BLACK to Reality

by Russell Blake

  “Rick told me you were drinking with him that day. In the hotel. Is that true?”

  “What business is it of yours?”

  “I’m interested in how that went down. Rick seems like a stable guy. The official story doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Yeah, I was there. We had a couple of beers. That’s it. Not like hammering them, more like time-killing beers to take the edge off. I was surprised as anyone when Rick showed up wasted.”

  “And Rooster was with you?”

  “That’s right. Neither of us had any idea that Rick would go berserk.”

  “How long did you stay with him?”

  Peter’s eyes narrowed to slits. “What’s with the interrogation? I had a few beers. I left. How the hell would I know how long I was there?”

  “Was Rooster still there when you left?”

  Peter thought about it. “I think so. But…I don’t know. Why?”

  “I’m just curious, is all. Rick didn’t strike me as a drinker. And he seems as puzzled as anybody how he wound up wasted.”

  “I have a clue: he drank too much and then compounded it by smoking weed.”

  “He doesn’t remember where he got the joint.”

  “I’m not surprised. You should have seen him after the show. I’m surprised he remembers anything from that day. He was out of it.”

  “What about you? Seems like there are a lot of hazy memories at work here.”

  Peter rose, shaking his head. “You’re way over the line. I don’t answer to you. You’re the hired talent, that’s it, nothing more. A pair of hands and a guitar. I don’t know why you’re doing the whole Inspector Clouseau thing. Maybe to divert attention from sneaking out. Whatever. But I don’t have to answer your questions. Am I clear?”

  “Oh, crystal. You don’t want to talk about what role you had in Rick blowing your big chance. Did I miss anything?”

  Peter’s eyes narrowed. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  Black offered a wan smile. “Like you said. Just a pair of hands.” He paused. “Rehearsal’s at one, remember?”

  Peter stormed off, and Black wondered why he was so angry. It seemed completely out of proportion to Black’s transgression, so it had to be something else.

  Black was finishing his eggs when Yoon Ji from Love Jupiter came down the stairs wearing her trademarked jean mini-skirt and bikini top. She giggled when she saw Black and approached after getting a cup of coffee.

  “Where Mugsy?” she asked, eyebrows arched.

  “In the room. Sleeping.” Black pantomimed sleeping, and she nodded.

  “Love Jupiter…love Mugsy!” she proclaimed.

  “Yes, well, there’s a lot of him to love, that’s for sure.”

  “You come my room, yes?” Yoon Ji said.

  Black did a double take. “Pardon?”

  “You. Come my room. Now?” she said, pointing at him, then upstairs, lest he be too dim to grasp her words.

  “I…I’m not sure that’s a great idea,” he tried, but she just tittered her infectious laugh and took his hand to lead him.

  “Come.”

  Black glanced around, hopeful nobody had seen the exchange. He saw Lavon reclining poolside, eyes fixed on Black, and wanted to disappear into the wall when the rapper leered at him and gave him a thumbs-up sign. Black tried a halfhearted smile as he was escorted to paradise. His mind darted to mundanities like condoms and statutory rape laws, and then they were at Yoon Ji’s door. She beamed at him and twisted the knob. “You come, yes?”

  Black didn’t require further coaxing. He was trying to figure out how to lock the door when Yoon Ji moved across the room to a makeshift…altar. There was no other word for it. The top of the writing desk had flowers on it, and the corkboard above it was a collage of color printouts of photos of Mugsy – Mugsy being held by one of the group, Mugsy looking hungry, Mugsy looking sleepy, Mugsy asleep. Dozens of photographs, the area a place of worship to an obese feline with the temperament of a raptor.

  “Nice, yes?” Yoon Ji said.

  Black felt like a flasher caught outside a preschool. “Yes. Very nice,” he said, nodding approval.

  “We write song. New song. You say if like?” she asked. A small, ugly part of him quivered, wondering whether this was some sort of exotic foreplay, but he banished the thought and nodded again.

  “Sure. I mean, yes.”

