Free Dark Star: Confessions of a Rock Idol by Creston Mapes

shoulder from everyone. And no wonder. Gray had announced that on almost every one of the two- and three-day breaks that had originally been scheduled during the forty-eight-city Rowdy tour, the band would now be required to fly to the West Coast to wrap up the recording of our ninth album instead of jetting to our respective homes for much-needed rest—and time away from each other.
    When our normally quiet bassist, Ricky Crazee, approached me as we convened for a sound check on the black and silver stage at The Palace in Auburn Hills, Michigan, I knew something was up. He zeroed in on me like a heat-seeking missile.
    “You know what your problem is, Lester?” Ricky jabbed a finger into my chest, his redheaded temper flashing. “The only person you care about is you. It’s always been like that. What are you thinkin’ of, leavin’ us high and dry?”
    The sudden loud rip of David Dibbs’s drums suggested he concurred with Ricky. And John Scoogs chimed in with an evil guitar riff that spoke louder than words.
    Still buzzed from the gin I had consumed on the flight to Detroit and the upper I popped in the limo, I decided not to respond. I had heard it all before and was too high to care. Besides, Ricky could be one crazy cowboy. So, I spun away from him.
    “Helloooooooooo Deeeetrooooit!” I yelled into the mike, nearly causing one of our roadies to fall from a catwalk above.
    “You’re an idiot, Lester,” said Ricky, the strings on his bass reverberating as he stepped toward me again in his pointy gray boots and faded Levi’s. “We’ve all had it. You don’t care jack about us or our families, about Gray or Tina.”
    “I DON’T CARE too much for money,” I sang into the mike, “cause money can’t buy me love. Can’t buy me lo–ove—”
    “You don’t get it, do you, dude?” Scoogs said, cutting me off. “Everything you do dominoes. You mess up, you don’t show up. It affects every one of us, plus staff, crew, fans… We’re sick of it!”
    “Well, what are ya gonna do, John? Fire me? Huh?” I yelled into the mike. “I made you, man. All of you.” My words echoed throughout The Palace, as the smattering of vendors and preshow guests froze, their eyes searching each other.
    “How would you just like to do it without me, huh, Scoogs? What about you guys? You ready to break this party up once and for all? End the ride?”
    “Man, that is not what we want.” Dibbs stood up from behind his huge drum kit, the large DeathStroke logo blazing bright behind him, generating heat from above.
    “I don’t know, David.” Ricky pushed his suede cowboy hat up high on his red forehead. “Maybe it is time. This thing is wearin’ thin.”
    Tina Drew scrambled off, probably to find Gray.
    “You talk about not caring.” I slammed the mike stand onto the stage. “How much have you cared? Liza’s gone. Do any of you care? Have you said a word?” I was yelling.
    “Dude, you weren’t even at her funeral!” Ricky shot, his small blue eyes locking in on me. “Me and Dibbs were there. Gray phoned her parents.”
    “And I tried to make it, but I couldn’t get a flight out on time,” Scoogs added.
    “Yeah, you know why you went to the funeral?” I laughed. “Publicity. PR. Lights, camera, action!”
    “You are so messed up, Lester.” Ricky shoved me. “What are you on right now?” Shove. “Heroin?” Shove. “Do you even know what you’re saying?” Shove, shove.
    Gray practically came flying around the wall of amplifiers with Tina and a small entourage of staff members trailing six feet behind.
    “Okay, okay,” he huffed, stepping between Ricky and me. “What is going on? Ricky?”
    “What’s goin’ on,” I blurted, “is these losers are about to kiss their careers good-bye. They’re forgettin’ who brought ’em to this dance.”
    “You are so full of it, Lester,” Scoogs yelled. “You’re blind. Look at what you’re doing to everybody around you. You’re cancer! ”
    “Ha. If