Hold Me Now - Alive and Kicking

"I'm trying to...."

"Harrison, fuck off." He closed his eyes. He leant back and shook his head. "Just do me a favour and fuck off for a bit, ok?"

"Skinner..."

"The only way I will ever consider forgiving you is if you take your shit right now and go away." He didn't mean that. I was sure he didn't mean that. I opened my mouth to tell him he didn't mean that. He turned away from me and put his headphones in. I glared at his back. Fine. What did he even want me to do with that?

I stood up, grabbed my guitar, and left.

I wandered aimlessly. I was always lost these days. The only thing I used to snap into razor sharp focus for was plotting out when I could get a fix. Without that I didn't really know what my purpose was any more. Not that intellectually I even really thought life HAD a purpose. But I wanted one. I wanted to keep going.

I tried calling Derek. He wouldn't pick up and on the fifth try my number had obviously been blocked. I snorted. Lost my boyfriend, and my source of drugs, and now my best friend... and I didn't have anything to show for it. Except a slightly wonky nose. Nice. Oh well. Still had a job. Things could always get worse! I chuckled darkly, and quickly chided myself. Don't you dare get fired, dude. You HAVE to hold on to something.

I found my feet walking into a dive bar and staring at the alcohol list.

"Here you go." A clipboard landed in front of me with a scant list of names. I frowned at it and looked up at the bartender who gestured to the sign behind him. Oh, like an open mike, sing for your supper type deal. I snorted. Uh. Think I was a bit past that. I started to politely decline when I saw first prize was a $150 bar tab. My eyes widened.

"Is that food and booze or can you just do the booze?"

"I'd recommend you eat buddy." The guy raised an eyebrow at me and my scraggly figúre. I didn't have the energy to be mad about that. He was right. "And usual 'you're drinking too much, we cut you off' rules apply."

"Naturally." I sighed. "Yeah, ok." I scribbled my name down and saw a flash of recognition in his eyes as I started to hand back the clipboard. His mouth fell open as he scanned my face again... looking....

Aw man. He looked real sorry for me. I swallowed and grabbed the sign up sheet back and scribbled out Ernesto Harrison. I rewrote my name, panicking, and kind of sucking at thinking on my feet at the best of times. Ernie Green. Hmmm. Well that was a whole other kettle of fish, but it would do. I handed it back with an awkward smile. The bartender shrugged.

"Fair enough." He winked at me. "Whisky?" Because we had a song called "Whisky" presumably.

"Ummm. Do you have a wine list?" I asked. The smell from the bar was making me a bit nauseous. I wasn't sure I could stomach my drink of choice.

"Yeah mate." The bartender pointed his thumb at the whiteboard. Ah. I spend too much time in too cool hipster wank bars. I'd forgotten the board of shame- with a house red, house white, Prosecco and a chalk joke that if you wanted a Rosé they'd mix one up for you. I grinned at the bartender.

"Hey I bet you one glass of wine I can tell you the year, location, and varietal of whatever your white is."

"That so." The bartender folded his arms. I nodded solemnly and considered turning on my cute begging face- but even if this guy was a fan, he was definitely straight. Straight AND Australian and those guys REALLY hate it when you hit on them. "Go on." He grinned. He turned his back and poured me a glass. I sipped it.

"Ew." I sighed. Well that was a waste. "2022, Sauvignon Blanc, blended, but Australian...and I bet you $50, because I'm ok at top shelf stuff but REAL good at bottom shelf stuff... that's Jacob's Creek."

"You cheat." The bartender rolled his eyes.

"No, I just drink that much Jacob's Creek." I smiled. "But I'll pay for it if you like."

"Na, I feel bad." The bartender waved my money away. "It is shite. We should really pay you to drink it."

"Thanks." He told me the other people playing tonight would start at 5pm. We each had a ten minute set. I'd better be inside by 6.30 to not miss my cue.

"And your name is Ernie Green." He reminded me.

"That's the one." I sighed and went out for a smoke.

They called me and I wandered onto stage and suddenly realised my guitar wasn't in tune.

