4 - The Show Must Go On

The San Jose show was a complete and total debacle.  Jon hadn’t been able to completely sweep away the blonde cloud hanging over his head, and it resulted in a crap-tastic showing for both him and the band.

The conversation with Rachel had wreaked havoc with his usual pre-show routine.  Dicking with his devout ritual was catastrophic.  That particular routine of serenity, meditation and his own personal brand of voodoo had been carefully cultivated and developed over the years, specifically to help him achieve optimal performance on stage.  It worked.

Unless it was intruded upon.

Rachel’s voice and dismissal re-running in his head like bad episodes of Twilight Zone had obliterated any chance of him finding the ‘happy place’ that was required to deliver his usual level of performance.  AND it irritated the fuck out of him – to the point that he’d even snapped at Richie, daring him to wear that ridiculous stove-pipe hat that he’d worn on stage in Seattle.  The stupid thing looked like Slash’s hat had an illicit love affair with Foghorn Leghorn. 

Richie, being Richie, had told him to fuck himself.

That’s how Jon found himself in a sour and surly mood from the first moment his foot hit the stage. 

The opening sucked, even though it went exactly as choreographed.  He hated standing on that stage before they ever played the first note, waving like a moron.  It felt like the encore and the energy wasn’t the way he wanted to open his show, but they launched into “Blood on Blood” even as he vowed to have it changed.

“We Weren’t Born to Follow” was one of the new ones, thereby meaning a good portion of the crowd wasn’t into the song.  They didn’t know the lyrics, as was typical with the bulk of the American crowds.  Jon felt like he was slogging through mud to the final chord.

Damn Rachel.  This was her fault.  What was her problem, anyway?  Women liked him.

Take the woman who had her camera intently trained on Jon’s every move for “Bad Name”.  He looked into her lens, daring her not to want him.  ALL women wanted him.  He was Jon Bon Jovi, for chrissake.   

”Please don’t call me anymore, Jon.”

“No one can save you... the damage is done...” he belted out, truer words never having passed his lips.

Intentionally avoiding the next “shot through the heart”, because he refused to even indirectly acknowledge that he was, Jon went through the motions of the songs he’d done a million times before as he watched Richie shred through the solo.  Notes were shredded in the same way his gut felt tonight.

The unwanted and uninvited thought materialized out of nowhere, and Jon snapped his head around, making a beeline for his tea mug at the back of the stage.  He snatched it up with a growl that was silent under the beat of Tico’s drums.

Get out of your head, Bongiovi.  These people have paid good money to see your show.  Give it to them!

Looking for an ego-boost, he passed the lyrics off to the crowd, but they did a piss poor job of giving him what he needed.  Their “you give love a bad name” was weak at best, yet he reciprocated with a determined and flirty dance.  He would make this show memorable. 

He shook his ass, wiggled his hips and smiled until he thought his cheeks were going to cramp from the effort.  And still...  the damn crowd was pitiful with those closing lyrics, but what was he going to do?  Jon gritted his teeth and clapped, nodding and trying to smile like they’d done something fabulous.

“Good evenin’, San Jose!”

And so the show went.  There were a dozen times that he could’ve become maudlin and indulged in thoughts of Rachel.  “When We Were Beautiful”, “Bed of Roses”, “Keep the Faith”...  Hell, he wrote the biggest part of “Superman Tonight” on the piano in her house, just a few miles from the stage where he sang it.  But he didn’t.  He refused.  She had no interest in him, he sure as hell wasn’t going to let her screw with his psyche in the middle of a gig.

I’m a fucking professional, baby.  Ain’t gonna happen.

Until he caught sight of the blonde head about three women back during “Something for the Pain” and his tongue tripped over the lyric “forever after ain’t what it’s cracked up to be”.

She came. 

His heart and mind both raced as he focused on the guitar frets in order to keep pace with Richie on the acoustic piece. 

Rachel came.  She changed her mind and got here for part of the show.

He’d done the next verse of the song and changed the melody on “I don’t need a lover, just to get screwed”, drawing particular attention to that last word before he realized it wasn’t her.  The hair was similar, and the height was right, but closer inspection revealed it to be just another nameless fan.

And it got him pissed off all over again.  He fought to keep himself from kicking the mic stand when the mix jacked-up during Richie’s lead vocals.  Even with the monitors in his ears, Jon couldn’t hear him.

This show is the biggest piece of fuck ever!

