The Music Of My Life

I showed up on a Saturday afternoon about 3 and let myself into the apartment with the key I still had. Metallica was blasting from the stereo, so I supposed I could have lit off a small bomb and still not have been heard. I didn't find anyone until I got to the bedroom, then we all got a surprise. Jimmy Ralston--yes, that Jimmy Ralston--was on the bed doing Kennedy doggy, and my moaning ex-girlfriend was as big as a house, at least seven months pregnant!

"Fuck!" I screamed, breaking the pair from their reverie, if you will, as they both stopped and turned to me, open-mouthed. I looked back at the pair, and then realized the stupidity of the situation and laughed aloud.

"Apparently, a lot of fucking from what I can see!" I yelled in glee before dissolving in tears of laughter.

The fornicating duo ceased their activity and separated, both looking shocked.

"Bobby! You should have called. I would have..."

"Hahaha! You would have what? Unfucked yourself? I warned you about him," I said.

"Maybe you should have heeded your own warning, shithead," Jimmy chimed in. "Once I got you out of the way, she was easy pickings. Easy. We were fucking almost before you got to Albion!"

"Well, it seems my loss is your gain," I said cheerfully.

"You seem awfully happy for a loser," Jimmy said.

I shrugged and walked over to the closet where I had left a few things when I got sent to Albion. I reached into the closet for a pair of gray cowboy boots, then reached down into the toe of the right boot and brought out a ring box. Kennedy's eyes teared up when she saw the diamond engagement ring.

"Oh, God," she whispered absently.

I closed the box and stuck it in my pocket. I took the boots, too. I walked out to my Mustang, which I had gotten out of storage the day before, and left for my next adventure.

I was proud of myself that I was able to wait until I got out of sight of the old apartment before I started to cry like a baby. I tried to make it seem like I no longer cared, but in reality I was devastated. Jimmy had set me up, but he had help to do it. She had to have given him access to the car. Oh yeah, them shacking up and her getting knocked up? Made me no difference after Jimmy opened up his big mouth.

I got a great reference from Sweetwater, and two months later I had a job at Paramount Recording Studio in Los Angeles. I loved my job, and the LA music scene was everything everybody always said it was. A few months after I got settled in, I got hooked up with a blues-rock group. Six months down the road we were playing all over the state.

Although I wasn't in love with anyone, my social life was doing fine. Between my natural charm and being in a band, my sex life was even better. There were times that I was afraid I might have been wearing a layer of skin off my dick. Extracurricular sex was practically on the menu anytime in this place. Of course, that might explain why STDs and extramarital affairs were rampant. I made it my policy to check for wedding rings and always wear a condom during sex, even if my partner told me they were on birth control.

Maybe God figured he owed me one or I was just in the right place at the right time. I was part of a crew working on a recording for an up-and-coming rock band that had it going on, but on the final song things just weren't clicking. Group members went back and forth because they felt it really needed that one more song.

We were all on the clock making good coin while the band debated what they were going to do, but then I got an idea. With so much time on my hands at Albion, I had started writing songs, something I barely dabbled with before. I filled most of a book with my prison songs, and had continued to write after I got out. I kept the book with me at work so I could scribble during dead times. I had the song the band needed, if they would give me the time of day to hear it.

Fortunately, the lead guitarist had heard my band and liked us, so he convinced his band mates to give me a listen. I got my book, he handed me his Les Paul Classic and I played. Heads were nodding.

"I think if we sped it up a bit and added more texture to the bridge this would work for you guys," I said.

The five band members and I threw some ideas back and forth, they worked on it for about 30 minutes and finally we recorded it. I got my first writing credit, even if I wasn't expecting to see many dollars.

I was right about not getting a big payday out of that song, but it wound up being the single that received the most airplay. It was amazing to hear a song I wrote on the radio.

"So what else you got in that book that we can use?" came the voice on the other end of the phone about two months later.

John Valentine, the lead guitarist for Chess Piece, and I had a lot in common, musically. We went through my book, and he picked out a half-dozen songs he thought we could re-work for the band. Much to my surprise, he suggested that he and I get together and write another half-dozen. Hell yes, I agreed.

