, reliving it, seeing it from a different perspective, out of time and place, from the future, knowing what I now know, it seemed like I’d been waiting for this my whole life, it felt that way more than it ever had. In so many ways, I wanted so badly to get out of education because I really just didn’t want to be bored. I didn’t like it. It wasn’t enough. Nothing terrible had happened, it was OK, I just didn’t want to do that shit anymore. I needed to shake things up, to see what happened, to reset, to rewire, to start anew, because it wasn’t this. IT WASN’T THIS. I’d always loved music and writing songs, and playing was fun, but I never thought of myself as this big dreamer who’d always wanted to perform for people, who had always longed for and needed that, but I realized part of me always has wanted that. Without anyone to listen, what’s the point? Yes it’s enjoyable, yes it’s fulfilling, yes it’s cool, yes it still sounds good, yes I would do it forever either way, but without others it won’t last forever. Music, if not heard by the most people possible, is incomplete, it’s missing something fundamental and it’s not even close to where it must be. Just as life is meant to be shared, music must be heard, must make its mark, affect others in some way- a memory, a feeling, an emotion. It must act, must do something. Joy, happiness, sadness, a picture, a time, a place, hope, a distraction, inspiration, a smile, or love, or in its most basic form- pure satisfaction- it just sounds fucking awesome. I’d never thought of any of this before. Maybe I’m over-thinking everything. Maybe this is just an incredible couple days and nothing more. Who knows? I thought. It doesn’t matter anyway. If I’ve always wanted it or not, if I’m making more of it than it is or not, if I’m becoming sentimental or not, if I’m revising history or not, it doesn’t matter because I’m here now and it’s real and now all I want to do is make the best of it and make it last for as long as possible.

I am having such a great time and I never want it to end.

“All right Jack, you ready?” Said Win.

I told him I’d drifted off there, but had really enjoyed the set. Can’t wait to play. I’ve got the songs down.

He said they decided they wanted me to play on 2 of 3 encore tunes, but instead of Here Comes the Night Time, they wanted me to do Keep the Car Running. “Is that OK?”

Yeah, whatever you guys want. I just need to run through it once or twice. I’ve heard it before, but I don’t really learn other people’s songs so just tell me the chords and…

“Yeah, we’ll run through it with you. Don’t worry too much, your mike will be turned off anyway.” He said. “Just joking around.” He smiled and tucked his hair behind his ears. “We’re all looking forward to having you join us.”

I said I know we have to get to work and I don’t want to hold you up, but why are you doing this? I’m so appreciative, I’m just wondering why? Do you do this a lot? Was it something in particular? I’m unknown. I don’t…

“We liked your songs. We think you’re a good dude. Why not? It’s something different. A different approach. Different for us and for our fans. They’ve never seen you or heard you and now they’ll hear us all together. It’s really no big deal.”

It is to me. I won’t go on and on, but I just want to thank all of you for this. It does mean a lot to me, and I’ll make sure I’m ready to go on both tunes. It’ll be real good. I might just stand there and stomp, I said, but it’ll be very very good, in-time, stomping.

We laughed and then someone brought me my acoustic guitar, all tuned up, and told me where to stand, in front of the drummer, off-center stage. He positioned me in front of a mike, on top of an X, and said come to this spot later in the night. We’ll bring your guitars to you. They’ll be ready to go for each song. First the acoustic, then the electric. He told me to back off the mike a bit, that I didn’t have to scream or anything. He gave me little earbud monitors and we played through both songs twice. I nailed Wake Up, but had to lay back a bit during parts of Keep the Car Running.

“Just play it that way later, and we’ll be fuckin solid.” Said Win. “Just like that is perfect. Your harmony was right where it needed to be, your voice is kind of gravely and it goes so well with Regine, don’t change a thing on that.”

Sounds good. I said.

“And the guitar part was just what I hoped for when we heard you last night. I liked how you strummed it, kind of going off Jeremy and the drum beat rather than the vocals or strumming just how I strum. You have that sort of catchy, punchy, drummer rhythm strum, jangly and loose. Just do what you did.”

Cool. I will.

And I did. I watched the entire show, with Maria, from side stage. Just as we’d planned, how we’d rehearsed, they called me out at the start of the encore, with Win introducing me as “The great, as-yet-unknown, however, with any luck, soon-to-be-well-known songwriting rocker from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania- a classic, historic city similar to our hometown in many ways, I’m sure many of you may have heard. We met last night and had a fantastic time, perhaps some of you were there.” The place went berserk. “If you weren’t able to make it, we want you to meet our friend, Jack Namath.”

Here we go. I kissed Maria, ran out to my spot, waved and said thank you, but not into the mike, put on my guitar, strummed it once with my index finger, took one look around at all the lights, at the faces in the crowd, at the band, at Maria. I wiped my hands on my pants, pulled the pick from my back pocket, took a deep breath, then off we went.