Just a Positive Pregnancy Test - London Casey Page 0,9
her to get some experience on the road. To feel out crowds. I wanted her to figure out her voice a little more. What I should have done was just thrown her into a studio with a producer.”
The thought of that angered me.
My life without Mila…
Can you imagine that? If she ended up in a studio? Where would I be right now? Probably four shots deep with my arm around some woman, ready to take her back to my motel room for the night…
“I love her, Mickey.”
“I know you do,” he said. “That’s the part that gets to me the most. I can see that you love her. And I know she loves you. What does it all have to do with me?”
“These shows…”
“Look, Silas, you have to figure out what you want. You were on a path to become the next biggest thing in the world. You had hits. You had the growing fanbase. Remember those first two tours? The stages got bigger. The crowds got bigger. Remember what happened?”
I nodded. “I remember, Mickey.”
“It took a lot of balls to come to me and say you were slipping. You wanted to pull back a little. That was fine with me. Last thing I wanted was for you to end up dead. So we pulled back. You had more hits. You had smaller shows that were packed. How many times did the fire department show up at a show because it was overbooked? And the night they cut power at that one place?”
“I went out back and climbed up on the hood of a van and played acoustic for two hours,” I said.
“That turned you into a legend. You told the executives to kiss your ass. You were doing it your way. But… it’s always still there, Silas.”
“What is?”
“The bigger stages. The bigger dream. You haven’t written anything new in a while. I can get you booked with a couple newer bands and make something happen. You might have to be an opening act for a little while. But the smaller venues you can headline yourself. You do that for six months, maybe a year… then the script is flipped. You’ll be the headliner.”
“I just feel like something is missing here, Mickey.”
“Something or someone?”
I didn’t answer the question.
“Christ, Silas,” Mickey said.
“I know,” I said.
“You can do anything you want,” Mickey said. “Anything. Your name is always there. Ready to go. But you can’t keep going back and forth. You’re going to piss off a lot of people. The wrong people too.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I know. It’s just not the same without her with me.”
“You know what? Go write about it, Silas. Let me pay the tab here. Let me make a quick call and I’m putting you up in a nice hotel. My treat. Take your guitar, a bottle of booze and go write it all out. I have a feeling there’s some big songs inside of you still.”
“What about me writing and selling it?” I asked. “What if I record at home and send it to you to shop it around?”
“That’s what you want to do next?”
“I’d get my music out there.”
“Someone else singing it.”
“I don’t know, Mickey.”
“Oh, Silas, you’re really lost here. Just go to the hotel and see what happens.”
I stood up. “You sure?”
“I’ve got this. Go do your thing.”
“Thanks, Mickey.”
“Hey,” he said. “You owe me.”
“I owe you?”
“Mila has talent. A lot of talent.”
“Don’t guilt me. She wanted to taste the stage a little and she did. She missed being home more. And for the record, she and I can do the same thing together. We can write songs. Good songs. Think about that for a second.”
“Bring me some songs, Silas.”
I slipped my hands into my pockets and put my head down.
I left the bar to go to some hotel.
Still alone.
The hotel was nice.
Much better than the shit motels I was used to.
The room was big enough for a bed, a small kitchen area, and a living room area with a couch and a gas fireplace.
I sat on the couch with my guitar.
A notebook in front of me.
I sat there for two hours.
I didn’t drink a drop from the whiskey bottle in front of me.
And I only wrote Mila’s name ten times.
Trying to dig into my own emotions, finding something to offer the world. To write about her. To write about me. To write about us.