Chapter Six
Nick
The truth was, I couldn’t stand the thought of Brian’s voice being broken.
That’s why I had to get out of there. That’s why I made fun of his therapy exercises. Because I didn’t wanna admit that they were necessary.
I balled my fists and shoved them deep into my coat pockets as I walked down the street, the wind biting my nose as it whipped between the city buildings. The lights were glowing, strings hanging over the street in zig-zags, like man-made stars in the urban atmosphere. I walked quickly, partly to save myself from the cold and partly because I felt like if I slowed for even a second the fear that threatened every time Brian’s voice cracked would catch up to me.
I remember the first time I noticed it.
We were on stage somewhere in Asia - Japan, maybe Tokyo? - during the Unbreakable tour, and he was singing I Want it That Way’s opening verse and his voice wobbled. Just a little wobble, nothing like it’s been doing since, but it made this weird shiver go up my spine, like I’d sensed the future from that broken sound or something. I’d looked over at him, concerned because Brian never missed a note like that, and he looked just as concerned as I did.
It scared the shit out of me because of everything in my life the only thing that I’d consistently been able to have faith in was Brian. I mean sure he’d let me down over the years - yes, I’d spent the last decade slowly growing further and further away from him, but when it really came down to it he was still there, he was still Brian, whatever he’d done to break my heart didn’t matter because he was. But the worse his voice got the less Brian he was becoming.
I never told anyone, including him, but of all the voices of all the singers in all the whole world, his is my very favorite.
There were nights, when I was on the drugs and alone in Los Angeles, when I’d sit in my garage, my car running on battery, with his album on repeat, rocking my way through a crash off a high. I thought of it like being in an egg; his voice was all that was keeping me alive. It felt like I wasn't alone. In a way it was like he was there, even in the time when he most definitely would not have been there, when he disapproved of me the very most. With that CD, his voice had comforted me through a lot of restless, fearful nights as the pains of coming down from a high or going through withdrawals wrecked me.
It was the only way to hold onto my friend.
And now that voice was disappearing.
Now that voice was reduced to bleating like an animal while flailing about on a hotel room floor.
I couldn’t fuckin’ stand it.
So I walked.
I stepped into a little shop and bought a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Lauren would kill me if she knew but damn it if she was really that worried about it then maybe she shouldn’t have sent me off to Europe by myself with nobody to watch over me but Brian, who wasn’t gonna pay enough attention to me to notice if I smoked or not. I lit up on the sidewalk outside the store and took a long drag, watching people walking by and the cars zipping down the uneven streets.
By the time I finally headed back to the hotel, exhausted from walking and worrying about Brian’s voice, he was asleep, the TV on, halfway through The Karate Kid, in French but with English subtitles. I turned the TV off and got onto the bed, still dressed, tossing the cigarettes and lighter onto the nightstand with my phone.
I stared at the ceiling, hands folded on my chest, afraid that if I closed my eyes I’d have the same nightmares all over again. I took a deep breath and glanced over at Brian on the next bed…
”Nick?”
I woke up the next morning, after Brian slamming the door in my face, and I was laying on the couch in the living room of the band house. I’d slept there. My mom was probably having a fit, considering she had no idea I’d left the apartment back in Tampa in the first place. Brian was standing over me, staring down at me. “Did you stay here all night?” he asked.
”Yeah,” I murmured.
”What’s going on?” he asked.
I was about to answer when Leighanne came through the door, dressed in a really short bathrobe that only just barely reached her thighs and strained to hold her boobs in. Her hair was a mess. “I’m so not finished with yo-- oh, Nick. Hi.” Her face turned red.
“You’re still busy, I see,” I said to Brian.
“Well… no. I mean yeah, but I can take a time out for you, if you need me.”
I wanted to tell him what was wrong but somehow in the morning light it was so much harder than it would’ve been the night before, if he’d just listened then. So I choked on the words and I couldn’t tell him what had happened… what I’d done.
“Nevermind,” I said, “It ain’t important anymore.”
“Are you sure?” he looked worried.
“Yeah, I guess,” I said with a shrug.
He stared at me, waiting, but I didn’t give him the answer because by that time I’d decided that he didn’t deserve it.
That’s when I woke up for real.
It wasn’t even an hour after I’d fallen asleep.
I sat up and realized I’d never even changed out of my clothes. Brian was still sleeping. I rolled over and saw the cigarettes and lighter on the nightstand. I grabbed them and carried them into the bathroom, kicking my shoes off as I walked, and locked myself in, turning on the shower faucet and the humidity fan and lighting up in our nonsmoking room.