It took us six months to Frankenstein six songs and re-work my six songs for the band. Naturally, they recorded at Paramount, and in addition to engineering on the creation, I got to help with backing vocals and guitar work. John and I even worked out a hot guitar duet for one of our collaborations.

The band went out on a small tour just as the CD was hitting the airwaves, and by the time the tour finished, Chess Piece was a household name on the West Coast. A tour for the rest of the country was quickly set up. Meanwhile, four songs from the album received good airplay nationwide.

Just like that I was a hit songwriter as the CD went platinum, selling one million copies. I wasn't born yesterday, though, and kept my day job.

John and I wrote nine songs together and I wrote three solo for the next Chess Piece album, for which I also served as producer. The album again went platinum, and one of my solo songs, "Reach Higher," was number one for two weeks. The guys invited me to accompany them on their nationwide tour. I accepted and had a blast. I even sat in for backing vocals and guitar on a few of the shows. I never had a clue how tough it was to tour.

I took it as the compliment it was meant to be that the guys starting calling me "The Sixth Chess Piece."

The band's record label threw a giant party when the CD hit platinum. As one-half of the album's songwriting team, of course, I was invited.

Trust me, cocaine is a given at every big party in LA, and this party was no different. I was usually able to figure out where it was at the parties I attended and stayed away from those rooms. Not a big deal. On this night, however, I was passing by one of the "coke motels" when a woman staggered out of the room and right into me, spilling my Don Julio tequila down the front of my shirt.

I jumped back when we collided, then I looked into a pair of familiar bright blue eyes set into a much older-looking face than it should have been.

"Oh... Bobby!" she hesitated. "I'm so sorry. I didn't see you."

"Well, there it is! I finally got an apology out of you for something!" I snarked.

She looked up at me in shock. She stammered, but nothing came out of her mouth.

"Hey, sorry I never sent a baby gift. How rude of me," I continued on.

Even though she was high as a kite, she still looked struck by my comment. I was confused.

"I... gave... the baby up for adoption after she was born," Kennedy said. "Jimmy didn't want her. Said he enjoyed knocking up your woman, but didn't want to raise any kid."

I saw the tears in her eyes. At one time, I would have given her a caring hug. Now I couldn't get away from her fast enough. She disgusted me. I shook my head sadly and walked off to find some paper towels to dry my shirt.

She sniffled. I couldn't tell if it was because she was tearing up or because of the cocaine she had just snorted.

I didn't know if she was still with Jimmy. I wasn't about to ask. I didn't see him, but I assumed he was inside the room doing coke.

Because I really enjoyed engineering, I was still working part time at Paramount. They were glad to have a hit songwriter and producer on staff. I was still writing by myself and with John, and I was producing for eight bands.

I was producing for one of those bands when Jimmy Ralston walked into the studio. He was contracted to play bass. He smirked when he saw me. I glared back at him, then I crooked a finger at the band's manager. He came onto my side of the glass.

"That man needs to leave now," I said to the manager as I pointed to Jimmy.

"No, he has to stay. He knows the music. He's been practicing for weeks now," the manager said.

"Fine. Then I'll leave and Sandy Levy can produce for you. Hope to work with you sometime in the future," I said as got up from my chair.

The group's leader, singer Freeman Hatch, came jogging out to the parking lot just as I was getting into my new Mustang Cobra.

"Hey, I don't know what's going on with you and Jimmy R., but we just can't cut him loose. We contracted him for this gig," Freeman said.

"I'll reimburse you," I said pointedly.

"I won't work with that man... ever. He'll tell you it's because he stole my girlfriend and knocked her up, but I'll tell you it's because of my vacation in the Indiana state pen another lifetime ago," I said.

My past wasn't a secret, especially my incarceration.

"He dropped a dime on you?" Freeman asked.

"After he persuaded said girlfriend to give him access to my car," I responded. "I don't do coke, either the cola or the powder."

"Okay then. I get it. He's history," Freeman said.

"Perfect," I said.

I guessed Freeman passed the word around about Jimmy because his prospects around LA suddenly evaporated, from what I was told. He was working as a waiter in a pretty nice restaurant and still attending the parties, but nobody was hiring him to play for them, and nobody was picking him up to be in their band.

