The voices fade; everything is black now. He has the sense of moving fast, of flying with the wind flinging his hair back and out of his face. He can’t see where he’s going but he’s not afraid. Should he be? He knows he’s not alone but he’s too busy feeling the cold air against his cheeks and forehead to wonder who it is.
It happens so fast and seems to go on forever. He’s no longer flying; he’s smothering in a white cloud that’s appeared out of the blackness. His body is tossed this way and that, his headache turns into a brutal assault on his brain as he smacks against something hard and cold. Something grips him across his chest; it feels like he’s being cracked open like an egg.
And the sound of screaming. Screaming and the smell of burning. The sound of metal folding in on itself. Louder and louder and louder, the screaming. Who’s screaming? What the hell is going on? Why can’t he see? Who the fuck is screaming? The sound of screaming and the taste of scotch and blood in the back of his throat. And his head aching, his chest aching; every part of him is in pain.
Screaming... the pain... the taste of the blood....
Then, nothing again. And when he wakes in the morning, all he’ll remember is the sound of the screaming and the taste of the blood and scotch. And vomit.
And the feeling that it was his fault.
It’s a hell of a night, hobnobbing with the rich, the famous, the politicians. Heady stuff for a guy like him. Someone who’s come from a pretty poor background. And yet, here he is. In his salad days and feeling fine. Talking to them as if they were old friends, listening to how much they love his music. How much they all love him. He smiles and shakes hands with senators, congressmen, the governor. Yeah, they all love him.
His senses are full of the night air and the scotch, both in copious amounts. All he has to do is put out his hand and a tray appears with glasses of the stuff. Pick one up and leave the empty behind in its place. Oh, how this scotch is so smooth down the back of his throat— honey water that still tastes of burnt oak, aged for twenty-five years. Maybe more.
He and Phil, working the crowd like two pros. And the booze is pouring and the money is flowing. Just two buddies, hanging out and having fun. The colors run together in taffeta dresses and silk ties. Someone warbles familiar tunes with the air of a cabaret singer and the cigarette smoke wafts around him.
The smoke gets thicker as he goes. Not grey any longer, it turns blacker with each step he takes. But he can still feel an arm wrapped around his, still hear the laughter of the crowd. He’s still walking, still making his way somewhere. Where is he going? Where is... he...?
His head is getting more befuddled; the alcohol is catching up to him now. But another glass is thrust into his hand, and then another and another and another. Darker and darker. The taste of the scotch is too much now; he’s practically choking on the flavor. It’s thick like molasses and the burning oak is clawing at the back of his throat. His head is beginning to throb.