Best Of Everything (16 page)

Jay’s taken up a position near the main entry, off to the side, and is tuning his guitar. We approach and I toss him the blanket I brought.

“Morning. Can’t do this right unless you’ve got a blankie. Spread it out – your butt will thank me by the end of the day,” I say.

He complies and I eye his open guitar case. There’s no money in it.

“How long you been here?”

“Maybe twenty minutes.”

“How many songs have you played?”

“Only a couple. I’m just getting warmed up.”

I sit down next to him and glance up at Melody, who’s already looking around, plainly bored with the empty square. “There’s a great sandwich place a few blocks up for lunch. Famous. Most awesome French dips in the world,” I say. I’ve been there once before, with Terry for one of our meetings, and still remember the melt-in-your-mouth sandwiches, eaten at indoor picnic benches, the place packed.

“You know I eat like a bird,” she says, running her fingers across her bare, tanned midriff, her navel ring glinting in the sunlight. Jay’s eyes are drawn to the gesture like a largemouth bass after a spinning lure, and I sigh.

“Yes, well, on the off chance you get hungry, that is.” I turn to Jay. “I’ve got my harmonica, and that might draw some people. First rule is to make every song count. There’s no such thing as a warm-up, just making money. When a cat goes after a mouse, it doesn’t take a few minutes to warm up. On the street, same thing. Your only dollar of the morning might be walking by in the pocket of the first person that hears you, so no wasted notes. They all matter.”

He nods, but I can tell he’s thinking,
Words words words, this is stupid, words words
. Which is fine. I pull my harmonica out and give it a wail, and a few passersby slow at the sound. I smile at Jay and suggest a song, and he launches into it while I do my best impromptu mouth harp solo over the opening notes. Two of the women whose attention I got edge closer as I belt out a Bonnie Raitt number, and by the end of it one’s already feeling in her pocket for some spare change while the other opens her purse.

A couple of quarters drop into the case, followed by a third, and I thank them and ask if there’s anything else they’d like to hear. The older of the two mentions “Bridge Over Troubled Water,” and I nod at Jay, who fiddles with his tuning and then starts strumming. I improvise another passage with the harmonica and then start the verse. Jay joins in on the chorus with a harmony, and by the end of it we’re both grinning as I pick up the refrain with another extended harmonica riff.

We stretch the song for maybe six minutes with the instrumental, and when we’re done, the women clap and a young skateboarder tosses some coins into the case. Melody beams at him and tosses her hair back with a lazy hand, and I have to close my eyes not to laugh. I know it’s automatic for her, but I’m always in awe of how much work she puts into just being her. It’s kind of amazing, and there’s no wonder she’s so good at it.

When I open them Jay is grinning at her, and I can read his mind, which doesn’t take much. I elbow him in the ribs and whisper loudly, “Give it up. She’s taken.”

He looks at me innocently. “What?”

I reach forward and pick up the coins. “Hey, we’ve already got a buck and a half. How cool is that?”

Melody draws near, and I tell her, “You should record this with your phone. Shoot some video and we’ll upload it on the band Facebook page. It’ll be cool.” She nods and whips out her cell.

“I want a piece of the royalties,” she kids.

“Ten percent of nothing, baby. It’s all good. But maybe a French dip on the house by lunchtime.”

She rolls her eyes. “Big spender.”

“Hey. They give you free pickles. Chill out.”

We continue our two-person concert, hitting all the standards we’ll be performing as well as some requests, and by the time Simon and Doug arrive for their noon shift, we’ve amassed nine dollars. Jay isn’t impressed, but I scoop up the change and give him half the coins.

“You know what? For a dead day in a lousy spot, this is gold. And it’s the hardest money you’ll ever earn. That’s part of what we’re out here to figure out. What works and what doesn’t. If we can convince people who don’t know anything about us to part with cash they worked their asses off to make, we’re on our way.”

Simon and Doug take up position and we do some ensemble classic rock songs, faking the harmonies we don’t know until we hit them right, and before long another half hour has gone by and there are two more dollars in the case. I stand and tell Jay we’re going to grab some food, and ask him if he wants anything. He eyes Melody and then averts his gaze when I catch him staring.