I wasn't sure where Kennedy was working, nor did I care. When I did see her, she was high. Apparently she had gotten back into coke big-time, and from what I could see it was taking its toll.

Despite the fact that she and Jimmy were still together, they had never married. I was also hearing stories that she occasionally strayed from Jimmy, particularly when she needed a taste and didn't have the cash. While I couldn't give a shit about him, it was tough seeing the sweet little girl I grew up with turned into a coke whore.

My life was going great professionally, and along with that I was doing great financially. So great that I decided to build a four-bedroom home with a professional recording studio attached, so I could record small groups without leaving the comforts of my own property.

Chess Piece had become a major band, and five years later could boast album sales in the millions. I had either written or co-written all of their hits, including three number one singles. I also wrote a string of hits for several other acts whose styles were completely different from Chess Piece. I was producing several albums a year as well.

It was almost 9 PM when I got out of Paramount after a long production session. I had snacked on a few things at the studio during the day, but right then I needed a meal... any kind of meal, even if it had the word "happy" in front of it. Okay, not quite that bad. Still, I stopped at the McDonald's closest to the studio and went inside to order. I was looking at the order board, not paying attention to much else until I looked down to order. She looked at me like she hoped the floor would swallow her up. I can't say I blamed her. Her uniform was ill-fitting and seemed to hang on her. She looked incredibly tired. To say she was pale would have been the understatement of the decade.

"Ummm... how can I help you... Bobby?" she asked.

I know my mouth gaped open for a second until I regained my wits.

"Uhhh... I'll take a quarter pounder with cheese, large fries and a large diet," I said, watching her but trying not to watch.

"How have you been?" I asked.

"I'm working at a McDonald's. That's how I'm doing, Bobby," she spat at me.

"Oh, okay," I said. "Say hello to Prince Charming for me."

"He left me about a year ago," she whined.

I shrugged, paid for my meal, got my stuff and left.

Call me a chump. I was sitting in my favorite La-Z-Boy eating my food when I got to feeling bad for what I had witnessed minutes before. I knew she was completely responsible for her own place in this world, but then I started to remember the good times we shared, especially when we were kids. I started to feel I at least owed it to her parents to lend a hand, especially since I could easily afford it. I knew the place closed at 11, so I had plenty of time to get back there in time.

I took the new Mustang because I knew she'd probably recognize the old one. A few minutes after 11, she came out of the back door with several other employees and headed to a beat-up, old Chevy POS. I followed her home at a discreet distance. She pulled into a trailer park. Yeah, I know the owners of those parks prefer the term "mobile home park," but trust me, this really was a trailer park. Her unit was toward the back, and was little more than a travel trailer.

I sat in my car for about five minutes debating with myself if I should do this. Part of me hated her; part of me probably still loved her just a little. I knocked on the door. She looked scared when she first opened the door, then shocked, then angry. She had a little coke residue on her nose.

"Wow. You came here just to rub my shitty life in my face? What a great guy!" she hissed.

I honestly didn't know what kind of a reaction my visit would get, but I can't say I was surprised by her anger.

"How about shutting the fuck up and just listening for a change?" I spat angrily at her.

She actually looked guilty and dropped her eyes, before mumbling, "Okay, what?"

I spent the next 10 minutes laying out a plan I came up with in the last hour. That started with Kennedy spending a full month in a rehab program at a highly-rated, very private facility, paid for by me. After that she would come to work for me as an assistant. She could live with me in my house, staying in a guest room, until she felt she could afford a place of her own. The only stipulation was that she had to stay clean, in and out of my house. She would be jettisoned in a heartbeat if I felt she wasn't staying clean.

"So you want to be my dad and my jailer?" she sneered.

"I know your brain is starting to go on vacation, but hear this: I don't want to be your dad, but since he's not here and you can't do it, I guess I'll have to be the one to take care of you. As for being your jailer... not going to happen. This will be on you. You get straight, you keep yourself straight. If you choose not to, that's all on you. But this way, I'll be able to live with myself, face your parents knowing I gave it a shot.

