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Chapter Two: Alien Abduction


Desmond crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back as far as the plastic folding chair would allow him, as though sinking below the shoulder level of all the people surrounding him would help in making the meeting go quicker or easier. He wanted to be invisible. What wouldn't I give for a radio active spider to crawl along and give me super powers right about now, he thought, looking around the room at the assortment of characters that had filled the other plastic seats surrounding him. All ages, both genders, various walks of life... No two people in the room seemed to have much in common. He took a deep breath and sank a little lower, as though the chair would keep them from noticing him.

There was a bustle at the front of the room, and a guy that had taken one or two too many sprays at a tanning salon was standing up at a microphone on a podium. People in the room seemed to sit straighter and situate themselves to see the podium more clearly. The guy tapped the microphone, testing it, and it thump, thump, thumped throughout the room on a crackly PA system. "Testing," he said, as though the thumping hadn't been enough to confirm that the microphone was in operation. His nearly-orange-from-spray muscles flexed under a too-tight blue-grey t-shirt. "Tonight we have a special speaker." He cleared his throat, right into the microphone, and the sound of his phlegm moving echoed around the room.

I do not belong here, Desmond thought. This is hokum.

The guy rambled on, reading from books, and making everyone mumble along through the Serenity Prayer. He called for new members to introduce themselves, and Desmond shrank even smaller in his seat, refusing to allow himself to be acknowledged. All he wanted in the world was to get the hell out of there.

"Well, that brings us to our speaker portion, then," the guy announced. "This member has been with us for almost two years now, and is thirteen months sober. He's worked really hard and I know we are all very proud of him. Now he wants to share his story, something we've all been looking forward to..." he smiled. "Everyone, please welcome Nick Carter."

"Welcome Nick!" the entire room seemed to bleat at once.

Desmond's interest peaked. No way could they mean the Nick Carter, could they? In spite of himself, he sat up just a little bit, craned his neck the teeniest amount, trying to see without anyone knowing he was looking.

Nick stood up and grabbed a handful of papers and stood behind the podium and shuffled them. It sounded like birds wings over the crackly PA system as he did. He looked up from the pages and cleared his throat, a nervous glimmer in his eyes as he looked around the room. Desmond slouched back down. Now that Nick was up at the podium, he could see him clear enough without sitting up and bringing attention to himself. He couldn't believe that it was the Nick Carter. What were the odds of that - a Backstreet Boy at the first meeting of AA that he went to.

He wondered how horrible it would be if he told Kelsey about Nick being there when he got back to the hotel. There was probably some law or something against telling people about celebrities they saw in AA. But Kelsey wasn't just people, she was Kelsey, and this would excite the hell out of her.

Nick cleared his throat, though he had the decencey to turn away from the mic unlike the Hasselhoff wanna be that had just left the podium.

Nick stared around the room at the other members of AA, all staring back at him. It was different, he thought, than being on stage in front of a million teenagers. It was different than when the girls were screaming and the music was thumping and he didn't have a care in the world other than whether he'd mess up on the dance steps or not. "Thanks Brad," he said. He felt naked in front of their eyes, like the emperor in his new clothes. Here, he was vulnerable, here they knew his secrets.

"My name is Nick Carter," he began, "And I am an alcoholic."

"Hello Nick," they all responded. Even Desmond found himself mumbling along.

"When I was a baby," Nick said, "I lived in a bar my parents owned. I played games about going to bars because that's what the grown-ups in my life did. I became an adult at the age of twelve when I became a Backstreet Boy, and on tour nobody keeps a check on whether you're drinking or not. I would wake up in the morning and instead of using Listerine to wash my mouth, I'd use Jack Daniels to take the edge off reality. I drank so much I passed out. I drank so much I wished I'd pass out. I became a zombie. I wandered the streets at night, got in fights, got arrested, got the shit beat out of me by bigger guys, and I almost lost my career, and my life. I broke my own heart. Literally." He looked around. He spotted Desmond. "Don't let yourself do the same," he said, and Desmond couldn't help but feel like Nick was talking directly to him. "I believe in you. You gotta believe in you, too, if you wanna make your life better. I mean, that's why you're here isn't it? To make your life better?" He looked away. "And we all have the potential to be better. It's just something we gotta decide."

