by JN Welsh
“How long have we known each other, Herman?”
“Since before we both started making a name for ourselves in the industry.” While Tommy had started to gain traction as a young and still somewhat green twenty-year-old talent agent, Herman had organized secret raves in vacant lots and in the woods in his early twenties. When the authorities shut Herman down, he’d reinvented himself. In a saturated music market, Herman had taken the less-is-more approach and downsized from the ever-growing EDM events to create the now-popular and eclectic Sunburst festival.
“So you’re telling me that Clyde’s got an artist at Sunburst and I don’t? What the fuck?” Tommy raked his hand through his hair. Clyde Warren was Tommy’s healthy, yet sometimes contentious, competition but no way did Clyde come close to being a more established agent than him. “Am I missing something here? I know you want to present new talent with innovative sounds but you’re telling me that even with the fans’ endorsement, none of my clients fit your criteria? That’s bullshit.”
Herman sighed in his ear. “Clyde and some other reps have the kind of talent the new investors want. Your artists are already way too popular, they have deals with one of the largest Entertainment firms. They don’t need a leg up. I know the exposure is great but they’re already too big, man.”
“Even Bedazzled Beats?” Tommy offered up his DJ duo, but already knew the answer.
Herman chuckled. “Are you fucking kidding me? Dude, they played Temptation’s main stage with the likes of Tres Armadas, Tekko and Troy G. Not to mention their net worth tripled in a single year. I know because I was one of the first people to congratulate you.”
“You were,” Tommy agreed. Herman had his back as a friend, but with Herman, business was business.
“What I need is piping hot underground artists from all genres. Remember when Chance was coming up. His fame rippled hard under the hip-hop surface and then exploded that year. Those are the artists Sunburst wants to showcase,” Herman said. “I know the dance music scene is paying the bills nice for you, man, but if you’re going to come to me with that kind of talent I need the underground-type acts.”
None of which Tommy had or courted at present. The choices he’d made over the years had been good ones, lucrative ones. Tommy’s clients were his friends, talented and driven, and together they’d built not only riches, but wealth. His artists had a presence at every major festival and club worldwide, including monthly performance residencies in Vegas, New York and Ibiza. All major festivals, that is, except Sunburst, and it had become the bane of his existence. The rejection from Sunburst left a gaping hole in his resume. He’d somehow have to find a new artist he wanted to work with and get them on the Sunburst lineup.
“Okay, man. Thanks for the time.”
“Drinks on me when you’re back from New York.”
“Damn right they are.” Tommy wrapped up the call with a few additional closing remarks before hanging up.
He cleaned his glasses and then sent a text to Abraham Wallace, CEO of Wallace Entertainment, with the news.
Three...two...one...
His office phone rang and Tommy tapped the speaker button. “I know. I thought we had what Herman and the team wanted for Sunburst, but not quite. We’ll have to go back to the drawing board, Abe.”
“Hi, Tommy.” A familiar female voice emitted from the speaker.
“Leona?” Leona Sable had responded instead of Abe. It wasn’t a surprise she was in the office, since Luke was scheduled to play in New York that weekend. As Luke’s manager, Leona would no doubt work out of her office at Wallace Entertainment. However, she’d called Tommy on Abe’s line. “I didn’t expect to hear you.”
“I called you, Tommy.” Abe’s voice followed. “Leona just happened to stop by my office and I relayed the news about Sunburst. She couldn’t help but insert herself.”
“I have information to add about the festival,” Leona sang.
“Which is?” Tommy sighed but his ears sharpened. Leona’s expertise rivaled his own.
“Forget about your current clients or the type of artist you’d normally show interest in. You want an artist for Sunburst? Then look for an artist for Sunburst.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.” Tommy’s disappointment at her suggestion increased. “I’m just pissed not one of my clients fits the bill. I mean, not even one?”
