Superfan

by Sarina Bowen

  I wonder how casually I could mention the unit for sale in my building…

  It’s crazy to think this way. Even so, I pull out my phone and search: how much house can I afford? And I don’t like their answer.

  So I go back to our rental unit to stuff my face with pizza.

  Delilah

  “I’m here to see Charla Harris,” I tell the woman behind the frosted glass desk. She’s dressed head to toe in what’s supposed to be a soothing shade of seafoam green. Instead of a regular desk chair, she’s sitting on something that resembles a giant pebble.

  “Namaste,” the woman whispers, giving me a chin dip that’s meant to be a bow. “One moment please.”

  I can’t wait to tell Silas about this. The thought pops into my head, as it seems to do all the time now. We talk all the time, too.

  It doesn’t feel like enough.

  “Right this way.”

  I follow the seafoam woman through a doorway marked, Dressing Pod.

  Dressing Pod?

  “Clothes off, please. All of them. Here is your robe,” she says once we’re inside.

  I don’t take the robe. “I’m sorry, but I’m not here for a treatment. Only a chat.”

  She points one perfectly manicured finger at the opposite door, where a sign reads, Robes Only Beyond This Point.

  “Um…”

  She thrusts the robe in my hands and opens a locker door. “You may put your things in here. When you’re properly attired, follow the yellow healing dots to the oxygen room.”

  “The what to the what?” But she’s already disappearing through the door.

  Silas is definitely hearing about this later.

  I remove all my clothes and put on the robe. Feeling like an idiot, I walk barefooted out the far door. At my feet there are large, bubble-shaped dots in various colors painted on the floor. They lead off in various directions. I follow the yellow ones down a corridor.

  I pass a door marked Serenity Pool, and another marked Revitalizing Waters. Finally, I locate a door marked Oxygen Room. I don’t know if I’m supposed to knock or not. After a moment’s hesitation, I turn the doorknob and gently poke my head into the room.

  There sits Charla Harris on a chaise lounge, her short legs crossed at the ankles. Her eyes are closed, and she’s breathing very deeply, like someone in a yoga video.

  “Hi,” I say, and it sounds too loud in all the silence.

  “Close the door,” she says without opening her eyes. “You’re letting all the oxygen out.”

  I step in and shut it behind me. “There’s oxygen everywhere, though. Are you sure this isn’t a scam?”

  She ignores the comment and takes another deep breath.

  “Usually in Hollywood, when you have to take off your clothes to see your manager, you can file a sexual harassment claim later,” I add, crossing to one of the lounge chairs.

  “You are hilarious, darling. Let’s see if we can get you some standup comedy gigs after I earn you another ten million on your fucking album.” She still does not even open her eyes.

  “Why didn’t we just have dinner?”

  “Oxygen is more important than dinner. And all my dinners are booked through October, anyway.”

  “All of them? Don’t you ever eat alone?”

  “I would, but there’s always somebody who slept through her regularly scheduled appointment and therefore needs to have dinner.”

  Touché.

  Charla finally opens her eyes. “My goodness. Where did you say you went on vacation?”

  “I went to a wedding.”

  “Was it your own? Because you look twice as healthy as last time I saw you. And by ‘healthy’ I really mean sexually satisfied.”

  “Well. The oxygen is clearly doing its magic.”

  “Don’t sound ungrateful, darling. You’re the reason I’m so busy this week. I’ve been chasing down lawyers to help you get out from under Brett Ferris.”

  “Don’t say his name. It depletes the oxygen.”

  My tough manager actually cracks a smile, and I feel like I’ve won an Oscar. Pulling out my phone, I Google how much oxygen is in the air. “Twenty-one percent,” I tell her. “That’s how much oxygen is in the air already.”

  “Doesn’t it say, ‘except in L.A.?’ Have you heard of smog? You are in a very goofy mood. You did meet a man on the beach, right? You had a fling.”

  “There was a guy. Sure.” But how does she know? “You’re a little creepy, Charla. I say this with love.”