  She went to the closet, retrieved an acoustic guitar, and then sat on the edge of her bed and began plucking the strings, keeping time with her foot. The lyrics didn’t make sense to him since they were in Korean, but there was no mistaking the chorus, which featured Mugsy’s name every third word. When she finished her performance, he was speechless and could only grin like a buffoon as she set the guitar aside.

  “You…like?” she asked, her eyes wide, the irises warm as molten chocolate.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “We love Mugsy.”

  Me too, he thought, especially honey-roasted or barbecued. But he held his tongue, not wanting to spoil Yoon Ji’s youthful exuberance.

  Christina was coming out of her room when Yoon Ji and Black returned to the corridor, and the look of disgust she gave Black could have peeled paint. He considered trying to explain but thought better of it, knowing that anything he said would just dig him deeper.

  Great. Now I’m an aging pervert in addition to a waste of guitar picks. Yoon Ji’s voice rang in his head as they descended the stairs, her angelic melody following him like a powerful perfume as he trailed her out to the pool. The refrain would haunt him to his dying day.

  Mugsy, oooh-oh-ooooh, Mugsy, MUGSY!

  Chapter 15

  The second-round competition was one of Black’s nightmare gigs – a scenario that every musician dreaded and which most viewed as the bottom of the entertainment barrel: the bands would perform one song each at a wedding in Bel Air. The prospect of playing a wedding made Black’s skin crawl. It was a throwback to his musician days, when if you couldn’t make ends meet in the club scene, you were reduced to playing covers at some spoiled couple’s nuptials.

  The wedding party was assembled around three dozen circular white tables while the acts went through their motions. Each had been given a song five days before and instructed to interpret it in their own way. Last Call had gotten The Beatles’ “Twist and Shout”, which Rooster worked overtime on converting to the band’s sound, suggesting novel twists that resulted in a unique take on the standard.

  BrandX was finishing up their hip-hop delivery of Michael Jackson’s “Billy Jean”, and when the song ended, the crowd went wild. Black had to admit the performance had been effective; the pair definitely had talent and their own style. The judges thought so too, and the scores were sevens and eights – more than enough to move them to the next round.

  Christina took the stage as Black and Peter plugged in. Holly and David did their back and forth banter in the spotlight as they waited to make the introduction. The judges were seated at their pods at the front of the hall on the far side of the dance floor. Black and Peter flicked their amps on, and after getting the nod from Holly, Black launched into a growling distorted sound effect using his tremolo bar to simulate a motorcycle engine revving. The stage lights strobed in time, and Black’s performance culminated in a howl of feedback as Ed attacked the snare drum in a high-speed roll. Then, as all the lights illuminated, Christina’s powerful voice cut through the apparent noise and the song began in earnest.

  The background vocals were a tad off, but no more than most live bands trying to replicate the Fab Four’s delivery, and when they finished, the applause was spirited. Christina did an elaborate curtsy and blew kisses to the cameras, and then they were standing like prisoners waiting to be sentenced, awaiting the judges’ verdict. Alex gave them a seven, Nina a six, and BT Slim a seven, which was at the lower end of the range they’d been handing out all night, but still better than the last performance.

  The next contender was Love Jupiter, and Yoon J
i winked at Black as they filed past his position, mouthing the word “Mugsy” as they took their marks. Classical music filled the room, and then a hip-hop drumbeat started. A bass guitar joined it, and the shape of the song became obvious: the Bee Gees’ “Staying Alive”.

  The girls were all dressed in one-piece neon-colored vinyl miniskirts, and while their bumping and grinding was mechanically precise, their harmonies were badly out of tune. When the song was over, the assembly clapped politely, but when the judges weighed in, it was threes and fours, and barring a disaster, it was obvious who would be next to leave.

  Yoon Ji was practically in tears when the girls trooped off the stage, and after a hurried discussion with their coach, the woman moved to the soundman and began arguing in English. Black overheard the back and forth – they hadn’t been able to hear their voices properly. The soundman insisted that the levels were those he’d marked during rehearsal, but Black wasn’t so sure. He’d watched them practice, and their vocals had been dead on every time.

