Best Of Everything

by R. E. Blake

“Have you talked to Sebastian about it?”

  “I just decided last night.”

  Our food arrives, providing a distraction, and we don’t talk much while we’re eating. I wonder to myself how Sebastian will react to the idea of Melody in the same area code. But I have my own problems and can’t solve everyone else’s. I finish first and make another call – this one to Terry.

  “Hi, Terry.”

  “Sage, what’s wrong?”

  “Oh, nothing. I’ve got the radio thing today. I remembered.”

  “Good. What can I do for you?”

  “Derek’s playing his first show tonight, and I wanted to see if there was any way you could have a bouquet of flowers delivered to MetLife Stadium for him. I don’t have a credit card, and no real way of coordinating it…”

  She doesn’t say anything for a long beat. When she does, her voice is soft.

  “What kind of flowers?”

  I hadn’t thought about it. Just flowers. “I don’t know. First concert flowers. Whatever you’d normally send for one of your acts.”

  “I’ll figure it out. What do you want on the card?”

  “‘Kill it, Derek. Missing you every minute. Sage.’”

  “Will do. I’ll add it to your tab. You have the info for the interview?”

  “Yeah. Eleven this morning in the Embarcadero. I can take BART out to Concord after.”

  “Take a cab. You’re rolling in dough, Sage.”

  “When do I get my bus?”

  “Funny you should ask. Tomorrow, in fact. It’ll be at the motel by 9:00.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Do I sound particularly playful this morning?”

  “Wow. What’s it cost?”

  “You don’t want to know. It’ll just ruin it for you. But you can afford it.”

  “I won’t regret it when I see the bill?”

  “At the rate you’re going, you won’t even notice it. Seriously. It’s got eight bunks and two sofas, so you can fit the whole band and the road crew if they’re willing to crash on the couches, which they will be. But if things keep up, in another few weeks you’ll just be flying to your concerts and leaving the long drives to the rest of them.”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “I haven’t lied to you yet.”

  I hang up and tell Melody the news, and she quickly perks up at the sound of a real tour bus. “That’s insane. We’ll be rolling like Jay-Z, baybee. Mama got it going on.”

  “Well, I’m not sure that Jay-Z rides in a bus, but still, it’s better than the van.”

  “I am totally going to be your entourage manager. Maybe that’s what I can do in L.A.!”

  “Except I live in New York.”

  She pouts, then brightens. “All the best people have pads on both coasts. I can be your property manager for your West Coast crib. Make sure there’s champagne and caviar in the bathtub whenever you jet in from the Caribbean or whatever.”

  I make a face. “That sounds kind of gross.”

  “Most of the best things do.”

  We return to the motel and I ask Amber where we’re staying in Concord. She gives me the address and I enter it into my phone, and then Melody and I set off for the radio interview with a morning jock who Terry says is the next Howard Stern. I had misgivings about doing the show, but she swore it would be nothing like the L.A. nightmare, so I agreed.

  The studio is on the third floor of a high-rise guarded by a stern security guard in the lobby. I tell him we’re there for the show and he checks a list, then gives us laminated security passes with a number on each.

  The radio station lobby is the twin of countless others I’ve been in, with the exception of the hawk-nosed young man who greets us and asks us to follow him to the green room.

  “Why do they call them green rooms?” Melody whispers as we follow him.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Another example of how stupid everything is.”

  We take seats on the ratty sofa and the reception guy offers us water or soda. I go for a Coke, Melody for Mountain Dew. Ten minutes into boredom, a short, stocky woman with a barely contained afro enters and introduces herself.

  “I’m Julie, the production coordinator. Barry’s ready for you.”

  I stand and nod to Melody. “You okay here?”

  “Sure. I’ll see if there’s anything I can steal.”

  “Good call,” I say, smiling. Julie isn’t so sure it’s that funny, but then catches on, and I make the mental note that the job of production coordinator probably doesn’t require any kind of advanced degree.

