by Erika Vanzin
@Michael_Jailbirds You’re the best! And remember, the only blog that doesn’t bullshit you about us is Iris’s official blog.
@Simon_Jailbirds You’re the best fans in the world. Thank you for not abandoning us at this difficult time. We’ve been wanting to tell you our story for a while. We finally got to do it.
I watch Iris asleep in her bed, peaceful, as Dexter walks around my legs, waiting for me to fill his bowl with food while I make coffee. I’ve been living in this house for a month now, and the routine is reassuring. Although, I have to say, it’s inconvenient to have all my stuff at my house. There’s not enough space in here for a pin, it’s crammed to every corner. I open the fridge and take out the bowl with the pancake mix I made last night. Iris teased me for two hours because she said I’m doing too much, but I know she’s starting to appreciate the fact that I take care of her. It’s therapeutic for both of us, I can finally let go of my guilt about the past, and she’s learning that allowing people into her life and getting help isn’t all that bad.
Dexter starts meowing, so I feed him before he goes to wake up Iris. As I pour the coffee in the cups and put them on the table, out of the corner of my eye I see Iris sitting up and rubbing her fingers through her unruly red mane. I still can’t figure out how she can tame that hair. During the night, I’m almost strangled sometimes by that mass of hair that seems to have a life of its own.
“Is that coffee that I smell?” Her voice is still croaking, and it is the most beautiful sound I have ever heard.
“Hot the way you like it,” I say as I pour a spoonful of the pancake mix into the pan.
Iris comes close, wearing my blue t-shirt she put on after we made love. It’s huge on her but makes her look sexy as hell. Her small arms wrap me from behind, and she sticks her head between my side and my arm to peek at what I’m doing.
“This thing you do where you make the mix the night before, I’m starting to like it.”
“Really? I’ll remember that when you make fun of me next time. In fact, wait a second, I’ll get my phone and record you repeating that.”
Iris giggles and gives me a hand pulling out dishes and forks for breakfast. I love the perfect way we fit together in the kitchen without getting in each other’s way, splitting the housework without even talking.
“I don’t make fun of you, I just like it when you’re in my kitchen. Like when you’re stressed, and you make cookies for an entire army.”
“If you’ve noticed, I haven’t done that in a long time. You relax me. I don’t need to decorate cookies to ease the tension.” I kiss her on the neck, making her sigh.
“Then we’ll have to find some other excuse to bake them because I like it when you focus on creating the perfect design. We should make it a fun ritual, like you did with your mom as a kid.”
My heart swells with happiness. It’s beautiful how she tries to make my past less painful, even just reminding me that baking cookies was a source of joy for me, not just a way to ease my frustration. I kiss her on the lips and get lost in her smile.
“I’d like to call the security company today, to come take a look at the locks on the door and windows. Is that okay with you?” I ask her as we sit at the table to eat.
Iris frowns and looks at me, tilting her head to the side. “Still with the idea of armoring my apartment?”
We’ve discussed this until we were exhausted, but I need to put some security between me and the outside world if I spend most of my nights here. Unfortunately, there are a lot of lunatics out there and, having doors and windows that look like tissue paper is dangerous for both her and me. All it would take is one rabid fan of the Jailbirds to get in here and put her in danger.
“If I keep spending my nights here, yes, it’s necessary. It’s not an option that our head of security is willing to put off any longer.”
Iris inhales deeply and seems to be thinking for a long time about what she’s going to tell me. It kind of unsettles me because I’m always afraid she’ll get tired of me and ask me to leave. “I’ve been thinking about something lately. Since I no longer have any particular money problems with the new job, I was considering moving into a building without a homeless person to feed in the lobby. I love this apartment, and I don’t mind feeding Charlie, Bill...Jack, or whatever he calls himself this week, but I’d like a little bigger place, one where I can have a desk and an office. Does that make sense?” she asks, and I feel a boulder lifting off my chest.
I nod and chug quickly to swallow down the bite of pancakes. “Okay...I might have a proposal
for you, but feel free to refuse, alright?”
“Should I be worried?” One investigating eyebrow pops up and terrifies me like few things in this world.
I burst out laughing, even though my stomach is in knots over what her reaction might be. “No, I just want to know if you’d like to go into business with me.”
Iris looks at me with an expression that seems more worried than angry, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
*
We enter the gates that lead to the private garden in the courtyard of the building on the Upper Eastside. Iris looks around with wide eyes, just like I did the first time I set foot in here. It feels like a parallel world. A house with a private garden that occupies the entire length of a neighborhood in the middle of Manhattan seems impossible.
“Exactly what are we doing in front of a six-story building under renovation?” She’s puzzled as we get out of the car and the iron gates closed behind us.
“It’s actually seven floors, one is underground...but that’s not the point. I was thinking of buying it.”
Iris looks at me and her green eyes seem to pop from her orbits. “What the hell do you do with a seven-story building? You’d get lost in it!” she points out.
I smile and nod. I know this space is huge, but I thought I’d put it to good use by setting up our business in it. Since we left the label, the band has decided not to sign with another one and to start our own. We called it Jail Records, just to show the snobs in the music industry that we can do whatever we want. We hired two friends of Iris’s who have a small recording studio in a Brooklyn garage. But since we can’t put our headquarters there, I thought, why not live where I’ll spend most of my days working?