“Nah. I’m good. I’ll hang out with these guys for a little while and wait till you get back.”

Melody and I saunter off, the sun warm on our faces, and I can hear the boys starting another song as we turn the corner of the square.

“What do you think?” I ask her.

“Getting better. They’re a little stiff, but Jay is getting the hang of it. He’s got a good voice and he plays well. I like how the two of you sound together.”

“That’s good, because he’s kind of the backbone of the band until I can play again.”

“He’s carrying his weight. And he’s not hard to look at, is he?”

I glance at her. “Don’t you ever think of anything else?”

“No charge for looking.”

“So you think this will work?”

“You can watch the video while we eat. You’re the expert. But it sounded pretty good to me.”

The restaurant’s almost empty, and we have our choice of tables. We order and carry our trays to the corner and I watch the footage. The last couple of songs are way better than the first couple, and Jay sounds way more relaxed and loose. That’s what I was hoping for – one of the problems with being a hired gun is that you can get too tight and regimented, because your employer wants things played note for note every night. I do too, but I want it to seem spontaneous. I have a good feeling about how this is working as I chew my food and slurp my soda.

The afternoon goes by slowly, and by evening we’re packing up and high-fiving each other. The total take for the day is a little over forty bucks, but it’s not the amount, it’s how we made it that counts. We agree to hook up at 7:00 for rehearsal, and Jay gives us a ride back to the apartment, for which both Melody and I are grateful.

We take showers and eat some snacks, and I feel a hundred percent by the time 7:00 rolls around. Melody stays at the apartment while I do my thing, watching TV as she primps for her date later that night with Sebastian, who’s taking her to dinner. When I return around 9:00, she’s wearing a completely different outfit, and I can see that everything she brought is spread out on her bed. She’s pacing, checking her phone, fiddling with her top, adjusting herself in the mirror.

I’m so thankful I don’t have to go through this with Derek. He likes me the way I am, and I don’t have to fake being bulimic or spend hours on my appearance to lure him in. I’m not judging Melody, but it looks like a lot of energy and anxiety invested, when my gut says Sebastian would be equally interested if she were wearing sweats fresh out of the shower.

“Any word?” I ask.

“Still waiting.”

“Don’t worry. He’ll call.”

“Oh, I’m not worried,” Melody lies.

“I don’t suppose I need to ask if there are any chocolates left?”

“They’re making the bags smaller these days, aren’t they?”

“Definitely.”

Ten minutes later her phone trills, and she lets it ring three times before answering. She takes the call in her bedroom and when she emerges she’s radiant.

“He’s going to pick me up in fifteen minutes.”

“Cool. Where you going?”

“Some sushi place.”

When she leaves, the apartment feels deflated, as though she sucked half the atmosphere out with her. I putter around and scrape together the makings of a sandwich and eat it on the couch while I watch MTV with the sound muted. I call Derek, and when he answers I hear music in the background.

“Where are you?” I ask.

“Oh, we’re out at a club. I’m supposed to do a couple of songs with the band later. What are you up to?”

I tell him about my day, the experiment on the street, but he sounds distracted, and then an amplified guitar blares through the phone.

“Hey. I’ll call later, okay? The band’s starting their set and it’s going to get loud,” he says.

“Yeah, okay.” I pause and hear a bass guitar thump out a few notes. “I miss you, Derek.”

“Me too, Sage. I’ll call in a few,” he says, and then the line goes dead.

I completely understand that he’s got to do what he’s got to do, but as I sit staring at the walls, my Saturday night consisting of a book and answering a few comments on the band’s Facebook page, my mood darkens. My guy is thousands of miles away, my friend’s out doing her thing, and I’m home alone, for the umpteenth night in a row. I know that will all change soon, when I’m living out of a suitcase on the road every day, but as I look around my marble and granite prison, I feel as alone as any night in the park.

Two hours later Derek calls back, but we don’t talk long, and an hour later Melody returns, bouncing off the walls with happiness. “Tomorrow night there’s a party that Sebastian wants to take us to,” she announces.

“On a Sunday night?”

“It’s an early one. Some place up in the Hollywood hills. It sounds totally fun.”