  The studio is the same sound-deadened room all the others have been, with stained panels mounted to the wall and a run-down, seedy air.

  Barry reaches across the console and shakes hands, and tells me they’re taking a commercial break. He says he was at the show last night and thought I was the best thing he’s seen since his unauthorized porn clip hit the web, which draws a laugh from everyone but me. We banter for about thirty seconds and then Julie does a countdown, and we’re live. Barry’s voice in my headphones is smoother than in real life, filtered and processed and compressed.

  “Well, now. I’m excited to have music’s newest, brightest star in the studio. I was at the Cow Palace last night, and man, my blood ran cold when this little lady opened her mouth – and that’s not what I meant, you perverts.” He pauses for effect. “So get your minds out of the gutter and give a warm welcome to my guest, the wondrous, talented Sage!” He looks over at me. “Nice to have you here. Thanks for stopping by.”

  “Well, I was in the neighborhood…” I say.

  “That’s right! This was your hood. Tell me about that. You were homeless, right? A runaway?”

  “Well, I’d put it more like I decided things might be better on my own. Runaway sounds like you belong at home, where it’s safe and good. But some homes aren’t.”

  “I thought that was all BS your PR people came up with to make you more interesting.”

  “If sleeping on benches makes you more interesting, that’s a new one on me.”

  “You really did that?”

  “Barry, there’s a whole side to this city you have no idea exists.”

  Julie pops in. “Taken to school by a teenager, Barry. Shame on you.”

  “Teenager, my ass. She probably makes more than I do in a year while she’s talking to me.” He grunts. “It says here that you still do busking – street performing. Is that a crock?”

  “No. I like it. It keeps me fresh and in touch with the audience. It’s easy to lose sight of what you’re all about when five thousand people have paid a fortune to see you. But when you’re fighting to get some businessman to cut loose with a quarter, it keeps you real.”

  “You really put yourself out there like that?”

  “Sure. I’m a singer. I sing. There’s nothing better than seeing someone’s face up close when they like what you’re doing. That’s way more personal than facing down some big auditorium.”

  Barry smiles, and the effect is like stretching wet leather. “You’ve got some serious balls on you, Sage. And you’re only seventeen?”

  “Yes. But they feel like dog years some days.”

  We continue at this rate, covering all the usual questions about the album and the tour, and then Barry says we’re going to take some calls.

  “Sure. Bring it on.”

  “The board’s completely lit up, so for everyone trying to call in, keep trying. We’ll get to as many as we can. All right. Caller number one, you’re live with Barry and Sage.”

  “Sage? Yo, this is Todd.”

  I light up. “Todd! What’s going on?”

  “Same ol’ around the Haight. You know how that goes.”

  “Did you come to the show last night?”

  “No…I had to work.” Translation: I didn’t have the money.

  “Dude, leave your number with the operator and I’ll totally get you on the list for tonight if you can get out
to Concord.”

  “Sweet. I’m there.”

  Barry interrupts. “Was there a question, Todd?”

  “Yeah, sure. How does it feel to go from zero to sixty in no time? Living the dream?”

  Barry mutes the call. “Sage? Fair question from someone who sounds like they know you.”

  “Yeah, Todd’s way cool.” I hesitate. “Todd, the answer is none of it feels real. I’m still scratching my head, you know? I mean, five or six months ago I was struggling, and now I’m on tour. None of that makes sense to me, but I’m learning, and doing the best I can.”

  Barry nods. “Great, Sage. All right, we have Steve on line three. Steve?”

  “Yeah, um, Sage, aren’t you nervous about being on the radio in San Francisco?”

  I look at Barry with a frown and shrug.

  “Should I be?”

  “Well, I think you’d want to keep all the crap in your past hidden, now that you’re a bigwig and everything, right? I know you. I was around when you were turning tricks for twenty bucks down on Market for a bump of scag. You act like you’re all high and mighty, but I rode that pony and I know better.”

  I’m pretty sure there’s a delay on the calls, so this must be a setup. They let this call through for the confrontation value. I briefly debate taking the caller on, but decide to do it more gracefully.