He wondered what they'd all think of him if they knew how close he'd come back in LA to walking into a bar. Without knowing this, they clapped and his old man sponsor, a guy who was wheel chair bound with a beer belly that Nick lovingly called Ringo (whose real name was Paul Harrison), had tears in his eyes and a ten year chip pinned to his chest. Nick was thankful that he hadn't had to let down old Ringo.

But it'd been damn close.

After the speech, Brad-the-Hasslehoff-lookalike got back on stage and opened everything Nick had said up for discussion and Nick answered questions and the whole group of fifteen or so talked about parental influences and how childhood experiences could lead into alcoholism. Desmond sat quietly watching.

When the discussion was over, Brad directed everyone to the cookies and punch on a table in the back and dismissed everyone, but instead of leaving they just seemed to migrate across the room to the tables. Desmond grabbed his hat from under the chair and flipped it onto his head, pushing back his dirty hair. He didn't plan to stick around for cookies and koolaid. He paused at the end of the row of empty seats to tie the lace on his boot.

"I haven't seen you here before." Nick's voice cut through Desmond's concentration on not being seen. He looked up at Nick and straightened, his boot still only half tied. They couldn't be more opposite of each other - Nick's lanky, light complextion with perfecly tweaked blonde hair versus Desmond's husky, olive tones and dirty, shoulder-length hair. Desmond stared at Nick. "This your first meeting?"

Desmond licked his lips, "Yeah," he said finally, after a long pause.

"Feels like you got abducted by aliens or somethin', right?" Nick laughed.

"To put it mildly," Desmond replied.

Nick stuck out his hand, "It gets better, I promise. I'm Nick Carter."

"I'm Desmond Truetree," Desmond answered, taking Nick's hand and shaking it.

"You're from Boston," Nick stated.

Desmond paused, then said, "Ye-eah. How did you know that?"

"Your accent. You move to Nashville recently?"

"About two weeks," Desmond answered.

"Cool. Welcome, man. It's a good place to get on your feet. It's beautiful here." Nick smiled. "I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for Nashville. Like alive, I mean. Not like physically here, although I wouldn't be physically here if it wasn't for Nashville, either. Cos if it wasn't for Nashville then here wouldn't exist because it is Nashville. But you know what I mean."

Desmond nodded. He thought he did, but he wasn't sure.

"So what brought you to Nashville?"

"Just needed a change," Desmond answered.

"Well ya chose a good place, a good city. You won't regret living here." Nick shoved his hands in his pockets and spun his one year chip in his palm inside the fabric. "So what do you do?"

"What do I do?" Desmond repeated.

"Yeah, like for a living."

Desmond shrugged, "I mean we just got here, I got a job at McDonalds. Down the street. On Fesslers."

Nick nodded like that was a noble profession. "What do you want to do?" he asked.

"I write songs," Desmond blurted.

"No kidding?" Nick said. He laughed, "I've been trying to write this one song and I can't seem to get it right, you know? Like it's in me, it's right here," he tapped his chest with the blunt end of his fist, "But I can't seem to get it out, you know, on the paper." He shook his head. "Song writing is damn hard. It's hard to get in the business, it's hard to keep it up. Kudos to you, bro."

"It ain't always easy. Especially for the really good songs," Desmond answered, "I mean anyone can write a couple rhyming lines of bullshit, but for the song to mean anything it needs more substance than, say ---" he paused. Usually when he went on this tirade he pointed out the meaninglessness of I Want It That Way but, luckily, he'd stopped short shy of the song title, and he just glanced away awkwardly.

Nick was about to prompt Desi to continue when the old man in the wheelchair pushed his way over beside the two young men. "You," he gruffed up at Nick, "Get down here on my level, son." Nick knelt down. "I'm damn proud of you."

