I called before I went over.  It’s not like he was going anywhere, but it still seemed right to call.  He didn’t sound that bad; more like he had a cold, or had killed his voice the night before, or something.  On the phone, it was easy to believe he was just coming out of a bender.  

“—a cup of coffee.”

“Are you sure?”

“Fuck I’m sure.  All they keep bringing me is water and juice.”  He laughed, and that’s when I could tell he was really screwed – he used to have a laugh like a monkey, hooting, his mouth starting in a little o and then widening as it went on. Now, it sounded like something was hanging loose in his throat, rattling from side to side.  

I drove through a Starbucks on the way.  Yeah, call me a sellout.  He wanted coffee, and I don’t know good from bad.  I drink beer; too much of it, probably.  

The place they had him was like a bungalow or something, a lot less scary than I expected.  You could only tell by the connections in the wall for his machines and stuff that it wasn’t a motel.  He even had a room in the front with armchairs.  I doubt he’d been out there for a while, though.  I pulled one of the chairs in so I could sit with him – my ass is a little big these days for one of those folding deals, and I told him that.  He tried to laugh again, and I had to turn my face away so he couldn’t see me react.  

He didn’t even seem to notice the Starbucks logo on the cup as I passed it over; he just dived right in, not even taking that first careful sip most people would.  Seeing that cup in his shaking hands was when it really hit me.  He’d always been the “Fuck corporate America” one in the group.  He was the one who called a sellout when he saw one.  Hell, we’d probably have been in Toyota commercials if not for him.  I wondered if he regretted that now, if he’d rather have had the cash and fame – if he thought things might have been different.  But I couldn’t find a good way to ask that question.  

There was a goddamn bass guitar laying against the wall beside the bed, some crappy Squier with one string missing.  He saw me staring at it.  “Yeah ... someone found out I was in a band, and they thought that would cheer me up.”  He stopped to take a long drink.  “They weren’t happy when I chucked it across the room.  But fuck, all you have to do is ask.  What the hell is a drummer going to do with that piece of shit?”  

You could whack it against something in time, I thought to myself; but I couldn’t stand hearing that laugh again.  I felt like an asshole for thinking that, but I couldn’t.  It’s bad enough when your parents turn into zombies, shuffling and full of decay; but when its one of your buddies, one of the guys you were indestructible with back when – it’s too close to home.  

We tried to find something to talk about, skipping around any sensitive subjects.  He asked about Demon and Karl, but didn’t mention Jenny and I wasn’t about to bring her up.  I told him a little about my gig, running the board for kids who thought studio time was their big break.  “Yeah, those bastards think they invented punk,” he tried to growl, but somewhere in the middle it turned into a coughing fit that lasted several minutes.  

After he was silent again, I tried to continue the conversation.  “Man, Stitch, you wouldn’t –“

“James,” he interrupted.  “I’m ... not going with Stitch anymore.”

For some reason, this was the worst change of all.  I could handle sitting here with someone who only resembled my memories about as much as an old, beat-up car resembles the brand-new Corvette it once was; I could handle not bringing up his ex, I could deal with the fact that he was sick and wasn’t getting better, but this I couldn’t take.  “No, man,” I protested, feeling like something had slipped through my fingers.  “You can’t do that.  That’s like saying twenty years never –“

“Fuck, the band’s gone, man.  We’re just Dave, Karl, Benny ... and James, again.”  He sagged back against the pillow that propped him up.  “Let the fucking kids have the nicknames.”  

There was a window beside me; I looked outside.  There were kids playing out front.  Why would they allow kids here?  “That’s crap, Stitch.  I’m not buying that.”

He lunged forward and the sheet fell down around his waist.  His chest was a mess of lesions, tapes holding wires and tubes against him, and the scars from a hundred stage dives.  “James,” he said, and he laughed again.  “If I’m gonna die, let me use my real name for it.”