Voices Carry: A Rock and Roll Fantasy (The Rock And Roll Fantasy Collection)

by Diane Rinella

  My eyes race to the Wiki article. “The band came to an abrupt halt in nineteen seventy-eight, due to Saleena Kale’s untimely death in an automobile accident.”

  Oh dear God.

  Prickles pop up and sting as if I have been smacked with a cactus of reality. I’m Brandon Wayne. I live in Los Angeles, and I don’t want to be spoon-fed for the rest of my life.

  None of this is happening. It can’t be.

  I head off to my room, grab my suitcase, and toss it onto the bed. What are you allowed to bring when you check yourself into a mental hospital? I am guessing my shaving kit needs to stay home.

  Institutionalized

  The number of mental hospitals and clinics that reside in the Los Angeles area is a little frightening. Since there were so many to choose from, I did the most (appropriately) insane thing and picked the one with the goofiest name. Yes, I could have gone to the eloquently titled Hampton Center for Mental Rehabilitation, but no; I picked Happydale. How can I possibly refuse seeking refuge in someplace so pleasant sounding? If nothing else, this proves I have not lost my sense of humor.

  Even though I am pretty sure they will provide me with a lovely jacket, I’ve brought enough clothes to last a week. By then, Dale should be back and he can pick up anything else I need. Work can think I have fallen off of the planet. My disappearance can be a great, unsolved mystery, as if I have been sucked into The Bermuda Triangle.

  What kind of food is served at Happydale? Are they called Happymeals? Regardless, I am betting sugar isn’t allowed in the place.

  Now I am craving chocolate. I need to pull into a 7-Eleven for one last fix. At least I didn’t decide to close some things out at work first and check myself in mid-day. Then I might have settled for grabbing something out of the plant. That definitely would have proven my insanity.

  Hey, maybe I am not crazy after all.

  Oh, how quickly I have forgotten I am a data-mining stalker who thinks there is a psychic who looks like Stevie Nicks. One chocolate bar and off to the funny farm I go.

  I pull into the lot while pondering what to buy. Shoot, who knows how long it will be until I get another chance to eat chocolate. Ooh! Or donuts! I’ll load up and cram junk food all the way there. That should burn me out on cravings for at least a few weeks.

  When I step out of the car, a surprising “Hey, man!” hits my ears. I look over to see shirtless guy from Jennifer’s place. I wasn’t exactly unaware that her house is right behind here. How fitting is it that a psychic lives right down the street from a funny farm?

  I say hello while wondering if the guy who wears a hoodie, yet is still without shoes, notices the layers of crazy on me.

  “Hey, good to see you, man. I guess you know Jennifer has something for you. I’m headed back now, so fall on by. Catch you in a minute.”

  Jennifer has something for me? Why? What? And how would I know that? I swear, nothing about any aspect of my life makes sense—not a damn thing.

  Sure, what the hell. I’ll pop by. After all, I’ve no more of my sanity to lose, so I might as well humor him and his rock-star lookalike … girlfriend? Sure. Why not? She’s what? Twice his age? Rock it, sister.

  When I knock, shirtless guy answers the door. This time he’s wearing his normal attire.

  “Hi, you mentioned Stevie—” I try to slam on the brake before getting caught on the faux pas, “I mean, Jennifer has something for me?” God, did I really call her Stevie?

  He laughs. “Don’t sweat it, man. When I first met her I went through the same thing. I’d just gotten over it when I took some stuff down to the basement and found a box filled with gold statuettes. My brain went all crazy.” He scoffs. “Turned out they were soccer trophies. I swear she put them there to see if I would lose my head. Anyway, she’s at Zumba class, but she left this.”

  He hands me a folded note. I can only begin to imagine what is in it. Maybe she knows about my Toronto trip and is calling me an idiot for being a crappy stalker.

  “Knock off the wallowing, bag the talk of being crazy, and get back to work. Seriously, Brandon, end that crap now. She’s looking; so let her find you. Be Batman. Do not, I repeat, do not do anything stupid, or you’ll wind up in the pokey. Get some sleep, and eat something other than chocolate and those terrible gumdrops.”