Nick smiled, "You've been a huge part of this, Ringo," he said. Then he waved to Desmond, "Hey this is my friend, Desmond Truetree. This was his first meeting."

The old man looked up at Desmond, "Welcome Desmond."

Desmond lifted his hat in salutation.

"This is my sponsor, John-Paul Harrison... I call him Ringo." Nick grinned, "He was only missing one Beatle, you know?" Nick turned to Desmond, "You should get a sponsor, man, it really helps a lot. I dunno what I'd do without ol' Ringy here." He patted the old man's knee. "I call him up whenever I'm feeling down and he helps me. Talks me through the cravings, you know? He's a good guy. A great guy. I'm proud to make him proud."

"This one's real charismatic," Ringo said, thumbing at Nick. "Could talk and smile his way into the White House if it so inclined him, me thinks."

Desmond nodded.

Later, Nick walked with him out after grabbing a handful of Oreos from the table. He dunked them into the cup of kool aid like Desmond remembered doing when he was four years old at Sunday School. "It's a hard road," Nick had said as they came to a stop at the edge of the lot. "But it's really worth it."

Desmond nodded.

"I think the key is having something you're working for," Nick rambled, "Like a benchmark. Like you lose a certain number of pounds or bench a certain weight or run a 5k or whatever."

"I got something I'm working for," Desmond replied, thinking of Kelsey back at the hotel.

Nick smiled, "Good," he replied. He paused. "Hey if you need to talk anytime..." he pulled out his wallet and withdrew a business card. It had the name KAOTIC RECORDS printed in the center, followed by Nick's name and a phone number. "Gimme a call." Nick handed the card to Desmond, who took it and slipped it into his pocket.

"I appreciate that," Desmond said.

Nick smiled.

Ringo was just rolling out into the parking lot. "Carter!" he called, and Nick looked over, "Help an old man load his chair?" he requested.

Nick grinned back at Desmond, "Gotta go. But you have a good week, man..." and with that, Nick turned and galloped across the parking lot toward Ringo's old beat up red truck.

Desmond tilted his hat to Ringo, who waved in response as Nick jogged over, and then he turned and started the walk back up the street to the hotel, laden with AA pamphlets and, somehow, Nick's half empty solo cup of kool aid. He stumbled over the railroad tracks that crossed the street and cut through the lot of the Purity milk factory to the hotel.

The lights of the city gleamed in the distance as he patted the car on his way past and took the steps two at a time. Room 217. He unlocked the door and stepped into the cool air conditioning that was running inside. The window curtains were torn wide open and the record player spun, sending out the sounds of Dashboard Confessional softly from the corner. Kelsey lay on the bed, flat on her back in the dark, staring up at the ceiling.

"I'm back," Desmond said, tossing the AA pamphlets onto the bed beside her, and throwing away Nicks solo cup in the tiny trash can beside the TV stand.

Kelsey didn't move.

"Kels?" His voice rose in worry.

"I heard you," she said.

Desmond sighed. He turned and put his hat down on the TV and yanked his shirt off over his head. He went over to the bed and lay down across it diagonally in only his jeans, his head propped up on his forearm, staring out the window at the city.

"How was it?" Kelsey asked.

Desmond shrugged, "It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be."

"Yeah?" Kelsey looked over.

"Yeah." Desmond said.

"Meet anyone?"

"There was this guy there, he was nice."

"No sexy women?"

"No sexy women."

"Are you gay and just not telling me?" Kelsey teased. Then, "Not that I care. You know I wouldn't care, don't you?" she sat up. "Cos I wouldn't. Nothing would change between us if you were."

"I know it wouldn't," Desmond replied.

Kelsey laid back down. "So what was the guy like?"

Desmond shrugged, "I dunno. They say you should have a sponsor in AA, you know, like someone that's gone through it and understands it."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Desmond nodded.

"You gonna get a sponsor?" she asked.

"I wouldn't mind asking this guy to be my sponsor."

"Then ask him."

"Maybe next week," Desmond answered.