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1
WALKER
You’d think being a drummer I’d be used to a pounding in my head and a ringing in my ears. But standing in this brightly lit coffee shop at 7:00am on a weekday morning in the same clothes that I wore out last night, I couldn’t be more miserable.
The sunglasses I have perched on my eyes can only do so much to help alleviate some of the brightness of the sun shining through the windows, reflecting off of the phones of everyone standing around me. The mob of people rushing to get to work impatiently stare down the baristas as they maneuver around each other.
No one is paying me a lick of attention and for that, I’m extremely grateful.
“James,” one of the baristas calls, sliding my coffee across the pick-up counter after slipping a sleeve on the steaming drink. I straighten up from where I’ve been leaning against the back wall and make my way through the throng of the waiting crowd. I always use my first name when ordering in a place like this. Let’s be honest; it’s a basic-ass name and not very remarkable. Whereas when I use Walker, if someone is watching a little too closely and has listened to the radio for the past ten years, they might put two and two together and turn my quick trips in for a cup of coffee into mayhem.
“Thanks, man,” I tell him, dropping a twenty-dollar bill in the tip jar.
The guy’s eyes widen, looking back and forth between the tip and me. I see a flash of recognition before turning and getting the fuck out of there. It’s not that I don’t like talking to people when they recognize me, but I look and feel like shit so I’d rather get out of there unscathed and back to my untouched hotel room for a quick nap before heading in for rehearsal and sound check later today.
The sun is giving a surprising amount of warmth for a January morning in Los Angeles and I wish I didn’t have my jacket on. I’ve been used to the snow and cold living in Pennsylvania the past few months. With the break from touring and the holidays, I spent some time in my hometown with my folks and twin sister. I’ve only been back in L.A., for a week and now am getting ready to take off on tour for the next four months straight.
It was nice to visit them for a little bit, because I know my family feels robbed of my time spent with them over the years since I started touring when I was nineteen and haven’t made it back very often. So, while the break from live shows and touring wasn’t entirely welcomed by me, it did feel good to have some down time with them.
By the time I make it back to the hotel, I feel the alcohol starting to sweat out of my pores, and I make a mental note to send these clothes out to be washed before we head out tomorrow night. Living on a bus doesn’t allow for much closet space, so I’ve got to keep my clothes clean as much as I can.
I give a wave to the front desk workers and make my way over to the elevator bank. It’s only when I step on and the doors are about to close do I realize I have no clue what room number I’m in or which floor to go to.
Sticking my hand in the path of the closing door, I wince as it just about shuts on my fingers. That would’ve sent Arun, Whisper Me Nothings manager from day one, into a spiral if I showed up for the brand-new tour with a broken hand.
“Can one of you lovely people tell me what room I’m in again?” I call out, my voice echoing off the pristine white walls of the lobby. The place is much classier than my behavior at the moment, but I put on my most charming smile as I look at the front desk staff, awaiting their response.
One of the women opens and closes her mouth, before opening again, obviously questioning if she really should yell out my room number across the entire lobby. I do a quick survey, noting only one other guest in the room. The man is shuffling around the coffee bar, hunched over his cup as he dumps more than a handful of creamers in, completely unaware of the conversation going on twenty feet away from him.
I’m not trying to judge people, but I highly doubt this elderly man is going to leak my room information to any fans.
“I think we can trust him.” I wink at the women. The elevator starts to beep as I block the doors from closing. The sound shoots through my head, reminding me that those last two whiskey sours last night were a mistake.
“1826,” the taller of the two calls out, elbowing her counterpart when she shoots her a look.
“Appreciate it,” I say, tossing them both one last smile before stepping away from the doors and punching the floor number, letting the elevator finally get on its way. Taking a picture of the room number is a habit I’ve clearly lost over the time spent off the road.
The music pouring through the overhead speakers is supposed to be light and relaxing although it’s anything but at this moment. My body sways as the elevator ascends, as if it senses that I’m close to a bed to and passing out for a few hours.
I say a silent thank you when my key works as I arrive at my room. Not bothering with my laces, I kick off my black boots and strip down to my briefs in record time before sliding onto the crisp white sheets.
Being hungover is not the way I wanted to start this tour, but the anticipation in my chest last night had me convinced that just one more drink wouldn’t hurt, even after I was several past intoxicated. There’s been a lot to celebrate the past few nights and we’re only two days into the new year. But hell, it’s only day one of the tour, and I have many months ahead of me to build my tolerance back up. I may be dubbed the “dad” of the band, but that doesn’t mean I still can’t hang like I used to in the height of our party days.
I fall asleep with a smile on my face, despite the ache in my bones and the familiar nervousness in my stomach ahead of tonight’s show.
* * *
I take a deep breath in, imagining the musk of a couple thousand bodies replacing the almost sterile scent in the arena. Cigarettes, body odor, and beer combined to create the most intoxicating scent and I can’t wait to breathe in a lungful.
Standing at the back of the arena near the sound booth, I take a long look around before tipping my head back, eyes closed, enjoying the excited buzz of the crew running around getting everything squared away for the show. I can feel the anticipation stirring in my veins, palms twitching, ready to unleash the pent-up energy I have stored up the past year.
While a year off may sound nice, it was anything but relaxing for any of us. If we didn’t get our asses back out on tour like we were scheduled to, lawsuits were going to start popping out of the woodwork.
I sense Hayden lean back next to me before I even open my eyes.
“Doing all right, man?” he asks.
When I look over at him, his shoulders are stiff with tension, but the bags under his eyes have long since cleared. He still carries a bit of a haunted quality around with him like a second skin, but the time off has been good for him.
