“I’m coming, I’m coming…” I managed to say, while quickly wiping my eyes and mascara. My performance may have been a complete mess, but I didn’t want anyone to think I was. I opened the door to see a tall, solid man with a bald head and a black jacket.
“Miss Rose, yes?” the man asked me, revealing a strong British accent. Without allowing me to answer, he pushed a note towards me and regally breathed, “From His Royal Heir, Miss.”
Bewildered, I grasped the note and opened it to read, “Miss Rose, Your singing is mesmerizing. I must say, you stole my heart tonight. Can I have it back, please? Rex xxx”
I gasped, crumpled up the note, and threw it back at the man. The note hit his black jacket and fell straight to the ground. The lightness of the paper made it surprisingly undramatic, which was not my intention. “He makes you call him a royal heir? Is that even allowed? This is ridiculous. He had the attention of the whole lounge tonight, he doesn’t get my attention too. Who does he think he is?” I was so upset that my voice cracked.
“Well, a famous, very wealthy man, I suppose, Miss,” the man replied in a snooty manner and turned to walk away.
“Well… well… I don’t care!” I shouted and slammed the door. That was a great comeback, Rose. I don’t care? So clever. I was obviously so furious that I couldn’t think anymore. I just needed to get home and get the night over with.
FOUR
I finally plopped my head on my pillow and pulled my white, fluffy duvet up to my face. My head was spinning with thoughts. Mostly angry thoughts. I used to think that I was a fortunate person who had good luck. I always tried to spread good karma by smiling at strangers, giving spare change to the homeless, and being a caring listener for those in need. And usually, this good karma served me well. Why did I deserve to have my big gig ruined by that arrogant twit? Was this a sign that I was not meant to be a singer? Did I not deserve it after all?
I thought about the series of events that had led me to my current place in life as an aspiring singer in Denver, Colorado. I had enjoyed singing as a little girl, but there was a turning point, when my father left, when I let music completely envelop my life. Not in a studious way; I didn’t know how to read sheet music, nor could I tell you the difference between a treble clef and a bass clef if I wanted to, but in a natural way. My mom had bought me a cassette player with headphones when I was about three years old, and I would listen to it constantly. I put them on when I was playing with toys, when I was outside, when I wanted to daydream, and before I fell asleep at night. The songs of my mom’s favorite cassettes from the 60’s and 70’s played endlessly, and of course, I would sing along.
My mom would sing along as well, and we would have a great time together. She didn’t realize the extent of my singing talent until she invited friends over to the house, and they would comment on my singing voice. “That girl has a knack for singing. You had better put her into singing lessons!” they would say. Unfortunately, my mom didn’t have the money or the time to put me in singing lessons, since she had to work full-time to support the two of us. But as fate would have it, I didn’t need singing lessons. When I would perform songs at my school and for talent shows, the music teachers would proclaim that I had a “raw, God-given talent” and that I sang with “perfect singing technique.” I had no idea of the technicalities behind it, but I had a three octave voice range and could transition from my chest voice, to my head voice, to falsetto in a way they said was “as smooth as honey”, and I was only in elementary school.
Throughout the rest of my student life, I joined the choir, sang at music competitions, and performed in musicals to continue to hone my art-form. At any moment of the school day, I would be listening to music through my headphones. I was a nice girl, but I was also a shy girl, and music was also my way of coping with not having many friends. I was never loud or flirty enough to be popular. I wasn’t enough of a genius to hang with the nerdy crowd. And I definitely wasn’t athletic enough to be a jock. But I did have my music. And I had a small circle of friends from choir and theatre. Just enough friends so that I never had to sit alone at the lunch tables, but I was still shy, and there wasn’t anybody I really connected to. Not the way I could connect with Mick Jagger from The Rolling Stones or Roger Daltrey from The Who.
