Best Of Everything

by R. E. Blake

  “Definitely.”

  We talk about the recording until the food arrives, then she switches gears. “So homeless girl becomes pop sensation. How did that happen?”

  “You have to know the story by now. Derek and I hitched cross-country to try out for the show, and we got seriously lucky.”

  “You were living on the streets of San Francisco?”

  “Yes.”

  “Describe that for the readers. What was it like?”

  I consider the question. There are so many possible answers. I debate how gritty I want to make the interview, and then decide, screw it, I’ll tell the truth.

  “Living on the street is hard. You can never let down your guard. I don’t think I slept for more than an hour at a time, anywhere, because I was always on the lookout for predators.”

  “Predators,” she repeats.

  “You know. Perverts. Pedophiles. Criminals. Muggers. Crazies. Junkies. When you live day to day, that’s your reality. Anyone that hears about me and thinks, hey, that sounds like a cool way to run away from my problems, it isn’t. It’s scary and dangerous, and I’m super lucky I didn’t get raped or killed. Lots do.”

  “Where did you actually live? Describe a typical day.”

  “I’d play for eight or nine hours in my spot in the Haight Ashbury, a few yards from my favorite coffee house. When it started to get dark, if I’d made enough for dinner, I’d kill a couple of hours in a cheap restaurant. Then, if it wasn’t raining, I’d start my night routine. I scoped out a few places in Golden Gate Park and the Panhandle that were sort of safe, so I’d try to grab a little sleep. Then I’d move and find a bus stop and crash there for a while. The whole idea was to keep moving so you couldn’t be tracked.”

  “Tracked by whom?”

  “Whoever,” I say, realizing I sound paranoid as I say it. “When you’re a young girl on the street, you’re a target. Some people want to rob you, some are after sex, some view you as victim material waiting to happen. You have no idea the kinds of sick fu…bastards are out there. Like I said, it’s scary.”

  “You were on your own for four months?”

  “Yeah. And then I met Derek. The rest is history.”

  “Tell me about that meeting.”

  I push my fish around with my fork and consider how to tell the story. I could embellish it, but what’s the point? I tell her about our first day together, how we teamed up. She seems fascinated.

  “And then you two decided to cross the country, just like that?”

  “Not like it was a game. I mean, we were broke, living hand to mouth. Hitching to New York was a major gamble for us, for sure. But we figured that as long as the weather wasn’t bad, we might as well go for it. I mean, it wasn’t like we were leaving anything but some city streets, and those all look the same when you’re living on them.” I recall Memphis, and the pervert at the rest stop, and decide that some memories are best kept in the past. “It turned out well.”

  “I read one of Derek’s interviews. He mentioned living in the subway tunnels?”

  “Oh. Yeah. I’ll never forget that.”

  “What was it like?”

  I take her through Lucifer’s, the rats, the constant noise, the danger of the third rail, and by the time I’m done, her eyes are wide. She sits back and shakes her head.

  “You aren’t exaggerating?”

  I laugh. “If anything, that’s the tame version.”

  When we’re done, she turns off the recorder and Ruby pays the bill. At the entrance we shake hands again and she looks me up and down. “Your story’s a real inspiration, Sage. Congratulations. You deserve every bit of good that comes your way. I think my readers are going to be spellbound by your account. Tell me, though, who can I contact to fact check before we go to press?”

  “Ruby should be able to find me.”

  Ruby nods. “Call me anytime. And now, if you’ll excuse us, we have a radio show to do…”

  More goodbyes and we walk to the car, Nancy going her separate way in the opposite direction. As we approach the lot, Ruby’s staring at me.

  “I had no idea how…how much you’ve been through, Sage.”

  I shrug. “It’s yesterday’s news, right?”

  “It’s an incredible story.”

  I take a deep breath.

  “Try living it.”

  Chapter 29

  I do my duty by the radio and TV, and make it to Staples with no time to spare. Terry’s there with Amber, who drapes a lanyard with a backstage pass around my neck and takes my backpack as she leads me into the bowels of the building.