"You want to keep living as a coke whore, that's on you."

She surprised me by starting to cry. I reluctantly wrapped her in a hug, which just made her cry harder. She still had on her McDonald's uniform, and while hugging her I had to fight off the sickening smell of the restaurant. I also noticed that her hair was greasy, and as I held her I started to realize that not all of the stench coming off of her could be blamed on her job.

She finally stopped crying and eventually gained control of herself, even though I knew she was high. She sat in silence for a few minutes, then started nodding her head, slowly at first, then more definite.

"You would do that for me... after everything? After I helped him set..."

"Yes. I figured that out. That's when I knew you were gone to me. Just one question. Were you already fucking him before you set me up?"

"Yeah," she murmured.

"Fucking bass players!" I snarled.

Two days later, Kennedy started rehab. I visited once per week, as the rules allowed. She looked like shit the first two times I visited, but the light in her eyes was turned back on the last two times I went. We also started making plans for her moving in with me.

She went into rehab and came back out with one small suitcase. That wasn't going to cut it, so the first thing we did after I picked her up on release day was hit a clothing store. I told her to buy a full wardrobe. She was hesitant at first, so I figured I'd loosen her up a bit by doing the "ooh and ah" thing as she came out of the dressing room with each new outfit. In truth, she had gained a couple of much-needed pounds on her frame and reminded me of the Kennedy that I had dated "a hundred years ago."

While I will not profess to understand the female brain, I know enough to understand the importance of shoes. Most guys own a pair of black shoes, a pair of brown and a pair of sneakers. The store had a shoe store in the back section, so once she got her clothes chosen, I grabbed her hand and led her back. She was like a kid at Christmas. I very much enjoyed running up my Mastercard, and she looked kind of guilty when I signed the receipt.

"I can pay you back a little..." she started before I cut her off, not unkindly.

"It's okay, Ken. I'm doing all right," I said softly. "If I had to put a label on it, I'd guess I'd be called... rich."

She looked surprised. I shrugged. I really hadn't thought about it before. I lived good but didn't spend outrageously. I took nice vacations. My house was nice, but certainly not a megapalace... or even a palace, for that matter.

I guess my only concession to my income was the fact that I had a really cool, large Lionel train set-up in my basement, professionally wired.

I had Kennedy doing everything from running errands to setting up the food tables when I was producing, either at my home studio or at Paramount. I started teaching her some technical tasks as we went along. I knew she was smart and would catch on, but I was really impressed with her work ethic. She made me proud every day.

At home, we existed comfortably after the first couple of weeks of awkwardness. We shared cooking duties, and she was surprised at how much better I had gotten through the years. Sometimes we even tag-teamed the meal, particularly if we were having some friends over.

Parties are a fact of life in my world, but I knew they would present a problem for Kennedy, especially at first. She stayed home for the first couple of parties I attended, then she clung to my side like a puppy for the first two she attended with me. She looked miserable during both parties.

"What's going on, Kennedy? Just relax and have fun. I know you like to party," I said.

"I... I'm not really sure anymore how to party without coke, it's been so long," she admitted. "I don't want to let you down, Bobby."

"I don't want you to let yourself down, Ken. You've been there, done that, with cocaine. You've moved past that, and if anyone pressures you to do it, they are NOT your friend. If anyone pressures you, you come find me. I AM your friend.

It was incredibly awkward the first time I went on a date. Kennedy and I had talked about this earlier, but I'm sure she felt as awkward as I did when I told her I'd be home later and left for my evening.

This was one of the few times I didn't spend the night with my date, who was very understanding of the situation. We had a nice dinner and had sex afterward, but I cleaned up after we were done and drove home about 11:30. I was surprised to find Kennedy sitting in the living room reading when I walked in the door.

"Hey, Ken. Good book?" I said, trying to act casual.

She blushed, teared up and ran out of the room. Obviously, she was trying to act casual, as well.

Kennedy only went on three dates for the first six months she lived with me, and she came home early on all three of those. I knew from experience that she was a very sensual woman, so I wondered and worried what the story was. I was afraid, however, to ask, because things had been going so well for both of us.