STOP ROCKIN' THE DICE

** WARNING: Story contains alcohol abuse and profanity. **

* * *

Ralston Casperelli rolled heavily, flounced really, onto his side with a groan, becoming even more entangled in his sweaty sheets. Within seconds it was clear that was a mistake.  The room not only began to spin, it ping-ponged around in his head as if searching for a way out. 

He rolled back to his hot spot, becoming dislodged from what sheet cover he’d barely managed the first time. Now he was completely without cover but neither cared nor dared do a thing about it. He was concentrating furiously on his breathing, which was more like puffing, and begging some entity, any that might be listening, for survival of this night. He swore he’d never let things get this out of control again. 

He batted away the nagging certainty that tomorrow was going to be a huge waste, just as he was at the moment.  He could only manage three words between desperate breaths before he passed out, “Please, please, please.”

* * *

Ralston’s stage name was Brick, Brick Nyx. He’d come up with it himself; well, with some input from a pretty little one-nighter whose name he hadn’t retained, but this new name he had. Ralston/Brick was lead singer for the group Death Feast, the rock band he’d spearheaded with three of his closest idiot friends from school. 

Pauli and he went back to their Kindergarten days. He had the best head of hair of the four and was the only one who could afford a drum kit, and he'd inherited a van large enough to fit the guys and their equipment without everyone having to travel on top of each other, or needing to take more than one vehicle. No one could afford that.

Pauli also served as the manager of the group by process of elimination and booked the gigs and carried the responsibility of organizing practice time or ‘control patrol,’ as they called it. Pauli was the only one who had finished college and earned a degree, in Leisure Management. The others never asked, nor required, the details of what leisure management actually entailed. Why taint their wild imaginations with the truth when it was such an easy target for ridicule? That’s one thing the group excelled at, degree or no.

Colton James was lead guitar. He could play a decent riff but was constantly bitching and moaning about Pauli’s tempo; specifically the lack of it. He said it made him work harder than any of them just to keep pace. The real trouble was he’d voice these complaints to the other members but never would confront Pauli himself. They all knew Colt well, having attended middle and high school together. Just give him a wide berth to vent, you didn’t even have to listen, and eventually he’d run out of steam and the beat would go on.  He was the only member who could manage harmony back-up; he was worth tolerating. 

Proctor, the best looking of the group, played bass. He had a smoldering quality that kept both sexes, as well as the in-betweens and outliers, in line for their shows. He’d always gravitated towards the dark side, even as a kid, which gave him plenty of natural appeal for the heavier stuff. He didn’t own a stitch of clothing that wasn’t black or blood red, and he sported eyeliner of glitter shades. He didn’t talk much, which only contributed to the allure.  He kept himself a mystery to most, but he couldn’t hide from his band-mates. They already knew way too much.

Death Feast had been booked to play the night before at the Road House. The owner of the club, Johnny Piazza, a bloated, cigar-chomping, rumored ex-mobster, informed Pauli they weren’t on the books to play until the following week.  Pauli had made the arrangements himself and knew it was a lie. Odds were the thug had one of his nephews on the roster.  Unfortunately, they had little in the way of leverage, being four fairly scrawny late 20-somethings just managing to get by with minimal street cred and acting as their own roadies.

The end result was they’d driven three hours in a cramped van with a broken muffler for zero reason, squat return, absolutely nothing to show for it.  If anything, they’d wasted precious gas money, plus wear-and-tear mileage on a vehicle that could be heading for the breakdown lane at any moment. 

This was no life. They’d called around to local hotels and were informed there was a convention in town and, as a result, no vacancies; not that they could or should afford a room for the night anyway. So, they packed up their equipment, climbed back into the rusty van and began the sorry trek back home.

While Pauli had been dealing with club management mafia-style, Brick and Colt made a quick trip to Harry’s Liquors across the street and, prior to knowing there would be no remuneration that night, splurged on a few pints of lemon-flavored vodka and fireball whiskey, then added a fifth of blackberry brandy for good measure.  This was cheaper than purchasing drinks at the club and was a regular practice. They hadn't yet been treated to an open bar at any club they played, so they always came prepared.

Once back on the road, Brick gave Colt an elbow.

“Don’t look so bummed, Colt.  Shit like this happens.”

“Colt not look bummed? How could you tell?” Proctor offered a rare couple sentences.

“Fuck you, Crock.”

“Looks like someone needs a ticket to happytown.” Brick said as he produced a pint of Fireball. “Let’s turn that bile into a smile.”

“You’re such an idiot, Brickston,” said Colt as he grabbed the bottle and cracked the cap.

* * *

The next semi-coherent thought that crept into Brick’s consciousness, following his initial blackout, was that he was fully clothed and his bed was a magic carpet that could suddenly morph into a drop tower without warning. He would kill for a tall glass of H2O but dared not move and chance an internal natural disaster.  

Soon he was out cold again.