  I must be getting used to madness because my only physical reaction is my jaw falls ever so slightly open. Seriously, this is comical. I can see her suspecting that I think I have lost my marbles, but how did she know I would be anywhere near this place today, let alone that I bought chocolate? I feel like I’m a little kid whose mom busted him.

  The pokey? Let Katherine find me, yet be Batman? Batman doesn’t want to be found. “What the hell does be Batman mean?”

  Shirtless guy shrugs. I wait, hoping he’ll give me more to go on. I get nothing.

  Be Batman? Does that mean to get a cool car with gadgets? Maybe I should put in a hotline so Commissioner Gordon can reach me.

  I go for my wallet to at least leave her a twenty or something. The guy puts his hand out, and not in the way I expect.

  “She said this one’s on the house. Trust me, anytime Jennifer’s keeping the faith it’s a good sign.”

  I ask him to thank her, and as I turn to leave I get jabbed. “Ouch.” The roses on the bush that tried to steal my blood are the color I have come to think of as being Amber Pink. I swear there is no end to the weirdness surrounding me.

  “Sorry,” shirtless guy says. “The gardener missed that one this time around.”

  “No big deal. Have a good day.”

  “Yeah, solid.”

  Man, the amount of seventies slang in this guy’s vocabulary is vast. Him and a psychic who looks like a rock star … those things alone make me look sane, that is, if they are real. I’m still not sure.

  I get in my car and look at the note while releasing a long sigh. Man, I don’t want to be crazy. Honestly, I don’t think I am. I just don’t know what to believe.

  I reach for my junk food—a Hershey bar and two packs of Hostess Donettes, one of which is “chocolate” coated and the other covered in powdered sugar. Yick. With how I have been eating, no wonder why I am a mess.

  After a decent breakfast, I’ll head into work, clear my head, and start decoding the new mystery Jennifer laid on me.

  If the article I read a few weeks ago is right, and sad is where it is at, maybe our gumdrop ad should show a middle-aged woman looking at a granny-type in a casket. The caption will read, “She may have lost her family, but she can still taste her childhood.”

  Man, that idea sucks. Are these gumdrops really so bad I can’t come up with a decent campaign, or do I truly lack the competence to do my job?

  This time I got my stash straight off of the line before coming into my office. Unless Darla messed with the formula, these are safe.

  Well, as safe as anything else made here.

  My teeth try to cut into the orange-colored drop, but the thing already has the tension of being stale and the sugar coating scratches the roof of my mouth. At least it tastes orangeyish.

  Maybe I should start a rumor campaign about how bad these are. People will buy them to see if it is true. Thing is, once they find out it is not a gimmick, we are screwed.

  I pop in a red one and dare to bite down. My teeth actually cut through it with ease. Wow, did we really make this?

  Then the flavor hits my palate. It taste kind of like a tangy lollipop that’s been left open in a kid’s pocket. Yeah, we made this.

  Hmm … a kid’s pocket … kids play with their food …

  I line up some of the red gumdrops and then try to build another row on top of the first one to make a pyramid. Since their tops are rounded, of course they won’t stack. However, they do fall into a pile that is rather circular. With the aid of a few green ones, I add a stem. The gumdrops now look sort of cherry-like, which is also kind of how they taste. Have I hit on truth in advertising? “Endeara gumdrops: Kinda tastes like fruit.”
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  Okay, this idea isn’t total crap. Something reminiscent of refrigerator art might grab a parent’s attention.

  With the aid of some yellow gumdrops I attempt to make a lemon. Since the drops are too big to properly form the shape on a small surface, it looks a mess. I need a bigger workspace. I grab the bags, loosen my tie, and plop down onto the floor to start playing.

  What could be Batman mean? Jennifer couldn’t have meant to put on a pair of tights and a cape. Then again, it would get me attention—for being a lunatic.

  I lean back and check out my art. The lemon idea sort of works. What if I use black to form a tree trunk and the other colors for leaves and fruit?

  Maybe being Batman means Katherine wants a savior.

