37.The Story Of Jonathon (Part 1 ＆ 2)
Narration：
I was born Jonathon Aaron Steel, to the parents of William and
Elizabeth steel. I am a Leo, born under the sign of the lion and
I was raised in a lower middle class family with only one
brother Michael whom I love dearly. He was five years my senior.
My father's nickname was Red which I could never understand why
because his hair was sandy blond. Nevertheless, the name stuck.
So when my brother was born my father became Big Red and my
brother Little Red.
I should have known from the first time when I realised their
special connection, that I just didn't fit in to my father's
plans. And as I grew older the constant comparison between my
brother and myself left little doubt who was the image of
perfection in my father's eye. To him, my brother could do no
wrong and I became The Invisible Boy, the proverbial 'black
sheep' and I soon figured out that red and black don't mix. The
beatings I received became more and more frequent to the point
where I would ask my father 'Am I the orphaned son you would
never need'？ But oddly enough I worshipped the ground my father
walked upon.
My brother and I were a strange mixture, as different as
daylight and dark. Looking back, it's hard to imagine we came
from the same parents. I sometimes wondered if we had the same
father, but I always dismissed that idea as my mother was far
too religious, my father as well, to ever even think of such a
thing. But my brother who had always sensed my parent's
instilled insecurities tried his best to encourage me. For I was
born different and he knew it. He often told me when I was born
an angel flew over my bed and christened me with a magic wand
and said 'You shall be the one.' And I had no idea what 'The
one' was, but as I grew older I began to understand. Most boys
put their mother on a pedestal and worship them like the Virgin
Mary but with her too my relationship was different and not for
the good. She was opinionated, uneducated, sometimes prejudiced,
overbearing, believed everything she read, true or not, and when
it came to religion was over-zealous to say the least. A mind
boggling combination but she was pretty, very pretty and I would
often wonder, bordering on complete confusion, how a person of
this description could rationalise life.
This was a series of characteristics that many times in my life
I would look back on in bewilderment and the women I sought
after when I was older would be nothing like her. In the pain of
youth, the misery of my neglect, would manifest itself in many
ways; depression - my enemy, fear - my friend, hatred - my
lover, and anger - fuel for my fire. These four characteristics
of my personality would become the guiding force of my life and
would control everything I did or was to become. I shall explain
later in the story about them which I call my Four Doors of
Doom.
The mirror, the great plaything for man's vanity. The mirror was
to become, at times, my altar of refuge and other, my alter ego
and its magnificent obsession with a relentless pursuit of
attention. It served as a chilling reflection of my own
wretchedness and my greatness. It was the one place I could go
to see inside myself, to find love, in an otherwise loveless
household where I could be great, where I could be anything or
anyone I wanted to be - one hundred percent pure escapism until
I discovered its precious secret. The mirror lives, it breathes,
it talks, it lies, it has a personality all its own. It is a
genie that grants all the wishes you could ever dream, at least
in my case - all except two.
It was my 14th birthday, the day that changed my life forever.
My brother Michael, the one person who was my guiding light, my
friend, my hero, was killed by a drunk driver in a head-on
collision. He died instantly. I couldn't even bring myself to go
to his funeral. My agony was so great I just couldn't come face
to face with him that one last time. My failure to attend
intensified my parents' resentment for me even more. But from
that moment on, nothing seemed to matter, especially that living
hell called 'home'. For one year after his death I roamed the
streets in a fog barely conscious of anything or anyone. I
discovered alcohol, and girls, drugs and in general a life I had
never known which was exciting, frightening and wonderfully
dangerous. And it was then as I staggered through a down town
city street in one of my drunken rages I stumbled across a small
music shop and in the window stood the instrument, the fiery
tool that would become the object of my new found desire. The
instrument of my passion, my obsession, the blood-red six
string. It was like I'd known the thing all my life.
I soon found it was the only way I could truly express myself.
It was a way to vent all my frustrations and all my pain -
completely opened all my Four Doors Of Doom and I found myself
going to the mirror for counsel less and less. Because of this
my songs seemed to write themselves and I knew my destiny was in
my music but I was going to have to get out of this backwards
town I was in if I was ever going to succeed. I was 16 going
nowhere and the only thing my parents knew was 'live, work,
die.' And if I stayed there that was exactly what was going to
happen to me - I was gonna die. So I ran away to the big city
with the lights, excitement and danger and a chance for me to
finally live and do my music without the persecution I had known
for so long.