  “It’s just years of experience. So you spent the weekend with a guy on a beach. Then you returned to L.A. where you remembered that your life is in flux. And you’re not sure why you came back.”

  Get out of my brain. “Yeah, something like that. It was a pretty amazing time. I don’t know what to think about it, honestly. But this isn’t your issue.”

  “Isn’t it?” Her expression softens. “You hire me to help you reach your goals, no matter what those are. So if you sit here and say—Charla, find me a couple million dollars so I can go off and have three kids with the guy from the beach—” She shrugs. “Then that would become my task.”

  “That doesn’t sound like me. I’ve spent my whole life trying to make it in music. I can’t even imagine just walking away.”

  “Maybe not. I just need you to understand that getting what you want out of life is all about making tough choices. You have to ask yourself, ‘What can’t I live without?’ Will it kill me to lose that second album? Do I need to make Brett pay? Or will it hurt worse if the guy from the beach gets away. Who is he, anyway? Wait, let me guess.” She squints at me. “I see…a hockey player.”

  “Charla!” I realize I’m being punked. “Who told you?”

  “Instagram. There’s a photo of you kissing him. The post was from a teenage girl. You took a photo with her, too.”

  “Oh. You’re stalking me on social media?”

  “Of course I am. Or rather my assistant is. So tell me about this hockey player.”

  “I’m not sure what you need to know. He lives in Brooklyn.”

  Charla rolls her eyes. “I don’t need to know anything. I just like gossip. Does he have a really muscular butt? What position does he play?”

  “Goalie.”

  “A puck eater. Interesting. They’re very bendy.” Charla Harris is full of surprises.

  “I didn’t take you for the kind of woman who’s impressed by professional athletes.” I reach for my phone to show her the lock screen, which is now a selfie I took with Silas.

  She whistles under her breath. “So this is a rather large problem, then.”

  “You can’t tell just by looking at him.”

  “The hell I can’t. He has kind eyes. That’s the kind of man that could make you stop and realign your priorities.”

  I hear myself take a deep breath of air that might or might not have extra oxygen in it. I’d just spent forty minutes driving here to talk about writing new music. So why were we talking about Silas? “My priorities haven’t shifted. I want my second album released.”

  “Okay,” Charla says. “So then it’s a good thing I set you up with three different producer teams and a buttload of studio time all over L.A.”

  “Why three? Why all over?”

  “That weasel needs to hear about it, that’s why. And I’m not even done. I still want you featured on an Ed Sheeran track, or something. Or we could go the opposite way—a hip-hop tune. We’re going to be as fresh and unexpected as good taste on a Kardashian! We’re going to be everywhere.”

  I love that she’s full of ideas. “So it’s probably not a great time for me to take a few days in Brooklyn, then?”

  “Oh, honey. What did we just talk about? Choices.”

  “I know. Because…” My gut already knows how to prioritize. “The thing I can’t live without is my second album.”

  “Then I need you in the recording studio, looking fresh-faced and ready to work. Gossip will be hounding Brett on the right, whi
le my lawyers are hounding him on the left. We’re going to give this man no choice but to release your record.”

  “Sounds good,” I say, wondering what I’m going to say to Silas. I would love to visit Brooklyn. And I’ve heard all about the cool old apartment building where he lives with his teammates.

  Looks like I won’t be seeing it anytime soon, though.

  Two days later, I’m sitting in a recording booth with a female songwriter named Sarah. She has giant glasses and pale skin that probably never sees the sun. She also has a voice like Joni Mitchell’s, and a fierce, lovely personality that I came to adore about ten seconds after walking into this room.

  “I don’t know how to collaborate,” was the first thing I said after “Hello.” But Sarah didn’t care at all.

  “Oh, nobody knows how to collaborate. We just have to sit here and spit ideas at each other until one of them doesn’t suck. Just unpack your guitar. Let’s do this.”

  Four hours later, we’re feeling a little slaphappy. We’ve already written one song that’s not bad. It’s called “Not Totally Hopeless.”