  This black tree trunk implies Halloween. It might look cool with a lemon moon. A seasonal look is too limited, but there is an idea in here somewhere.

  Could be Batman mean to be her superhero? Maybe it has something to do with self-confidence.

  Darla’s sudden laughter snaps my attention to the doorway. “Oh. My. God! That is hysterical!”

  This is a good sign. Maybe my idea has some merit after all. “You actually like it?”

  “You are taking your last name way too seriously. That might be the hokiest thing I have ever seen. ” Darla walks off, yet her laughter continues while she heads down the hall. “Please send me a picture,” she yells. “That one’s a keeper!”

  What the hell is she talking about?

  I stand to see my gumdrop tree trunk from the same angle she did and find my art skills suck worse than my marketing ones. Man, that thing is ugly. It looks more like a bat. And with all those yellow gumdrops spattered about it looks … Oh my God, I created a gumdrop version of The Bat Signal.

  This might be the first time Darla has ever been wrong. My art isn’t hokey; it is brilliant! Batman gave the signal to Gotham as his way to be found while remaining under the radar. I need a way to get Katherine’s attention despite being just another face in the crowd. How do you reach everyone while blending in?

  Social media! Everyone is glued to it. You can’t walk into a restaurant or a party without seeing half the people with their phones in their faces.

  How can I take advantage of social media when celebrities get their fans’ attention with Facebook, yet they block our ability to send private messages and don’t interact with our comments? Mentions on Twitter are as easy to ignore, and if you send too many, you are labeled a stalker and blocked.

  But studies show people turn to Facebook when they are bored. So after posting, Katherine probably sticks around and does what I would do next, which is see what my friends are up to.

  Posting Facebook comments is considered perfectly acceptable, community participation. If I regularly comment on her post while she is still online, she’ll see a notification pip pop up and may take a look. She has a ton of fans, so people start commenting immediately. That means I not only need to jump in quickly, I also have to do it with flair so mine doesn’t blend in with all the others.

  I need branding—eye catching, memorable branding.

  How do I brand Brandon Wayne?

  My eyes lock on my terrible version of a Bat Signal—my new profile picture. It is time to charge forward, and I’m going in full throttle.

  I’m Batman.

  Instant Replay

  After all the years I have spent flying for work, you’d think I’d be used to sleeping on planes. Yet after a long night of flying from Toronto to Los Angeles, I’m grateful for this hotel bed. Back home it may be six in the morning and long past my standard call time, but here it is only three, and I don’t need to be anywhere for hours. Thank God.

  At least I don’t think I do …

  Yeah, it’s Thursday morning. I’m supposed to go to the studio this afternoon for final fittings. Traveling messes with my head and my ability to track time. However, as long as I get to sleep, there’s not much I care about right now.

  Moments after slipping into bed, bliss slinks over me …

  Colored lights creep into a sea of black, illuminating people wearing the most God-awful fashions—orange bellbottoms, rainbow suspenders, satin jackets, and by great contrast, a couple in the corner is dressed in something cool—tattered jeans and studded, leather jackets. Looking down, I find my own clothes to be a wall of black—high boots, microskirt, a form-fitting tank top, and studded bracelets. How the whole scene reeks of nineteen seventies’ fashion in its various forms makes me feel I am in a movie.

  Things seem as foreign outside. Stepping stones of mosaic butterflies pave the walkway. The rectangles on the roll-up garage door are painted in a rainbow of colors that remind me of the dance floor in Saturday Night Fever.

  A man with short, spiked hair, a tattered, Runaways T-shirt, and frayed jeans steals my attention. He gives me a peck on the cheek, and the smile he gives makes my heart flutter. The needle on the record player slips, ripping off Led Zeppelin. Cheers roar when “The Hustle” kicks in. Now the guy looks as if he is praying for death. “Kill me,” he says with a groan.

  I’m not crazy about it either. “Give it time. This song doesn’t last forever, you know?” Wow. My voice is so soft it is disorienting.

  “Thank God. Whomever invented disco should be drawn, quartered, and tossed into a shark tank.”