"So, I have a ten minute set." I vamped. "And I realllly want that bar tab... but I'm also an idiot who didn't tune his guitar...." I winced as I plucked the strings, doing easy sloppy arpeggios as I started to get them in tune with each other. "Ok, we're getting there." I sang. "This is the tuning song, everyone sing along if you know the words... E, E, E, E... E for ... Ephedrine and Ecstacy ... but don't mix those..." I heard a tiny chuckle. I glanced up. Huh. That was undeserved. Nice though. "E to A, oooh that's nice, A for Aderall, acid and.. my personal vice..." I held up my third glass of wine. Someone whistled. "This is pretty edgy material..." I joked. "Should I switch to animals? A to D, D, D, D, D...D for dingoes and... DMTs.. oh god damn it." I paused to a real laugh. I smiled at the crowd. Aussie crowds are always great. "D, D,D to G; I've started meetings, I think it's helping..." I mumbled. "I mean, then I just woke up this morning and decided hey, let's actually steal like half of my boyfriends - oooh..." I paused playing and peered out into the crowd. "Are we cool with gays here? G for GAY but maybe... girlfriend?" I scanned the bar. Mmm. Mixed reactions. "You know what yeah, yeah I definitely stole my G for Girlfriend- and Giraffe, and ganja and glass and grass- although that's just ganja again isn't it? Where was I? Ah G, G, G, G to B, B, B, B- right, so I stole uh... HER... stash. She's a dealer. Turns out an ex addict and a dealer are NOT best lifelong partners. I am not a smart man. And we're at E again! E for- stay in school and don't do drugs kiddos! Oh and Echidnas, you guys like those down here eh? I should say up here. I'm Kiwi. I came here for the landscape. Nothing at all to do with your minimum wage being liveable. Definitely nothing to do with how fucking easy it is to get coke here. I didn't say that!" I swore and started to strum a bit, trying to figure out what I was going to do next and people dutifully clapped for me. I played a few chords and paused. "This chord is C." I smiled. "My favourite." I played a few bars of Eric Clapton before moving on, to one of my own rambling songs about Cocaine. It wasn't a happy song. The highs were never as high as they used to be. It was a habit, something I pencilled in, something that kept me steady but I didn't even like any more. I told the crowd. I sang to them how stupid I felt, how trapped I had become, how I couldn't even remember who I was or what my point on earth was anymore. I'd never actually finished the song- I hadn't finished anything in a long time, but I shrugged my hair off my face and found a nice easy going rhythm you could chant to. "Two weeks, five days... eleven hours, ish..." I glanced at my watch and shrugged. "Two weeks five days, two weeks five days..." To my delight the crowd joined in. I suppose they were mostly musicians themselves, or supporting amateurs at least. That's probably why my rambling set which started off with the worlds lamest alphabet song and ended with a power ballad was received even somewhat warmly... They chanted while I grinned and decided to show off with a little solo. They cheered like crazy and I suddenly felt... shit. Like high again. Like, nice high. Happy high. I smiled as I finished and bowed quickly as I raced off stage... I wanted to bask, but I was also aware there were other kids who probably needed that time in front of a crowd more than I did. I went outside to smoke and let myself ride the warmth of feeling... liked. Or admired. Just a random likeable stranger in a sea of strangers.

"They're voting on the winners." I glanced up from staring at nothing as the bartender passed by. "I think you might win, you should go inside."

"Oh. I forfeit." I lit another cigarette. The bartender smiled at me.

"Then donate the tab to your favourite." He suggested. I thought about that. I mean, I probably wouldn't win. Everyone playing tonight had a crowd with them. This was, like everything in life, a popularity contest, and I was here alone.

"Whatever." I stood up and went to go inside anyway.

I didn't come third, that went to a jazz singer with a voice like spun silk. Well deserved. I clapped for her enthusiastically. My heart sank a little when I didn't come second. I kind of wanted second place. I thought I didn't need all that validation for half a second but... I did want it. Second place was a drummer/vocalist duo like a gender bent Earth Tongue. They were also very good. Fair play, I clapped for them as well, feeling very small.

"And no surprises here... first place... Ernie Green." I frowned as I glanced up. I mean. Ok, I was a pro in a room of amateurs but even I didn't actually think my stupid half a set was better than anyone in the room. I smiled weakly and waved at the people looking at me, cheering for me and... I felt my eyes sting a bit.

I approached a young guy with a guitar once everything had settled. He'd done a couple of covers, with absolutely no genre or sense to them at all. He was pretty happy chatting between sets, but I could see why he hadn't won. He was comfortable on stage but kind of swamped by it. I motioned for him to join me at the bar and gestured between him and the bartender.

"Scott, yeah?" I asked. He shrugged, wide eyed. I don't know if he knew me or if I was just overwhelming him. "I want Scott to have that bar tab." I said. "I liked your set." I told him. "You're gonna be an insane guitarist in a few years." His eyes BULGED and his face went red as he tried to speak. "Good luck." I told him. I grabbed my guitar and started to walk out.

