Backstage

by A. m Madden

  One by one, I hit the apartments I circled in the paper. The first five are not options. In one of them the stench in the hallway is so bad it causes bile to rise to the back of my throat. Apartment number six has potential. It’s in a sleazy section of downtown L.A., and it looks like it’s a dump…but compared to the first five, it’s a nice dump.

  I inspect my surroundings from the front door. There’s a dive bar across the street that advertises live music. The ground floor of the building houses a bodega. My truck fits in with the other piece of shit vehicles parked along the curb. It’s on a very busy, noisy street. The windows are caged. These are all good deterrents for thieves. So far it’s perfect.

  It’s a furnished studio on the top floor. The building manager eyes me suspiciously as I check out the place. It’s clear he doesn’t believe me when I lie through my teeth regarding my background.

  “Do you have ID?” he asks, looking up at me and attempting to pull himself up to his full five-foot something height.

  “I got mugged. They took my wallet. I have to replace my license. I’m just a musician looking for work. I’ll be no trouble.”

  He watches me skeptically, his eyes landing on my guitar case. He pathetically tries to intimidate me, and it almost causes me to laugh in his face.

  “Fine. The apartment is month to month, but if you cause any problems you’re out…no warning. I like to run a respectable building.” His words do nothing to enhance the dump he’s running. I have to give the man credit, though. He’s proud of his dump.

  “No problems, I swear. In fact, if you need help with this place, let me know. I’m looking for work and it could be a long time before I find what I want. A man’s gotta eat, right?”

  He nods at my guitar case slung over my shoulder. “You any good?”

  “Yeah, I’m good.”

  “Let’s hear.”

  I’m about to seal my deal. I pull out my guitar and begin playing for him. Even though my thing is bass, I can handle an acoustic like a pro. He tries to act unimpressed. Once I’m done with the song he nods, “Okay, Kid. It’s yours.”

  “Thanks.” I replace my guitar back in its case and turn toward him. “Trey,” I say, offering my hand.

  “Bob,” he replies before shaking my outstretched hand. “You eighteen?”

  “Yep.”

  “Don’t lie to me.” He motions toward the only window and adds, “I know Hank across the way. I can ask him if they need a guitar player, but only if you’re eighteen.”

  Score.

  “I am. That’d be awesome, thanks. I also play electric. They stole that too, so I need to get myself a new one. Any advice on where I can?”

  “There’s a place over on Central Street. Owner’s name is Spike. Tell him I sent you.”

  “Thanks, man.”

  “You need to pay the first month up front.” He walks to the door and says, “I’ll be right back with your key.”

  When Bob returns, I hand him the first two months’ rent. He raises an eyebrow and asks, “They didn’t get your cash, I see?”

  This dude misses nothing. I guess he needs to be mistrustful of everyone, the benefits of living in downtown L.A. As he goes to leave, I call out, “Hey, Bob? Do you mind if I add a lock?”

  He folds his arms while once again eyeing me suspiciously. “Why?”

  “Those fuckers did a number on me. I’m just protecting myself.”

  He waits a few seconds before responding. “Fine, but the lock stays when you move out…and I get a key.”

  “No problem, man.” The last part is a problem, but I’ll handle it. There’s got to be a place in here I can hide shit.

  Once Bob leaves, I start moving in. That takes all of ten minutes. I’m going to have to do some shopping. The apartment has furniture, although it’s just a futon, a table, a chair, and a lamp. I need a crap load of stuff. It kills me to spend money on shit like towels or plates, because if I were to run again, all that stays. I can’t worry about that now.

  There’s a metal return vent in the bathroom under the sink. When I remove the four screws, it opens to a duct. Bingo.

  I store my newly acquired lockbox filled with the CDs cataloging my father’s crimes as well as the cash I stole. Once the last screw is fastened, I give it a good tug to ensure it’s secure. I have a ton of shit to do. The most important one is changing my name. I’ll be able to hold Bob off for a while, but getting a job will be hard to do without proper ID. I may have to find something off the books until I’m legally Trey Taylor. I can’t chance my real name being used in any way. The trail from Utah needs to run cold. No credit cards, no legal documentation, nothing I do from here on in can be connected to Trestan Barton.