I hitchhiked all the way with a suitcase in one hand and my
guitar in the other and as I stood at the edge of the city the
magic of the place was incredibly intense. It was to be my new
home the place I would call the 'Arena Of Pleasure'. I lived and
struggled in the arena for two years trying to get a break in
music and make a record and that's when I ran across a
delightful business man named Charlie. He had been a lawyer for
25 years before he discovered he could fuck over more people in
the recording industry then he ever could in a court of law and
he was the president of one of the biggest record companies in
the world. The music business to Charlie was nothing more than a
sacrificial lamb to be led to slaughter and the weapon of choice
was his record company that he'd wield like a mighty sword. The
great tool he would lovingly refer to as 'The Chainsaw'. The
morgue, Charlie said, was the music business where everyone
sells out. Where all the artists will eventually whore
themselves to commercialism, the place where the music comes to
die. And through him I learned everything I needed to know about
the music business and even things I didn't want to know. He
said he could make me a star, one of the biggest things the
world had ever seen. The big time was calling and I was on my
way. He introduced me to an aspiring young manager named Alex
Rodman and together we took on the whole fucking world and
kicked it square in the ass.
Just before the release of my first album I was sitting on the
steps in front of my apartment when a gypsy woman passed by. She
stopped and asked me if I would like my fortune read and I had
never had it done so I was more than happy to say yes. She
revealed a deck of Tarot cards and began to tell me of my past
in which she went into great detail about the pain of my youth,
my brother and my parents. She saw my present with my great
struggle to succeed and fulfillment of my dreams and new found
happiness but after about ten minutes she stopped and I wanted
to know of my future and pleaded for her to go on and finally
she spoke. She showed me a very disturbing vision of where I was
going. I told her that I wanted a phenomenal wealth and fame and
in the cards she saw a fallen hero and looked at me and said 'Be
careful what you wish for - it might come true, for the face of
death wears the mask of the King of Mercy.' I asked her if she
was sure of what she had seen and with a blank stare she turned
and walked away leaving me with the cards and a haunting that
would follow me the rest of my life.
Success agreed with me with amazing ease. The more records I
sold the more excess I had of everything - friends, money,
women, cars, houses. It was at one of my nightly hedonisms where
a flash individual entered the room. He introduced himself as
the Doctor. I asked him what kind of doctor and he smiled and
said, 'meet my friend Uncle Sam.' The mirror that was once on
the wall, my alter ego, was now talking to me from the table and
the next three years were a blur. Drugs became the new candy and
alcohol became the new Coca Cola and Doctor Rockter was my new
best friend and I never heard the mirror speak again until
tonight.
I was at the peak of my career and the world saw me as I had
always wanted it, The Idol, the Great Crimson Idol. Now I had
everything it seemed, everything but the one thing that would
have meant more to me than anything. The pain that manifested
itself into my obsession, the acceptance of me by my father and
mother, who I had not spoken to since I had left home.
One morning my manager Alex came in and broke up one of our
nightly Easy Rider Parties. An Easy Rider Party was when
everybody would come over to my house, the band, the doctor, hot
and cold running women etc. And we'd watch the movie and do
everything going on the film only a lot more. And he threatened
to leave me if I didn't clean up. It was not that he cared about
me as a person he was only interested in my talent and what I
could do to further his own career as a true showbiz mogul. But
it was then I realised just how far things had gone. So I sat
there alone in my palace of pain and I was just numb from the
alcohol and the drugs but equally as intoxicated by my own fame
and I had just enough courage to pick up the phone and dial the
number. My mind went into a whirlwind thinking of what would
happen and the fear overcame me and I started to put down the
phone but before I could a voice at the other end rang out and
it sent a chill through me that I had never known. It was my
mother. It was hard for me to speak, my heart pounding out of my
chest but when I did I did the best I could. She was very cold.
But I knew the shock of suddenly hearing from me after all these
years was overwhelming and I was hoping that all the time that
had passed would heal the deep wounds between my parents and me
but...I desperately wanted them to approve of me, to accept me -
it was all I ever wanted. I hoped my success would finally prove
my worthiness and they would welcome the prodigal son home. All
I wanted was for them to be proud of me but less than 50 words
were spoken. The last four were 'We have no son.'
Some wounds never heal and mine had scarred me for life. A great
star fell from the sky that night and with its descent left a
scorched path in its way - a great path of self-destruction
before burning out. And on this night the great finale is
finally here. 'Be careful what you wish for - it may come true.'
Long live, long live the King of Mercy.
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