“I know you’ve busted your ass. Organizers should be opening the door for you and rolling out the red carpet as they hand you a glass of champagne and they beg you for one of your artists.” Leona’s jest exposed the ego he’d already tried to check after his call with Herman.
“Hell yeah.” He didn’t only expect favoritism because his clients were current and popular, but he expected his reputation to offer him well-deserved professional preference because he was Tommy “Boombox” and if he knew anything, he knew music.
“But...” Leona continued, “if you want this one, you’re going to have to bust it a little more.”
“It would have been great to have had one of Wallace Entertainment’s current clients perform but there are other festivals and milestones for our clients. I know this one is close to you, though, Tommy. So whatever we can do to help, we will,” Abe said.
Tommy didn’t work for Abe or Wallace Entertainment, but rather as an independent agent to his clients. His partnership with Wallace Entertainment helped manage their careers.
“Appreciate it, Abe.”
“It is a bitter pill to swallow,” Abe added.
“Glad we agree.” Tommy choked down the rejection creeping up like acid reflex in his throat.
“You’re not a cub. You’re Boombox. Lick your wounds and get your ass in gear. You’ll be in New York tomorrow for the week. Seems like the perfect opportunity to head to the clubs.”
“Stop reading my mind, Leona, please. It’s getting annoying.” Tommy sighed.
“I’m just sayin’.” Leona’s grin transcended phone lines.
Tommy had intended to take some meetings at Wallace Entertainment, have dinner with his client, and spend a little overdue time with his family when he got to New York this time around. Those plans quickly changed the moment Herman told him that none of his artists fit the mold for Sunburst. Now, club hopping topped his agenda. He’d definitely planned on hitting up his cousin Oscar, who owned Rebel nightclub in Alphabet City. Tommy hadn’t stopped by the club in a minute but on occasion, some amazing talent passed through on the weekends.
“Thanks again, guys, for the chat. I gotta get going but I’ll see you tomorrow.” Tommy ended the call. He massaged the tension out of the taut muscles at the base of his neck all the way up to his ears. With his mission clear, he reviewed his itinerary. “Yaz,” he called for his office manager slash agent slash apprentice, Yasmin Rosa. The woman popped her head in, her dark curls hanging at her collarbone.
“Got all that?” Tommy asked.
“Some. I was in the middle of sending contracts to Patrick, but I got the gist. I’m sorry about Sunburst.” She offered him a mournful smile.
“We’re not giving up.” He pushed his chair back, rounded the desk and leaned against the front of it.
“No, of course not.” She brightened.
“I might be spending more time away and will need your help in holding things down here at the office. How do you feel about that? You ready to take on more client responsibility?”
Yasmin’s eyes danced and he thought she might, too. “Absolutely.”
“I’ll define for you what I’ll need, but I’d also like you to think about the kind of career you want to have. We’ll firm things up when I come back from New York.”
“Great, Tommy. I really appreciate it.”
“I have all the faith in you, Yaz.” He stood up and tossed his phone into the side pocket of his distressed brown leather satchel. “I’ll confirm with Remi to make sure all the chec
ks and statements went out.”
“I already confirmed with accounting. We’re all set. All the bank transactions and confirmation statements are on the account.”
“You’re brilliant. I’ll take a look on the plane.” He carried the satchel cross body, with the bulk resting behind him. He felt better, as he often did after doing business with his team.
“Have a good trip, Tommy.”
“Here’s hoping.” He’d find the right person even if he had to hit every nightclub.
* * *
Tommy’s car rolled up to the house in Yonkers, NY. The familiar curves of the Saw Mill Parkway and stores lining the streets led to his parents’ house. Though he’d been born and raised in East Harlem, he’d spent his high school years in Yonkers when his folks finally bought a home. One spring break to LA changed his life when he’d met Herman and a couple other wannabe ballers working toward their dreams. From then on out, his trajectory had changed.