  “Must make you feel like a big man to insult someone who worked their way from nothing, huh, Steve? We both know you’re full of it, so that means you’re either a psycho or looking for kicks. Either way, epic fail, loser boy.”

  You can hear static on the call, and then Steve launches on me with so much anger and hate in his voice it takes my breath away.

  “You little whore. I was banging you with my buddy, and you were so high you couldn’t–” The operator cuts the call off and I shake my head.

  “Sounds like I attracted the tinfoil-hat crowd,” I say, and Barry and I laugh nervously. But in the back of my mind there’s something nagging at me about the abusive scumbag. Something familiar, but I can’t quite place it.

  Bruce glances at Julie. “Yeah, we get our share. Sorry about that. Caller, line seven. Sarah. You’re live with Sage.”

  “Hi, Sage. I’m blown away by your success. I’m a singer, too. What advice can you give someone who’s just starting out?”

  I exhale noisily and shake my head. “I have no advice. Just sing from your heart. But don’t expect to make it or for people to like it. If you’re singing for yourself, that’s best. If you’re singing for someone’s approval, there’s always going to be people that hate what you do, so you’re setting yourself up for failure. Oh, and be nice to everybody. In the end that goes a long way.”

  I spend twenty more minutes fielding calls, and thankfully there are no more overtly evil ones. I’m still shaken by the sheer amount of ugliness from that one caller, but I do my best to shrug it off. There are those whose lives revolve around grinding others into the dirt, and the less time spent on them, the better.

  When I get back to the green room, Melody’s looking at me wide-eyed.

  “You okay?”

  I offer a weak smile. “Sure.”

  “What was the deal with that asshat?”

  “Beats me. Thought he was going to get in my head, I guess. Didn’t work.”

  “Still. I feel like taking a shower after listening to him.” She studies my face. “This calls for a supernova nuke of chocolate decadence. There’s only one solution.”

  “Oh. God. No.”

  She nods. “Yes. It’s the only way.”

  Chapter 33

  We take a taxi to Ghirardelli Square and stand in line for the massive ice cream sundaes slathered in chocolate.

  “These should come with a stomach pump,” I whisper, and she elbows me in the ribs.

  “This is lunch. Don’t be a wimp.”

  We stand in front of the glass separating us from a river of oozing molten brown until our number is called, and then find a table where we can devour the goblets that are easily the size of my head.

  “I really shouldn’t do this,” I say. “My voice.”

  “I’ve seen pencils with more meat than you, Sage. Just Hoover it down and stop complaining.”

  I don’t have a real objection, so I devote the next ten minutes of my life to sucking up a couple thousand calories, which I have to admit, taste like heaven. I sit back in my hard wooden chair and pat my stomach once done.

  “I swallowed a piano.”

  “Everything’s whining with you. Come on. We can walk it off shopping.”

  I glance at my watch. There are hours to go before sound check. Even allowing for delays and travel time, we have eons.

  “I don’t need anything.”

  Melody swats me. “We live in America. It’s not about need. It’s about buying crap to feel good, and when it doesn’t work, buying more.”

  “I shop, therefore I am.”

  “Now you’re getting the hang of it. Got a pair of Chucks? Get one of every color. Tired of Chucks? Do the same with something else.”

  “A little like your approach to dudes.”

  She forces her chest out, and judging by the stares, the effect is hypnotic. “Girl, I’m all Sebastian’s. There’s no other man for me. My Whitman’s Sampler days are over.”

  “You seemed to like Bruno and Ashton.”

  “That was then.” She eyes me. “Don’t bring me down, Sage. Help me get to the next level.”

  “Which is?”

  “I need new shoes, or at least a scarf or something.”

  “Ah.”

  “You could learn from this. I’ll allow you to do the paying, seeing as you’re rich now.”

  “I haven’t gotten a paycheck yet.”

  “I still won’t rob you of the joy.”

