Letter 2

Fred  Cook

 Hotel Rose

50 SW Morrison St, 

Portland, OR 97204 

October 27, 2013

Mary Baker

4321 First Street

NY City, New York 10153

Dear Mary,

Two days and I am already in another town and state. Not sure about this life in the road. A two-bit ancient Rock star. I am old, the band is old and my audience is old too. I remember the days,  those totally awesome days when we brought down the house. How we played it up for the paparazi. Do you remember that, MTV and Saturday Night Live? We were on such a high back then.

It is raining today. We flew in, took the tram. They have a really nice train. It is clean, I think the first one in a long time that did not reek of urine and two day old vomit. I often wonder how you can stand the subway. The last time we rode that train we were high. High as a kite and laughing the whole way to Central. I think we jumped the turnstile.  It was such an adrenaline rush. Do you remember Robert and Kate? Total drummer/rock couple. Banging out the beat in your dads upstairs apartment. The neighbors hated us, but we didn't care.

I still have not found what I misplaced. I looked in all my luggage. Even tore through my drummers bags. Did you know that suitcases have hidden zipper pockets on the inside? I had not idea. I just throw shit in and call it good. I screamed a lot, my band members avoided me the last day or so. Yelling and cursing used to get people jumping, getting me shit. Now they just walk off. I feel ancient today.

Memory is failing me. I hate that I cannot find that valuable piece. It was, how shall we say beyond price? I wonder if housekeeping took it. I know I laid it down on the dresser and then everything is a real blur.

Today I am sober. Made myself promise after I mailed my last letter. I would stop. You know the hard shit. Cut back on the cigarettes maybe to half a pack a day. They don't let you smoke indoors any more. Completely sucks. I got my ass chewed for lighting up. Some young punk threatened to throw me out.I could be his father.

Remember, we used to light up in the bathroom. You, me, Kate, Robert. Sister Margarete tried to catch us. Ha she never did. Those were the days. So free and young. I look in the mirror and feel sick. My back up singers are my daughters age. I bet Sister Margarete and the other nuns are dead and gone. If they had only seen what we became. Such a brief moment of fame and fortune.

And you. Married and kids. Stable life. I had always imagined you, free and painting some where. It seems strange that everything is so different. My manager calls me nuts behind my back. I can hardly afford to pay him. The club we are performing in tonight, kind of small from what I understand.

I am struggling. I want to get high. Thank you for letting me write to you. My therapist says this will help me. Get my head on straight.

Always Fred.