Day Six

Andrew (continued)


I don't know what I said when we got to the table - I couldn't hear myself, so they probably couldn't either. We had a conversation consisting of (what I assume to be) pithy comments on the volume in the room, vigorous nodding of heads, the occasional cocking of heads, and the regular loud shout of, "What?!" It was extremely productive.

Finally, though, the lights dimmed even further, and a truly deafening announcer told us to put our hands together for C. Smith. We did so with enthusiasm. It was still quieter than the room had been previously. And then Cale walked onto the stage. I'm pretty sure my jaw hit the table. Here was the answer to all my needs, sitting at an elderly keyboard with a mic stand zip-tied to it. "Hey, everyone," he said. The crowd roared.

The next hour was amazing. His voice - I've heard better, sure. But I've also seen better cars than a Ferrari. It just so happened that those cars were either time machines or sentient. His voice was freaking amazing. The woman at the table next to me swooned a little every time he drew breath, and even as a completely heterosexual male, I thought that completely understandable. But his piano skills made me angry. It was completely irresponsible of someone with piano skills like that to not be famous. Honestly. Some people.

His covers were amazing, his original songs pretty good. Even where lyrics were weak or where his voice wasn't quite right for the song in question, the piano made it all alright. I wanted him to play my songs.

I said as much to Grace, when his set finally ended. She started laughing. "What?" I asked, affronted.

"You said that the way some women say that they want to have someone's children," she said, giggling. "You are such a music nerd, I love it."

"That's my job," I said, with dignity. "Music nerdism is an important trait in someone who makes music for a living."

"Just go and pop the musical question to him," she said, pushing me towards the stage. "But remember, emeralds look good on redheads."

"I'll get him an emerald-studded keyboard," I called back, before I was drawn away by the currents in the crowd. So I fought my way up to the stage area, and then to the stage door. There was an alarming group of hipster girls, who were doing their best to pretend that they were only there to ironically make fun of the girls looking to hook up with the musician. I squeezed around the edge of the group, and told the official-appearing man who stood by the door, “I’d like to speak with Mr. Smith.”

“So would they,” he said, hooking a thumb towards the ugly-sweater-wearing crowd behind me. “Is there any reason I should take you more seriously than them?”

“Tammy told me to go talk to Cale,” I said, a shot in the dark.

A good one, apparently, because his eyebrows rose, and he said, “Oh, that’s fine then. Tell Tammy hi from Josh,” and opened the door. I hurried through, before the hipsters sensed the disturbance in the force and mobbed the poor man.

The backstage area was a long, echo-y hallway that seemed reminiscent of every backstage I’d ever had to stand around in during one of my groups’ concerts. There was a door from which all the noise of the performance area emanated, and another, beat-up door across from it that had a rough ‘Dressing Room’ placard on it. I went towards that one and knocked on it.

“Is someone dying or are you interesting?” came Cale’s voice. “Because otherwise go away.”

“Am I interesting?” I asked. “Because otherwise I’m stuck here, because my sister is a scary lady.”

“Oh, sh-“ I heard, and then the door opened. Somehow, Cale seemed taller. It might have been the hair, gelled almost upright. Or maybe it was the eyeliner. “Do I have to yell at Tammy?” he asked. “I told her not to bug you about hooking me up with anything.”

“I can’t say she’s completely innocent, because she invited my sister, who brought me,” I said. “But as far as I know, there was no plot."

"That's good," he said, leaning on the door frame. He seemed a little awkward, not entirely sure what to do with his hands. "Um. So why are you back here?"

"Oh. Because despite the lack of plot, I want you to play my music?" I said.

He blinked. "Seriously?" he asked.

"Yeah, seriously," I said. "I've got some piano ballads that could use you. And all my pieces include keyboard. And I've got some male solos that would fit you, too."

Cale shifted in the door, withdrawing back into the room a little. "Give me some time to think about it, alright?" he said. "I like what I've got going on right now. I'll need to think before I commit."

"That's fine," I said, mentally crying, /no, it's not! I want your skills/. "Just get back to me whenever. There's plenty of samples of my stuff on my website, so if you want to check it out it's all there."

"Sounds good," he said, his hand finding the door handle. "If you'd excuse me, I want to change out into street clothes, and get rid of all of this," with a vague motion towards his face.

"Sure, of course," I said, backing away. "You do that."

The door closed, and I walked away feeling a little like I'd just been blown off. The walk back to where I'd left Grace was a little harrowing, because there was this dense miasma of Pabst Blue Ribbon in the air, mixed amongst the many, many sweaty hipsters. I began to remember why I'd hung backstage at Thomas's concerts, instead of watching in the 'electrifying' atmosphere. In certain areas, the word electrifying only means that if a power line falls into the area, everyone is going to die a smelly death.

Grace and Tammy were sitting together at the table, engaged in the kind of girl talk that requires the participants to be leaning together closely enough that the tops of their heads touch and furtive glances to be shot off in the direction of any and all watchers approximately once per nanosecond. I felt irrationally guilty interrupting them.

That feeling lasted about the time between their furtive glances, however, because the first thing Tammy said was, "So did Cale agree to join your band thing?" Then it disappeared like water on a hot stove - quickly, replacing itself with steam.

"No," I said,abruptly. Both girls looked affronted. "He said he needed to think about it. And he assumed there was a plot to get me back there, and didn't appreciate it. I don't like people plotting stuff, okay?"

Grace had the decency to look a trifle guilty. She was well aware of my low tolerance level for what I called 'plots' and others called, variously, 'drama,' 'schemes,' and 'shit going down.' I had issues with it all through high school, and still did. People shouldn't screw with other people behind their backs. They just shouldn't.

"Sorry," she said, shooting Tammy an indecipherable look. "And really, the only plot that was going on was seeing whether or not you liked his stuff. We wanted it to be a surprise."

"Well, I'll admit that I was surprised," I said, sitting down beside them. "He's really good. Like, really, really good."

"When he comes out, we should go out to dinner," Tammy said. "He's always hungry after these things."

"Sure," I said. "But I won't be talking about music. Alright?"

"Deal," Grace said, quickly. She knew when not to push me, and finding out I'd been screwed with was one of those times.

"Cool," I said, and let it go.


Nathan:

The weekend was not relaxed. I spent it working on details for a couple acquisitions and the rights for a major corporation's commercials, trying to figure out how to suggest that a song about certain stronger-than-PG-13 practices might not be the best way to advertise laundry soap without losing the deal. It was not fun. Plus I had the whole 'faux apprenticeship' deal hanging over my head. I spent what little downtime I had thinking of ways to get out of it. I kept running up against the same issue, though: my father had said it was a good idea.

Now, if there had been any other force behind this - if it was just Morgan, or if it was just some publicity stunt - then I would have just said no, and to hell with the consequences. But my father was another matter entirely. He was still, in all but legality, the head of the company. That he trusted me enough to let me deal with the nitty-gritty aspects of running the company while he went into medically-forced retirement meant the world to me.