During the summer after high school graduation, I won a singing competition in Houston, Texas. My mom had driven me from San Antonio to watch me perform. She was always there to watch my performances to support me as I grew up. No matter what. When she was younger, she was a talented ballet dancer with offers to attend Juilliard in New York after high school. Dancing was her dream, and it was all she knew. She explained to me later that she had received an even greater gift during the last semester of high school, which was becoming pregnant with “a lovely baby girl named Rose”. She and my father married that summer, and I was born the next February. She always explained it to me with the most loving eyes, and even though she told me I was the best thing that ever happened to her, I wondered if she ever thought of how different her life would be if she had attended Juilliard. I was always excited for her to watch me perform, and I felt that when I performed well and won competitions, it was like she was winning too. Somehow, my musical success was for the both of us. More than anything in the world, I wanted to make her proud.
The winner of Houston competition would receive a month of “Singer Songwriter Music Camp” in Boulder, Colorado. I didn’t know much about Colorado, as I had never visited that state before, but I had heard that Boulder was a very eccentric place. There were artists, musicians, and free spirits everywhere. And that excited me.
I told my mom that I would be singing one of the songs from our high school musical for the Houston competition, but secretly, I wanted to surprise her with her favorite song, “Tiny Dancer” by Elton John. Whenever that song would play when I was growing up, my mom would be whisked away to another world, where she was a young ballet dancer, twirling and being lifted into the air, with her long hair pulled back into a meticulous bun, her trusty well-worn shoes, and her flowing skirt. She sang along to the song with every part of her mind, body, and soul. Sometimes, I would notice her red-rimmed eyes or a single tear run down her cheek at the end of the song, and I knew. I knew that she had given up her passion to have me, and I was going to do everything I could to let her know that I appreciated that.
As soon as the delicate piano introduction of “Tiny Dancer” began to play at the competition, I looked at my mom in the crowd. At first, she looked confused, and when she saw that I was perfectly calm and smiling, she knew that I had chosen this song for her. I sang to her in the crowd, and she sang back to me. When I started singing the words, “Hold me closer, tiny dancer. Count the headlights on the highway. Lay me down in sheets of linen. You had a busy day today,” we were both singing with every part of our minds, bodies, and souls. The words of this simple love song told the story of my mom’s passion for dancing, her lost career, her new baby, and new life as a mom. By the end of the song, we were both tearing up. It was such a powerful performance that most of the crowd and judges were misty-eyed too. All three of the judges gave me a perfect ten score, and in the end, I won the contest. But most importantly, I made my mom proud.
After winning that competition, my singing and song writing seemed to take off. I attended the camp in Boulder, Colorado and learned about how to make a career out of singing. They taught me about singing at open mic nights, doing radio interviews for promotion, and they praised Denver’s music scene that supported numerous artists with no shortage of places to play, record, and perform. When they took us on a field trip to see the Red Rock Amphitheatre, it was love at first sight. I knew I wanted to play there one day. I had a strange feeling come over me, and I could feel that this was the right move. The occurrences and coincidences in my mother’s life and my life had led me to this place in Colorado, and it seemed serendipitous. I felt like I could make it big in Denver. I decided to wholeheartedly pursue my singi
ng career for both me and my mom.
I trusted my instincts and moved to Denver during the fall. Of course, I had no money and no family there, but I picked up a couple of jobs waiting tables at restaurants downtown. On my nights off, I would seek out open mic nights, and sometimes, I would just bring my guitar down to Sixteenth Street and play for people walking by. It seemed as though my instincts were right, because I was quickly picked up by a major record label in the city. A tall, handsome gentleman by the name of Richard Holloway passed me his card after an open mic session at Mercury Café one night. He took me under his wing, and I was grateful that someone cared and wanted to mentor me. I signed with his record label, and we began recording in the studio almost immediately. Within a year, I had three hits that made it into America’s Top 40, but they peaked around the 25th spot. It was still a big enough success for me to perform at Red Rocks, gather a large fan base in Denver and throughout the nation, buy myself a condo, and invest a rather large nest egg that earned enough interest to support myself.