This time he had a dream. Of course, he didn’t know he was dreaming. It was one of those dreams that was so vividly real, he was in it and part of it, nowhere else, and that’s all there was to it.  

Brick will have to tell you what it was like; he was there:

* * *

So, here I was propped in my Dad’s barcalounger in the living room of my parents’ house, where I’d grown up. My grandparents were there from my mother’s side, also my Uncle Horace and Aunt Louise.  There was my Grammy Ruth and my great-grandparents on my father’s side. I vaguely remembered meeting my great-grandmother Ellie when I was a child. 

She was in a wheelchair and I remember her parchment paper hands holding mine. I didn’t mind; I found the texture of her hands interesting, cool and dry to the touch. I also remember the sweet smile she had for me.

She was still in the wheelchair but she wasn’t smiling. She looked so serious, her wrinkled face pursed and grim. My delight at seeing them all shifted to concern. Is anything wrong?

“Is anything wrong,” said Granddad Louis. “What do you think your mother would say if she could see you, Ralston?  Do you think she’d be proud?”

“Are YOU proud?” Aunt Louise chimed in.

I didn’t know how to respond.

“I don’t know.”

“You’re on a highway to Hell, boy,” my great-grandmother Ellie said with a raised fist and real gusto. I didn’t remember her being so scary. 

“Let’s not frighten him,” Uncle Horace said, “not yet.”

My favorite, my Nana Rose, spoke. ”I’m sure we only need appeal to Ralston’s sweet side. He has a lovely one, I know.”

“Nana! I’m so happy to see you.” I wanted to run over and hug her but, for some reason, I couldn’t move. I felt glued to my seat. “I’ve missed you.”

“I know,” Nana Rose smiled sweetly at me.

“Well, now, Rals, we are here for a reason. Do you have any idea what that reason might be?” Granddad Louis spoke to me as he always had, authoritative but kind.

I looked at everyone and they looked back at me.  I was honestly stumped and it must have shown. I was now facing a roomful of frowns.

My great-grandmother Ellie looked to her left at a distinguished gentleman with round glasses and a long white beard. She placed her hand lightly over his. I had seen that very pose in a family photo album. He was Calvin, my father’s grandfather. He was the patriarch who’d brought the family from Italy to America. In all the pictures I’d seen, I’d never seen him smile. Now, as I witnessed the tender expression he gave Ellie, I was moved. I liked him.

“What would you like me to do? Please tell me,” I said. “There must be a good reason why you’re all here.”

Uncle Horace waved a finger. “Not so fast, Ralston. It isn’t that simple. If we spell it out for you, it won’t sink in properly.  We can tell you if you’re on the right path, son, but not how to get there.”

Aunt Louise smiled at me. “Look at him. I’d forgotten how adorable he can be when frustrated.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” Grammy Ruth spoke for the first time. “Are you having regular bowel movements, Ralston? I remember, as a child you had difficulty with your regularity and that can affect disposition. I hope that doesn’t account for your expression, dear.”

Oh God, how embarrassing. I remember Grammy Ruth now. She used to torture me with raisins and prune juice when I was a kid. I covered my face.

Horace spoke next, Ruthie’s son and my dad’s brother.

“Mother, please, that’s really not why we’re here. Besides, it looks like you hit a nerve.”

There was a wave of smiles and chuckles around me as I struggled to regain my composure.

“All right.” I looked up again. “Let me see if I understand this correctly. You’re all here for a reason but you can’t tell me what it is. I have to figure this out myself and you’ll tell me if I’ve got it right? Does that about sum it up?”

Patriarch Calvin stood to address me. The formality of it was old-movie kind of corny, but I admit it appealed to me.

“Quite right, my boy. I could see straight away you’re of fine Casperelli stock. You come from a long line of thinkers and doers, my boy. Once you’ve thought through the issue we are here to resolve, you’ll do just fine. All the Casperelli men succeed in their endeavors.”

“The women t’ain’t bad neither, Calvin.” Ruthie shot over to my great-grandfather. I saw Ellie cover her delight with a hand while Cal gave Ruthie an indignant huff and promptly sat. 

I was really beginning to enjoy this, but sensed I should get down to it.

“Is this the sort of thing that, if I suggest stuff, you’ll tell me if I’m getting warm?”

Aunt Louise rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Rals, if you really haven’t guessed what’s going on here, we can probably accommodate a 20-questions approach to it. Can’t we?”

Everyone nodded, and so then I put my mind to . . .

“Hey, wait a minute, is this some kind of intervention?”

All facial expressions gave off a resounding YES. Congratulations.

“You mean this is about me getting drunk last night?”

“Oh, not just last night,” Horace countered.

“Aw, come on. I play music. I’m in a band. It’s part of the lifestyle. I . . .” I not only sensed disapproval, I watched it appear on each of their faces.

“I’ll say this once, darling.” Nana Rose looked pained. “You can’t deny you were sick on all those lovely instruments. It breaks my heart to say it.”

