//11// You’re All Caught Up With Words Still Left To Find

Sometimes these mini tours really get to me.  We spend three weeks on a bus, traveling through a few states doing a couple TV spots, some radio interviews, and a bunch of little shows—co-headliners and festivals, usually, but occasionally, like the House of Blues show, we do full-on Hanson concerts.  Those are the shows I like the best, the festivals an uncomfortable mixture of excitement to play the show and nervousness about who is going to say what, and everyone knew how I felt about it.  So, when our bus pulled in to the parking lot of the hotel in Seattle, I couldn’t hide my disdain for the radio festival we were set to play the following evening.  As I sulked around the bus, my footsteps falling heavier than they needed to and my grunted, one-word responses angrier than they needed to be, I kept getting looks from not just my brothers, but the rest of our band and crew as well.

It wasn’t that I was purposefully being petulant, though, if I was going to be honest, that was part of it; I was just not as excited about playing a short set, or about not being the headliner of the show, but especially about who we were sharing the stage with.  With expectations of professionalism and an all-out Hanson show to give, regardless of amount of time allotted, I had to try to solace myself with the fact that a good majority of the crowd was there for us.  It always happened that way, no matter where we were playing or when and for how long—the fans came out in droves, driving for hours just for radio spots.  It impressed me, flattered me, and gave me a sense of comfort in knowing that there was at least one person out there (or, in this case, a gaggle of them), who wouldn’t ever leave.

With my things gathered, I pushed my way off the bus and made a straight beeline for the hotel lobby where Leigh was checking us in.  I paused only long enough to grab my room key before scurrying off to the elevator.  It took an excruciatingly long time for it to reach the lobby level, but when it did I stepped inside and frantically hit the button for my floor, hoping to get in to my room before I had to speak to anyone.  Our suite was on the top floor; the penthouse, if you will.  It took five minutes for the elevator to ascend to my destination, and that was without any stops.   I fidgeted with the keycard, silently watching the numbers crawl.

When finally I was deposited to my floor, I hurried to the door and struggled with the keycard until the light turned green and I heard a soft “click”.  The door swung open easier than I anticipated, and the force I exerted sent the damn thing banging against the wall.  I cursed loudly, surveying the layout of the common living area.  It was smaller than suites we’d had in the past, but that was all right; I wasn’t really interested in the 50-inch flat screen (although it would have been fun to play Grand Theft Auto on), nor was the mini bar on my radar.  Right now, all I wanted to do was find a bed and fall asleep.

Voices from the hall alerted me that the rest of the Hanson party had made its way to our floor; I carried my belongings to one of the bedrooms, pushing the door open with my foot and, after tossing my things on the desk in the room, flopped down on to the bed, lying across it horizontally.  A short while later, while I was counting the rotations of the ceiling fan, there was a knock at the door.  I grunted “go away”, but apparently it wasn’t loud or forceful enough, because in the next second the door opened and Taylor stepped in, keeping the door as closed as possible as he did so.  A rise of chatter followed him, but was quickly muted when he shut the door.

“Hey,” he was standing awkwardly by the door, hands stuffed in to the back pockets of his jeans.  The greeting was too nonchalant.  I raised an eyebrow in questioning as I sat up, but remained silent.  Taylor’s eyes quickly scanned the room; he took two strides to the arm chair in the corner and sat down when he spotted it, running his hands down the fronts of his thighs.  “So, here’s the thing…Isaac and I have been talking and we think that, after tomorrow’s show, we should just head home and recoup for a couple of weeks.”

“…what?” I blinked a few times at him, hoping my flat tone expressed enough with that one word.  Recoup for a couple of weeks…at home?  That was probably the worst idea ever; I might not have been excited about playing these little radio spots and festivals, but any type of show playing was better than sitting alone in my apartment night after night.

“We just think it’ll be good for us to rest up before we dive in to the full world tour.  We all could use it,” he shrugged.

“Bullshit.  We just got back on the road a week ago; we’ve done two shows.  We don’t need to recoup, we need to pick up momentum.”  I felt my eyes narrow in anger, knowing they had decided this without me and no amount of arguing was going to change either of their minds.

Taylor sighed, squeezing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.  The obvious fight against frustration made me even angrier.   “Look, Zac…it’s just…you haven’t really been very reliable or consistent the last few months and we just…you can’t act like this out on tour.  You just can’t.”

I was sitting on the edge of the bed now, poised to jump to my feet if provoked.  “I’m fine, Taylor,” I spat.

“You’re not!” he shot back.  “You’re far from it, Zac.  I don’t know what the hell is going on, and frankly, with the way you’ve been acting, I don’t give a shit.  All I know is that we can’t rely on you, and if we can’t rely on our drummer, we aren’t going very far.  You’ve got to be on point on that stage, and you’re just not.”

“The thing you’re not getting, Taylor, is that the only time I am on point is when I’m on that stage.”  I could feel my face flush with anger, my ears heating up as I fought the urge to start throwing things.  “What the fuck am I supposed to do if we go home?  Wallow in self-pity, alone in my apartment?  I’ll wind up killing myself if that happens.” I sucked in a sharp breath as the last words came tumbling from my mouth before I could stop them.

My brother’s shoulders sank, his expression going from focused and determined to utter defeat.  “I can’t do this anymore, Zac,” he whispered, hanging his head in his hands.  “You asked me to keep my distance, to stop meddling, and I did, and since then all I’ve witnessed since then is your steady downfall.  I can’t do it anymore, Zac.  I’m sick of walking on eggshells, I’m sick of shit not getting done with work.  I’m sick of watching my little brother destroy himself.”

“So stop watching,” I spat.

Taylor stood then, hands balled in to fists at his side, his eyebrows hanging low over his eyes as he glared at me.  “If you want to push me away Zac, that’s your choice.  But I guarantee you that this is the last time I’m going to be any kind of supportive.  So, this is it—are you going to let me help you or are you going to be your typical stubborn self and drown in your own shit?”

I sprung to my feet and shoved Taylor, hard.  “I will push you if I fucking want to,”

Without hesitation, Taylor shoved me back, turning for the door.  “You’re a fucking mess, Zac.  We’re going home tomorrow.  Your shit better be together before tour starts.”

I grabbed Taylor by the arm and swung him around to face me again.  Even at my full height, Taylor was still a solid three inches taller than I was so I had to look up to make eye contact.  Regardless, I outweighed him by at least ten pounds of solid muscle, so when I pulled my arm back and swung it forward, it collided with his cheekbone with a satisfying crack.

“FUCK!” Taylor shouted, backing away from me.  “Damn it, what the fucking hell was that for?”

“Just because, Taylor.  Just fucking because.” I stomped toward the door, yanking it open.  With my head low, mind racing, I wasn’t paying attention to where my feet were taking me and I charged out in to the common area, my body smacking hard in to someone else’s.  I lifted my eyes from the floor, embarrassed that I’d been so careless, and met the eyes of my unfortunate victim.

“Ryland…”

 

 

 

 

Previous | Next