Artist Insane .com

Josh catches sight of a drink-filled tumbler held by a patron leaning on the upper level rail as he and the band launch into the ironically timed “Prismatic”.  The club is packed – a swirling mass of bodies, heat, sweat, alcohol – all contributing to the claustrophobic atmosphere of the club, the song and Josh’s likewise swirling thoughts.  Feeling slightly dizzy, he envisions himself inside the glass tumbler as he sings, and is stunned by the almost immediate sensation of a powerful undertow pinning him against the tumbler’s side as it picks up speed.  The dizziness increases, and is joined by a mounting panic as he’s hurtled back and forth across the tumbler’s inner chamber, a nauseating feeling reminiscent of his one and only ride on the twirling “Teacups” at a boardwalk amusement park his father had taken him to in childhood.

A not quite empty water bottle suddenly smacks his shoulder, drawing Josh out of his far from tranquil reverie.  Gradually becoming aware of his surroundings once again, he turns to find Tommy’s quizzical gaze upon him, never missing a beat on an improvised bit of keyboard work covering the fact the song was supposed to have long since been over.  Josh quickly slips back into his front man role, thanking the crowd for their enthusiastic reception and announcing the dates of a couple upcoming shows.

Taking off his guitar as the club’s PA system begins blaring announcements, Josh offers a quick apology to his bandmates and quickly exits the stage.  On his way back to the dressing room he is stopped by a female fan’s hand on his sleeve.  His head still foggy from his recent journey through that strange phenomenon akin to a washer’s spin cycle, he merely nods politely at the half sentences he manages to catch, all expressions of appreciation for his work.  As he turns to continue toward the backstage area, she falls in beside him, still chatting earnestly about vocal inflections and lyrical implications as he barely grunts out monosyllabic replies.

At last, they reach the dressing room and he is surprised to hear his own voice asking if she’d like to go grab a cup of coffee.

“Now?”  he hears her ask.
“Yeah,” he replies.  “There’s a shop right around the corner.  I’ll come back and pick up my stuff later.”

They head off into the starless night, and walk toward a neon outline of steam rising from a slightly tilted cup.  Josh feels momentarily sick again as the image draws him back to the twirling tumbler/teacup ride, a vision he impatiently shakes off as they reach the door.  He opens it for her to enter, then follows her inside.

Oddly crowded for this late hour, they wait in line to place their orders, then carefully make their way toward a small corner table, hot liquid suddenly spilling onto Josh’s hand as another customer accidentally backs into him.  Cutting off a brief curse, Josh switches the cup to his other hand, and quickly wipes the dripping coffee onto his jeans.

“You okay?” his companion asks solicitously.
Josh doesn’t answer, turning instead to grab a small stack of napkins off the counter.  He feels his face redden with the discomfort of the question, and covers by making the mock effort of dabbing at the stain.  Finally, he pretends to give up and slides into the chair closest to the wall.

At last “alone” with this stranger, fidgeting and fumbling with his coffee to avoid eye contact, Josh is struck by the realization this is an encounter he initiated – for reasons he has yet to fathom.  Anxious now for it to end as quickly as possible – preferably without looking like the mental case he’d surely prove himself by suggesting they just leave – he attempts to gulp about a third of his coffee at once, inevitably scalding his mouth and forcing him to unthinkingly spit it back into the cup.  “So much for looking like a mental case,” he reflects bitterly, his hand clenched over his mouth, eyes watering.  “How about looking like a complete imbecile instead?”

Again, from her, only a sincerely worried, “Are you okay?” accompanied by a light touch on his arm and a look of such genuine concern that his eyes fill with more tears, prompted by a pain and burning completely unrelated to the nearly forgotten coffee.  Feeling exposed and uncertain, Josh looks away quickly, then, unable to restrain the flood of emotion somehow suddenly bursting forth, he breaks down into a torrent of sobs as several patrons at nearby tables turn to stare.

Unabashed by their interest, which quickly subsides as each returns to his or her own concerns, his companion moves her chair closer to Josh’s and gently rubs his back, offering the soothing tones one might use to calm a frightened child, prompting Josh to reach out blindly in a tight embrace.  They stay this way for several seconds until Josh is brought back to himself by the feeling of a pair of eyes upon him from nearby – but not just any pair of eyes – Julie’s.

Certain at last that he’s truly lost his mind, Josh disentangles himself from his companion’s arms and makes his way to the door of the coffee shop, a female voice calling his name ringing distantly in his ears as he hits the street.  Uncaring now how completely crazed he must appear, Josh begins to run, his footsteps and the blood pounding through his brain the only sounds he hears as he sprints through the increasing blackness, leaving the lights of the club, the coffee shop and the still wakeful portions of the city behind.  After running for several minutes that seem like both seconds and yet hours, he finds himself in an area completely devoid of illumination.  Still, he runs on, oblivious to any dangers or obstacles that might lie in his path, feeling hard pavement beneath his feet and a strong breeze on his face – until, abruptly he becomes aware that the pavement’s ended – without his having tripped or noticed any change in the surface leading up to this transition.  He looks down and realizes in panic the transition isn’t merely one of surface, but dimension – all too late as he drops like a stone into an inky, cavernous night.

He plunges on, further and further downward, at first unable to make a sound or any attempt to fight against the fear and hopelessness in which he feels himself being more and more fully swallowed.  Still armed with just enough wits to realize the need to struggle, to reach out for some type of handhold, some vestige of salvation, Josh begins wildly flailing his arms and legs, and finally finds his voice, letting out scream after scream he’s convinced only he can hear.

Suddenly, there is someone else in the blackness beside him.  Although he can see neither face nor form, he slowly becomes aware of a voice – a male voice this time – calling his name.  Directing all his energies to the voice, he hears it growing louder and closer and begins to feel the presence of the human to whom it belongs.

“Brian!” he shouts suddenly, and finds himself face to face with Julie’s brother – someone real…someone alive.

Josh opened his eyes to see Brian standing over the couch, where Josh had lain awake as the clock on the nearby table ticked away the hours of one, two, three, and Brian lay (asleep?) in the bedroom  — a place Josh couldn’t himself even imagine ever finding rest again.  So much for the couch as a more pleasant alternative.

For the seemingly umpteenth time in recent hours, Josh heard the words, “Are you okay”, this time from a clearly concerned Brian.   Answering in the affirmative, Josh attempted to sound far less shaken by the tricks played upon him by his tired, overwrought psyche than he was close to feeling.  “Just a bad dream, man.  Sorry to wake you.”

“Hey, I hear you.  I wasn’t getting much sleep, either,” Brian responded automatically.  Then, with a brief, rueful smile, he added gently, “But that may kinda be a good thing, huh?”

Josh half-shrugged, returning a weak grin.  Brian hesitated a moment, obviously still worried, “How about I make us some coffee?”

“Thanks,” Josh returned.  “But, right now, I think I’ll pass.”