That was further proven four – thankfully uneventful songs later – when they  hit “Love’s the Only Rule”.  He was doing his damnedest not to think about love in any way, shape or form when the tempo picked back up in the middle of the tune.  His mind was focused on connecting with the crowd and bringing them into his world, making them feel his new song and that long, lost note from John Coltrane.  He put his foot on the edge of a monitor so that he could lean into that front row... and the damn thing tipped over.

Jon never missed a beat or a note, but his mind was swearing up a blue-streak as one more fuck up in the cursed show reared its head.  He was ready to be DONE with this godforsaken concert, and this was as good a place as any to end it – if only they hadn’t been obligated to do an mother fucking encore. 

There was no way he could get by in wrapping a Bon Jovi show without having performed their two biggest hits, “Wanted” and “Prayer”.  So that meant a foul-tempered Jon couldn’t stomp off with a Jersey salute to the fine people of this city like he wanted to, but the main setlist was finished.  End of story.

That gave him a quick minute to duck under the stage and get his shit together for the encore.  It was three more songs.  Surely duct tape and a hail Mary could hold the damn show and his composure together for another three measly songs.

“I fuckin’ HATE San Jose!” he declared, coming out of his quick change room and running directly into Richie.  “And take off that fuckin’ hat!”

Slash-horn Leghorn sat atop the guitarist’s head and mocked Jon with its presence as they prepared to retake the stage.   He hated that stupid hat and Richie did nothing but show balls of steel when he flashed an unrepentant grin, stroking the tip of the longest feather, simply saying, “Nope.  I like it.”

“Hit the fuckin’ stage, then!” Jon shoved his way by the taller man, muttering, “Thorn in My Side is absofuckinglutely appropriate here.”

And it was. 

One of the new songs from the album, Jon didn’t have the lyrics committed as strongly to memory as he did some of their older tunes.  That was unfortunate for him, because something had apparently pulled loose when that monitor went over in the last song. 

Or when they righted it.  I’m damn sure it wasn’t ME.

He certainly wasn’t taking the blame when his magic lyric box showed nothing but a blank, black screen for over half the song and left him stumbling over words like an illegal immigrant reciting the Pledge of Allegiance.

Thorn in My Side.  That’s YOU, Rachel Braden.  You have fucked up my entire show tonight.  I hope you’re happy!

His determination not to give Rachel a second thought had only intensified his thoughts of her during the show.  Every verse tonight had something in it that made him think of her and he’d had to force himself away from them more times than he could count, combating like a prize fighter to keep his stage persona in place. 

As a result, when he descended the stage steps for the last time, his mood was beyond foul. 

Most notably, she had become the thorn in his side and that mother fucker was digging deep.  So deeply, in fact, that by the time he’d showered and changed he was pissed beyond all reason. 

He had been nothing short of good to Rachel.  Sure, they’d had problems as a couple, but they’d parted on good terms, so he thought.  In his book, they’d parted as friends – close, intimate friends.  Why would she feel any differently?  He’d let her go exactly as she asked, giving her all the respect he possessed even when that was the last thing he wanted to do.  After all that....  Well, she could at least have the common courtesy to give him the time of fucking day!  

But no!  The woman he’d agreeably let walk out of his life when he wanted nothing but to hold onto her...  If she couldn’t be bothered to drive a few measly damn miles to see him and be a little sociable...  Well, he and his ego weren’t going to take that laying down.  She might not want to talk to him, but he had plenty to say to her – and he wasn’t leaving the Bay Area without saying it! 

Finding his manager, he coolly informed Paul that he was to go to the airport and accompany the rest of the band to Phoenix.  Right after he found Jon a cab, car and driver or what-the-fuck-ever mode of transportation was available. 

Now. 

Paul’s efforts to reason with him had earned nothing more than an icy, “I’ll catch up later” as the hired car rolled to a stop alongside the two men. 

This was not part of the usual post-show activity.  Jon always climbed into the car and went to the airport or whatever was scheduled before then.  Without fail.  To waver from the routine that he, himself had established set off a major round of warning bells, and Paul was visibly concerned at the unexpectedness of it all.

“But Jon, where are you going?” he asked, fingers curling over the top of the car door and holding it open.  “Are you going to meet us at the hotel?  Do you need security?  You can’t just go wandering off without some kind of agenda.”

Jon’s agenda was none of the other man’s business. 

“I’m the boss.  I can do any fucking thing I want.”  He tossed his bag into the back seat, climbed in behind it and slammed the car door with a sharp pull.  Paul’s fingers barely escaped amputation, and the tinted glass was still vibrating as he barked at the driver, “Livermore.  I’ll have an exact address before we get there.”