Thunder

I once embraced the “starving artist” cliché wholeheartedly, belting out endless raspy laments in dive bars. Before dawn, I’d scrub grungy toilets, often cursing my talents on hands and knees, only to sling skunky pints until 2 am.

That’s why when a prophetic, black and white image from 1978—four years ahead of our present day in 1974—found its way to me, my eyes were like lightning bolts striking the earth.

The photo in question was a picture of me and my band, one that up until later that night, wasn’t even official yet. I nipped the corner of the monochromatic snapshot with my fingernail. My other hand gripped my stomach as sickening euphoria churned (and it wasn’t just the quaaludes). Even in the muted hues of the picture, the light refracted off our Grammy statues like diamonds in a sunbeam.

It felt as though gravity momentarily ceased to exist—or maybe my spirit floated outside of my body altogether—as I stared at this momentous photograph. I had laid awake many nights, staring at the ceiling with an amber-tipped Marlboro in my mouth, yearning for such a reality. And there I stood, in a pivotal picture from a moment in time I had only ever fantasized about. I was a Grammy Award Winner. 

Lindsey, my longtime, on again off again lover and musical counterpart, stood beside me in the image. We had toured together as a duo for almost a decade, but he’d been by my side since way back in highschool in the sixties.

Lindsey played guitar with the intricacy of an ant colony building its nest of precise tunnels and chambers. His songwriting was as though he’d turned your heart inside out and was reading it out loud to you. Mine and Lindsey’s musical gifts fit together like a closed fist in an open palm. Anytime he’d perform alongside me, he was as tall as Everest. Lindsey was a mountain I would have risked death itself to conquer. 

My relationship with Lindsey was just as hot and heavy as it was tumultuous, and I’d often used my intuitive nature as an excuse to keep us tethered. “We’re here to change the world with our music, babe. You gotta trust me.” I’d plead such fables with him whenever we’d find ourselves, yet again, on the rocks like a glass of Johnny Walker Red. 

“My God, you’re such a fox.” Lindsey couldn’t resist the fuck me eyes I flashed him from under my fringe. He was putty in my hands when I’d string together a poetic melody about him, on the spot. But even more so, he frothed at the mouth at my emotionally manipulative, tall tales of success. He was just as intoxicated by the idea of fame as I was. Our thirst for stardom was like squeezing water from a stone: it couldn’t be quenched. 

As I stared at the picture, my heart ticked like a metronome. The sight of me holding a Grammy—my Grammy—froze me, as though I was looking at Medusa herself. Even from a glossy still from the future, Lindsey’s intense gaze penetrated mine. Behind his fiery glimmer, there was something deeper that pulled me in, though. There was a heaviness behind his eyes that not even his wildest dreams being realized could hide… not from me, anyway. 

Like a submarine with a pin drop leak in it, it eventually burst from the pressure. Lindsey was heartbroken in the photo, and it drowned me in catharsis. 

My insides rose up to my throat. The room seemed to distort around me, like I was suddenly standing in a Fun House. Winning the Grammy with the other band members—three people Lindsey and I were scheduled to meet later that evening, in hopes of joining their musical act—would cost us our romantic relationship, for good. The soul crushing pain of our hearts’ agony would fuel our pens to paper, creating an album that would put us on the map as one of the world’s top-selling bands of all time. We would finally tower high on our pedestals, a thousand proverbial miles away from each other. 

My lip quivered as I held the photo against my chest. I swore I could smell Lindsey’s musk of earth and tobacco as I imagined caressing the nape of his neck with my nose.

Show the picture to Lindsey. Cancel the meeting tonight. Don’t join the band.

I turned towards the mirror hanging on the wall. I took myself in. The dark circles under my eyes were way too prominent for someone so young and hot and full of potential. The short-sleeved, seafoam green dress I had thrown on earlier that day to clean spilled ketchup out of someone’s fridge washed me out. I looked back at the photograph. There, I was a bohemian, rock ‘n’ roll Goddess. I was someone who paid people to scrub her damn toilet, not the other way around. In the photo, I was a superstar. 

Clearing my throat, I straightened myself out and shook my long mane from its ponytail. I put my face closer to the mirror and pinched my cheeks. Girl, you need some color. I quietly made my way over to my kitchen table. 

Outside my window, I could hear an orchestra of birds greeting the morning as I sparked a cigarette. No sooner, I flicked my lighter once more. I approached the corner of the picture to the flame, and watched the evidence of mine and Lindsey’s future burn away and vanish, one band member at a time. I shook the thing to kill the fire once it nearly reached my fingertips. 

I inhaled one last, satisfying drag from my cigarette and stubbed it out. I walked over to the garbage can, and pushed the plastic top open with the foot pedal. I hid the remaining square inch of the picture under an empty box of Totino’s Pizza Rolls and closed the trash. Lindsey’s key turned in the door, just a few seconds later. 

“Hey gorgeous.” He had his guitar case on his back as his tired footing approached me. His lips were soft yet purposeful on my forehead. “Meeting still on for tonight, ya?”

I forced the corners of my mouth to lift even though I could feel my eyes sitting blank. I clasped my fingers in his as I undid the top button of my dress with my free hand. Sour acid rose in my mouth, but my words were as cool as a cucumber.

“It’s on, baby.”

Like the sun engulfing the moon, my lover then kissed me in a way that he never quite would again.

****

Our glasses clinked loudly later that night at our meeting with the three other prospective band members. 

“We’re really glad you’re on board. Really.” The drummer, Mick, was sincere. 

Lindsey grasped my thigh from under the table. “Honestly. We’re the ones who are glad for all this. You guys are… I mean, you’re really giving us a big shot here.” Electricity pulsed from his body. Lindsey was always driven and stoic and passionate, but his rounded edges of happiness were undeniable. 

My throat was tense with terrified exhilaration, like I was about to sacrifice a lamb at the altar of my own success. I felt myself preemptively shrink down and blast out like a supernova. All the while, I couldn't bear to look at Lindsey.

I leaned across the table and took the keyboardist, Christine’s hands in mine. My voice was low. “We’re not going to let you down. Lindsey and I… we don’t do anything in half measure.”

Christine tilted her head, her smile mirroring the understanding in her eyes. “Neither do we. Welcome to Fleetwood Mac.”

I thought the five of us might shatter our glasses with our next cheers. 

My feet planted into the floor as we hooted and hollered, bracing myself for the storm that I knew I’d have to endure; the price I’d have to pay to get everything I’d ever wanted. When Lindsey’s blue denim eyes briefly locked with mine, he gave me a subtle, knowing nod—a silent acknowledgment that spoke volumes. The hairs rose on the back of my neck.

Did Lindsey get a picture, too? 

I didn’t ask—what an insane thing to ask—and I’d never find out. But what I knew for sure, was from that moment on, Stephanie Lynn Nicks was gone forever. 

***

As predicted by the photo, we did win the Grammy in 1978 for our chart-topping, monster success of an album, “Rumours”. The emotional depth of the compilation was, just as my instincts had warned, largely inspired by Lindsey and me parting ways, two years prior. 

I’d always been running ahead of myself, chasing a dangling, golden carrot just out of reach. But now, confronted with the “photo from the future” in present day reality, I stumbled backward into the void of my past—an emptiness that Lindsey had once filled. 

Some say you shouldn’t have to suffer for creativity. That art shouldn’t have to come at a cost. I can respect that sentiment, but also, not everyone is creating music in the impactful way that we do. 

Also, not everyone is world famous. 

Not everyone is musical icon, Stevie Nicks. 

In my world, thunder only happens when it’s raining.