Different Circles

The Matt Tisdale Faithless Tour of 1998, meanwhile, was working its way east to west along the northern part of the United States. Greg Gahn had once again been placed in charge of operations. Grinning weasel that he was, he was an excellent road manager. The Faithless and Living in Limbo tours had crossed each other in the Midwest but had never played in the same city at the same time. The closest they came to each other was when Matt and the boys were playing in Chicago on the same night that Celia and company were playing in Lansing, Michigan.

On the day that Celia was to perform in Albany, Matt and crew were in Seattle. Their show the night before had been in Spokane, Washington, and they had flown into the rainy city (which was living up to its name) in the afternoon. It was one of the scheduled nights off for the crew and the band so the first of three Seattle shows would be the next night. Matt and the boys celebrated their night of freedom by invading the hotel bar and pounding down the drinks while checking out the local gash. There was a good selection of women in the bar but none of them were Matt Tisdale fans. No one was able to hook up before the hotel’s head of security came and politely told the musicians and their paramedic that they needed to go up to their rooms because people were complaining about their behavior.

The old Matt would have likely started a fight over this issue, might have even ended up dealing with the Seattle police department and getting a little tour of the King County jail. But the new, more mature Matt simply offered a few insults to the security guy, suggested that the women complaining were a bunch of stuck-up prudes who were missing out on the schlong-fest of their lives, and then headed upstairs to do some more drinking in Matt’s suite while they waited for it to be dinnertime.

Once up there, Matt rolled a few joints from his stash and fired one up. The bandmembers and Jim Ramos, the paramedic, passed it back and forth until they were all feeling quite good, and then Matt whipped out his little cocaine kit. He was the only one who indulged in this particular vice, so he only lined up two rails on the mirror. He snorted them up with the sterling silver straw and smiled as he felt the drug go to work on him.

He walked over to the bar and started mixing up another Jack and coke. As he took the first drink of it, he felt a burning sensation begin. It was centered in his upper abdomen, just below the margin of his ribcage, and it radiated upwards along his esophagus, even into his jaw and right shoulder a little.

Oh, fuck me, he thought sourly, not this shit again. This was not the first time this had happened. Over the last few days he had had the sensation several times, usually ... well, he hated to make the connection, but usually right after he snorted a few rails.

Must be a fuckin’ ulcer, he thought. And the coke draining down into my stomach must be aggravating it. What a fuckin’ rip. Add that to the list of fucking issues that his favorite indulgence caused. Not as annoying as the frequent nosebleeds, but definitely more annoying than the chronic sinus infections.

“Hey, Jimbo!” he barked at the paramedic. “What do you got in your bag for fuckin’ heartburn?”

Jim, who was working on a rum and coke of his own, looked up with his pot-bleary eyes. “Heartburn? What do you mean?”

“Just what I said, fuckin’ heartburn,” Matt told him. He pointed to his epigastrium. “Burning right here and goes up into my throat and jaw. You got some shit for that, or what?”

“I’ve got some Maalox in there,” Jim said. “Are you sure it’s heartburn though?”

“Yeah, I’m fuckin’ sure,” Matt said. “Bust that shit out and let me take a hit.”

Jim went to the football that was sitting over by the front door. He carried it over to the bar and set it down. He opened it up, fished around for a few seconds, and then pulled out a white plastic bottle with a red lid. The safety seal was still intact. Jim quickly pulled it off, shook the bottle a few times, and then unscrewed the lid. He handed the bottle to Matt. “Here,” he said, “chug some of this.”

“How much?”

“A nice big swallow,” Jim said. “Two tablespoons worth.”

Matt sniffed the rim of the bottle and then put it to his lips. He chugged a healthy shot of the white liquid. “Gross,” he said after swallowing. “It tastes like fuckin’ chalk with a little mint flavoring in it.”

“Yeah, you don’t want to serve that shit with dinner,” Jim agreed. “It should soothe your stomach though.”

“Thanks, dude,” Matt said.

“Let me check your pulse real quick,” Jim said, reaching for his wrist.

“My pulse is fine, dude,” Matt said. “Haven’t had any of that SVT shit since they burned my fuckin’ heart.”