  Strobe was up next – a techno-influenced band with an androgynous singer named Terrence who was aloof and distant. Black had hated him on sight, and seeing his performance didn’t improve that sentiment, although Black had to concede that the rendition of Hall and Oates’ “I Can’t Go For That” was as good as any he’d heard. Strobe clocked some of the most impressive numbers of the night, bested only by Bend in the Creek, whose country-tinged rendition of The Rolling Stones’ “Mother’s Little Helper” brought the house down.

  While the judges awarded Strobe their scores, Black drifted to the soundman and glanced at the monitor mixing board. The man stared at Black and went back to shutting down, ignoring him. Black cleared his throat and caught the man’s eye.

  “The Koreans seemed pretty upset about the mix,” he began.

  “What are you, Kim Jong-il or something?” the man fired back.

  “No, but I heard them saying they got hosed on the mix, and I’m inclined to believe them after hearing rehearsals.”

  “Oh, yeah? Listen. Every one of these acts blames anyone but themselves when they lose. They did a lousy job. Game over.”

  “They couldn’t hear themselves,” Black said.

  “Look, buddy, I don’t know who you think you are, but I’m just doing my job. Show’s over. Move along.”

  The man seemed nervous, and Black was sure he’d deliberately sabotaged Love Jupiter’s performance. The problem was that it was the perfect crime – there was no way to prove after the fact that the levels had been wrong. It was the band’s word against the soundman’s, and even if the producers were likely to believe the group, the judges had ruled, and their decision was final. It sucked and reminded Black how vulnerable they all were to the whims of the mixing board – even the best delivery could be ruined by lousy sound.

  The house band took the stage to provide entertainment for the wedding party as the road crew broke down the last of the gear and trundled it out a side entrance. Black saw Roxie near the backstage entry and was headed toward her when Alex swept in and ushered her through. Black’s heart lurched at the look that passed between them, but he fixed a smile on his face and moved to greet her. He was intercepted by Yoon Ji, who tried to communicate with him over the sound of the band’s opening song, but all he could do was shrug and shake his head.

  She looked extremely young and vulnerable out of the stage lights, and Black’s anger rose as she pantomimed and chirped at him. It was a raw deal. Even if they weren’t the best of the roster of acts, they deserved a fair shot at winning, just like the rest. Black tried to be polite, but it took him several minutes to disengage, by which time Roxie and Alex were nowhere to be seen amidst the cameramen, crew, techs, and hangers-on.

  Black eventually found them outside, talking quietly in a dark corner by the equipment trucks.

  “Hey. You made it. What did you think?” Black asked.

  “Better than last time. Where’s Mugsy? Did you bring him?”

  “No, loosing the tabby wrecking ball on the wedding seemed like a bad idea.”

  “I only get to see him when I tune in. It sucks. I miss him,” she complained.

  “If it’s any consolation, he’s even fatter. He hasn’t lost his appetite…”

  “Who’s Mugsy?” Alex asked, and Black realized that he didn’t even bother to watch the show. Black couldn’t say he blamed him.

  “The world’s paunchiest cat. Like a furry moon with a tail,” Black said.

  “Oh,” Alex said, obviously confused by the turn the discussion had taken.

  Black leaned toward Roxie. “Did you see Sylvia?”

  She shook her head.

  “Damn. I put her name on the list.”

  Alex raised his watch and tapped it. “We’ve got to hurry. They’re pretty serious about takeoff times.”

  Black looked from Roxie to Alex, not understanding. Roxie smiled and took Alex’s hand. “We’re headed to Vegas on Alex’s jet. We’ve got to get going.”

  “What?” Black sputtered, almost choking.

  “I’ve got a show tomorrow – one of a series we’re doing for the next two weeks, and Roxie tells me she’s never been on a private plane, so it seemed only polite…”

  “Roxie, could I talk to you for a second?” Black interrupted.

  She rolled her eyes. “Here we go again. Yes, Dad.”

  He walked a few steps away and whispered to her, “Are you serious? You’re flying to Las Vegas with him?”

  “What? Dinner was great, and I’ve talked to him on the phone a few times. He even came to one of my shows wearing a disguise so people wouldn’t go batshit. He’s a really cool guy. And he wants to fly me to Sin City and put me up in a suite. What would you do?”

  “I’d take things slow.”

