“That was amazing, as always, Sailor, seriously. How did I get so lucky to have you work here?” Dusty asks me with a pat on my shoulder.
“I’m the lucky one. Thanks for letting me sing.”
“Letting you? No way. I demand it of you.”
Laughing I turn away and Britt is smiling ear to ear. “That was the best yet,” she says sincerely.
“It was fun,” I tell her shrugging my shoulders. “Need a refill?” I ask her.
“I’ll go for a water.”
“Good choice,” I tell her and grab a glass to fill for her. Then I lose myself in the chaos of filling drink orders and tending those at the bar once again. People make comments about my songs in between drink orders and I thank them, all the while enjoying the other people taking turns on stage. The buzz in the atmosphere makes me feel joy; I’m almost floating on my feet as I work my ass off.
As closing time nears, my feet start to protest loudly and I’m happy that it’s about time to go home. Britt is sitting down the bar waiting for me. We became roommates not long after meeting, we hit it off so fast, so I know she’s waiting to go home together.
As I’m wiping down the bar and putting washed glasses away and closing alcohol bottles and putting them in place along with other routine close-up tasks, Dusty goes and starts placing chairs on table tops. “Sailor, was it?”
I turn and find the man from earlier back at the bar, “Yes, that’s right.”
“Your singing was amazing. Why didn’t you tell me that you were the woman I was obviously asking about?”
“It could have been anyone. There are a lot of people that come in here and sing each week.”
“Yeah, but not like you I bet.”
I shrug, “I think that’s a matter of opinion.”
He’s joined by the man he was sitting at a table with and they both stare at me. “Do you guys want another quick drink before we close up?” I ask unsure why they are both staring at me. They’re making me feel uncomfortable.
“Actually, we came here to hear you. Like I suggested earlier.”
“Why?”
“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Jace Green and I’m the manager for the band Graffiti. Have you ever heard of them?”
“Of course. Who hasn’t?” I ask, the band immediately coming to mind. The lead singer is in the news a lot and not always for their music. His antics lately have been displayed for the world to see as the media’s ability and love of exploiting him and realizing a likely profit at his peril has been displayed. Which is a shame really, because their music is great.
“And with me is Rick McEntyre, he’s an executive producer with Black Lamb Records. We’re actively looking for a woman to audition for Graffiti, and we’d like you to come to the studio this week.”
“What?” I ask them completely not sure I heard them correctly and suddenly feeling a little dizzy.
Jace smiles, “We are looking to add a woman lead singer to the group and word leaked about an amazing singer here at The Hook, so we came to check you out.”
“You came… to hear me?” I ask and see that Britt has moved closer to the conversation.
“That’s right. You’re brilliant, and we think you could be a great fit with the band. We are having an audition this Wednesday, and I’d like you to come. There are a few other girls that will be there, but I’ll be honest,” Jace says as he leans closer to me across the bar, “you are my favorite. If you’re interested, we’d like you to come and sing a couple songs with the band, and see if the sound is what we expect and how it feels for you…and them, and then go from there.”
“Go from there,” I repeat like some psychotic parrot. But I can’t stop. I hear what he’s saying but it’s like the words aren’t computing in my brain or something.
Britt reaches across the bar and grabs my hand. I clutch it like a lifeline. “How do we know this is for real and you aren’t just some creepy weirdo trying to get her to your lair of sexual perversion or something?”
I’d die of embarrassment if I weren’t secretly wondering the same thing. “We aren’t, um, sexual perverts,” Jace says with a laugh as he nearly forces the business card in my hand that I now realize he’s been offering since he started talking. “We are really looking for someone to join the band.”
“Why are you going about it this way?” Britt asks. “Surely the pile of demos you have of women waiting to be heard is stacked pretty high.”
“Why not? Sometimes diamonds in the rough make the best discoveries.” Rick chimes in. “You have my card,” Rick states as I look at the thick piece of paper with his title and Black Lamb Records right there in black and white. Jace hands me one of his as well. “I’ve written the address on the back. We’d love to see you there at two pm if that’s possible. If for some reason that doesn’t work for you, call me. Actually, just call me no matter what. We’ll work around your schedule but we do want to move quickly if you’re interested so just let me know if you will be there either way. Have you ever thought about having a music career, Sailor?”
“In my dreams, sure. As an actual option for my life, no.”
“Well, I guess the man up above was listening, because maybe we can make those dreams of yours come true. Hope to see you there. And I’ll be honest, if you don’t show, well now I know where you work. You can expect me to be a pest,” Rick says with a laugh.
With matching smiles, they both leave and I’m left staring after them in disbelief.
“Britt?”
“Yeah?”
“Am I dreaming?” Suddenly, I feel a sharp jab on my arm and I yank it to my side and cover it with my hand. “Ow!”
“You’re not dreaming,” she responds and we stare at each other wide-eyed.
“Mad, let us in. We’re not leaving until you open the damn door!”
The angry voice of one of my band mates, Henley penetrates the aftereffects of another night spent overindulging in alcohol. His pounding on my bedroom door makes me regret ever giving them all a key to my house. I wanted them to have it in case of an emergency – not because I thought they would ever use it.