  The backstage area is immense, and our dressing room is modern and clean. There’s a case of water and another of mixed sodas on ice, two cases of Heineken in another tub, and a platter of cheese and cold cuts. The band’s already on stage. I can hear the kick drum pounding like cannon fire as Amber sets my bag down and makes a sweeping gesture with her hand.

  “This is it. All yours. The middle bill band’s next door, and Bruno’s next to them. Anything you need, ask me and I’ll take care of it,” Amber says.

  “Great.” I crack open a bottle of water. “Is my stuff safe here?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll lock up when we go up.”

  “Then I’ll just leave everything here.”

  I follow her to the stage and nod at Jay, who’s standing by his amp, waiting his turn. Terry’s on her cell phone the entire time, and whispers that she’ll be back later before ducking back into the depths of the hall, leaving Amber and me with the band.

  Sound check is anticlimactic. After getting our tones we do two songs, and that’s it. The monitor mix is adequate, and everything sounds about right, but it would have been nice to have had more time to get acclimated. Not this time. That’s for the other bands, who had hours earlier. Yet another way that life’s unfair, I think, as we walk back to the dressing room as the band works with the road crew to stow their instruments.

  Amber unlocks the door and I enter the dressing room. The band arrives ten minutes later and everyone’s in good spirits. Jay has one of his acoustic guitars with him, and he’s noodling away as we sample the refreshments and chat.

  Boredom drives me to sit next to Jay and we work on our harmonies, fine-tuning them. We’re so much better for the many hours of street performing it’s remarkable, and we’ve already had as much experience as a band that’s been together a lot longer – and the easy familiarity shows.

  We’re in the middle of a Janis number, “Ball and Chain,” when there’s a knock at the door and Bruno Sears’ distinctive face appears. We’re still singing, and I’m tearing it up on the lead vocal before it registers on me that we have a visitor. Jay stops playing and Bruno smiles and applauds slowly as he enters the dressing room. He’s shorter than he looks in his videos, but I have no room to talk – I’m more than familiar with how the camera lies.

  “Well, shit. I might as well pack it up right now if I have to follow that kind of talent,” he says, with a warm smile.

  “Says the man with the number one song in the country,” I say, returning the smile.

  “Not much longer. You’re going to push me out of the way.” He shrugs. “Seriously, I saw your video and checked out the album. Man, that’s some heavy grooves. You got magic working for you.”

  “A lot of it’s my producer. He deserves most of the credit.”

  “You can try selling that somewhere else, because what you were just doing was better than anything on that record. And that’s straight-up truth.” He stops and appears to think for a moment. “Hey, how about you and me work something up and we do it during my set? The crowd will go nuts.”

  I nod. “Like what?”

  “A standard. Oldie?”

  “I’m game. I know a lot of them from doing the street thing.”

  “That’s right. You know ‘Dock of the Bay’?”

  “Sure. Probably sung it a hundred times.”

  Bruno glances at Jay. “Can I borrow that for
a minute?”

  Jay hands him the guitar and Bruno pulls up a chair. “I’ll take the first verse, you take the second, and just riff along over mine and then I’ll do the same. You cover the high harmony on the choruses, okay?”

  “Let’s do it.” I’m sitting here with the most recognizable pop star in the country, getting ready to jam like it’s no big deal. If it gets any stranger than this, I can’t imagine it.

  He does an instrumental opening, running some jazz riffs between the chords, and then we’re in the song. He’s really good, so much so that by the end of the tune we’re both grinning ear to ear.

  “One more time, yeah?” he says, and we try it again. It’s even better this go-around, and when we finish, he’s shaking his head. “Damn, that’s going to be all anyone remembers about my show. You watch. Tell you what, we’ll do it as one of my encores, okay? First one.”

  He speaks with the confidence of someone who’s used to getting many. I don’t doubt it.

