Gray - By Pete Wentz Page 0,52

nearly a week since I’ve done any work. This is news to me. I tell him I think he’s mistaken, and he assures me he’s not. I hang up, take another pill, and go back to staring at the ceiling. The sunlight makes a prism above my head. The shades are fluttering in the artificial air. We have been cleared for takeoff. Then the phone rings again, and I stare at the number. It’s our manager. I have been expecting this call for a while now. Eventually, someone was bound to tell him about this. I sit up in bed and clear my throat, answer.

“What are you doing?” he asks, though it’s clear from his tone that he’s not interested in hearing the answer.

“Hey, hey, man,” I mutter, my voice still buried beneath the covers. “I, uh . . .”

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“I’m just in, uh . . . I’m in bed. I don’t know why.”

“I know why you are. You do too,” he says, losing a bit of steam now. “Look, I—I’m not going to tell you how I know about the pills. It’s not important how I know, it’s not important who told me . . .”

He doesn’t have to tell me. I know Martin called him. Martin panics easily. He is a good friend.

“ . . . that’s not the issue here. The issue is the pills. And, uh, and getting you some help. I’m not judging you, I’m not asking why you’re taking so many, that’s not the issue either. The issue is, uh . . .”

The issue doesn’t matter. He is going to want me to see another shrink. Some industry vet, someone who’s been through the wars, seen the best and brightest burn out and fade away. Someone with a dangly earring, I bet.

“ . . . the issue is the band. And what your little, uh, little episode is doing to it. And, of course, getting you healthy.”

“Of course,” I say, though I’m not sure why.

“So, I want you to go talk to someone. He’s a good guy. He helps people like you get through, uh, through situations like this. He comes recommended, of course.”

“Of course.”

“So I’ve e-mailed him and he’s going to be in touch. I want you to go see him.” New York traffic rattles in the background. Our manager is talking to me on the street. “Look, the band is one thing, but, uh, it’s not the only thing, you know? Like I said, I’m not judging you, but I am, uh, you know . . .”

I do know. I just want him to say it.

“ . . . I’m worried about you. I want you to be okay.” He shifts tone to make it clear that he’s wrapping up this call. “So . . . go see him. For me. Would you do that?”

I tell him I will. He hangs up feeling satisfied with himself, thinking he has swooped in and saved the day. I imagine him taking a confident swig from his coffee. He is a good friend. I have a lot of them, even if I don’t realize it. Despite overwhelming desires to the contrary, I get out of bed, pull on a hoodie, and head down to the studio, for the first time in a week. I leave most of the pills under my pillow, though I’m not sure why I’m even hiding them anymore. A couple of girls in the Oakwood hot tub whisper as I pass. They probably assumed I had died up in my room. It is bright and sunny and eighty-five degrees, but I am freezing. My hands are sweaty, my face is ashen. I begin life as a functioning addict not because I want to, but because I have to. I owe it to the guys, to our manager, to Her. We’ve come too far—from the KoC halls in Arlington Heights to the end of the continental United States—to give up now. I’m not about to call it a revelation, but it’s close. Most times, revelations come when you least expect them.

When I enter the studio—a big, plush place with platinum records lining the halls and cocaine buried in the fibers of the carpets—the receptionist doesn’t recognize me, and I have to be buzzed in by an engineer. No one says a word to me, trying hard to maintain that well-crafted vibe of professionalism, but they clearly didn’t expect to see me back here. This record is being made