Swimming Through the Dawn

by R. P. Rioux

  * * *

  The light emanating from diner shone like a beacon in the night. Shea's was a stalwart eatery for locals, and one of the few 24-hour places operating on the far east end of Santa Monica's Pico Boulevard. After an evening spent scrubbing Heather's room while commiserating over hot tea, Grace suggested a late-night excursion to de-stress. Waking for her early Consumer Behavior class would be tough, but she didn't want to miss a critical opportunity.

  Built in the 1930s, the curved glass façade of Shea's had become iconic. Its cherry wood counters and stools contrasted sharply with the jade green wall tiles. Stainless steel appliances lined the rear wall, while subtle architectural details evoked a bygone era of LA's streamline moderne past. The restaurant, within walking distance of her parents' house, was a favorite of Grace's. She hoped its relaxed vibe would put Heather in a receptive mood for what she had to say.

  A white, blonde male worked the counter as they entered. The one patron, a black man in a dark blue suit, sat on the opposite leg of the L-shaped counter. "I Can't Tell You Why," by the Eagles, played over the sound system. She ordered an omelet with green onions and tomatoes. Over Grace's disapproving look, Heather chose a slice of marionberry pie with no ice cream. "I promise I'll start my diet tomorrow," she said. "Allow me one last indulgence."

  "At least you're not eating for two."

  "I'll be more careful."

  "You scared me. I've never seen you like that."

  Heather's expression was dour. She avoided looking at Grace as she spoke. "I downloaded a new dating app. At first, it was like a high. I could pick any guy I wanted, knowing he'd be mine by the end of the night. I felt powerful. Desirable. Loved. Yet as I gorged through one encounter after the next, the illusion gradually slipped away. I realized they were using me as much as I was using them. It became so meaningless. So pointless. The last guy I was with even had the gall to search for a new date while I was getting dressed. That's when it hit me. I felt so cheap, so worthless. It broke me."

  "Have you sought help?"

  "A little." She paused. "You could help, you know?"

  "I'm an excellent listener."

  "Consider going to therapy for me. I used up my free sessions at the counseling center and can't afford anymore."

  Grace wanted to appear receptive, but the request baffled her. "How would my therapy in any way help you? And how could you possibly have run out of free ones already?"

  "I'll write down my problems, and you can pretend they're yours. Afterward, you relay to me whatever advice they give. Why? You don't need them, do you?"

  Grace looked at Heather incredulously. "I honestly can't tell sometimes if you're joking or not, but regardless, yeah, that's gonna be a no from me, dawg. Besides, therapy is long term. I'm talking here and now."

  "I'm feeling better."

  "For how long? A month? A semester, tops? Call me skeptical, but I doubt you're cured after one close call."

  "I'll concentrate on school. My dad will be thrilled."

  "Forget him. You keep pushing to please him even though he's down on you. It's masochistic."

  "I want him to be proud of me."

  "That's funny. I distinctly remember you saying the same thing at 37-G. Look how that turned out."

  "Don't compare the two."

  "You don't need therapy. I'll tell you right now what's wrong."

  Heather lifted one eyebrow. "Go ahead, then. Explain me to me."

  "When you channel your energy into positive goals, you're unstoppable. Remain idle, though, and you melt away like butter on the grill. Sometimes I think you like it."

  "Why would I like that?"

  "Because you're afraid."

  "Of what?"

  "Success."

  "That's ridiculous."

  "Is it? We both saw people with a fraction of your talent become idols. Why? Because they believed in themselves. They weren't afraid to make the most of their limited gifts."

  "I believe in myself."

  "Do you? Because all I'm seeing is a scared little girl who intentionally holds herself back to not offend others."

  "I'm a team player."

  "And yet your attitude helps nobody. Don't you get it? You inspire people. When you surrender at the first sign of trouble, you disappoint."

  Heather sat with shoulders slumped towards the counter. It took many long minutes before she spoke again. "What kept me focused in Korea, that's not an option anymore."

  "Then, find an alternative."

  "I'm good at exactly one thing."

  "Then do it."

  "We don't live there anymore."

  "You're making excuses."

  "Grace. Come on. How could you be so dense? I can't be a K-Pop idol in L.A."

  "Who says?"

  "Um, reality says."

  Grace assessed the restaurant's two other occupants. "Hey, are either of you named Reality?" she shouted. They dismissed her as drunk. "Reality is silent," she said with a shrug of shoulders.

  "I'm not soloist material."

  "Then start a group."

  "You're telling me to start a K-Pop group with no money, no agency, and one member. Is that it?"

  "I'm not telling you. You want this. Admit it." Grace watched her friend patiently. It took a good long time. Eventually, however, she detected a hopeful change in demeanor in Heather's face.

  "Come to think of it, people start bands all the time."

  "Of every variety," Grace agreed.

  "Why not K-Pop?"

  "Why not?"