  “Cool. I can’t wait.”

  He stands and hands Jay the guitar. “Thanks, man,” Bruno says, and Jay’s all smiles. It’s not every day a massive star plays your axe, and I’m sure he’ll get more than one story out of it.

  Bruno shakes hands with the rest of the band and then exits, leaving us to ourselves. Jay flashes me a grin and holds a water bottle up as a toast. “Tell me that’s not awesome.”

  “It is pretty amazing, isn’t it?”

  “On a scale of one to ten, that’s a twelve.”

  “Yeah, but look at the negatives.”

  “Which are?”

  “Now I’ve got to stick around for the whole show.”

  “Taking one for the team, I think they call it.”

  “Put that way, I guess I can make the sacrifice.”

  We’re the first band on the bill for the initial leg of the tour. Unlike the show, where there were hairstylists and makeup people, it’s a do-it-yourself job for us. I’m not big on makeup, so that suits me fine. My concession to the spotlights is some mascara and rouge.

  At 7:50 Amber leads us to the side of the stage while the roadies prep the instruments, Jay’s guitar tech tuning his bank of guitars, the drum guy adjusting mics. Doug is pretending to be one of the road crew, and has on a black hoodie and some sweats as his disguise over his red stovepipe pants.

  The stage is dark except for the faint glimmer of the crew’s flashlights, and at precisely 8:00 Amber announces that it’s time. Doug strips off his sweats like he’s the keyboard equivalent of Superman, and then we’re taking the stage as music blares over the loudspeakers.

  The crowd cheers when Simon swats his snare a couple of times, and then someone’s announcing us with one of those fake Vegas boxing match voices.

  When the lights go on all at once, we open with one of the standards from the record. The stage is decorated like a living room, with a couple of funky old-style table lamps on either side, three ratty Persian carpets nailed in place, and an open guitar case in the middle of the stage with a handwritten sign that says “tips.” The whole vibe is hippie era, and by the time the first song is over, the audience is stomping and applauding like we’re the headliner.

  After two more fully electric numbers, the roadies bring out stools. The band joins me sitting near the edge of the stage, Doug with a second acoustic guitar. We do the rest of the set unplugged, which makes it feel like we’re in a small room instead of a concert hall.

  We get two encores, and when the lights finally dim and the crew starts breaking down the gear, everyone knows we’ve won the night. I almost feel sorry for the second band, a trendy blues-inspired act with a single in the top forty, and I realize that maybe Bruno wasn’t completely kidding when he said he wasn’t looking forward to having to follow us.

  Backstage is controlled pandemonium; Tracy, Ruby, Saul, and about a dozen record company staffers are all waiting for us. The sense of enthusiasm is palpable, and Terry’s talking with Saul about the latest preliminary numbers from her secret source that says our first single will place higher on the charts than they’d originally thought just that morning, and that downloads are setting records.

  After a good half hour of assurances that we’re going to be huge, Terry pulls me aside, out of earshot, and scans the dressing room as she speaks in a low voice.

  “We won’t know for sure until the concert’s over, but remember we were thinking a couple of hundred shirts?”

  I steel myself for the worst. “Don’t tell me we’re staying in a tent instead of motels.”

  “I should just let you torture yourself, but I don’t have it in me. We’re already at 650, and we should see double to triple that by the end of the night. If this keeps up, we’ll sell through everything we ordered for the whole tour in a week or so, which presents different problems, but good ones – bribing the manufacturers to run the presses all night, that kind of thing.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Honest?”

  She nods. “Absolutely.”

  I look around the room at everyone that helped make this happen. I should feel incredible, but all I can think of his how much better this would all be if Derek were here. I know I’m taking my crowning moment of triumph and trashing it, but it’s the truth.

  The second band finishes its set and the response is warm, but there are no encores – everyone wants to see the headliner now. Bruno stops in and gives me a hug as Ruby and Terry take pictures with their phones that I know will be on Facebook and Twitter in five minutes.