"Wait..." Scott stopped me. "Can I... have your autograph?"

"Me too." The bartender asked quickly. I winced.

"Uhhhh... yeah." I mumbled. "Go on."

"And a photo?" Scott beamed at me. I shrugged.

"As long as you put on a filter that makes me look really pretty." I smiled.

"I can do that!" Scott grinned.

----

I crept in the back door and tiptoed to my room. I paused as I saw the kitchen light was on. I stopped outside the crack of light on the hallway and strained my ears.

"I say one month." Fox was saying. "We give him one month."

"But he's been so much better." Skinner groaned. "I say we chuck him in rehab, get it over with."

"He's on the bones of his arse. Are we paying for that?" Lando asked quietly.

"Yeah. We are." Skinner said. "Last chance to get him back. And if he comes back and he hasn't changed we just cut our losses. At that point we've done everything we can."

"Do we know... did he ever tell you... why?" Fox sighed. "No one just picks up cocaine and lets it ruin their life without a cause right?"

"I honestly don't know." Skinner tapped his fingers. "I don't think he thinks it's ruined his life yet. Maybe that's it. I guess it's still fun for him because... like, he hasn't even been trying..." I pressed my ear closer to the door and lost my balance, falling into the room with my guitar. The guys looked at me as the strings died down and I cleared my throat.

"I have been trying." I said, righting myself as I blushed. "It's been two weeks, almost three. Alcohol but only wine- well. And some vodka this morning but that really fucked me up. No pills. No coke. No weed. I only stole from Derek because... it was easy." I sighed. "I got mugged like two seconds later. I was actually pretty grateful." I sat down at the table and stared at the whisky they were drinking and paused my lips. "I don't think there was a cause actually. I think it was just... really easy." I shrugged. "I think rehab too." I looked at Skinner. "Can't afford it, but you can keep my cut of our albums until I've paid you back."

"Two weeks actually?" Fox said dubiously.

"Truly." I nodded solemnly.

"So maybe you don't need rehab- just to actually go to therapy?" Lando suggested.

"Na. I need to get away from everything." I closed my eyes. "I can't be trusted. I stole from Derek the second I had a chance and I would have just... dove right back in where I left off. It's always the same. Three days sober- then a big fuck up. Five days next time- then a big fuck up. I didn't want to not be able to quit by myself." I sighed and pushed my hair off my face. "But I can't quit by myself. I need all the help I can get. And..." I glanced guiltily across the table at them. "For some reason you haven't given up on me yet. So. I'm asking for help."

------ What's it gonna take to make a dream survive? -----

Two weeks later- that's almost five weeks sober for anyone counting- I opened the door to my flat.

"Hello?" I called out. "Your favourite rockstar is back!" The silence was palpable. I grumbled to myself. Well. It was the middle of the day. They all had jobs. They'd be back tonight and we'd celebrate with pizza and soda and I'd have to tell them the decision I'd made. I smiled thinly to myself. Australia wasn't working for me. Not right now. I needed to take a step back. I needed to be somewhere I didn't know any dealers, and coke was impossible to get even if I did. I'd written an EP while in the clinic. It was the tightest, most hopeful music I'd written in months. I wanted to release it. I wanted to just... re-evaluate who I was. What my point for being was. I think it might be music. I think that was the only thing I was good at. And I was so much more honest through music- I never lied to anyone through a song.

I wanted to tie up some loose ends first. Make amends with anyone I'd fucked over. And then I wanted to catch a plane and fall into a flat in Wellington with Mum nearby. I'd called my old friend Pip, who'd known me since I was a tiny kid jamming in Smokefree Rockquest, and I told him everything. He had a spare room. He had a good head on his shoulders. He was ready to take me in, and help me find a job, and drag me to my therapy appointments.

I didn't want to tell the guys- but I knew they'd understand. I'd come to terms with them finding a new guitarist- someone boring and straight edge who struggled with anything other than 4/4... but someone who would show up and get the job done. I sighed and dropped my bags and slunk into the living room.

"Surprise!" I leapt about a foot in the air.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" I laughed as... the band... and my old workmates... and Mel from the record store and Stu from Salvos and like... fucking half of Brunswick jumped out to meet me. Oh fuck, that was a lot. I giggled weakly as I was embraced by a sea of people. I closed my eyes. They were beginning to sting.

Ah well. Everyone here already knows you're a loser.