“In the basement, we could build two recording studios for Jail Records, on the ground floor there would be offices, while the three floors above could be transformed into my home...furnished the way I want, this time.” I chuckle as I nervously run my hand across my neck. I explained the easiest part, the hardest part is coming.
“And the top floor?”
“That’s where you’d become my partner in this business,” I say in one breath.
Iris’s eyebrows rise, and her eyes shine with a light I’ve never seen before. Perhaps the situation is not so tragic. “Explain.”
“On the top floor, there is an independent apartment. It has a kitchen, a living room, a bedroom, a bathroom, a covered patio area that can be turned into an office, and a small balcony. I would sell it to you for about two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, for about another hundred thousand, you could furnish it however you want. I know how much you care about your independence, so I propose you buy it as an investment for your future. If things don’t work out between us, I could always buy it back, and you’d have the money to buy elsewhere. At first, I thought I’d make an apartment for the guys if they want to stay late...but since you talked this morning about looking for something else...this would be better than renting, right?” The explanation comes out a bit confused and in a hurry.
The silence that follows is infinite and gives me the cold sweats. Iris has had her eyes fixed on the building since I started talking, and for a moment, I’m afraid I said it all in my head and not out loud. The world feels like it’s going to collapse on me when she finally turns to me with a smile.
I put my hands in my pocket and pull out the bunch of keys.
Iris laughs, amused. “You’ve already bought this place, haven’t you?”
I pass a hand again across the back of my neck and smile. “I talked to the guys about it. They thought it was a great idea to start with the record company, so I signed last week before they could go on with the reconstruction. We’ll split the costs of the label by five. Otherwise, it’s up to you and me if you accept the proposal.”
“Five?”
“Yes, Evan decided to go into business with us. Apparently, the way he handled our situation brought him a lot more clients than expected, and he decided to invest in a project that couldn’t have existed without him. I think that, in addition to hiring Emily, he’s going to expand his staff to a couple more agents by the end of the year. From a simple manager, basically, he can set up an agency. His only artists would be us and someone big, like the Red Velvet Curtains. He would leave the smaller acts to the new agents.”
“Wouldn’t his part in the label be a bit of a conflict with his job as a manager?”
“Not if he keeps the interests of his clients foremost as a manager. He’s always been an honest and trustworthy person. If another record company offers a better contract to his clients than ours, he’ll advise them to sign with them.”
Iris seems impressed when we enter the house, although it is actually still an open construction site with walls to build and floors to redo. We go up the stairs to the top floor and when we enter, I’m sure I’ve won her over. The living room view is spectacular, with an entire glass wall and ceiling. She’s entranced, approaching almost tentatively toward the part of the balcony that overlooks the garden and this small, happy island in the middle of a chaotic city. She inhales deeply, closing her eyes. She looks happy.
“Where do I sign?” she asks, laughing, and all my fears slip away.
“I’m so relieved you like the place and accepted my proposal, because now you can be closer to Dexter. Obviously, your cat loves me more and will come and live in my apartment.”
“That’s for sure,” she says, locking her arms around my waist.
She stands on tiptoes to gently kiss me on the lips. I pull her in and deepen the sweet kiss with all the affection and love I feel for her. I hope she can feel it. It’s a kiss that leaves me breathless, with my head spinning and my legs weak. That’s what Iris does to me: she takes the earth from under my feet and makes it disappear, letting me fall into my emotions. The only anchor I have to reality are those two big green eyes and mass of red hair that fell on me, literally, months ago and that I will no longer be able to live without.
She walks to one of the concrete bags piled up along a wall and grabs the permanent black marker sitting on it. Then, she takes my arm and pulls up my sleeve, her face concentrated as she writes something on it. “Here, that’s my number. Call me when you have a contract ready for me to sign. I like the neighborhood, I’ve decided to take it,” she says, winking.
I burst into laughter. “And now I can finally tell you what really happened that time I walked out on stage with only half of my jeans.”
Iris wraps her arms around my waist and rests her head on my chest. “No, not now. I want you to do it when we’re an old couple, and you have to tell me the story of when we met, so I won’t forget it.”
I hold her in a hug. “I promise I will never let you forget us.”
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Acknowledgements
A heartfelt thank you to all those who read Backstage and chose to give Paparazzi a chance. You are the reason I can continue to write stories I love. I am grateful to you all.
About the author
At the age of eight, Erika asked Santa for a typewriter. That was when her parents, quite surprised, realized that she was not like all the other children. However, when she received her first heavy, professional and brand new “Olivetti Letter 35” that Christmas, it was love at first sight. She immediately started writing the words that soon became her first short story. Over time she bought a much more efficient computer, but that typewriter will always have a special place in her heart: it was her first love.
Erika was born on December 6, 1979 in Valdobbiadene in the province of Treviso, a small village at the foot of the Prealps. Both her parents were born and raised in the same town where they still live today. Erika moved to Padua at 18 to attended university, and after graduation, she did not return to Valdobbiadene but followed her heart and traveled worldwide, living in Los Angeles, Vancouver, and London and visiting North America and Europe.
It was at Nicolò Bocassino primary school where she met the teacher who made her fall in love with books, writing, and studies in general, encouraging her creativity and eventually starting her on the path toward being a writer.
