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

I’m cancer, then everybody wishes they had it. You guys would be nothin’ without me. Nothin’! ”
    “Gray, we’ve had it.” Ricky turned away from me. “This is the crossroad, man.”
    Gray looked at each band member, getting no argument from the others.
    “Okay, look. You guys get the sound check started. Everett, let’s take ten.” He led the way offstage.
    After Gray gave me his father-son speech behind several tall stacks of metal trunks backstage, I grabbed a beer from a barrel of iced beverages in the makeshift café and kicked and scuffed my way to the dressing room. I told him I was skipping the sound check. He said he would try to iron things out, as always, with the other band members.
    Throwing myself down onto the reddish-brown couch, my head was floating. I was definitely not sober. But I wasn’t blitzed enough to pass out, either. I just felt kind of…there. If you’ve ever drank alcohol or taken drugs, you know what I’m talking about. It was that in-between stage. I either needed to sober up or get some more drugs or alcohol into my system. I chose the latter.
    Sitting on the edge of the couch, I examined the room for my black leather shoulder bag, which I carried on trips. It contained my MP3 player, headphones, cigarettes, hairbrush, phone, and an assortment of prescription drugs, which were authorized by my physician and close friend, Dr. Jack Shea.
    Finding the plastic orange bottle of Valium, I undid the lid, tapped two into my hand, and threw the bottle back into the black satchel. Then I stopped cold.
    What the—?
    Bending down, I ripped the bag open a foot wide and stared at the small brown Bible Karen Bayliss had sent.
    For the life of me, I couldn’t remember packing it. I just wouldn’t do it, wouldn’t want to be seen with it.
    Picking up the black bag, I walked to the bar, set the Valium down amid some booze bottles, and crossed to the large metal dressing room door. After bolt-locking it, I walked over to an empty corner of the small room and eased myself down to the cold floor, with my back against the wall.
    From a distance, all around me, I could hear and feel the sounds of the music I had created, the music that had made me filthy rich.
    Opening the bag again, I reached in and grabbed the little book. A letter was sticking out. I opened it. The last one from Karen.
    Friendship…
    His blood…red like the rose…
    It’s up to His Spirit to draw you…
    I opened the Bible somewhere near the middle and began reading.
    Oh, what joy for those whose rebellion is forgiven, whose sin is put out of sight!
    Yes, what joy for those whose record the Lord has cleared of sin, whose lives are lived in complete honesty!
    When I refused to confess my sin, I was weak and miserable, and I groaned all day long.
    Day and night your hand of discipline was heavy on me. My strength evaporated like water in the summer heat.
    Finally, I confessed all my sins to you and stopped trying to hide them. I said to myself, “I will confess my rebellion to the Lord.” And you forgave me! All my guilt is gone.
    Therefore, let all the godly confess their rebellion to you while there is time, that they may not drown in the floodwaters of judgment.
    For you are my hiding place; you protect me from trouble. You surround me with songs of victory.
    I read the words again.
    My head dropped to my chest, and I began to sob.
    The Bible and letter dropped as my arms went limp at my sides.
    Sinner.
    I felt the weight.
    My life was draining away. I could feel it.
    Look at me.
    These tattoos.
    Filthy.
    I could never be good enough.
    Wiping my tears and runny nose on the shoulder of my black Knicks T-shirt, I opened the bag again and searched for my phone and a pen. Flipping the phone open, I dialed 411.
    “411 nationwide,” came the recorded female voice. “If you need a telephone number, press or say one.”
    “One,” I said, clearing my throat.
    “What city?”
    “Topeka, Kansas.”
    “What