by Max Henry
He pulls out his smartphone and taps through to his email. Tech geeks. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the guy in front of an actual laptop or desktop unless he gave a presentation. “Looks clean enough.” A few more taps. “Amy will proof it, and then we can get it live.” His bronze eyes meet mine. “Don’t leave me waiting again.”
I mock a salute with my phone hand, turning while he leaves to minimize the chance that he spots what’s on my screen.
I can’t decide what to do. If I message Toby, I run the risk of my thread being relegated to the black hole that is the ‘other’ folder. But I can’t post on his wall and draw attention to my purpose. I need that secret connection.
I need to be fucking friended first.
Goddamnit. I take a sip of coffee and stare across the street at the building opposite ours. The worker ants all sit in their two-by-two cubicles, heads down while they chase knock-off time. I haven’t figured out what the suits do yet, but I’d hazard a guess at it being numbers related going by the stacks of printables they consume.
Everybody else is more-or-less entirely digitized these days.
A text vibrates my phone, drawing my focus back down to the device in my hand. The banner slides down from the top.
Mole: Money???
Impatient fucker.
I need to check it works first, asshole.
And there’s only one way to do that. Breath trapped in my lungs, I tap the little silhouette of a bust and plus sign with my thumb.
This better fucking work.
THREE
Toby
“Let the Band Play” - Badflower
The increasing pie slice on the loading app irritates the shit out of me. I swore off social media years ago, woke to the toxicity it promotes. But every so often, the occasion calls for me to connect to others outside my inner circle.
And so, I do it again; invite the devil into my home.
“Who shat in your cereal?” my sister asks, entering the room with her laptop.
She procured time off work for Rey’s admission on the understanding that she still works on her projects remotely. I told her she didn’t need to be here, that I could look after Mom and Dad, but she insisted.
We do this as a team, she reminded me. My baby sister is far too aware of my tendency to take all the responsibility myself. I don’t like being a controlling asshole, I just like shit to get done the right way, and I’m yet to find how I can do that without holding the reins.
“I hate social media,” I gripe, kicking my feet up onto the coffee table.
She bats my boots off the timber. “Mom will kill you if she sees you doing that to her polish.” She inspects the shiny surface. “Don’t you think it’s weird that the clinic won’t let him have personal phone calls, but he can access social media?”
“It’s called surreptitious monitoring.” I tap the newly loaded app. “They can judge his moods and influences without the sterile feel of an examination room or therapy session.”
“That’s kind of twisted.” She screws her face up and settles into the plush armchair. “You’d think that jeopardizes any trust they build, right?”
“You’d think.”
All three icons have red bubbles showing the maximum number of notifications. I resist the urge to scroll the feed and duck into the messages. Bullshit, bullshit, user, media, crap. My phone hits the seat beside me.
“What happened to the good old days of people calling you when they wanted to catch up?” I ask. “When people tap out some short status or flick off a two-second message, it feels as though I’m an afterthought.”
Cassie shrugs, eyes on her screen. “We don’t all see it that way.”
I glare out the glass door at my parents’ back yard. Mom and Dad sit under the rose-laden pergola to share a drink. They talk, reclined in their seats, as the sun casts shadows all around them.
I never understood what makes Rey the way he is, and I still don’t. We have the most loving and genuine parents, even if Dad can be a hardass. A textbook example of how people work together to succeed through thick and thin. All three of us siblings have always been close—we’ve never fallen out for more than a few hours. As kids, we were afforded opportunities many our age wasn’t, which is, for the most part, how we ended up talented enough to make it so young.
We have a dream life. But he doesn’t want a part of it.
“Do you think it’ll stick this time?” I flick my gaze across to Cassie.
She pauses in her typing and lifts her head to stare absently over the laptop. “I think it’s best if we don’t assign an expected outcome to his stay.”
“I have to draft the press release for Rick.”
She casts her gaze my way.