  I had researched all the necessary steps needed to legally change your name, prior to leaving Utah. I printed the California documents, filling them out except for my address. That was the missing piece. Now that I have that, I finish filling out the paperwork. I’m exhausted, but I need to get this done. It’s time to file these suckers. Once the courts change my name, I can get my new license. I’ll sleep for the next two days when I get this done.

  I’m so wrapped up in my to-do list that I barrel right into a tall redhead pulling mail from her box in the lobby.

  “Whoa, Sugar. Where’s the fire?” she asks in a very thick, southern accent.

  “Um, sorry Ma’am. I apologize.”

  “Ma’am?” She saunters over to me and rests a hand on my arm. “Sugar, let me give you a bit of advice. Never call a woman ma’am, unless you’re looking for a slap.”

  I scratch the back of my head, clearly confused with her issue. She softens her scowl and adds, “I’m just jokin’. You my neighbor?”

  “Um, yes. I just moved in.”

  She holds out a manicured hand and says, “I’m Mel. Apartment 3C.”

  “Trey…6B.” I can’t figure out how old she is. Her body looks twenty, but her face looks thirty, at least. She’s attractive, in a worn kind of way. She’s wearing way too much make-up, her clothes are way too tight, and the scent of her perfume that permeates the small space we are sharing is making me nauseous.

  “You don’t look like you’re from L.A. Where you from?”

  “Seattle.”

  She nods slowly while assessing me from head to toe. “Yep, I can see that. You’ve got that grunge, rocker look going. What do ya’ do?”

  “As a matter of fact, I’m an unemployed rocker.”

  “Is that so?” she responds as if she just guessed the million dollar question. “I’m real good at readin’ people. I could just tell.”

  “Well, it was nice meeting you Mel. I do have to take off, find a job and all that.”

  She looks disappointed, as if she was expecting me to spend some more time standing here chatting with her. “Hey, good luck Trey. I know a lot of people around these parts. Hank across the way is a good friend. Let me know if you need help.”

  I file that bit of info at the back of my mind. “Thanks, I definitely will.” I call over my shoulder as I step out of the vestibule. I turn back one more time to see Mel checking me out and smiling.

  This could be interesting…

  One week is all it took for L.A. to transform me. Physically I have added three more tats to my body. All on my right arm, surrounding my first one. I would have kept going, but I can’t keep spending my money on tattoos. It’s super addictive. I know I definitely will keep going. I’m not sure what I’m trying to accomplish yet, but that’s the fun part.

  I already consider myself an Angeleno. I fit right in. To most who meet me, there isn’t a doubt I’ve ever lived anywhere but here, which bodes well for my situation. If asked, Seattle is the place I came from. Anyone I shared that with believed me without a question. So, the story stuck.

  Bob is divorced, in his forties, and spends most of his time across the street at Hank’s Place. Hank and Bob are buddies. They both call me Kid and for whatever reason, they both like me. The discussion of my ID hasn�
��t come up again…yet. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before Bob remembers. I have at least a dozen excuses ready to go. I’m not worried. From what I can gather, he trusts me.

  There aren’t any open positions for a musician over at Hank’s. He said enough bands come through that something should pop up soon. In the meantime, I’m stocking the bar and helping Bob around the building. They each throw me a twenty here and there for my efforts. If nothing else, it’s helping me live from day to day without having to use my savings.

  The biggest surprise since arriving to L.A. is Mel. The woman is fucking hilarious and crazy as shit. I still haven’t a clue how old she is. Now that I’m getting to know her, my initial guess seems too low. She could easily be in her forties. I would love to come right out and ask her, and may do so one night. She flirts relentlessly with me, but I can’t go there with her. I won’t lie that I’m curious though. It’s interesting to watch her sexuality. That’s why I feel she’s much older. She has a cockiness that can only come from experience. I would consider it a challenge to try and have her submit to me during sex. It could be another human experiment.