  Bruno grins as he shakes his head. “You stone killed it, Sage. I mean, wow, and remember, I’ve been on tour for almost eight months and have seen it all. That was the best set I’ve seen since I started doing this.” He nods at Saul, who beams back at him, then returns his attention to me. “Come on over to my dressing room. Let’s run the song one more time so I’m solid on it.”

  His band’s room is easily three times bigger than ours, and stocked with a full buffet replete with champagne, shrimp on ice, the works. He glances at it with a fatigued look. “Help yourself. Ninety percent of this will go to waste.” He looks over at his guitar player. “Yo, Jerome. Give me one of the acoustics, would you?”

  The guitar player complies and we take seats near the door while the band members sip their drinks, make cell calls, and act generally blasé about playing to a sold-out house of thousands. I wonder whether I’ll ever get that bored with it, and decide probably not.

  We try the song and it sounds great. Bruno experiments with some different vocal riffs, and we come up with an extended a cappella section in the middle, Bruno keeping time by thumping the guitar with his palm.

  I’m surprised when a couple of his band members clap when we’re done and then come up and introduce themselves. All very down to earth and not nearly as scary as they struck me when I first saw them – serious and aloof. I help myself to a soda and am eyeing the shrimp when an imposing man in a black tour T-shirt, a radio crackling in his hand, pushes through the door and announces that it’s time for them to hit the stage. Bruno introduces me to Martin, his road manager, and tells him that I’m going to be doing the encore with him.

  Martin nods as he shakes my hand. “You were great tonight. Bruno’s a lucky guy.”

  Bruno laughs. “We’re just doing a song, not going on our honeymoon.”

  Martin’s face doesn’t change. “That’s how it starts.”

  I follow them to the stage and watch them move to their instruments. The audience cheers when they make out the band in the gloom, and then all the lights go pitch black and the announcer does his thing. When he gets to Bruno’s name, a single overhead spotlight blinks on, bathing Bruno in its glow. A collective gasp sounds from the crowd, and then the band is playing the first notes of one of his hits as the stage lights slowly rise, coloring the players in orange and red and blue.

  Bruno’s show is as professional as they come, the timing perfect, even the moments of seemingly spontaneous banter orchestrated to
perfection. I wonder whether my act will ever get that polished, and decide that it doesn’t matter. Bruno does something completely different than I do, so it’s pointless to compare our approaches – he’s a showman, all movement and drama and peacock strut, whereas I’m, well, just me.

  An hour and a half later, the set is over and the applause is washing over the stage in breaking waves. Martin’s waiting with towels and water bottles on a small cart, and the band troops off as the road crew fiddles with their gear, Bruno laughing with Jerome as they near.

  “So? What did you think?” he asks me, blotting his face with a towel.

  “You were great. Listen to the crowd – they’re going nuts.”

  “This is nothing. You should hear them in Mexico City. Or Moscow. Now those audiences know how to make some noise.”

  He tosses the names out so easily, like subway stops, and I realize what a huge undertaking I’ve begun. If sales do well, which it’s already looking like they will, by the end of my tour I’ll have played all those cities too. I think back to my little spot near Peaches & Cream, at how excited I would get if I saw the green flicker of a bill in my case instead of the shine of coins, and shake my head. If this is a dream, I hope I never wake up.

  Bruno looks at Martin. “Think we’ve kept them waiting long enough?”

  “Your call, boss man. But the sooner you wind this up, the sooner we’re out of here.”

  “Good point.” Bruno gives me one of his professional smiles and glances at his band. “Okay, listen up. What we’re going to do is take the stage like usual, and then I’m going to invite Sage out. Martin, have the boys bring two stools. Jerome, I’ll use your Martin acoustic, all right?”

  “Sure thing, Bruno,” Jerome agrees.

  “We’ll do the song, and then, Sage, you take a bow and leave us to feed the animals. That work for you?”

  I nod. “Yup.”