“I don’t know what the fuck to say, considering half of the last one turned out to be a foolish assumption.”
“It’s not foolish to want your brother to get better.” Her eyes soften and, damn it all, if she doesn’t look like Mom.
“I get angry when he doesn’t, even though I know that doesn’t help.”
She sets the laptop aside and sighs. “If I had to guess, I’d say because being angry for you is easier to stomach than being upset, right?”
She’s nailed it in one. Sadness feels so empty, so hopeless. Anger I can shape into something useful, something productive.
“I suppose I just need to spew the same vague well-wishes from us all and reassurances to the fans.” I lean back against the seat and place both hands over my face. “Fuck’s sake, Cassie. This is bullshit.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “Not entirely.”
I scrub my palms firmly over my mouth and drop them in my lap.
She lifts her eyebrows. “He had his heart broken.”
“And so, he breaks ours.” I fold my arms high on my chest.
“That’s not how he saw it, and you know that,” she chastises. “Not all of us see your careers as so black and white.” Cassie chews her bottom lip before adding, “As the be-all and end-all of your fucking lives.”
She stands abruptly, snatching up her laptop to relocate in the house.
Perhaps, I am too career-focused. But, fuck, somebody has to be. Otherwise, where would we be? Leave our schedule up to the other fuckers, and an album would take four times as long to produce.
We’d be forgotten and last year’s news before they could change a guitar string.
Everybody wants fame, but nobody wants the work that goes along with it. Until these fuckers stop associating doing what they love with always doing what’s fun, they continue to need me to ride their ass.
The joy is found in the quiet between, once the project is complete. The satisfaction isn’t in creating or even performing the music.
It’s in knowing that we can.
And we did.
FOUR
Jeanie
“Fuck A Bomb” – Hey Steve
The article fills my screen, the browser window covering anything else that could be a distraction.
“Our love and support are with him, as always,” Toby Thomas stated in his short statement issued late last night. “I know Rey is eager to give our fans more of what they love, but he needs to take this time for himself.”
Mother. Fucker.
The story broke before I had a goddamn chance to structure a commentary. I scroll to the top and triple-check the timestamp on the article. Fuck. It was released close to two this morning.
My phone screams out from my right, and I jolt before snatching it up. “Yeah?”
“You haven’t paid me.”
Fucking Mole. “Good thing I didn’t, considering Electric Dream published the news during the night.” I bet the fucker knew time slipped away—the reason why he took my paltry offer.
“I never gave you any promises that it wouldn’t get out,” he snaps. “I sold you the information so you’d have it early; you can’t blame me for sitting on your hands.”
“You goddamn…” I grit my teeth so hard t
hat my jaw aches. “If I make this transfer, you’ll give me a phone number.”
“A what?” He laughs. “You’re a crazier bitch than I first assumed.”
He disconnects.
“Urgh!” The back of my phone connects with the desk sickeningly loud.
Sources at the Cedar Grove rehabilitation center confirmed that a person of interest currently resides at the five-thousand dollar per month private clinic, but not who. Electric Dream reached out for comment from Dark Tide’s label, Bauer Media, but has yet to hear back as of the time of publication.
“How’s your scoop?” Charles asks, popping his P as he swivels to face me.
I glance over my shoulder to find the smarmy fucker reading the article over my shoulder. “In progress.” I minimize the browser and swipe my phone from the desk. “If anyone asks where I am, I’ve gone for a walk to scream into the void.”
His laugh follows me out of our shared space, resonating the entire fucking way to the stairs. I jog down two at a time and then bust through the exit door to a wave of heat that near knocks me on my ass. Pivoting left to head for the air-conditioned respite of the juice bar, I lift my phone and stab redial for Mole’s number.
“Still not enough digits in my bank account, Jeanie.”
“Oh, fuck up,” I snap. “It was nine hundred dollars. Nothing to retire on.” I check the street and then cross to the shaded side. “Give me Toby’s phone number, and I’ll make it nine-fifty.”
