“Johnny’s Dead” was what caught our attention in Johnny’s little black book. The guy, such a control freak in life—mostly because his instincts were so crazy good—wrote his own epitaph. That’s the word Harry used to describe it. Pretty amazing, you know?
After seeing the lyrics to “Johnny’s Dead,” I didn’t look at the book again for a long time. I couldn’t. Harry tried to return it to Russell but was told that it was on extended loan to the band. Russell still owned it, but we would be its keepers. It stayed with us at every rehearsal, at every gig. Harry got a few good songs out of it besides “Johnny’s Dead”—“Long Winter,” “I Give Up,” “Oh So Gray.” You know, a hit parade of happy, peppy songs.
Kidding.
Anyway, three months after the wake I was sitting at a gig, waiting for our sound check, quietly nursing a beer, my second since we’d arrived at the bar. I knew I wouldn’t have another one before we played, but also knew I’d get plowed the second the set ended. Harry and Richie had gotten used to it, and instead of trying to change me, they just sort of took care of me, looking out for me to make sure I didn’t do anything stupid. Johnny’s book was there, and I started flipping through it without really looking at it, like a magazine in a doctor’s office. As I was flipping, a phrase caught my eye: To make you think, to make you drink, to make you hurt.
The song wasn’t dated, but it was the last entry before “Johnny’s Dead.” It said, “Expletive” on the top of the page, which I loved as a title. So I read it.
My heart, which has been broken over and over again, mostly by me, broke for the last time. I finally hit bottom. It was the end.
You are a ladybug
On the couch, all curled up,
And I’m like a scientist,
The way in which I insist
You unravel and give all of yourself to me.
You are a little girl,
A flag not yet unfurled,
And I’m like a little boy
With a shiny, sharp new toy,
And I will poke you, and I will prod you.
But you know and I know, I can’t make you undone.
Is it an empty phrase?
Is it a disguise?
Too long to get through this maze,
Just to say good-bye.
You are a metaphor,
Never meaning the same thing as before.
I am an expletive,
Trying to convince you that I live
Right here, right now, I’m alive.
The more you try to run away,
The harder I will push you to stay,
’Cause the closer that we get
Is one more regret
To make you think, to make you drink,
to make you hurt.
Is it an empty phrase?
Is it a disguise?
Too long to get through this maze,
Just to say good-bye.
Though it’s not very long,
It’s the end of our song,
’Cause as I look into your heart,
I can see we don’t know where to start
With each other, with another.
There’s nothing left to say.
I started crying and couldn’t stop. Richie saw me and came over, and then Harry. Without me realizing it, they canceled the gig and somehow managed to get me home. Harry’s new girlfriend, Thea, held my hand the whole way. It was all a blur.
When I woke up the next day, I was on the couch in Harry’s parents’ basement, the place where we used to jam before getting time in a real rehearsal studio. I was alone.
“Harry?”
He walked in a minute later and smiled at me.
“Hey,” he said, “you feeling better?”
I nodded. “Thanks for getting me here.”
“Yeah, no worries.”
“What time is it?”
“Around ten, I think. You want to go out and get some breakfast? My treat.”
I nodded again. I stood up and started to walk to the bathroom, then stopped, remembering what had set me off the night before. I froze, my back still to Harry.
“Chey?”
“Harry, did you know about that song?” I asked. He didn’t answer at first. “It’s okay,” I said.
“Yeah, Richie and I both saw it. I wanted to rip it out of the book, but Richie stopped me. Something about a dying man’s last words.”
I nodded again.
I thought about what those words meant—how we all let ourselves believe there really was nothing left to say. I thought about all the secrets we’d kept from one another, the walls we’d put up between each other, the way we’d all let Johnny just fade away and die. I didn’t want that to happen to me.
I turned around.
“Harry,” I said. He looked at me, waiting patiently. Always there, always a friend. A friend to the end, you know?
“Harry,” I said again, “I think I need help.”
EPILOGUE,
SEPTEMBER 1991
Scar tissue is stronger than regular tissue. Realize the strength, move on.
—Henry Rollins
The Scar Boys’ first album, Minus One, spread like wildfire on college radio, making them the “it band” of 1988. While the record made only one brief appearance on the Billboard charts, debuting and dying at number thirty-seven, the critical acclaim and the growing and rabid fan base positioned the band for the next big step.