Free Wasted Heart by Nicole Reed Page A

of Jack and a Coke to go with it.”
    “No problem,” he replies, turning away.
    I look towards the stage and the guys setting up to play. They’re probably older than I am now, but I remember when we used to look like that, excited at the opportunity to get on stage to showcase our music. Let everything that was going on in our lives disappear and be gods on that stage. Rule the world with our instruments and feel as if nothing else matters but the music.
    So many memories, that normally I can block out, assault me. I remember playing at our old spot in Athens, Georgia. Vortex was the first stage I ever stepped on. The first paying gig I ever had. Smiling, I think about the couple hundred dollars that we made and how we thought we were the shit. We had made it, getting paid to play was the absolute shit. Being on that stage was all I ever wanted. Well, almost all I ever wanted. I quickly push my thoughts to think about anything else but her. Jay. My old girlfriend from high school.
    “Here you go, man. I’ll just put it on your tab,” he smiles, placing a bottle of liquor, a glass of soda, and a shot glass down in front of me.
    Well, I guess he does know who I am, but he seems cool about it. I can deal with that. Nodding my head, he finally turns to leave. Not bothering to use the shot glass, I twist the cap off the bottle and down a fifth of it. The liquid burns on instant contact, hitting my stomach like a punch in my gut; however, I welcome the pain. Once you experience the high of drugs, getting drunk is never that appealing, not to mention it seems to take more and more alcohol to make that happen. Point in case: Me drinking the entire bottle.
    I kill half of the Coke, drowning out the hard liquor taste. Nothing seems to happen other than the unease of fighting the nausea that threatens to empty my stomach. Only one answer to that. I pick the bottle up again and drink. This time, it doesn’t burn like a bitch going down, and my stomach is somewhat numb to the process. Finishing the last of the soda, I place it back on the bar. The bartender replaces it without asking.
    “Thanks,” I mumble.
    The band starts to play, getting ready for their set. They begin with a Pearl Jam song, and within seconds of the lead singer opening his mouth, I know why. He sounds a lot like Eddie Vedder. I close my eyes, tracing the individual sounds within the music. The drummer doesn’t miss a beat, keeping time for his bandmates. The bass player moves in synchrony with the head guitarist, preempting the melody. A unit, banded together, creating something so real. So alive. Their own army. When did I lose my respect for that ability? When did it cease to matter?
    I look around, happy the bar isn’t filling up with people and no one notices who I am. I continue to lose myself listening to these guys. Isn’t that what it’s supposed to be about? Getting lost in the music? Isn’t that what I loved about creating it? Knowing that someone could escape listening to something I crafted? I lean back against the bar, bottle in hand and taking a swig every so often. I nod my head in time with the beat, one with the band, with the crowd.
    “Hey, you.”
    I turn towards the sultry female voice to my right. A tight little blonde stands there with barely anything covering her. Her big tits push up and out of the small tank she has on, and I’m not sure if that scrap of blue jean material can be considered a skirt, but it works for me. Her enlarged, painted red lips purse up, letting me guess what she is probably good at. The chin-length, bleached blonde hair falls across her heavily made up face as her tongue caresses her top lip. She’ll do.
    “I know you, right?” she says, winking at me.
    Yeah, she knows exactly who I am. In this case, my dick knows her too. Well, her kind anyway.
    “Where’s the bathroom?” I say, slightly slurring my words.
    Smiling those fake ass lips my way, she purrs, “This way.”
    She reaches for my hand,