  We were going to stop, but we still had an hour of studio time. So we started fooling around again, her at the piano and me on my guitar.

  “I think we’re coalescing around this line.” She sings it. “Ask the universe.”

  “Ask the universe,” I repeat, adding, “Anything could happen.”

  She plays it back, trying two different melodies.

  “I think this song is about hitting Send. Asking for things.” I think that over. “Okay, ‘hitting send’ is not fucking lyrical.”

  Sarah laughs.

  “So I definitely need to think of another way to say that. But I like this idea that hitting Send is scary, but also exciting.”

  “It is.” Her eyes light up behind those giant lenses. “When you hit Send, nobody has said no yet. Nobody has turned you down. Nobody has taken a shit in your cereal bowl.”

  I snort. “Let’s avoid that imagery, maybe.” Then we both giggle like idiots. And I needed this laugh almost as much as I needed all the sex and cuddling I got last weekend.

  “Who did we hit Send to, anyway?” she asks.

  “Anyone. The cute boy. The job opening—”

  “—the Grammy-winning producer,” she suggests.

  “Exactly! Hitting Send is a moment that’s pregnant with expectation. This could be the thing that you’ve always needed. This could be the thing that changes everything.”

  “Write that one down.” She points at my notebook. “The moment that changes everything. The day that changes everything. The hour… The minute…” We both stare into space, considering the possibilities. “What are you doing when you actually hit Send? What’s the visual?

  “Pushing a button. Using…electricity. Electrons! Copper wires.”

  “A little bit of electron magic, sending your dream out into the world.”

  “Yes! Now I’ve got chills.”

  “Good,” she says. “Let’s play this verse again to see if any of it flies. I’m going to bring up the tempo a little bit.”

  As I strum my guitar, I can see Becky on the other side of the glass. She’s taking photos of us on her phone. There are other onlookers, too. Maybe they wonder what we’re doing in here. I close my eyes to shut them out.

  This is one of those moments when I recognize just how spectacular my job really is. This never happens when I step onto a red carpet. That’s just stressful. It turns out that the glamorous parts of making music are the unglamorous parts. Today I’m making something out of nothing. All I need is my guitar vibrating against my breastbone and my warmed-up voice.

  Anything could happen.

  Ask the universe.

  Send that message flying.

  Ask the universe.

  “I wrote a song with a stranger,” I gush into the phone when Silas answers. I’m in the back of Mr. Muscles’s car.

  “That sounds fun,” he says, breathing hard.

  “It was! I thought it would be so much pressure, you know? All my songs suck when I start them. I didn’t see why that would be fun in front of someone else. But it’s magic. She solved some of the snags that I hit, and then I solved some of hers.”

  “Teamwork,” he pants. “We could get you jerseys. What number do you want to be?”

  “I don’t know. What’s your number?”

  “You don’t know already? I thought you liked me.”

  I laugh. “What are you doing? You sound like you just ran a mile.”

  “I just ran five of them,” he says. “Still am. I’m on a treadmill at the practice facility.”

  “Oh!” I try to picture a room where Silas and his pals are all flexing their muscles at once, but the idea makes my brain short out. “You can run and talk to me at the same time?”

  “Sure, unless you don’t like the panting.”

  “Panting can be fun,” I point out. “Under the right circumstances.”

  “I completely agree.” He chuckles.

  I close my eyes and wish that everything was easier. “I called to give you some bad news. Unfortunately I can’t fly out this week or next.”

  “Oh. Shit,” he says. “You aren’t coming?”

  The disappointment in his voice is so genuine that I already regret my decision. “My manager came through for me on a whole bunch of songwriting dates at once. So my schedule is really tight. I thought about asking you to fly out here instead, but that’s a shitty offer. I’d be spending a lot of hours in the studio with composers and producers.”

  He’s quiet for a moment. “So this is good news for you, right? You need this.”

