G-Eazy Has A Cold

Michael Tullberg/Getty Images for Coachella

Gerald Earl Gillum, holding a glass of Bulleit Bourbon in one hand—made triple—and a cigarette in the other, leans against a dark wall in the corner of loud Las Vegas speakeasy between two attractive but fading friends, seeping in and out of consciousness. Gerald says nothing: instead, he slides his 6'4" frame down onto an adjacent lounge chair in a move so effortless, no one remarks on the tensive squeak of his brand new leather jacket, its buckles against the seat’s latex.

Gerald, who records under the name G-Eazy, and potentially fails to see the humor in the moniker, focuses his permanently-squinted almond eyes in the direction of a group of women, one in particular: The bright, loud singer Ashley Nicolette Frangipane, who records under the name Halsey and potentially fails to see the humor in the moniker. He is transfixed. When a member of his fucked up entourage notices and begins to beckon her over, he places one long, boney pointer finger on their mouth as if to say, “Shh.”

Suddenly, “Him & I,” starts blaring over the bar’s throbbing speaker system. Halsey looks up—it’s their song. She sashays over to him, stopping an inch from his torso. He stands. She stretches, tippy-toed, for an embrace. He wraps his long limbs around her and tilts his head away from her mouth. G-Eazy is ill. He’s deep in a state of anguish, deep depression, panic, rage. G-Eazy has a cold.

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The song ends, they unravel and stare at one another. “But A Dream,” bleeds over them—G-Eazy turns to the DJ and nods—they’re playing all of his new album, The Beautiful & Damned, on this, the evening of its release. He looks at Halsey and thinks about how beautiful & damned their love is—he named his record appropriately. He peers deeper, directly into her eyes waiting for the reaction he knew would come. She smiles, and he was gone.

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About the author

Maria Sherman

this is my day job: senior writer at jezebel