“Oh, well, so does this mean Colt’s getting an intervention too? It wasn’t just me,” I ventured. Ugh. I knew how childish that sounded.

“Your friend stopped after five swigs, my boy. You, quite candidly, weren’t counting,” Louis added.

“And certainly didn’t stop at five,” Horace continued.

“Or ten,” Louise said.

“Or, truthfully, until you really had no other option,” Ellie finished the sentence so matter-of-factly, it hurt.

I was silent. I couldn’t bring myself to look at them. I felt awful.

“Now do you understand, Ralston?” Granddad Louis said.

“And it’s not the first time,” I said, then seriously did think about it. “It’s really not healthy, is it?”

Calvin stood again. “Now you’re getting it!”

I began to feel a little better seeing the smiles on their faces return, reassuring.

“Don’t just think it, my boy. Think, then do! You’re made of better stuff. The outcome is entirely up to you.”

“And don’t forget, Ralston, we love you. You must do the work yourself but we’re always here if you need us.” Ellie’s sweet smile had returned, the one I remembered.  I felt my heart warm.

And then it was just me in the living room. I sensed I could move now if I wanted. I heard my Nana Rose’s voice; I guessed she’d hung back.

“I have something for you, Ralston. Do you remember what I gave you when you were a little boy, about six, I think, for good luck?”

I did. It was a sea bean Nana told me she’d collected at the beach as a child that she had held onto all her life. She believed it helped her live a richer life than she’d ever imagined. She wanted me to have it as a way to keep her with me always, and so I might enjoy a rich life of my own.

“I lost it, Nana. I’m so sorry.” I was glad I couldn’t see her; she had to be disappointed.

“I know you did. You were a child, remember. Well, I believe you should look again. You never know.” 

* * *

Brick didn’t dare open his eyes when he’d surfaced from the dream. He was afraid he’d disintegrate if any sort of light touched him. His head felt like a beehive encased in cement, his mouth a proverbial bottom of a birdcage and the rest of his body, he wasn’t even sure was still with him.

He rubbed his eyes, then slowly, delicately rolled out of bed. It was past noon. He heard a knock at his door and groaned.

“Be right there” was what he’d meant to say; it came out more like a strangled, “Brrt-tere.”   

He went to the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of water, then drank it all in seconds. He set down the empty, grabbed another and shuffled to the front door.

“Hoozizit”

He cracked the door to see Pauli, Colt and Proc. They each looked seriously concerned. Brick sighed.  He knew why they were there and couldn’t blame them. He was still wearing his clothes from yesterday and felt like one big pile of crap.

“Comon’n.”

The guys walked past Brick, though no one would look him in the eye. Brick could imagine how he looked, so understood that, too.

The three turned and allowed Brick time to consume this second bottle of water.

“Uh, Brick, we . . .”

“Wait." Brick cleared his throat so he sounded a little better. "Before you say anything. I know, I fucked up. Royally. I can’t keep doing this. And I deserve just how I feel right now. I owe you all an apology, I am so sorry, and I swear on my grandmother’s grave it won’t happen again. And my grandfather and my great . . .”  

His voice trailed off. His band-mates could tell he was somewhere else, deep in his own thoughts. Pauli interrupted.

“I don’t know what to say, Brick. I just hope you mean it. We’ve been genuinely worried about you.”

“Do you even know why we’re here, Asshole?” said Colt. “We planned an intervention for you.”

“We couldn’t just stand by and watch you destroy yourself,” Pauli added.

“Not to mention our equipment.” Proc cracked a smile as he said it, the first of the day for them.

Brick grabbed Proctor in a bear hug.

“You guys were doing that for me?”

“Well, we thought you might be worth it,” Proctor said, gently prying himself from Brick’s clutches, “but it probably could wait until after you’ve had a shower, huh?”

“How ‘bout we hose down both you and the van?” Pauli made a face.

“Right. Here, let me give you . . .”

Brick checked his pocket to see if he had any cash.  His hand felt something he hadn’t expected and the look on his face startled the others. What now?

Brick retrieved a bean shaped reddish-brown pod the size of his palm.

“What is that?” Colt cut in.

Brick shook his head, felt a pain shoot through his skull, and then grinned. 

“Get some coffee going and I’ll take a shower. Then we can hose down the van, or I will,” Brick offered.

Colt said, “I’ll get coffee. I could use some.”

Brick turned to head for the bathroom, then stopped and addressed his friends again.

“Thanks. You guys really are family. Thanks.”

* * *

Brick remained dry for the next month and, after that, if he did dare have anything to drink, he kept it under control.  He had a pact with his Death Feast family to help keep him in line. They agreed to look out for each other if any of them appeared to be slipping. Brick knew he had too much to jeopardize. He had friends and family that cared about him. 

He also realized it was time he learned to care about himself. He carried the sea bean everywhere with him as a reminder, he had value and he was loved.

THE END