Richard was a highly influential person in my life, and I noticed that he was pushing me in a different direction with my music. He was trying to convince me that in order to reach the Top 10, I needed to popularize my music and sexualize my image. I had no intentions of changing my music into the average mediocre pop song, and I certainly wasn’t about to start twerking on stage. He was not happy to hear this and pushed the issue. I threatened to leave the label, and Richard let me walk. It was unfortunate that I no longer had his guidance, but by dipping into my nest egg, I was finally able to record and produce my own songs and craft my own image independently. I was certain that this album would be my breakthrough album. I kept my heartfelt lyrics about real life, my powerful and raw vocals, and my lacy dresses and cowgirl boots.
Everything had come together perfectly in synchronicity to lead me to my gig last night. It was my big moment. So why, suddenly, was my hard-earned dream snatched away by such a spoiled rotten man? He was born into a rich family and had probably never done a day’s work in his life. I had worked my whole life for that gig. I slowly started to drift asleep while still questioning the fate of the night. There was nothing synchronous or serendipitous about Rex barging into the lounge. It was just plain bad luck.
FIVE
The next day I woke up to the sound of my phone buzzing uncontrollably on my bedside table. I took off my sleeping mask that hid the streams of sunshine seeping through my white blinds.
“One second, one second…” I croaked, and quickly coughed, trying to clear my morning voice. I picked up my phone and answered, “Hello?”
“Rose? Is that you?” Derek’s voice on the other end of the phone sounded confused.
“Yes, yes, it is me. This is just my morning voice…” I squawked and cleared my throat loudly into the phone for Derek to hear. “Sorry, that was probably too much information there.”
“Your voice always sounds great, Rose. Besides, I kind of like it like this… very husky.”
“Haha, oh please,” I laughed and then switched on my ultra-sultry voice, “What are you wearing, Mister?”
“Don’t play with me, Rose! Though I am glad to hear you laugh after what happened last night,” he said sincerely.
“Ugh. Last night.” The memories came flooding back to me – the empty lounge, the smug grin on Rex’s face, the repulsive love letter. “I don’t think I will ever fully recover from last night, Derek.”
“Oh, I think you will. Just don’t lie in bed and hold a pity party for one all day. Come meet me at Caribou Coffee and we will have a party for two,” Derek said sweetly.
“But… I want to host a pity party for one. Just for one day… come on, please?” I said persuasively. I needed some alone time to lick my wounds. I hadn’t slept well the night before, due to the angry thoughts swirling around in my head.
“Not allowed! I’m treating you to your favorite frothy drink, and there is nothing you can do about it. See you there at noon,” he said sternly before hanging up the phone. He didn’t give me a chance to say no or goodbye.
I looked over at the clock to see it was already 11:30am. I groaned and rolled over, pulling my soft white duvet over my head. I had 30 minutes to lie there and feel sorry for myself… and to curse Rex Byron’s name… and I was going to enjoy every minute of it.
SIX
“Rose! You’re here!” Derek greeted me with a smile from ear to ear and a big hug. The café looked cosy with warm natural wood tables and comfy, marshmallow-like chairs and couches inside. “Let’s get in line, and we can order whatever we want. Anything for you.” He kept one arm on the small of my back.
“Anything?” I asked like a happy little girl, and I looked up at the menu.
“Yup. And you know what? How about for the day, we can be anyone we want to as well,” he said. I looked at him, and he could tell that I was confused. “Here’s the plan… when the barista asks for your name to write on the cup, you can say whatever you want it to be. Madonna, Beyoncé, anyone!”
“Deal!” I agreed excitedly. This sounded like fun. My mind raced as I tried to think of all the people I wanted to be. I didn’t follow modern celebrities or watch a lot of movies. It was harder work than I thought.
When it was my turn to order, I asked for a medium soy latte with extra whip cream.
“And your name, ma’am?” the barista inquired.
“Rapunzel.”