  “It’s been two weeks. This isn’t the fifteenth century. And, boss, all due respect, I don’t need your permission. I’m going, so get over it already.”

  “How’s your new job?” he asked, changing the subject.

  “Imagine terrible, scoop a pile of dog poop on top, and then blend. I can’t wait to leave. When are you going to have work for me to do? Or more importantly, when will you be able to pay me?”

  “This coming week I’ll be even on the office rent, so sometime after that…”

  “Great. Then let’s talk in a few weeks. My number still works, in case you’re wondering.”

  “I didn’t want to bug you.”

  Roxie turned back to Alex. “Congratulations. Black here has agreed not to chop you into small pieces and spread them around the Valley if you promise not to kill me in Las Vegas.”

  “Deal,” Alex said, with his smarmy million-dollar pop star smile. “Now we really have to get going. The limo’s over there.” He indicated a dark shape near the edge of the TV crew area.

  “All right. Take care, boss. You did good tonight,” Roxie said, but to his ear the words were as hollow as the feeling in his stomach, a sensation like a roller coaster’s drop right after ascending to the top.

  A uniformed chauffeur scrambled to open the rear door for them. Black realized that he was clenching his hands so tight his knuckles were white, his fingernails digging into his palms. He forced himself to relax and focused on his breathing with one of Dr. Kelso’s cognitive behavioral tricks, even as he recognized that he felt as low as he could remember. No girlfriend in evidence and his assistant, whom he swore he wasn’t enamored with, off to Las Vegas with a man he hated on principle. Throw a band that could barely stand him into the mix, along with a reflection that now looked like something out of a wax museum, and there was no question he was hitting emotional bottom.

  Which made Nina’s timing perfect as she glided by, holding Simon’s arm. “Well, hello, Black,” she purred, pausing to look him over. “The playing was better this week.”

  “Thanks, Nina. Hello, Simon. How are you doing?”

  Simon seemed tense and unfriendly. “Sarah needs to have a word with you,” he snapped. Black looked
around.

  “I haven’t seen her tonight.”

  “She’s been otherwise occupied, but make time tomorrow morning.”

  Nina pulled on Simon’s arm. “Come on, Simon. Don’t you know you aren’t supposed to keep a lady waiting to eat?”

  They wended their way to another waiting limo, leaving Black to mull over Simon’s hostile missive and wonder how, precisely, things could get any worse.

  Chapter 16

  The disqualification ceremony was depressing, not the least because Black knew in his heart that Love Jupiter didn’t deserve its fate. The four beauties stood like stoic soldiers, albeit scantily clad ones, as Holly and David announced their score and resultant banishment from the show. Black felt a very real sense of loss when Yoon Ji tiptoed and kissed him on the cheek as Lou carried their luggage to the Suburban.

  When the cameras stopped rolling and the lights went dark, Black found himself on the pool deck with Ed, Lavon, and SnM, downing beer as they listened to traffic in the distance. Their drinking eventually transitioned to Hennessy, and Black was reeling when he finally made it to his bed, where Mugsy was already asleep after a hard day’s dozing.

  When the sun streamed through the open pocket doors the following morning, it felt to Black like demons were assaulting him, intent on inflicting maximum pain on his tender head. He rolled out of bed and staggered to the shower, accompanied by Ed’s snores, and spent a solid twenty minutes under the warm spray trying to revive himself and rinse away the previous night’s excesses. When he twisted the shower off and stepped dripping onto the mat, he felt only slightly better than if he’d gone over Niagara Falls in a barrel. He made a mental note to never, ever drink cognac again, and at just the thought of the liquor he felt the sour tang of bile rising in his gorge.

  Black decided to let Ed sleep, and after pulling on a pair of sweats and a hoodie, he headed to the kitchen for some resuscitation. The house seemed empty now that the Irish and Korean contingent had vacated the premises. Only Christina and Peter were up, having breakfast together in unhappy communion. Black ignored the kettledrums pounding in his skull as he poured a tall cup of coffee and moved to the eggs, which he peered at for a few seconds before edging to the fridge for milk. He didn’t sit with his bandmates, preferring to stand, sipping his dark roast.