“Two grand.”
I choke on my tongue. “Excuse me?”
“That’s gourmet information, precious. High-risk shit that could cost me my job.”
“Then practice flipping burgers; it’s not my issue. I need it.”
“Two grand,” he repeats.
I drop the phone to my side and step into the recess of an abandoned shop. My hand barely manages to muffle my scream.
“One,” I reply once I’ve regained my composure.
“Eighteen-hundred.”
The guy must think I peddle drugs on the side or something because no entertainment reporter makes enough for this. I don’t work for fucking Rolling Stone; our publication can’t step up for that kind of deal.
“Twelve,” I counter—no idea how I’ll achieve it.
“Fifteen hundred. Final offer.”
I bring my hands together and close my eyes, performing a slow prayer pose while I breathe in deeply … and exhale. I need this exclusive. No other band has secrets like Dark Tide anymore. Thanks to social media and the sick ease at which sound bites and video can spread like a venereal disease, not many musicians manage to retain their mystery.
Dark Tide is a different beast. Everyone knows their issues at face value, but nobody knows the detail—the nitty-gritty.
The meat of it all.
“Fine.” Nausea swirls in my gut. “Fifteen-hundred.”
“I need the nine hundred you owe me before I pass it over,” Mole states confidently.
Too confidently.
“Fine,” I huff to throw him off the plan. “I’ll do it now. But same goes; the number has to be legit before you get the rest.”
“Don’t worry. It is.”
I end our connection and open my mobile banking app. The sickness in my stomach doubles as I send the cash through—this has to be legit. Within seconds, I have a contact file texted to me. I open it and save it to my address book, reading and re-reading the number to be completely confident it’s for real.
Only one way to know, Jeanie.
I tap the handset icon. My arm shakes, my legs weak. I dump my ass on the empty store’s step and stare at nothing while the rings sound in my ear.
“Make it quick.”
I. Swear. To. God. It’s him. It’s the voice I’ve heard so many times in recorded interviews.
“Hi, Toby. It’s Jeanie from Bett—”
The fucker hangs up.
“What the hell?” I stare at the goddamn phone as though it’ll explain why he disconnected.
I call again.
This time around, nausea abates until all that swims in my stomach is the acid of unjust frustration. His voicebank picks up. Jesus. The man’s dulcet tones could put me to bed happy any goddamn night.
“If you had let me finish,” I snap after the tone, “I was introducing myself—Jeanie from Better Beats. Long-time listener, first-time caller,” I sass. “I wanted to offer you the opportunity to share your account of the last tour, of the issues that affect your band right now—” I swallow. “Your view about Rey.” I pause, fingers braced to my forehead. “I don’t know where I’m going with this, Toby. I don’t do sales pitches; I write great fucking articles. I love your band, your legacy, your story. I want to help you tell it—how it should be told.”
I hang up and stare at the phone, sure that I just ended my goddamn career.
The saying goes that you should never meet your heroes in person because they’ll only disappoint the ideal of who they are. The same could be said for ringing the fuckers. I knew he’s brusque and straightforward; he’s made a goddamn reputation as the guy who gets shit done.
But that was downright rude.
Maybe he’s not the right guy to tell the story after all?
I lift my phone, pulse thrumming in my ears, and tap the name into my Google app. I didn’t get my job because I play nice. I proved myself as a baby-faced intern by being the only one brave enough to ask the questions anyway—fuck what they think.
With a quick tap of my thumb, I dial the listed number and lift the device to my ear.
“Cedar Grove. You’re speaking with Mahlia. How may I direct your call?”
“Hi, Mahlia.” I’m sure to smile so that it filters through my voice. “I have a friend who was admitted recently. Rey Thomas. Am I able to speak with him?”
FIVE
Toby
“Anger Rising” – Jerry Cantrell
“How the fuck did she get my personal number?” I ask Rick, our Manager. “This is bullshit. You don’t think we have enough to deal with as a family without media hounding our ass?”
