899. I’m So Tired

Back at the apartment, as I walked in, Ziggy made a show of checking me over, like he was looking for deer ticks on my clothes. “What?”

“Can’t believe Priss left you in one piece.” He had a mug of tea in one hand, the paper tag from the bag hanging over the edge.

Well, she did make me cry, I thought, but definitely was not going to say. “Unlike some of the lion-toothed older women in our lives, Priss likes me,” I said. “I think.”

“Lion-toothed. I like that.” He set down his mug on the kitchenette counter and scooped up his notebook.

“If that ends up in a song, I better get songwriting royalties on it,” I joked.

Ziggy wasn’t joking. “Of course.” He wasn’t wearing eyeliner at the time but that didn’t stop his eyes from lasering me with a look. “You don’t seriously think we’re never going to write and record together again, do you?”

“Um, how? When?”

“Dear one.” He set down the notebook, helped me out of my jacket, and then set his forehead against mine. “I know it’s hard to look at the big picture right now, and if you do it seems overwhelming. But this lawsuit stuff isn’t going to drag on forever. You and I are going to be around for a very long time.”

“Okay.” I could understand that intellectually, but at that moment I was still so emotionally drained from the tour that I didn’t really feel it. But I trusted him. Trusting him felt so much better than not trusting him. I pulled him into a full hug. The reality of having him there, solid and real, was better than any anti-depressant I could imagine.

“We’ve got quite a backlog, you know.”


“Of songs. There’s a ton of stuff we worked on back in Allston. The stuff we wrote at my place in Boston. Half a dozen things at least from the ’89 tour. The song we worked on in LA. Not to mention the thing we wrote sitting right over there by the window…”

He was right. All of those songs were half-baked but could be fully baked any time we wanted, like pop-n-fresh rolls. I knew they existed, but their existence felt very abstract to me right then.

“Maybe that’s why I can’t write anything now. The muse won’t give my any more seeds until some of the old ones bear fruit.”

“Maybe. Or maybe you’re just tired. You’re allowed to be tired, Daron.”

“Yeah. Want to have a nap?”

“I just finished a mug of tea, but I’ll lie down with you.”

I stripped down to undies and a T-shirt and climbed into bed. Ziggy had these expensive sheets that were extremely soft and comfortable, with a poofy mattress and duvet, so it was like slipping into clouds. By contrast his body was hard against mine. I may be down on choreography in the show but all that dancing had sculpted him beautifully.

Despite the tea he was asleep in under five minutes. I was tired, but had apparently finally slept enough over the previous two days. I lay there feeling slightly anxious about not being asleep and then remembering I didn’t have to be asleep. I didn’t have to be awake. I didn’t “have to” anything. What a strange feeling.

If all I wanted to do was lie there, I could. I’d already done my vocal exercises for the day–with Priss–and I didn’t have a rehearsal to go to or a song to work on. I had to call Carynne about setting up my various rehab appointments. And answer that mystery page. That was the whole to-do list.

Oh, and I probably needed to talk to/about Colin. There was a bunch of unresolved stuff there, but every time I tried to think about it, my mind slid off like it was too slippery to handle. “Come with me back to Boston.”

Ziggy jerked awake. “Hm?”

I looked at his ceiling. “The hospitals are better, the rehab programs are nicer, and I want to see my sister.”

Ziggy sat up and rubbed his eyes.

I couldn’t keep looking at the ceiling when I could be looking at him. “You said you aren’t doing anything for the next couple of months. So you don’t need to be in New York.”

“That is truuue…” he said, drawing out the final syllable.

“If you really don’t want to go, say so, because being with you is more important to me right now than where we are. But I really think we should go up there.”

“You seem very sure for a person who was out of his mind a couple of nights ago.”

“I know. But doesn’t it make sense?”

“Isn’t your surgeon here, though?”

“If I’m starting a new round of occupational therapy I should probably be nearer to my regular doctor anyway. My HMO is in Boston.”

“Hmmmmm.” He seemed resistant and yet he nodded in agreement. “That is also true.”

“Your big objection is that you don’t want to move into the Allston house? I mean, I know you don’t, but is that the main holdup?”

He nodded again. His hair was wispy and flyaway from being rubbed against his pillowcase and he flattened it with his palm. “I suppose we could look for somewhere to live. A sublet, maybe. Because I predict disaster if you move in at home and I go to a hotel or something.”

“Jeezus, yeah, no. Would you stay with me for a week or so while we look for a place, though? If we had to, I mean.”

He snuggled back down next to me. “One week. If necessary.”

“All right. I better call Carynne and tell her our relocation plan.”

“When we get out of bed.” He settled an arm across my chest and closed his eyes. I didn’t dare move to disturb him. And why would I want to?

[Hi folks! You might notice the tip jar crossed the $100 mark! Look for chapters to appear this week today, Thursday, and Saturday as a result! -ctan]

(Some time when I’m not so tired I’ll say something about the similarities between John Lennon and Kurt Cobain. Oh shit, does that make Dave Grohl into Paul McCartney? -d)


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