“I don’t know…”

“Oh, come on. It’ll be way cool. He said it’s some of his friends. I want to meet them.”

“Scope out the competition, you mean.”

She shrugs. “Girl’s gotta do what she’s gotta do. But we had a great night.”

My eyes widen. “You didn’t…”

“Get your mind out of the gutter. I told you. I’m a born-again virgin.”

I nod. “Right. I keep forgetting you can put that toothpaste back in the tube.”

“Anyway, it’s not like that. It’s a slow build. I’m digging it. And I really like Sebastian. He’s hella funny and
muy caliente
.”

“In the way only superstar producers can be.”

“He’d be hot even if he was working in a gas station, and you know it. Don’t be bitter just because Derek’s not here. Live a little. Come out with us.”

“You’re not going to leave me alone until I say yes, are you?”

“So say yes.”

I sigh. “Fine.” I study her. “You actually eat anything or are you still on the water diet?”

“I ate a couple of rolls. They were like twenty bucks apiece and made of rice and air, as far as I can tell.”

That sounds about right. “You want to see if the Chinese place is still open?” I check my watch. “It should be.”

She smiles and steps out of her heels. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Chapter 22

The next day we’re in Santa Monica by the pier, where there are droves of tourists even though it’s cloudy. We work different combinations of band members throughout the day, and our take is a hundred and thirty-seven dollars, which we divide up with the solemnity of bankers before calling it quits.

By the time we fold up shop at dusk, my confidence level in the band is soaring. That morning Melody uploaded a few songs to YouTube and I linked them on Facebook; when we get back to the apartment, the downloads are blowing up and the feedback’s awesome.

We’re back at rehearsal at 7:00 and I can feel the new energy – the experiment’s working and the guys seem to get it. Which is good, because our first show is in just a few days and we’re down to the wire. But the set sounds great, and Melody, who came to listen this time, says so when we’re finished.

Sebastian picks us up in his big boat of a Cadillac and we motor through an In-N-Out burger and grab dinner before heading to the soirée, as he calls it. It’s a friend of his, a director with a house in the hills, very low-key, Sebastian assures us, only a few hundred of his closest celebrity friends.

Which, thank God, turns out to be an exaggeration. There are maybe fifty people gathered on the expansive deck. The view to die for, and everything reeks of expensive good taste.

Jazz pulses through hidden speakers as Sebastian gets us drinks – soda for me, champagne for himself and Melody.

I lean toward him when he hands me my Pepsi and whisper just loud enough for him to hear. “So which one’s your buddy? The owner?”

“I don’t see him. He must have run out to get supplies.”

Two older rockers with dyed black hair and full-sleeve tats come over and strike up a conversation with Sebastian, who obviously knows them. They trade bits of industry gossip and admire Melody, who pretends not to notice even as she basks in the attention. I might as well be invisible until Sebastian introduces me, at which point they brighten.

“Sage, this is Rex and Seth. They’re legends on the L.A. scene, and have been sidemen for some of the biggest names in metal over the last twenty years.”

I shake hands as Sebastian continues. “Sage won a big TV talent show. I just finished her record. She’s going to be next year’s biggest hit,” he says, and I can feel the color rise in my face.

“Well, it’s nice you think so,” I manage.

“And she’s going out on tour with Bruno Sears in a couple of weeks,” Sebastian says.

Rex smiles knowingly. “Whoa. Cool. Way to score a mega coup. Is this your first tour?”

“Yeah. I’m looking forward to it.”

“I know a great road manager if you need someone,” Seth says with a heavy British accent. “He just got back from a European leg with U2.”

“Oh. I have a manager,” I say.

Sebastian shakes his head. “Not a manager. A road manager. You haven’t picked anyone yet?”

“Terry’s handling all that,” I say, feeling dumb. Between the three of them there’s probably more than fifty years of music business experience, which makes my whopping three months seem pretty insignificant.

“Well, make sure you get along with whoever you get, because your road manager can make or break you,” Rex says. “Trust me, it can be either a joy or a misery, and you don’t want the latter.”

Seth nods agreement. “Too bloody right. I’ve got the scars to prove it. Sebastian knows the guy I’m talking about. Class act all around. Nigel Riggs.”