The Other Side of Paradise

"Alright, Wes, we’re good to go. Just had to make sure it met their standards."

Stan, my boss at the time, said this while wiping powder from under his nose. He dropped a silver briefcase onto the passenger seat of his 1979 Lamborghini Countach, then perched himself on it like a degenerate king holding court in the night.

"Mind taking the wheel?" he asked, voice calm and soaked in West Coast nonchalance.

"You want me to drive this thing? You know I’m fifteen, right?"

"Exactly. I’m wasted. We get pulled over with me driving, we’re done."

"You’re sitting on a hundred grand worth of coke. Either way, we’re fucked."

"Listen, kid," he said, now serious. "This is rock and roll. I’ve been in this game since '75. If this spooks you, you’re not cut out for it."

I slid into the driver’s seat and turned the key. The engine roared behind us. Stan grinned, flashing his crooked British teeth.

I met him three years earlier at this very festival. My dad, one of the corporate sponsors, dragged me backstage. That summer, I was a sober teenager helping drunk adults stay on their feet—same role I played for my dad every day. Stan liked that about me. Last year, I learned he wasn’t just some burnout—he was head of artist management for the festival, and president of the biggest rock label in the country. This year, he invited me to be his assistant.

Stan was fifty-five, so he was forty years my senior. He always enjoyed telling stories of his glory days. All the bands on the lineup were personal friends of his from the seventies and eighties.

Naturally, everything I did for him was off the books—and off the record.

"So," I asked, "any special instructions?"

"Don’t let that damn speedometer drop below ninety-five."

I released the E-brake, shifted into first, and floored it onto the open road. Oklahoma highways at 2 a.m. are empty. Just us and the occasional semi.

After winding off the ramp, I merged onto the interstate. The speedometer hit 103. Stan was practically vibrating.

"Feels good, doesn’t it? Pretending to be a rockstar?"

"I guess. Never understood the term. Sounds like overused media bullshit."

He laughed. "Well, we’re headed to party with the Drug Scouts of America, X-Mass, so you’ll see that side of paradise soon enough. This is your future—if you want it."

"I mean, I grew up with their music. Read all the stories."

"You know those stories aren’t exaggerated, right?"

"I don’t know. Always figured the drugs and chaos were blown out of proportion."

"Are you dumb?" he snapped. "I’m literally sitting on 100K worth of blow for their afterparty, and you think the stories are exaggerated?"

"Yeah," I muttered.

It wasn’t that I didn’t believe him. I just knew people loved to gossip about things they didn’t understand. Back home, even minor drug use got treated like a national crisis. If only they saw half the things I’d seen behind closed doors.

“Everyone talks about Jack Slye and Stevie Jonez, but Tony Black carried them,” I said.

“Kid, I lived through it—you don’t need to tell me,” he laughed.

Slye was the singer, Jonez the bassist and main lyricist. People worshipped their drug use and bad decisions, but they wouldn’t have made it anywhere without Black’s guitar playing and stage presence.

I glanced down. We were doing 111.

"Alright, Wes. Two exits out."

"Cool."

"Here’s the plan: when we get to the hotel, leave the car running and head to suite 116, eleventh floor. Knock six times—steady rhythm, no weird syncopated cop shit. A voice will ask for a code. Say: 'Starry Eyes.' That gets you in. You’re off the clock after that."

"Got it."

"Airport's close enough to walk. You’ll be fine, no matter how wrecked you get."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

We pulled off the exit. City roads were still quiet. Within minutes, we reached the towering thirty-floor hotel and casino. I stepped out and watched Stan disappear into the night. A breeze cut through the warm air. I checked my watch: 2:14 a.m.

When was the last time I slept? Saturday morning?

The hotel lobby was silent. Refreshingly so, after three days around 80,000 sunburned, screaming festival-goers. I took the elevator to the eleventh floor. The hallway was empty, the kind of quiet that tells you the whole floor had been bought out.

As I approached the door, I could hear the sounds of grunting and women shrieking through the walls—reason for concern, but I had to finish the job.

I knocked six times.

A voice from behind the door: "What’s your business here?"

"Starry Eyes."

