After

By Martha J. Allard

Detroit, 1988

Asia Heyes sat on the riser in front of the drums, kicking the heels of his Keds into the plywood. The stadium loomed fifteen thousand empty seats large, stretching on until it took up his whole vision. In his brain he heard something like his own voice say, "I'm in hell."

"s' a matter?" One of the roadies paused to ask. "You want another sound check?"

No, he wanted to run away, Asia thought, but shook his head. "It's fine."

He jumped down and wandered back to the green room. His stomach tightened at the sight of the massive amount of food and drinks spread out for the band. He threw himself onto a vinyl couch in the corner and tried not to want a fix. Or anything else he couldn't have.

"This is pretty tough on you, isn't it?" Marcus, Asia's manager, sat down next to him. "You missin' Ziggy?"

Like other people would miss air, but Asia only shrugged. "He should be here. It wasn't supposed to be like this."

"No shit, baby. And I'm sorry as hell about it, but what do you do?" Marcus squeezed his shoulder. "This album is so good."

"Don't." Asia sat up, rubbing his face.

"It amazes me. Some people never write anything as good. And you... You come up with this the first time."

"Yeah." Asia rose to grab a fifth of Black Velvet. He unscrewed the cap and took a healthy belt. It burned and slammed the breath from his lungs and he smiled. "And all it took was Ziggy killin' himself. It was really fuckin' easy."

"I didn't mean it like that."

"I know." The smell of the whiskey made Asia think of Ziggy cold and stiff. "But I hate it. I hate the songs. They hurt."

"I know." Marcus rose to catch him in a bear hug. "But Asia, you gotta let it out. You gotta get through it."

Asia pushed him away and went back to the sofa. "I'm okay to sing, Marcus. Don't worry."

Nobody else bothered him. The band ate and drank, milling around with girlfriends, boyfriends. Press and groupies came and went. Asia lay there with his bottle.

Before curtain he hauled himself to the john to puke himself sober. The floor was so cold, he wanted to lie there all night, but he wasn't stupid enough to think they would let him.

The place smelled sour now, and so did he. He rinsed his mouth and rummaged around for clean clothes.

Jeans and a black T-shirt that bore the name of the album: "After". Compared to the rest of the band, all leather and silver studs, Asia looked like a roadie.

In the wings, Marcus huffed the breath out of him again. "It'll be okay."

Asia was barely in his body but the rest of the band swept him along. The glare of the spot hit him and the crowd exploded on contact. Too much to hear, Asia felt it from the soles of his feet up. When he reached for his mic he couldn't tell if it was him shaking or them. It was like being trapped in a hail of human voice.

He heard the opening chords of "After'" over the collective gasp of the crowd. Asia's heart banged against his rib cage in the next half second. He tightened his hand around the mic and leaned into it, eyes closed.

He sang, and it was like his voice had split into thousands of voices. He opened his eyes and saw a sea of faces, wet with tears in the dark, their mouths moving with his mouth. They shared every syllable, they shared his breath. The weight lifted.