Tommy rang the bell on the front door of his childhood home. Some kids whizzed by on their bikes, bringing back memories of him and his cousins tearing up the front yard with their own two-wheelers before they rode off to the park. His mother’s geraniums and gladiolas, lining the colonial-style home, had just started to bloom and he recalled crashing into them one night he and Oscar snuck out to meet some girls at a house party in the Bronx. His mother still brought that story up at every family get-together. The humble beginnings of his youth here were in contrast to the modern sophistication of his loft apartment and first-class life he lived in downtown LA.
His cousin swung the door open. Oscar stretched his arms to the ceiling, the energetic welcome pulling up his black shirt. “Eh! Why the fuck are you ringing the bell, man? This is your home.” Oscar drew him into a hug. Tommy bent slightly and embraced him.
High school hadn’t only been a time of awakening for Tommy creatively, but a coming of age in the worst way when his favorite aunt, Carmen, had passed away. A single mom, she’d left behind her son Oscar, whom Tommy and his other cousins always played with at every single birthday and holiday gathering. When Tommy’s parents took Oscar in, they became more than cousins.
“Hermano.” Tommy embraced him.
“I’m happy you’re here, but you normally stay in the city. What made you come out?”
“It’s been a while. I can hear Mom cursing my name.”
By the aroma of fresh cilantro, green peppers, and citrus undertones in the air, Tommy knew his mother had been blending her homemade sofrito.
“Your ears must have been ringing. She blames me when you don’t show up. Call him on your phone. Get him through the computer,” Oscar mimicked. “Tia Judy doesn’t quit!”
“Is that my long-lost son? It’s about time you made it home.” Yudelkis Mills rushed toward him with open arms.
“In the flesh, Mami.” Tommy bowed to his mom’s height and pecked her check before drawing her small figure into a hug. He and his mom chatted on the phone a few times a week, but he actually saw his family much less. He came to New York City regularly, but he didn’t have time to make it up to Westchester each visit. To his calculation, he hadn’t seen her since Christmas three months ago. Much too long for her.
“Look at you, so handsome.” She ran her hand through the chunk of hair at the front of his head, ruining his hairstyle. She looked at him with love in her eyes and Tommy realized just how much he missed her.
“It’s the style, Mami,” Tommy said.
“It’s a little Brendon Urie-ish.” Oscar flipped imaginary hair on his buzz cut.
“From Panic at the Disco?” Tommy scoffed. “It’s not that bad.” He checked himself out in the hallway mirror and smoothed the hair at his temples.
“Who’s that?” his mother asked.
“A singer, Mom.”
Oscar laughed at him.
“You kids and your trends. How was your flight?”
“Felt longer than usual, but I got some work done.” Tommy commuted from LA to New York so often that the trip barely had an effect on him anymore. This time around he’d been agitated to get to the city and initiate his artist search.
“Are you hungry? I have a nice dinner planned for you. We’re just waiting for your father to come upstairs. He’s fixing something or other. You know...”
His father specialized in carpentry by trade. Now retired, Gregory Mills always seemed to find something in the house to fix, even if it wasn’t broken.
“Some things never change.” Tommy used to help his father when he took on a project. He appreciated the lessons because he could assemble and fix most things himself.
“Greg,” his Mom called. “Your son is home.”
Oscar stood by him. “Not much has changed, huh?”
“Nope. They’re still the same.” Tommy smiled. “By the way, I’m scouting some new talent. Anyone of interest coming through Rebel tonight?” He’d sent Oscar a quick text before he left LA that he wanted to stop by the club that night.
“Hold up. The genius agent is asking me for help? You didn’t explain all that in your text. Wait—” Oscar took out his phone and thumbed through. “Let me document this on my calendar.”
“Shut up, man. I’m serious.”
“I know. That’s what makes this even better. Remember when you pleaded with me to quit referring people to you because you had an exclusive list? What happened to all that celebrity swag, bro?”
Tommy sighed and let Oscar get in his kid brother digs. “Don’t worry about my swag. My list remains exclusive. I’m just looking for someone new.”