The door opened. The suite looked like a music video: a sprawl of bodies, drugs, and designer furniture. Six men—four band members, a manager, and a bodyguard. At least two dozen women, most barely dressed. The air was stale with liquor, perfume, sweat, and coke.

A man in a top hat and black suit nodded from the corner.

"You must be with McSorley. Didn’t expect someone so young."

"Yeah. Neither did I."

He chuckled. A woman rubbed her chest against his thigh as he lit a cigarette.

"Name?"

"Wes. Wes Rondeau. Boston."

"You might wanna change that last name in this business. But I’m guessing you know who I am."

"Tony Black. It’s an honor."

I was starstruck for the first time in my life—the Tony Black in person, and he was sober enough to have a conversation.

Tony gave me a quick once-over, like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or light me on fire.

"I’d say introduce yourself to the others, but they’re too busy chasing nostalgia to remember you tomorrow."

"So why aren’t you?"

"Because nostalgia nearly killed my liver. I don’t get off on any of this anymore. These days, I settle for…company,” a wicked grin emerged on his face, his gaze shifting down to the woman on his lap.

Stan had reappeared, placing the briefcase on the table. The band flocked to it like it was sacred. I watched them inhale lines like they were twenty, not fifty. Fathers now, all of them.

It was surreal. Tragic, even.

As I stood there judging them, two women approached—a redhead and a blonde, both striking, both relatively sober.

"Which band are you with?" the blonde asked.

"Uh, Embers of Twilight."

"Never heard of it," the redhead said.

"Big on the East Coast. New York scene," I lied.

"Cool indie band?"

"Cool enough that Tony Black knows me."

They giggled. The blonde ran her hand up my shirt.

"How old are you?" the redhead asked.

"Seventeen," I lied again, confidently.

"You look younger, but I guess New York guys just age slowly."

Meanwhile, the band and the others were deep into the briefcase. It was impressive in a sad way. These were legends, reduced to their worst habits.

Before I could keep judging, the girls took my hands.

"All the doors are unlocked. We could find some privacy," the blonde whispered.

"You’re probably the only one here with enough blood pressure left to do anything," the redhead added.

I knew this wasn’t what I wanted. But I was already in too deep to pretend I cared.

So this was rockstar life?

We slipped into Room 113. I thought of Julia, my girlfriend back home. She'd be crushed if she knew I was doing this again. The first time it was with her best friend. That was supposed to be the last time.

But I didn’t stop myself.

***

Sunlight pierced my eyelids.

My first thought: Do I have my phone? My wallet?

I spotted them beside the bed. The redhead was still asleep. The blonde was gone. I stumbled to the bathroom, nearly breaking my nose on the doorframe. I washed my face and gathered my clothes.

Checked my phone: a text from Stan.

"Hey, so before I get 2 fucked up. Tony wanted me 2 give u his number. xxx-xxx-xxxx. He heard u say ur band name and sed u wer good."

I laughed to myself. Maybe putting up with Stan wasn’t such a waste.

I buckled my belt, glanced at the redhead one last time.

She came here chasing a dream. Ended up in bed with a fifteen-year-old nobody from Boston who played in a shitty indie band. Didn’t even get a name.

The hallway was quiet. 6:30 a.m. The vampires were sleeping.

The walk to the airport was easier than expected. Cloud cover kept the heat away. I didn’t have luggage—Stan said not to bring any. I lost my Friday night clothes the same way I almost lost these.

Right. That made three times I’d cheated on Julia—just this weekend.

TSA didn’t hassle me. The agent raised an eyebrow at my bird’s nest hair and the stench, but didn’t ask questions.

I should call my parents. Not that they’d care. Dad was probably hungover in a meeting. Mom, asleep or drunk.

I thought about calling one of my bandmates. They were probably in class.

Finals. Right. I still had school.

People always said education was important. But what’s the point of surviving a boring life?

Stan said he’d shop our record. Maybe even sign us. Maybe I don’t have to live like everyone else.

I walked toward the terminal, hair still tangled from someone else’s fingers, the sun just breaking over the tarmac. My chest felt light. Empty.

I had a choice—and I already knew which one I’d make. I’d rather burn out in blood and feedback than fade into a life I never wanted.