  As Heather's enthusiasm grew, words came tumbling forth. "I honestly thought I could forget, but it's been eating at me ever since. My lifelong dream was within reach, and I —" Her positivity vanished. "Oh, who am I fooling? Where would I start? It's impossible."

  Feeling enough groundwork had been laid, Grace was ready to launch her plan. "Funny you should mention that. Look what I found." Extracting a business card from her bag, she placed it on the counter between them, using a dramatic flourish to emphasize its importance. "I was at Art of the Cinema on Tuesday when I found these on the bulletin board and took one."

  Heather snatched the card with a sense of curiosity and read it aloud, "Film/Recording Arts major seeks talented musical act for possible collaborative endeavor. Serious inquiries only. Contact Steve Shepard at blah, blah, blah." She held the card next to her head as if it were a protest sign, one eyebrow raised in disbelief. "That's it?"

  The coffeemaker signaled the end of its brew cycle. The scent of freshly-brewed java made Grace long for a cup, despite the hour.

  Heather snapped the card on the counter like a losing poker hand. "You can't possibly be serious!" The waiter stopped working long enough to assess the outburst, and satisfied it was none of his concern, returned to cleaning. Continuing a bit more softly, Heather said, "I thought you were making light of the situation to humor me. After what we went through in Korea? What will my dad say?"

  "Concentrate on you now. And yes, I am serious. Look how hard we worked, and what do we have to show for it?" Grace leaned closer, tapping her finger on the counter to emphasizing her words. "Nothing. That's what. Absolutely nothing. This time will be different. This time we'll do it our way."

  "Would this guy even pick us? He doesn't sound Korean."

  "He's white, actually."

  "There must be plenty of other candidates. Besides, we don't even have a group."

  "Come on. It's L.A. K-town? Hollywood? The entertainment capital of the world? Do these terms ring a bell? Use your imagination."

  The waiter came by to collect dishes, but sensing their deep conversation, slinked away quietly. "I don't know," Heather concluded. "I wasn't expecting to hear this tonight."

  "Don't you miss performing?"

  "More than anything. But seriously, is K-Pop even viable outside Korea?"

  "Wouldn't you like to find out?"

  They spoke little for a half hour. Grace watched as Heather played with her napkin. An elderly gentlema
n in a white fedora entered to order a Reuben sandwich and a root beer. He regaled the black guy with tales from his merchant marine days. Two lost socialites dressed for clubbing popped in long enough to obtain directions to Main Street.

  Eventually, Heather's reverie broke. "We should go. I have class in the morning." They returned to her parents' house, speaking in low whispers, walking arm in arm. Any lingering doubts Grace had regarding the success of her mission were dispelled when Heather left for home. "He'd be stupid not to pick us," she stated through the open car window before driving away into the night.

  Attagirl.

  7

  Steve

  Steve Shepard had no idea what to make of the trio of musicians who sat before him. The auditions had dragged on interminably. A procession of angst-filled, rage-filled, pretentious, and dispassionate acts had left him exhausted. The audition process was a waste of time. He had already chosen his preferred musical act but felt obligated to meet the remaining artists as well. Then, unexpectedly, these three young women blew into the room like the first spring breeze after a chilly winter. They exuded warmth and charm in spades, qualities missing from the other acts he had endured. Their energy invigorated him. The quality of their performance made his choice a tough one.

  The trio had chosen to play a simple acoustic arrangement of Alicia Keys' "If I Ain't Got You." The musician who introduced herself as Grace played an understated rhythm guitar. She spoke the most and projected an aura of confidence. The keyboardist—Sunny, did she say? —said little during the initial introductions. Once the music started, she provided beautiful accompaniment and backed the lead vocalist with sweet harmonies.

  The one in the middle, though, was truly remarkable. Her name was Heather, and he found her captivating from the instant she walked into the room. It wasn't merely her physical appearance that struck him, though she possessed the key hallmarks of classic beauty. Instead, it was the harmonious way these features came together, and the refined means in which she moved, and her ebullient self-expression that drew his attention. In Los Angeles, pretty faces were as familiar as palm trees. The world's movie capital has long lured hopefuls from all corners of the globe to chase dreams of stardom. Heather, though, possessed a gift most of them lacked, a magnetism that demanded attention.

  He was impressed with her bold song choice, which she handled with assurance. Her bright, powerful, and richly textured voice filled the room in a manner belying her slim and diminutive stature. The strength of her phrasing turned what could have been a lackluster rendition into an eye-opening performance. She did not restrain herself, wringing as much emotion from the song as possible, despite performing for a mere handful of people. When she hit notes lesser singers would have avoided, even Sam, his jaded camera guy, looked impressed.

  As the song ended, Steve complimented the trio, "That sounded great!"

  "We have another if you want," said Grace. They switched to electric guitars. This time Heather played rhythm and Grace lead. Sunny started a drum track, and the trio broke into a raucous rendition of "Sk8er Boi" by Avril Lavigne that contrasted sharply with their first song. The selection allowed them to show off an edgier and rougher side. Steve noted the joy with which they performed. When Heather forgot her lines at one point, the trio laughed and played off each other until she recovered.

