Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 43920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 220(@200wpm)___ 176(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 220(@200wpm)___ 176(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
The creative process was hard, especially when, as I’d seen reported on TMZ as well as by his band mates, he was drinking and high.
I tried to talk to him, calling all the time, making a fool of myself, texting pictures of me, of places I thought were special to him, sending videos and reels to make him laugh. Nothing worked, I was good and ghosted, and finally I got on a plane to Los Angeles, where he was supposed to be recording his second album.
I was surprised I was given such easy access until I realized that there was a whole entourage of people there just living off Dawson because he didn’t want to be alone. And I understood that, I did. He’d been abandoned by his parents, given up as a child, so those issues of being discarded and unwanted were some of his greatest driving factors.
When I saw him, sitting in the booth, in front of the microphone, smoking a joint, sunglasses on, I was horrified. He was thin, his face gaunt, his coloring off, not his normal tan but grayish, and everything he had on looked dirty.
Moving to the glass, looking in at him, I turned to the producer sitting next to the engineer, both talking, one with his arms crossed, the other shaking his head, and asked if I could go in and talk to him.
“Sure, man,” his producer, Miles something, whom I only knew from the dust jacket of his last CD, told me, giving me permission. “Nothing’s gettin’ done anyway.”
Moving quickly, I entered the booth.
He lifted his sunglasses, pushed them back into hair that was no longer a mane, now more of a straggly mop, and smiled at me. It hurt to see how red and puffy his eyes were. His lips were chapped, and all I could think was, he needs food and water.
“Holy shit, look who it is,” he murmured, nearly falling off the stool.
Rushing over, I got a hold of him, making sure he was balanced before I stepped into him and wrapped him in my arms.
The smell of cigarettes and old sweat was nearly overwhelming, but I held on anyway. He felt so fragile pressed to my chest.
“Oh God,” he said, trembling, melting against me. “Are you really here? I missed you so much, but I just… Everything’s been so bad, and just thinking about… There are days I can’t even answer a text, you know?”
He seemed lifeless. There had been times when he’d get depressed and fold in on himself, but normally he rallied quickly and could pull himself out. But now, I understood, that between the drugs and the drinking, the constant working and the lack of rest and comfort, his demons had returned and ravaged him.
“Please come home with me,” I begged him, whispering in his ear as he clung to me.
“Yeah, okay,” he agreed, pressing against me, his hands now slipping under the cardigan I was wearing to my T-shirt and then to my skin. “Oh God, I missed you and your smell and your body and, and…maybe I could take a shower and you’d lie down with me?”
“Of course I will, come on,” I soothed, easing back, putting my arm around his shoulders.
Once we were out of the booth, standing in front of the engineer who sat at the digital audio workstation, he reminded Dawson that the album was overdue and owed to the record company. He’d gotten an advance and was liable for that, as well as for the final product.
“I’ll get it,” he promised. “Everything’s done, I just have to lay down the vocals.”
When I got him outside, I had no idea what to do next, but the door opened behind me and his oldest friend, and drummer, Ben Jackson, was there passing me car keys for his rental and directions to their friend’s house in Topanga Canyon where they were all staying.
“If I take your car, how will you get to the house?” I asked him, concerned with how bad he looked as well. Apparently, Dawson was not the only one coming apart at the seams.
“Luther has one,” he explained. “He’s out right now scoring us some party favors but none of us will be there before later tonight.”
“Why don’t you come with me,” I offered, reaching for him.
He took several steps back. “Don’t—I have to stay focused right now, Chris. You can’t comfort me, all right?” It was strange how adamant he was, almost angry. “Lookin’ at you, I think about Angie, and I can’t think about her right now.”
I had to wonder why thinking about his wife would be bad, but at home, Angela Jackson and I had stopped talking. Seeing me reminded her of her absent husband, and that had been too much for her. Something that should have been unifying, like us both yearning for our partners, missing them, instead drove us apart.