Oscar eyed him. “Something up?”
“Nah,” he lied. His problems were minuscule to Oscar, who tried to run a club in New York City.
Oscar crossed muscled arms over an even more muscled chest. “How bad is it?”
Tommy didn’t get a chance to say more when his father’s big energy lifted the living space. “Boombox.”
“Hey, Dad.” Tommy shook his hand before embracing his father.
His father had given him the name when Tommy, a youngster in East Harlem, had been obsessed with old skool hip-hop and carried a tiny boom box around like he was a ’70s kid. As Tommy got older, the name stuck. When he became an agent in the music industry, he slapped that name on a business card and it became the unique introduction he needed to be memorable.
“How’s my big-shot son?” Greg Mills was a minority in a house of brown people. Even Tommy had more color, and most people assumed he was white.
“Things are good.” Tommy kept his responses upbeat and uncomplicated. No need to bring his added stress to his childhood home. “Still fixing up the house, I see.”
His father grabbed his hand and yanked him into a hug, slapping his back. “Someone’s gotta keep this place up to date and you know I’m not paying anyone when I can—”
“Do it myself,” Tommy, Oscar, and his mother mumbled in unison.
“We know, Uncle Greg,” Oscar said.
Despite his father’s DIY philosophy, Tommy was glad to see his father up and about after a small injury he got on the job.
“It’s about time you come and stay home for a change. I know you’re busy and all but your mother wants to see you.” Though his father didn’t say it outright, Tommy knew his dad wanted to see him, too.
“I know, I know,” Tommy said.
Like socket and plug his parents fit into each other, one at the waist, and the other at the shoulder.
“Well, get cleaned up so we can eat. Oscar tells me you two are going out later. Just like old times, huh?” His mother loved to reminisce and the older Tommy got the more he appreciated her memory.
“It’s business, Tia Judy,” Oscar said as he ran to beat Tommy to the bathroom.
Tommy bit back the curse word on the tip of his tongue and gave Oscar the finger out of sight of his parents.
“Then I’m happy you’re working together.” She beamed at them both.
Tommy was breaking bread with his family for the first time in a long time but tonight he had to get out there and get started.
“I’m going to make a few stops at some of the clubs uptown and meet you at Rebel sometime after one or so.”
“I’ll make sure you get the VIP treatment,” Oscar teased.
The three thousand square foot club had a great vibe, but it normalized the attendees with general admission. Everyone could buy bottles, seating was complimentary, and no reservations were taken.
“You boys need to have fun tonight,” his mother said.
“Thanks, Mami.” Time to go to work.
Chapter Three
Nyah bowed with the rest of the musicians onstage under the concert hall lights overhead. Her fingers had long since built up durability from being callused many times over since the double bass chose her. Yet after a show the muscles in her shoulder, elbow, and hands still ached and the skin on her fingertips puffed and hardened. Sweat dampened the underarms of her white blouse and dripped down to pool at the small of her back, hidden by the high waist on her black trousers. The side slits on her bottoms and the strappy black sandals she wore did little to cool her. However, like a dancer leaping effortlessly across the stage, she and the rest of the orchestra presented a flawless picture for the applauding audience, at least from afar. Their conductor’s wet hair and face, on the other hand, showed the effort he’d exerted to lead them through a perfect Friday night performance.
She collected her bass and stowed it away as she congratulated her fellow musicians. A formality she did every performance, including last night before she had to flee to work on her set list for Rebel.
Backstage, Nyah glanced at the clock to calculate how much longer she’d need to stay and decided on an hour, tops. The post-performance meet and greet with their donors required her attendance. Influence and affluence swirled around her like visual aromas off cartoon pot roasts, as well as random comments and inflated, though genuine, praise for the collective of musicians who’d played exhaustively for hours. There wasn’t a requirement on how long she stayed, just that she show up, interact, and be gracious to the people that helped keep the theater alive.