  As the final chords reverberated through the practice room, Steve said, "Terrific." Clearly relieved, the grateful musicians beamed. "I wasn't expecting that song choice, to be honest."

  "It has some interesting modulations," said Heather. "I like how the verses, chorus, and bridge are all in different keys."

  "Huh. I didn't notice before," said Steve. "Good observation."

  "The trick with pop is to do more with less," Heather continued. "That's what gives it immediacy."

  "I totally agree. I'm confused, though." Their smiles faded as he said this. "I'm not familiar with K-Pop, but I thought there was, like, dancing and stuff. I'm looking for original music too. No covers."

  Grace bit her lip and glanced at her friends before responding. "Um, yeah. Well, you see, uh, we're still sort of putting our group together."

  "Oh," he said, shoulders drooping slightly. "How big will it be?"

  "We're not sure yet," Grace responded with a chuckle. "We're mixing a traditional girl group with a band subunit. Specialists are needed for certain roles."

  "When will you be ready?"

  The trio looked a bit fidgety, unsure how to answer. "We're in contact with some people," Grace explained. "We have originals and are developing more."

  Steve lamented. "Yeah, that's my chief concern. I'm on a strict timeline. It's a tremendous risk to take—" He stalled. "You mentioned previous experience. What do you mean?"

  "We were idol trainees in Seoul."

  "You train to become idols?"

  "Heather and I met at the same agency. Sun-hee we knew from a different company."

  "This is for a class project. Obviously, I can't pay you, but you'll get a recording and a music video out of the deal." Steve sat upright in his chair. "Before I make my decision, though, I want to be sure you can handle it."

  Grace scoffed, saying, "There's nothing you can throw at us we haven't seen already."

  "That brings up a point. If you all trained in Korea, why are you here now?"

  Grace and Heather shot glances at each other, communicating a thought without speaking. "It's complicated," volunteered Heather finally.

  Not wishing to push the matter and anxious to have his long afternoon end, Steve was ready to call it a day. "Okay, fair enough."

  The girls packed up their gear as the crew stuck the video equipment. Steve addressed them on the way out. "What did you say your group name was?"

  Grace and Sun-hee looked stumped.

  "Made in Heaven," Heather responded. "We're called Made in Heaven."

  * * *

  Later that evening, Steve's best friend Phil Daniels offered his take on the auditions. They sat in a small workroom in the university's film archive reviewing a video of the highlights. "I get your point," Phil said with a half shrug, "but Radish Conspiracy's ready to go. They're polished. Plus, they rock. It's that whole bird in the hand idea."

  Steve invited his friend of 12 years to be involved with the project because he had a sterling ear for music and was also studying recording arts. They had both gone to the same private high school in Arizona, one catering to a predominantly white student body. The diversity of their college experience cracked open unfamiliar worlds, but Phil was finding it more difficult to leave his comfort zone. Nevertheless, Steve valued his input.

  "Radish Conspiracy is the safer route. That's true," countered Steve, "But, I gotta be honest, they don't excite me much. Made in Heaven, though. Okay, yeah, they're a wild card, but they're like pros. They belonged on the stage and knew it."

  "They're a huge gamble. Do you want to risk your first project?"

  "Potentially a huge reward too. You heard her sing. That vibrancy and raw emotion mixed with dynamic energy. And the way she bends notes rather than sing them directly. She's hard to categorize."

  "That could be a drawback. And what's with the K-Pop thing? Aren't you beyond your depth? A rock video is straightforward and forgiving. All you need is a handheld camera and an abandoned warehouse. Light some garbage on fire, smash flowers against the wall, and boom, you're good to go. Simple."

  Steve didn't find the humor in Phil's suggestion. "Ah, yes, that's my dream, to be a run of the mill director."

  "Are you sure you're not thinking with your dick? I mean, they were hot, no doubt."

  "Of course, they were, but c'mon, you can't deny the talent. Those songs were slapped together for the audition. Imagine what they'd do with a concept, some practice, and polish."

  Phil remained adamant. "They didn't even have their own songs, for chrissake. Besides, I don't know jack about K-Pop. I'm a rock guy. I thought we came here to make rock and roll music."

  "M
ade in Heaven wants to eventually have both a rock band and a dance group. That could be fun."

  "That could be a gigantic mess too." Phil stood from his chair, exaggerating his motions in his inimitable way, and grabbed the vintage-style gentleman's walking stick that had become an iconic accessory for him. "Look, Radish Conspiracy aren't the Stones or anything, but they know how to put on a good show. They've been together for years. Best of all, when I go into the studio, I'll know what to do with 'em." He dismissed the paused image of Heather on the video monitor. "This stuff, who knows?" Twirling his walking stick arrogantly on his way towards the exit, he said, "Maybe Made in Heaven will get their act together someday, but you don't have until someday to get this project done. My advice? Stick to the low-hanging fruit. See ya."