Brian
“Have you been smoking?”
Nick shook his head.
We were in the back of the car again, on our way to a morning TV talk show, and I know Nick’s coat smelled like cigarettes. I made a face as I sniffed his shoulder. “Yes you have, too,” I argued. “Nick, those things are so bad for you, c’mon. It’s bad enough AJ smokes still, don’t you start that shit again, too.”
He sighed.
I shook my head. He wouldn’t listen to me anyway. If he wanted to smoke, he was gonna smoke, and probably all the more just because he knew I didn’t approve. He was stubborn that way.
At the TV studio we were shown inside to a green room, where there was an assortment of breakfasty foods. Mostly croissants and scones and that sort of thing, which Nick passed up on. I ate a croissant while we waited. When they finally came to get us for our segment, we followed the TV personnel up to the stage where the gray-haired host was waiting for us in his fancy buttoned suit and tie and silver wire frame glasses. The audience started screaming the moment we walked onto the set.
I looked at Nick. He looked exhausted. “Did you sleep at all last night?” I asked him quietly while we waited for the show to come back from commercial break.
He glanced at me and I noticed that his eyes were red and a little puffy underneath them. He scrunched up his nose. “I dunno,” he answered with a shrug, “Not a lot. But I’m a’ight.”
I knew him well enough to know he wasn’t. I thought about telling him I knew he’d been having nightmares, but I didn’t want to upset him.
“I guess, just a little… I dunno… like,” he paused, thinking of a word, “Despondent, I guess.”
“Despondent?”
I had a feeling he didn’t know what the word meant and I was about to suggest he Google it when the lights came up on the set, returning from commercial. The host was introducing us in French and then a set director beckoned us forward to the hot pink couch reserved for guests.
“What the Backstreet Boys are only two?” laughed the host as we approached. “Brian, Nick,” he named us as we sat down. “Where are Howie, AJ, and Kevin?”
Nick did not slip into character as easily this time as he had at the radio interview the day before, though, so even though the host - whose name was something very French like Pierre or something - was looking right at him, he still didn’t answer. So I jumped in.
“We figured it would be a great opportunity to have a Frick & Frack adventure,” I said, grinning.
Nick nodded thoughtfully, chewing his lower lip.
Okay, so we were getting quiet Nick today. Which meant doing the interview was going to be up to me. This was exactly what I’d been afraid of when Howie, AJ, and Kevin had originally said they weren’t coming along on the promo run. All is good and well for Nick to say that we were going to “split the work”, but the fact of the matter is Nick’s a diva who sometimes gets in these moods. He’ll get broody and silent and refuses to speak during interviews, setting his mouth in a straight line and just listening as the rest of us took up the job of answering in turn. Usually, there were four of us to pick up his slack when he got in those moods, though. Now, it was just me and him.
“The Backstreet Boys movie it is released in America, isn’t it?” Pierre Or Whatever asked. “What has been the reaction of your fans so far?”
I glanced at Nick, hoping he’d buck up, but he didn’t.
“Well, they seem touched by the film,” I said, “Excited to see it.” I really wished Nick would chime in, but he remained stoic beside me.
“What made you decide to open up to your audience like this? Was it hard?” Pierre looked at Nick, obviously wishing that he’d answer the question.
I took a deep breath, a pause to give Nick the opportunity if he was going to answer, then, “We’ve always tried to stay transparent and honest with our fans. When I had my heart surgery, when AJ went to rehab… We stayed open with the fans. So we just wanted to give them the opportunity to see the stories...behind the stories, I guess. That’s what the movie was about. Like more details. More emotions.”
I looked at Nick again.
C’mon Nick. Don’t make me do this alone, I thought.
“It’s band history,” he said.
That’s it.
That was all he was going to throw out there?
Pierre stared at him, waiting for more, but when Nick didn’t offer it, he asked, “For instance, how you got together and the roots of your music?” he smiled.
“Yes,” I replied, “All the things that happened and people who influenced us and the drama rising from that. We were betrayed by some of our first supporters.”
Nick stared at his feet.
“Betrayed?” Pierre looked interested at this word.
I was about to go into detail when Nick spoke up, “We also talked about your vocal muscle dys-whatever.”
I looked over at him.
Pierre raised an eyebrow, “Excuse me?”
“Muscle tension dysphonia,” I supported, though I was confused why he’d changed the subject so abruptly. We fumbled through a series of questions about the MTD and the therapy I was doing for it, while Nick sat silently.