  She and Bob have this weird relationship, like an old married couple that can’t stand each other. Yet, they are drawn to each other. They seek each other out, only to argue once they are together. I asked Mel if they ever had a relationship, and her response was, “He wishes.” I suspect Hank has the hots for her as well. Maybe he’s never acted on it out of respect for Bob.

  Hank’s Place is an absolute hole in the wall. It’s beyond rundown, but his regular patrons don’t seem to mind it at all. It’s small with most of the space taken up by the stage and the bar. The bar is two sided, so if you sit on the right side, you can see the stage. In the short amount of time I’ve been here, I already have my seat of honor on the right side of the bar. Hank has bands playing a few nights a week. He never advertises what night they appear or who will be playing. He claims the element of surprise is a huge marketing tool. Once customers are here, they rarely leave…even if they don’t care for the band performing that night.

  There are a few small round tables scattered between the stage and bar. They usually remain empty until the band starts playing. I’ve only heard one band so far. They call themselves Top Shelf. They played mostly classic rock cover songs with a few of their own mixed in. Hank said they were one of his patrons’ favorites, and none of his other acts pack them in like they can. The night they played this place was jammed. This crowd seems to be easy to please. Hank said if I waited tables for him, I could keep all and any tips. I cleared a few hundred bucks. The chicks love me, and I scored a handful of phone numbers as well as a half dozen shots.

  Legally, I’m not old enough to drink, but Hank doesn’t care. He said he’d serve me whatever I want, but if cops were to appear then I better make myself disappear. I usually do my drinking in my apartment. I’ve found taking several shots helps me forget. I’m starting to depend on the dull haze that comes from it. I don’t drink to get drunk. I never want to lose control. It’s the effects that I crave. The numbness.

  Since I pre-party at my place, I usually just sip a beer while at the bar. I also want to be sure I’m able to perform at any moment if the opportunity were to arise…both musically and sexually. I haven’t been with anyone since Missy. I’ve spent the week observing. The girls that frequent Hank’s are not the faint at heart. There’s this one chick that could potentially be my next conquest. The first night I saw her she was with a friend. She definitely noticed me noticing her. The next night she came in, she was hanging on some biker dude. That time she never looked at me once. Tonight she’s here alone. It takes balls for a chick to come to a place like this alone. I like a chick with balls.

  “Hey, Hank,” I call over to him as he pours a beer for one of his regulars. When he looks over I ask, “Who’s that?”

  He follows my gaze and shakes his head. “No clue.”

  She’s been here three times in a week, but, yet, never before?

  Coincidence?

  Once Hank serves the beer, he strolls over. “That chick looks like she could eat you alive, Kid.”

  “Sounds fun,” I respond before grabbing my beer and making my way over to her table. She sits with her back toward me, so I move to stand before her. “This seat taken?”

  She glances up and says, “Looks empty to me.”

  “Waiting for someone?”

  “Date.” She motions to the empty chair and says, “He’s late. His loss.”

  I take the chair and ask, “Is he gonna be pissed seeing me in it?”

  She takes in my appearance from head to toe. “Probably.”

  “I’ll take my chances.” I smile and offer my hand, “I’m Trey.”

  She accepts and responds, “Susan.”

  Susan is most definitely a rock chick. Her platinum, long, blonde hair has a single black streak down the front. Her outfit leaves little to the imagination and little doubt she paid for her boobs.

  “How old are you?” she asks, still measuring me up.

  “Eighteen.”

  “You’re a kid.”

  I laugh out loud at her assessment of me. “I can assure you, I’m no kid. I’m very mature for my age. Why, how old are you?”

  “Twenty-five,” she admits. “Too old for you.”

  “Age means nothing,” I shrug, dismissing her claim. “Seven years is not a big difference. Besides, mentally I’m like thirty.”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Too much to go into.” I motion to her now empty bottle. “Can I buy you another?”

  She smirks and says, “Don’t I need to buy you one?”