  “Yeah. It’s forward momentum. Charla did exactly what I asked her to do, which is create opportunities for me. She’s trying to put pressure on—” I refuse to bring the jerk into this phone call. “—my record label. To get off their butts and do the right thing. She’s making it look like I’m producing all kinds of new music without them.”

  “Okay,” he says. “Let me stop this thing.” I hear a beep, and then more deep breathing. “Glad to hear that your first session worked out.”

  “It really did. I’m not sure yet if the song is a keeper. But I learned a lot.”

  “What if you don’t come up with anything good? Does that ever happen?”

  Nobody ever asks me these questions. I mean—Brett asked me questions about music all the time. But he never asked me how I felt about the process. “Sure, it happens all the time. I can finish a song and then later decide it doesn’t fit the album, or it doesn’t sound right in my voice.”

  “Huh. I can’t imagine having to sit in a windowless room and just invent things with music. Hell, I can’t imagine even playing music. I can’t even whistle in tune. Next time I see you, will you play me some guitar?”

  “Sure.” And the sooner the better. I want to pick up my guitar and fly to New York to give him a private concert.

  Can’t I just have everything? Am I a horrible person for wishing I could?

  “The next time I see you will probably be in California,” I point out. “I’ll be playing for you and ten thousand of your closest friends.”

  “I know,” he says. “Where are you staying, by the way? Should I get us a hotel room? Now there’s a fun thought.”

  It is a fun thought, but I’ve already beat him to it. “Oh, I got a room. Big enough for both of us. Brett offered me the Ferris guesthouse again, but I didn’t even respond to the email.”

  “He did? You’re shitting me.”

  See? I shouldn’t have mentioned him. “It’s just posturing. He wants to appear accommodating in the hopes that I’ll sign on for a third album.”

  Silas makes a noise of displeasure. But he doesn’t say any more about it. And I love this about Silas—he lets me know that he cares, and yet I know he’s not going to lecture me, either. That’s what real support looks like, I guess.

  “Anyway.” I try to lighten the mood. “You and I are going to make moj
itos and go to the beach. And then I’m going to play a concert where you’ll be in the first row. And I’m sorry I can’t come to Brooklyn.”

  “I understand. I knew I signed up for this.”

  “For what?”

  “Missing you. Lots of phone calls and tricky travel arrangements.”

  “How early can you come to Darlington Beach? I got the hotel suite for four nights.”

  “Well…” He chuckles. “That’s still under negotiation. In order to see your concert, I have to miss the first two days of training camp. Nobody ever misses training camp.”

  “Ouch. Maybe you shouldn’t—”

  “Oh no, I totally am. I made a deal with my coach that I’ll show up to work out with the prospects in Hartford—the young draftees that Coach is looking at. I’m giving him the end of my vacation in trade.”

  “Wow. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be, it’s fine. But I’ll be racing back to jump on a plane to you, that’s all. There are lots of flights to L.A., and we’ll just play it by ear to see which day I can get there.”

  “Okay. Don’t stress over it.”

  “I won’t. Pack a cocktail shaker and very little clothing.”

  I laugh. “Fine. Pack your big hot self and some surfing shorts. I still want my surfing lesson.

  “You got it.”

  The next night I have a date. With Becky, of course. She’s my entire social life these days. I find her seated already at the trendy new Melrose Mexican restaurant we’ve both been wanting to try. “Don’t look now,” she whispers as I slide in next to her. “Brad Pitt is three tables over.”

  “No way, really?” I crane my neck.

  “Didn’t I just say not to look?” she hisses.

  I can only see the back of his head. I guess I can tell people that I saw Brad Pitt’s neck at dinner. “Did you order the guacamole?”

  “A double portion. What do you take me for? And I see that Mr. Muscles got a nice seat at the bar.”

  “Good for him,” I grumble, eyeing the margaritas at the next table. I suppose I could break my streak and just order one like a normal person. But Becky would eventually end up drinking it, because even though I know my phobia is irrational, I don’t feel like fighting it right now.