I let the tears fall.

----------

I landed in Wellington and into Pip's arms.

"You look ghastly." He appraised me. I nodded.

"Yeah. I have news." I told him. "Take me home first. I need a tea."

Skinner had thought I'd need a wake up call. He said he thought I needed to hit rock bottom to click. Unfortunately the wake up call came when I was already healing. Two days after my homecoming from the clinic I was, you know, tying up loose ends. I'd made my apologies to Jake. I thanked him for everything he's given me, for what a great boss he was, for the thousands of dollars he'd poured into getting me to be a certified Sommelier. I promised if he ever came to Wellington, or I ended back in Melbourne, I was his for as long as he needed. Wine was my second calling- after guitar. It never seemed to affect me in the same way that pure, gritty, harsh alcohol did. I couldn't help but treat it with respect. I think people worried when they saw me eyeing a glass- sipping it, delighting in it- but everyone saw the way I stopped at one. Maybe two. But that really was it. I didn't let myself touch anything else, but I had restraint with wine. Because I loved it. And I respected it enough to be careful with it.

After my goodbyes to Jake I had just the one other major bridge I couldn't walk away from. I needed Skinner to drop me off. He was dubious. I told him it would take two minutes. To wait outside. To bust the door open if I didn't emerge. Privately I didn't think that would be a problem. Derek wanted to see me when less than I wanted to see him and I doubted he would even let me inside. But the least I could do was pay him back.

I'd scraped the cash together by myself. I sold a couple of guitars and my bed. I tried to sell my clothes- but quite rightfully, no one would take those. Except for the band t-shirts, some of which were worth a minor fortune but I wasn't letting those go. I had it all. Everything I owed him officially, plus everything I'd stolen. Even the stuff he didn't know about.

Skinner looked me over before we headed out.

"You would tell me?" He said quietly. "If things had gone south again? Just you do look..."

"Gah, I know." I glanced down at myself. "I still feel like crap as well." I sighed heavily. "Maybe I'm being punished for my sins."

"You'll bounce back." Skinner said.

"Hope so." Hmmm. I ran my hand over my chest. He didn't know how bad I was looking actually. I thought once I stopped using my appetite would return and I'd start feeling human again. But I'd been, like, crazy run down. Achy. Kind of fluey. Was this like, the last throes of withdrawal? I had a horrible rash developing on my chest. Was it some mark of the beast that I was permanently damaged? Hmmm. Permanently Damaged. Mark of the Beast. Good album names.

Skinner wished me luck before I headed to Derek's front door. I nodded grimly. Well. At least this would hopefully go fast. Just rip the band-aid off.

I knocked. He opened the door. I immediately felt awkward. His eyes were red and watery. He blinked as he looked at me and I quickly held the money out.

"Just. A. Dumb. Making amends. Kind of thing." I pushed it into his hands. "I don't want anything."

"Harrison." He looked at the money. He ran his hand through his hair, sighing. "Come in." He nodded for me to follow him, which I did, dragging my feet, glancing back at Skinner. I didn't want to be back here. It all felt very Belly of the whale. I followed Derek to his room, where he sat down heavily at his desk. His eyes were wide and unfocused. He tapped his foot. He picked up a letter from his dresser and handed it to me with a grunt. I scammed it. Ohhh. Damn. I swallowed, glancing at him. Poor Derek.

The letter was a medical one, a bit of jargon, some unpronounceable words, but a very obvious test result. HIV +.

"Oh Derek." I touched his shoulder gently. "I'm sorry." He groaned and shook his head.

"You don't get it." He met my eyes in the mirror. "Harrison... you need to get tested." Oh. OH.

----

It was too late to stop the move to Wellington. Thank fuck I was still on ACC. I booked everything from Australia. HIV huh? You living, breathing, absolute fuckhead of a cliche, Harrison. And I'd been so sure I could escape the country untarred.

Of course it was positive. Not a death sentence, they told me. I caught it within six weeks and treatment was manageable. I mean. It was the rest of my life, but then so was addiction and therapy. It was hard not to see it as divine punishment. I wrote about that. Part of me thought I deserved it. Part of me thought this was the perfect excuse to drink myself to death.

But a different part of me asked the band if they'd be ok if I talked about my experiences through our album release. A different part of me was thinking about Scott. I'm not the only gay rockstar with HIV- but I am one of the only living ones.

"Forgive me if I give myself too much credit." I widened my eyes at them. "But... I thought. There's a chance. I can reach someone like me."