Stumbling out of bed I look down at my black briefs and contemplate throwing clothes on, but when Henley starts pounding on my bedroom door again, I shrug. Not like he hasn’t seen it all before. Rubbing my eyes, I unlock the door and swing it open to find the scowling faces of not just Henley, but Rocco and Nixon too. The three guys that I’ve known since we met during band in junior high school. The three guys that have known me the longest, see past all the bullshit I sling, and tell me like it is. From the looks on their faces, the latter is what I’m about to receive from them now.
“What the fuck, Maddox? You were supposed to meet at my place this morning so we can discuss the audition tomorrow. Jace is supposed to meet up with us at some point too to pass on some important information.” Rocco’s anger takes me off guard for a moment. He’s usually the calm one of our bunch, so I know he’s really angry if he’s yelling at me and actually saying the word ‘fuck.’ He’s frowning so hard it contorts his face in such a way that he looks like an angry Muppet - the one with the crazy red hair that scrunches up his face perfectly when he’s annoyed. The thought makes me laugh, which only manages to piss the guys off thinking I’m laughing about the fact I didn’t show up. Apparently that alcohol sucked up all my brain cells.
“I’m tired of this shit,” Nixon states with a shake of his head and a deep sigh. He begins rubbing his forehead and he looks tired. He turns and moves down the hallway, leaving only the three of us.
That’s all it takes. The guilt sets in and I feel ashamed. “I was laughing at the look on Rocco’s face, sorry,” I explain, but they’re beyond caring. They’ve been incredibly tolerant of my shit over these past few months while I try to work out this inner turmoil I have boiling inside. Like most things though, their understanding is drawing to a close. Isn’t that the way? Everyone cares and offers to support you, and love you through whatever y
ou’re going through… up to a point. So, truth is, like everyone else, their understanding is running out. Until now, they’ve wanted me to deal with my feelings, get it out of my system, see and talk to someone about what I’m dealing with so I can heal. Truth is, they just need me to get past this already. It’s not only been affecting our band’s reputation, but I haven’t been able to write dick. I have writer’s block that won’t budge no matter how much I mentally push at it, or swallow alcohol hoping to push past it. But they’re obviously exhausted, tired of me too. But the guys just haven’t understood. They’ve wanted me to deal with my shit, but that’s the exact opposite of what I’ve wanted to do. I want to write, yeah, but thinking about, let alone talking about the other stuff, hell no. All of that stuff I just want to forget. And sometimes I need alcohol to help bury the thoughts.
“Look, I’m sorry guys. I completely slept through my alarm,” and as if on cue, my phone starts going off again. I head back inside my room, grab it, then show them that it’s going off at the nine minute mark yet again after I ignored it the last time. It’s a lame attempt to gain their favor, but worth a try.
“You always have an excuse, Mad, always. Get dressed and get out here so we can talk,” Henley tells me and without a word I do just that. I duck into my bathroom after grabbing some clothes, and start the shower. Under the warm spray, I rub my hands over my face and sigh deeply. The self-loathing and anger increases with each cleansing motion as I attempt to rid myself of the dirtiness I feel. I don’t want to disappoint my friends, my business partners, my family in every sense of the word, but I can’t seem to get hold of things. I can’t find myself underneath all this shit going on in my head. One moment I’ll be feeling great, and then something will stimulate a thought, a memory, and my anxiety, anger, and frustration flairs and my good day goes downhill quickly.
Of course it doesn’t help that the media is all over us like the disgusting leeches they are. I remember when we first thought the attention was so great, thought it meant we had finally arrived. We’d preen and pose in front of them like good little boys; eager for every morsel of publicity and attention they would provide. We didn’t care what they wrote. We believed that all publicity was great publicity. Those days are long gone. We’ve realized their true intentions – to get a story, any story – no matter the ramifications to us or anyone else.
It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not. A girl claims to have a one-night stand and wants to share every single detail – and it’s published like it’s a fucking deposition. A fan claims to have had a negative interaction with me – forget the fact that he was shoving things in my face and being totally aggressive while I was trying to eat. A paparazzi who got in my face and provoked me with sick words and actions and then twisted it all to make it look like I instigated the dialogue and resulting behavior that lead to his black eye and broken camera as if he was the poor victim and then having the nerve to sue me. Admittedly, I did a bit of shit that straight up was my fault, I’m not claiming I’m blameless in all of this, but the sycophants, drama lovers, and money sharks don’t help. I’ve been called, “unstable,” “wicked,” even a “man slut.” I’ve ignored it all and kept doing whatever the hell I wanted to do, which was all well and good until our record label had enough. And now, the band is reaping the consequences even though the actions have been entirely mine. God, no wonder the guys hate me right now. Can I really blame them?
Trying to shake the thoughts away, I hurry out of the shower, dry off and dress in record time. No need to further provoke them; they’ll think I’m trying to avoid them by hanging out in the shower. Once I hit the stairs, the smell of frying food permeates the air and my stomach growls. Standing at the kitchen door, I watch as Nixon stands at the stove with eggs in a pan, bacon sizzling in another. Henley is buttering toast and Rocco is placing silverware and napkins on the table - all the while the smell of coffee comes from the Keurig. That alone would be enough to draw me into the room. Nixon looks at me out of the corner of his eye as I enter. I know all of this was instigated and directed by him, he can’t help but take care of all of us in some way, shape or form. Even when he’s pissed and probably doesn’t want to, his instincts have him doing it anyway.