She gave me a puzzled look. “Like the Disney character?” she asked.
“Yes. Exactly like the Disney character,” I replied with a straight face. I could hear Derek stifling his laughter behind me.
I moved to the other side of the café to wait for my soy latte. I watched Derek speaking to the barista. She let out a wild laugh, and then he walked towards me.
“What name did you say?” I asked giddily.
“Sergio,” Derek replied.
“Sergio?! You don’t even slightly resemble a Spanish man who could pull of the name Sergio,” I joked. “You have blonde hair, blue eyes, and I’ll bet you don’t know the difference between a burrito and an enchilada!”
“The difference is corn, Rose. Something you are familiar with, based on all your corny jokes,” Derek jabbed back at me.
The barista handed me my soy latte. She looked at Derek and said, “Sergio, I will bring your drink to your table.”
“Perfect. Thanks,” he replied.
“My pleasure, Sergio,” she said. There was something distinctly seductive about the way she said Sergio, all breathy with a tongue roll.
Derek was oblivious to the seduction as he walked away from her and said to me, “Besides, Rose, what is wrong with Sergio? I’ve always wanted to be a Sergio. Don’t you want a brave, strong man named Sergio to hold you tight at night?”
“I can’t say that is one of my fantasies. Sorry, Sergio…” I replied, as we walked outside of the café towards a bamboo table on the outside patio.
“Oh no, no, no, Senorita, you can’t say no to Sergio,” Derek started up his slimiest Spanish accent. “You haven’t even tried my salsa.”
“Your salsa?” I challenged.
“Si, si, my tasty little Chiquita. My salsa… yes, I want you to try my spicy nacho salsa and then try my spicy salsa dancing” he said with a thick Spanish accent while gyrating his hips.
“Sit your salsa shaking bottom down, Sergio!” I laughed and patted his seat. “I want my Derek back.”
“Fine, fine, I’m back. In all my blonde hair, blue eyed, friend zone glory!” Derek smiled and winked at me.
Just then the barista appeared with Derek’s drink. She slowly bent over to place it in front of him. Her blonde hair was tied up in a high bun, and she was wearing an apron with cartoon cupcakes over it. It was admittedly cute, for an employee uniform. She said, “For you, Sergio,” with the provocative tongue roll and all.
“Oh, thank you,” he replied blankly, barely looking up.
She continued to stand there expectantly,
and nobody knew where to look. Except her. She was starting at Derek. After some time, she managed to say to him, “So, my name is Bailey, but you can call me Babs.”
I murmured under my breath, “I think I’ll just call you Bailey, thanks.” Derek gave me a look to say ‘Behave!’, but ‘Babs’ didn’t even notice. She was still in a Derek trance.
“Ok, thanks, Babs,” he smiled politely and nodded his head to stop the conversation. He looked back towards me and grabbed his drink. She sashayed back inside, and I could see she was joyfully telling her coworkers about her flirty exchange, albeit as one-sided as it was. Babs was actually a fitting name for her, she was tiny and cute like a rabbit, but in the most annoying way. I couldn’t explain why she got under my skin so much.
“Well, she clearly likes you,” I said to Derek.
“She’s just being polite. She is paid to do that,” he replied.
“She’s paid to be polite to everyone, and that wasn’t the case with me. Somebody has a not-so-secret admirer...” I laughed.
“Seriously, Rose. Stop.” He actually got a little red in the face, and I knew it was time to change the subject.
I quickly started to talk about the disaster of a show last night. We couldn’t believe the unfortunate fate that brought Rex Byron into the lounge last night. As usual, Derek tried to raise my spirits, and he actually managed to make me feel marginally better.
“Ello ello, mate,” Derek mimicked his best posh accent. “My name is Rex, and the world revolves around me.”
“America, I have arrived!” I put on my snobbiest British accent. “Please, enjoy watching me sit here, gracing your couch with my royal buttocks.”
A Kiss and a Cuddle Page 2