  He pulls me to him, and my heels get caught in the dirt, causing me to stumble. I giggle. He kisses me, and I swoon over the heavens at how cherished I feel.

  “The Hustle” blends into another song that rubs me the wrong way. It takes a moment for me to recognize “Instant Replay”, something I only hear when my friends watch Dance Fever on TV.

  The man of my dreams yanks my arm. “That’s it! It’s bad enough Dan Hartman left Edgar Winter to play crappy music, but there is no damn way I am listening to it.” He then lowers his voice to a grumble, “Damn repetitive four-on-the-floor beat with a high hat on the eight. It’s like having every tooth in your head drilled.”

  I smile and wave goodbye to our friends. “Bye, Saleena,” one of them yells. “I’m surprised Johnny lasted this long.”

  The instant we get into the car, Johnny pops in a cassette. The wail of a guitar fills my ears, followed by drums, and then a woman’s voice that is brash and wild. “I am a rock and roll machine, a product of my own revolution,” she screams.

  Why do I think I am the one who is singing?

  “I’ll take this any day over that mechanical sounding, corporate rip-off crap,” Johnny says with a grumble. “God only knows what the eighties are going to bring, let alone what atrocities our children will suffer.”

  As we drive into the night, we pass through modern suburbia with Victorian-era homes sprinkled through it. Ahead of us is a theatre marquee reading, Alameda. Where is—

  Though something wakes me, the tune still plays in my head. I can’t place it, even though I feel I know it as if it were etched inside me.

  I try to put myself back into a lucid state while remembering what I just saw. While the memory fades, the melody lingers.

  The sound of my heart—not its beat, but the flaps of valves opening and closing, accompanied by pops of air, nudges me out of a deep slumber. I try to shake it away, but the pressure seems to build. I try smacking the side of my head. This is dammed annoying. The only other time I have felt anything remotely similar was on the plane to Toronto, when I saw houses I suspect turned out to be Katherine’s vision …

  Which happened because our flights where near each other.

  I bolt up. Katherine’s in Los Angeles!

  I damn near jump out of bed and race for my phone. Killing the volume so I could get some sleep caused me to miss the alert of her earlier Tweet.

  “Great to be back in LA, if only for a few days. Can’t wait to start shooting.”

  Confirmation! I have true confirmation that I can sense her!

  Holy crap, I’m turning into a giddy schoolgirl. She’s here, and I could tell!

  Now, how
do I get to the woman who is either locked up on a studio lot or surrounded by bodyguards? Why do cheesy seventies sitcoms where people hide inside room service carts and sneak into hotel rooms come to mind? Hey, it may be lame, but that plan always worked on TV.

  No, Jennifer warned me not to try anything crazy. Unless I can come up with a solid plan, I’ve no choice but to wait for the right time to put up the Bat Signal.

  Surrender

  My teeth press down on my finger, biting it in hopes of releasing stress. I’m used to day-after-day of early calls, hanging out in a makeup chair, and then waiting on seemingly endless setups, but on this production I get the added bonus of a director who races actors through scenes. Between that and the pressure to give the performance of a lifetime, I barely managed to make it through yesterday—and that was the easy scene.

  I take my time in releasing a deep breath. I’ve been so on edge I haven’t even been able to make the Facebook post my publicist asked for. Being on set is stressful. Anyone who can’t handle pressure at every corner should not be in this business. However, there are some directors who understand what actors need in order to give the best performance possible. This guy is not one of them. While shooting an emotion-filled funeral scene yesterday, he actually told someone to speed it up and crank it out. Unbelievable.

  My co-workers also have me stressed to the gills. Harvey Davison may be a great actor, but our extreme lack of chemistry makes it hard for me to convince anyone I could ever love the guy. He is also so smug he hasn’t bothered to say hello to me—the girl he is about to fake making love to. Right now, even though he is looking up at the guy he is talking to, Harvey is so condescending I’m pretty sure the guy is able to see up Harvey’s nose.

  All this thinking isn’t helping. Hopefully posting those photos will get my head in a better space. It has to, because if I blow it and Jason sinks Vampires Undercover, I might as well start filling out barista applications—not that I am at all qualified.