After I pour myself a cup into my favorite mug that says “Rock Out,” I nod at Nixon, “Thanks.”
He shrugs, “Figured you would need some greasy food to help with the hangover you’re sporting.”
I almost hang my head again, but catch myself at the last minute. My stubbornness pushes through and instead I lift my head, jut out my chin, and smirk. Of course it doesn’t go unnoticed if Henley’s sigh is any indication.
“We need to talk about tomorrow, Maddox,” Rocco says.
“So, what you’re saying is that ignoring it and hoping it’d go away didn’t work?” I ask half joking. If only.
“You know better than that. We are way past that point,” Nixon pipes in from the stove.
“I don’t get how you guys are okay with this. This is our band, ours, it always has been. This whole idea is fucking stupid,” I spit angrily.
“Okay with this? Did you say that you think we’re okay with this? You’re fucking kidding me, right? It’s because of you that we have to do this in the first place,” Henley yells angrily and Rocco murmurs under his breath to him most likely telling him to calm down.
“Poor choice of words, sorry,” I mumble.
Nixon separates the food he’s made onto four plates, hands me two and nods toward the table. I take them there as directed, and sit down to eat. We’re all quiet at first while we each take a few bites. I break the quiet first. “We don’t need a chick in our band. It’s ridiculous.”
“Maybe so, but as Nixon said, we are past debating that point. We no longer have a choice, so arguing about it is pointless,” Rocco says, always the peacekeeper and voice of reason.
“Look, it’s simple,” Henley says with a sigh after taking a bite of his eggs. I’m happy to see that he appears to have calmed down a bit. I hate it when we butt heads and lately we do it more than I would like. “The label is tired of the bad press we’ve been getting. And the truth is, while yeah, a lot of it is coming from you,” he points at me, not one to mince the truth, “we didn’t help things, and likely tipped them over the top, when we all got into that bar fight.”
“I refuse to be sorry for that shit. They called Maddox a pussy girly singer and said our music sucked ass. I simply was not okay with that comment,” Nixon says and I can’t help it, I smile. Henley smiles as well and Rocco rolls his eyes, but finally breaks into a smile too and we all laugh.
“We kicked the shit out of those guys,” I say.
“Pussy girly singers, my ass,” Nixon mumbles while Henley adds, “I’ll never forget the look on Nixon’s face when he pounded his chest like a gorilla after beating the shit out of that college jock. It was epic.”
“Well the whole world thought so since it ended up in the tabloids and on celebrity gossip shows across the nation,” Rocco says sobering us all.
“Well, it was a really great photo and video,” I can’t help but add.
“Fuck yes it was. I looked ripped,” Nixon says and we laugh again. God, it feels good to laugh with these guys. It’s been too long since we’ve done so.
“Truth is you guys, it no longer matters why or how we got here, only that this is where we are,” Rocco says. “They think that we need to clean up our image, and that adding a girl to the band will help us do that. Fact is, she will give us a fresh sound and it’s something different.”
“Yeah, what was it they said?” Henley asks. “They are hoping whomever she is, that she’ll help ‘revive’ us or some shit? We don’t have a choice.”
“Not unless we want to quit the label,” Nixon says and looks at all of us and we all remain quiet. We like our label, have never had a problem until now. They’ve been good to us. Nixon nods when our silence is answer enough.
We remain contemplative until the si
lence is broken by the doorbell ringing. Rocco stands, “It’s probably Jace. He called when you were in the shower knowing we were meeting. He said earlier he had news, guess he wants to give it to us in person.” He takes a couple steps, then stops turning back. “We told him we moved the meeting here – that’s all.” I nod letting him know that I understand what he’s not saying out loud. They didn’t tell Jace I didn’t show up earlier and that’s why we are all here.
“Hey guys,” Jace says when he walks into the room with Rocco at his back.
“Hey, man,” I greet him. “Want some food? Nixon made grub.”
“No thanks, I’m good. I already ate. But coffee, I will take,” he says while he moves to the coffee maker, grabs a mug and fills it up.
“We were just discussing the audition tomorrow,” Rocco tells Jace.
Jace moves to the table, and looks around at all of us seeing the lack of enthusiasm on our faces as he takes a seat. With a sigh, he takes a sip of coffee worry lining his face. Jace is a good guy. When our band started to take off when we were finally drinking age and could start playing in bars, we met Jace at a one where we headlined. He was a fan of our music and we all became friends. With his fancy business degree, love of music and knowledge of the industry, Jace became the perfect choice to represent us when we generated some interest and put together our first demo. It’s one of the best decisions we’ve ever made. He listens to us, knows what’s important to each of us, always has our best interests at heart and doesn’t bullshit. He’s perfect and we’re lucky to have him on our side.
Broken Melody (Graffiti On Tour Series) Page 2