The Morning After

The alarm screamed its unwelcome demand, echoing mercilessly through the exhaustion that shrouded the entirety of his being.  He was far too old to try to keep up with young rockstars.  Incessant throbbing in his head reminded him of his idiocy.  Garrett reached for the ibuprofen he kept on his bedside table, poured out a handful and swallowed them sans water.  It wasn’t his first experience with a long night that resulted in a painful morning.  The pounding behind his eyes intensified the closer he got to vertical.  If coffee were not the next step in his recovery process, upright would not have been something he chanced.  

Having survived the treacherous journey to the kitchen, Garrett found himself waiting, impatiently, for the coffee pot to fill.  Even leaning against the counter, the room felt like it was spinning.  He hated that sensation.  When he was laying down he could put one foot on the floor to anchor himself, but standing up, the same feet failed to do anything for him.  There was no anchor, only internal tumult.  He laid his head down on the granite countertop.  The cold stone felt good against his cheek.  Between that and the bitter smell of the coffee, Garrett thought it possible he could achieve a semblance of functionality.  

He pulled the pot out and slid his mug beneath the scalding black stream.   Patience was not his strong suit, especially given the state of his aching head. Sweet and light would have been his normal preference, but straight black seemed more appropriate after the previous evening’s “debauchery.”  The harsh truth was that it wasn’t even an alcohol induced hangover.  All of this misery was simply from being up too late and playing music with Purpose at incredible decibels until dawn.  His age had definitely caught up with him.  In his past life he wouldn’t have even gone to bed, and been able to do it all again the next night, all while loaded on gin and tonic.

His new reality was far less forgiving.  The coffee wasn’t much more understanding.  Garrett winced as his first gulp blistered the roof of his mouth in a way typically reserved for molten cheese on fresh out of the oven pizza.  The pain didn’t stop him from chugging down the rest though.  Garrett figured the endorphins produced to fight the searing pain of fused tastebuds would serve the dual purpose of dispelling the pounding in his head and allowing him to begin his day fueled by a serotonin high.  

Garrett wasn’t exactly sure how he wanted to proceed with the band.  The next step would be critically important.  There was something about them that made him question whether or not a typical industry contract would be the right fit.  Before he could consider what his best course of action with the band would be, his phone rang.

“This is Pearce,” his voice little more than a rasp.

“Garrett, it’s Peter.  How did things go last night?” Peter Trent was a twenty-five year old Yale grad who happened to head up the scouting division of Trident records.  Garrett couldn’t even bring himself to think the word boss, let alone acknowledge it out loud.

“Fine. Just getting going.  What do you need?” Garrett’s response was curt.

“You still are a rockstar aren’t you? This is why I knew you’d make a great scout.  Still partying like you’re one of them.”  Peter laughed.

“What do you want Peter?” Garrett could barely contain his annoyance.  As far as he was concerned Peter was just a suit.  A money grabber with no appreciation for the craft that was music.

“Just making sure you were on the road.  Can’t have you letting your partying get in the way of your paycheck.”

“Your paycheck you mean.  I’ve gotta go.”  Garrett hung up the phone and fought the urge to throw it against the wall.  This guy had been riding him like Seabiscuit for months.  This was not a morning he was willing to be put through his paces just to satisfy some pencil pusher’s version of a work ethic.  Besides, he hadn’t been this excited about work in longer than he could remember.

It wasn’t just this new band’s music that had taken hold of his soul, but their passion for living a life that was bigger than themselves.  Making it in the music industry was an afterthought.  If it happened it happened, but that wasn’t why they wrote the songs they wrote. The truth was that Garret wished he had the kind of conviction about anything that his new found friends had about seemingly everything. 

Downing the last swill of brewed adrenaline, Garret headed for a hot shower and shave.  He found the routine of ordering his appearance helped to order his mind as well, and he definitely needed clarity this morning.  If he just signed the band outright they would be subjected to Peter and his ulterior motives.  They would lose control of their own vision and be railroaded toward a corporate image and message.  That wasn’t what he wanted for them.  He wanted to guide them and protect them from the mistakes he had made.  It was as though, in one night, Garret had adopted these guys.  He felt responsible for ensuring their success, or at least giving them the best possible chance at it. 

Garret emerged from the shower, wrapped a towel around himself and ran his palm over the mirror.  The visage reflected back at him through the steam streaked glass was nearly unrecognizable.  The eyes were focused, clear, and shining with intensity.  He worked quickly to clear the day old stubble from his cheeks and chin.  His mind still fixated on the decision laid out before him. 

Guiding someone else in their career was a heavy responsibility and Garret was loathe to misadvise these young men.  They had opened up to him and trusted him with their music.  It was an honor for him, and he wanted to repay that trust with wisdom.  As he mulled this over, he found himself reflecting on his own experience and wishing he had someone that was willing to mentor him as he began his career.  There were so many decisions he wished he had back to make over again.  Life would have gone so differently for him.  Or maybe it wouldn’t have.  Maybe he would have found another way to screw things up.  In retrospect, he had an even greater talent for that than he did for music. 

This train of thought led him to consider who he trusted enough now to let play the role of advisor.  To guide him in his decision making.  The truth was he didn’t trust anyone that much.  Not anymore.  There were too many Peters in the world.  Too many that were more interested in what they could get out of you, than what could be accomplished together.  Vision and principle were dreams of a bygone era. 

Garret had learned that lesson the hard way.  He had let the dreams of youth cloud his judgment.  Trust in the wrong person had cost him control of his career.  More so, that broken trust is what cost him his identity.  Hindsight revealed an ugly truth.  The person he became was a caricature of himself.  Everything was an extreme.  It took him a long time to recover his soul from the chaos of life as a rockstar. 

Now he sought to be authentic in all of his interactions.  Other people’s opinions no longer influenced his decisions.  The only person that had to live with the fall out of his choices was him.  He had long ago driven away everyone else with the way he had behaved.  Now he focused on living a life he was proud of.  A life that required no explanation or excuse. 

The freedom Garret found in living a life without secrets propelled him into opportunities he never thought he’d have a chance at again.  Honesty was the currency that trumped nearly everything else, as long as it was delivered with a healthy dose of grace.  Harsh truth was still hard for most people to swallow.  Coupled with a focus on hope for the future instead of condemnation for the past, the truth Garret spoke became incredibly inspiring and effective. 

As these thoughts ruminated, the coffee began to do its job, and the pain in his head dulled to an annoying ache instead of a blinding throb.   His focus became sharper.  A plan began to formulate in the back of his mind.  It wasn’t one his boss would approve of, but at that moment, Garret really couldn’t care less what Peter would or wouldn’t agree to. 

He strode back to the counter where the coffee maker had just finished brewing the pot he had been too impatient to wait for.  Garret rummaged through the junk drawer situated directly below the old, white, Mr. Coffee, casting aside miscellaneous debris that had been collecting there for as long as he could remember until he found his old Parker Jotter and a yellow legal pad buried at the bottom.

Another cup of coffee poured, light and sweet this time, and he pulled up a seat at the oak kitchen table.  Six chairs surrounded its perimeter, far more than Garret needed.  Often he mused that a table like this really was designed for a family, not a bachelor who was rarely home.  Music had always been Garret’s first and, more often than not, only love, and that left little room for anything, or anyone, else.  Devoted as he was, it wouldn’t have been fair to ask anybody to knowingly take a back seat to his music.  Eventually even he had to put the music ahead of himself.  Now the question was, could he help this group of young men do the same?