  “Nope, I’ve got it.” She turns in her chair, watching me the entire time. I walk over to the bar, grab her another beer, and return with it. When I claim my seat again, this time I move my chair closer to her side of the table. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks, Trey. So, what’s your story?”

  “Who says I have a story?”

  She smiles before taking a swig of her beer. “An eighteen year old in a dive like this, with a chip on his shoulder the size of a brick. I’d say it’s a doozey.”

  “No story. I’m an unemployed musician looking for work. That’s it in a nutshell.”

  “What do you play?”

  “Bass.”

  She nods as if that’s what she would guess I played. “No surprise. Are you any good?”

  “Real good. I’d be happy to give you a private concert.”

  She laughs at my comment. “I’m sure you would.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I’m temporarily a receptionist.”

  “Temporarily? What is it you want to do?”

  “Acting,” she responds with a shrug. It’s seems to be the standard response in this town. Everyone is either trying to be an actor or a rock star. When she leans back in her chair, my eyes instantly move to her boobs. They are pretty fucking spectacular, fake or not. She waits for me to make eye contact before she continues. “You behave like a horny teenager.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Well, you do. You are technically still a teenager.”

  I take a long swig of my beer, watching her the entire time. After a few seconds I ask, “Have you ever been with someone younger? I bet I’m better than most men you’ve been with.”

  “Wow. You’re cocky as shit.”

  I mimic her posture, leaning back in my chair. My eyes move back down to her boobs. “I’m confident. I’m that good,” I admit, still staring at her chest.

  She clears her throat. “My eyes are up here.”

  “Why did you get them done if you don’t want men admiring them?” I ask loud enough for the surrounding drunkards to hear. She looks around before leveling me with her icy glare. My question throws her. I’m sure she’s never met someone as up front and honest as me. I call them as I see them. Slowly she quirks one corner of her mouth up and gives me a tiny smile. I haven’t received a slap yet or a drink
to the face…both are good signs.

  The band starts playing on stage, and suddenly shouting is necessary to communicate. I hate shouting. It’s very unsexy. I move my chair right up against hers, and put my lips to her ear. “I live across the way. Want to get out of here, so we can continue our conversation?”

  Susan watches me closely, waits a few seconds before saying close to my ear, “You must be kidding.”

  Without giving her a second chance, I stand and extend my hand. “Nice meeting you, Susan,” I shout above the music.

  She takes my hand and smiles while nodding. She tries to hide her surprise at my sudden change in direction. There are plenty of chicks in here and out there…and there ain’t no fucking way I’m begging.

  I’ve met several of the bands that play at Hank’s. They’re okay, nothing really special about any of them. Hank was right when he said his customers favor Top Shelf. After seeing them play a couple of times, I now understand why. The lead singer’s name is Zane Zaslo, and the women love him. When they play, I make a killing in tips. After one of their performances, I stuck around to meet them. I felt it wouldn’t hurt to get on good terms with them just in case their bass player was to get up and quit. Off the stage, they don’t get along. They constantly fight and argue. I’ll be waiting on the sidelines to step right in.

  Zane is my ticket in because he is a dumbass. I can’t believe how stupid he is. His band has three other members, and each one is dumber than the next. Zane also has a temper with a very short fuse. It turns out Zane was Susan’s date the night I tried to get into her pants. They’ve known each other for a while. It seems Susan likes to play hard to get. Now that I know he also wants in her pants, I’ve ditched my goal to do so. It’s made her more attentive toward me, and he is feeling threatened.

  He hasn’t shown aggression, just the opposite. He’s been downright nice to me. Rocker pricks like Zane don’t do nice, but I’ll play along. This should be fun. He’s sitting in the corner, watching the room like he owns it. His posse surrounds him, and just as he does after every show, he’s already chosen his lucky conquest for the night. She sits on his lap like a good little puppy dog waiting for a treat. This asshole amuses me at every turn. He acts like he’s Mick Jagger and like Hank’s is actually backstage at Staples Center. Watching the way this dude carries himself is funny as shit.