Then Pierre started asking about the plans the Backstreet Boys were making. It was hard because I didn’t want to lie, making it sound like I planned to be there. I wished Nick would have answered. “The Backstreet Boys are staying busy,” I sad. “2015 will be a big year.” I nodded.
Pierre Whatever kept asking questions until finally the segment was over and rambled out the details of the movie release in French. Once the show went on commercial, he thanked us for our time and we were shown off the set by the director.
Nick
“What the hell was that?” Brian was pissed.
I sighed as I dropped into the back of the car.
“You couldn’t say anything?”
“I said shit,” I argued.
“Like ten words,” Brian argued, “Maximum. What happened to you being all defensive, complaining about it being both of us that were saddled with work when the other fellas decided not to come?”
I ran my hand through my hair, annoyed, as the car pulled away from the curb. “Dude, I told you, I didn’t sleep and I’m really despondent feeling today. I’m having an off day.”
“Despondent does not mean what you think it means,” Brian snapped.
“Yeah huh,” I argued.
“Define it.”
“Fuck you.”
“That’s not the definition.”
I rolled my eyes as Brian set his jaw and turned away.
“Not like it’ll kill you to fucking answer some questions,” I said, staring out the window.
“I just thought this was about both of us answering questions is all,” Brian snapped. “I’m pretty sure that guy wanted to hear your opinion on the movie, too.”
I turned to glare at him, “It’s not like anything I say matters anyway, right?”
Brian looked flabbergasted. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?!” he stammered.
“Nobody gives a shit about anything I got to say,” I accused.
“What? Seriously?” Brian looked livid, “Seriously? All anyone gives a shit about is what you got to say!” He pointed, “You always get everything your way.”
My eyes widened. “What?”
“You heard me!” Brian yelled. His hand was still pointing aggressively at me. “You are spoiled.”
“Spoiled? Spoiled?!”
“Yes! Spoiled!”
I clenched my jaw. “I am not the spoiled one,” I snapped. “You are.”
Brian’s eyebrows raised. “Excuse me?”
“You and your stupid dyfuckia or whatever… you can’t even sing right and you’re still in the band and getting vocals and kicking me out of hotel rooms so you can sit around making barnyard noises --”
“Kick you out? I did not kick you out.”
“You didn’t stop when I made it clear that you were getting on my nerves,” I replied.
“I told you! I have to do that or I’ll lose my voice! Do you want me to lose my voice?”
I couldn’t even think about it. My heart sped up at just the thought of it. I stared at him, unable to fathom a response. So, instead, I turned away and refused to speak again, afraid I’d say something I’d regret.
When the car rolled up to the back doors of the next TV station we were filming a segment for, we both reached for the door handles, but before I could push my way out of the car, Brian snapped, “Just stay here if you aren’t going to talk.”
So I did.
Brian
“I’m going to kill him,” I said into my phone a moment later. The moment it became obvious that Nick was seriously not going to follow me into the interview, I called Kevin, who picked up on the third ring.
“What happened?” Kevin asked. So I recounted the interview with Pierre Whatever for Kevin’s appraisal. He listened in silence until I finished the story, then he asked, “So what’s bothering him?”
“Maybe it’s the stick that’s lodged up his ass?” I suggested.
Kevin sighed, “No Brian,” he said. “You know Nick better than that. You know he doesn’t just act crazy for no reason. When Nick acts like a diva, there’s a reason. Something’s bothering him. You need to talk to him and find out what’s up and you know it.”
I sighed as I was shown into the green room backstage and settled into a director’s-style chair where set assistants started touching up my face with powder and whatever to adjust for the lighting on set. “I don’t know if I have the patience for his bullshit, Kev,” I complained.
Kevin was quiet. I pictured him shrugging. “You know it’s the only way to fix it. Ignore it and he’ll get worse.”
We hung up and I sat there as they finished prepping me to do the interview, stewing. I hated that Kevin was right. I hated that I hadn’t realized it myself. I hated that I didn’t want to find out what was wrong with him. I wanted him to grow up and be a man and tell me in a normal way that something was bugging him if, indeed, something was bugging him. Instead of being an asshole because he was despondent, he should just tell me what was wrong.
By the time I finished with the interview and went back out to the car, I was even more frustrated by Nick than ever, and he was still staring out the window in silence. I sat down and buckled myself in, staring at him as I leaned back into the seat. He carefully kept his face turned away from me.
“I’m sorry,” I said finally.
Nick turned to look at me, his eyes redder than before and I wondered if he’d been crying. “It’s all good,” he muttered. Then, shocker of all shocks, he continued, “I’m sorry, too.”
There's Us by Pengi