  We wander the tourist destination, but Melody can’t find anything that strikes her fancy, which isn’t surprising given her tastes. She tries to convince me to hit the Haight for some real clothes, but I argue that we’re better off getting to the motel early, dropping our stuff off, and going to the pavilion for sound check.

  As we walk to the Embarcadero BART station, the exercise feeling good after sitting in the van day after day, I’m still unsettled by the caller who seemed hell-bent on savaging me. The toxicity of the lies felt almost personal, and in spite of my casual outward expression I’m disturbed.

  We pass a luggage store, and Melody grabs my arm and stops. “You still have that POS backpack of yours, and you’ve been saying you were going to upgrade for months. Now’s the time, rock star.”

  I look at the prices and shake my head. “I was thinking more like Walmart…”

  “See? Excuses. Time to step up. I can’t let you be seen like this anymore. The embarrassment’s too much.”

  We go in and let a snooty young man show us the backpack options. He’s almost sneering as he answers my questions, and I just about gag when he tells me the price of the one I like most – a Tumi with a lifetime guarantee.

  Melody shames me into buying it, although even with a discount it’s shockingly expensive.

  “You’re going to be using it for years, Sage. Stop being so damned cheap.”

  “Frugal. I prefer frugal.”

  “Well, okay, Miss Frugal, let’s go take public transportation so you can play to a sold-out crowd in Concord tonight, where you’ll probably make what most people do in a year just off merchandise.”

  “I think you’ve got the wrong idea about how much I’m making.”

  “Really? How much are you making?”

  That stops me. I realize I have no idea of the specifics. They just haven’t been important, especially on the road, where everything’s kind of on automatic pilot and covered out of the per diem Amber doles out once a week – in my case, $500 for food, which seems like silly money given the places I eat.

  “I don’t really know. But I’ll spend it once it’s in the bank, not before. I’ve seen too many stories about cel
ebrities who blew everything and are broke.”

  Melody gives me a sidelong glance. “You do understand the difference between buying a five-hundred-dollar backpack and buying his-and-hers Bentleys to take you to your private jet, right? I mean, you get that there’s somewhere between McD’s and the Ritz?”

  “I know. I just feel really defensive right now. It’s all happening so fast…”

  She takes my arm and we exit the store. “Then enjoy the ride, baby. Don’t sweat it. I got your back.”

  I find it amusing to ride BART, my hat and shades in place, and nobody knows who I am. Melody draws all the admiration. I prefer to be invisible, as always, although now I’m totally self-conscious about the backpack, wondering if anyone will recognize it as expensive and think I’m a snob or something.

  Nobody seems to care.

  The motel is about a mile from the venue, a typical two-story dump that’s charging a hundred bucks a night for a room that’s worth twenty, tops. It’s only slightly better than the place in Daly City, and Melody isn’t warming up to the realities of being on tour.

  “What, did you piss off your record company or something? Why are they putting you in these hellholes?”

  “Builds character?” I guess. There are two beds, a bathroom, and a postage-stamp-sized TV, but it beats my choices six months ago. I glance at the time. “Sound check’s at 6:00. That gives us half an hour to get there.”

  “First we have to burn your old backpack.”

  “I want to keep it as a souvenir.”

  “No, you don’t. I know you. You’ll keep using it, thinking your new one’s too nice to get all dirty or whatever. So we have to give the old one a proper burial. It’s going into the dumpster, one way or another.”

  “When did you get so hard?”

  “Tough love, baby. Someone’s gotta school you.”

  My old backpack gets dumped into the garbage after I transfer its contents into the new one, and I do my best to view it as a metaphor for change rather than the loss of a trusted old friend. Fortunately there’s no time to dwell on it, because Amber is already knocking on the door to announce that the van’s here to take us to the show.

  Melody changes tops three times before deciding on a hot pink twin of the one she’s wearing. After a fluffing of her hair, she’s good to go, her necessities in the clutch purse suspended from her flawless caramel shoulder by a thin strap.