“I legitimately don’t know,” he assures. “But I have my assistant working through the possible leaks as we speak.”
I snort. “Daddy got you an assistant, huh?” It’s no secret that his father, Wallace Bauer, thinks little of his prodigal son. “Is that to help you or babysit you?”
“Fuck you, Toby.” He huffs. “You want my help, or not?”
“It’s not a question of whether I want it. It’s your job.” Low blow—sure—but I’m in the mood for a fight.
“You know what’s not my job?” he snaps. “Tracking your asses down when you decide to go on a fucking bender every two minutes. As dysfunctional as you both are, at least I know where to find you and Rey.”
“Kris is fine.”
“Fantastic.” The word drips sarcasm. “Want to tell me where he is?”
I lift my overstuffed duffle to the table while I talk. “If I knew where he was, I still wouldn’t tell you.” I pop the call to the speaker and set my phone on the table to use both hands. “You can trust Kris to turn up to the studio session.”
“Sure. But can I trust him to work on material while he hides from the world?”
“You need to ask him that.”
“Which brings us back to my point,” Rick grumbles. “He. Won’t. Answer.”
I sigh, hands rested over the open zipper. “What do you want me to do?” I unload dirty clothes, slamming them down onto the floor. “I already had to check in on Emery; you want me to chase the whole fucking band down?”
“How is the drunk?”
“Happy,” I quip. “Because he’s drunk.” I shake out a leather jacket and then sling it over the back of the nearest chair. “Man, I’ve only just got home after the fucking tour. I unpack as we speak. Can we bitch about this another time?”
“You can’t put everything off until later. We need to have a cohesive plan going into this next album, otherwise, y
ou may as well cancel the studio session and fucking search the job listings now.”
“I don’t put everything off,” I holler. “We unloaded our asses off that fucking plane, and what was the first thing I did? Huh?”
“You requested to check Rey into rehab.”
“Yeah, I did. Because I deal with shit when it needs to be dealt with. Rey had to make it there before they wrote him off, so I made sure he fucking walked in the goddamn door—as per your father’s demand.” My fingers white knuckle the back of the chair in front of me. “It’s been a month since we stopped playing, and I haven’t slept in my own bed, Rick. Back the fuck off.”
“You don’t get to choose when you can show up and when you tap out,” he grinds. “This career isn’t a nine-to-five. You have momentum to uphold. It is your life, or have you forgotten that?”
“You know what?” I hang my head, eyes tightly shut. “You were so much better when you had no balls; you were quieter.”
“Fuck you.”
“No, fuck you.” I jerk the chair from beneath the table, the legs skidding across the floor to hold the balance. “We’re assets on a page for you. People you can manipulate and move around. How dare you fucking ask me if I’ve forgotten this is my life when it’s your company’s demands and pressure that almost killed my brother.”
The line falls quiet.
He can’t deny me this. The strain Bauer Media place on us is immense. Couple that with an already fractured mind, and they dice with Rey’s existence every time we move to their beat.
I’m tired—tired of fighting for him, for me, and for what’s morally right. We shouldn’t need to beg for our rights as basic human fucking beings.
“I’ll call you later,” he cedes. “Maybe by then, you’ll know how I can reach Kris.”
“Wouldn’t count on it.”
Rick disconnects, leaving me shrouded in silence once more. I came home yesterday, checking in with Emery on my way through like I promised Kris. Home to my untouched corner of the world. When everybody knows who you are, the sanctuary is hard to find. I’ve made it a priority to keep my address off the records and untraceable. I want space—a break from the expectations of what we do. I love my career, my career is me, but it’s all too easy to forget who I am without it if I constantly live the life. Which is why I ignore social media the best I can. Why—other than a single soundproofed room—my house doesn’t show a single fucking clue that I slam sticks to skin for a living. And why I make it a point to keep my stage wardrobe stashed away and hidden when I’m on break.
