The next day, I waited until three thirty to ask Jennifer how her midterm went. I wanted to ask her on a date, but it didn’t feel right to jump straight to it. Once I sent the message, I threw my phone onto my bed and played through “Yesterday” a few times. My songwriting hadn’t been flowing, so I’d spent the day learning to play famous hits so I could learn how to write one. I put my guitar down and checked my phone. Nothing. I buried my face in my pillow, then rolled over and gazed out the window at the palm trees swaying in the sunlight. I realized I hadn’t been outside all day so I got up and went downstairs, but before I reached the bottom step, Kevin came home early.
“Get your guitar, let’s go.”
“Huh?”
“Come on, we need to go!”
“Um, okay.” I went back up and put my guitar in its case, then came back down with it and started tying my shoes.
“Tie them in the car. Let’s go!”
I followed Kevin across the driveway, my shoelaces clacking on the asphalt. He put my guitar in the trunk and I got in the passenger seat.
We took the 10 East and were immediately stuck in traffic.
Kevin sighed. “This is why you leave early.”
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Arts District.” Kevin swerved viciously into another lane and bought us one car’s length of road. “You’re playing a show.”
“What? Really? Um, okay, I guess I have some songs I could––”
Kevin slammed on the brakes and slammed on the horn. “You guess? A pop star is always ready to perform.”
“Well, um, yeah, I just didn’t know I’d be playing today, so––”
“If you can’t play, let’s turn around and pack your things.”
“No, I’m ready, I can––”
“I’m very serious about music, and you should be even more serious than I am or this city is not for you.”
“I’m serious! I can play! I’m ready, Kevin, please!”
Kevin took a deep, frustrated breath. “Which songs will you play?”
“Well, um, I want to try out ‘Brother.’ And I can do an acoustic version of ‘Hearts Collide’ and, um, some of my other songs from before I moved here.”
“How many is that?”
“Um, six. Maybe seven?”
“You don’t know?”
“Well, um, I’ve also been working on some covers today, to learn how to write a hit song. Maybe that’ll be enough?”
Kevin inhaled, tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, thinking.
“How long will my set be anyways? Who am I opening for?”
“Nobody. And for as long as you can play. This isn’t that kind of show.”
We arrived in the Arts District, a barren industrial area covered in graffiti and trash. There were no people out on the sidewalks, and huge semi-trucks rumbled down the busted roads. I couldn’t believe there were art galleries out there, even as we pulled up to the crumbling five-story factory looking building where SLVG, pronounced “sla-VAHge,” was supposedly located. The gated parking lot was surrounded by tall walls topped with barbed wire, and I worried for a moment that the show had been a ruse and when I got out of the car some goons would appear and drag me inside to torture me for information. But as we parked I saw the building had a clean glass entrance to a white lobby sparsely adorned with simple ferns, an austere Black woman in tasteful clothes working the front desk, a couple tattooed hipsters smoking cigarettes on the wheelchair ramp. We stepped out into the windy heat and I got my guitar from the trunk. Kevin closed it for me and stood in my way, staring at me through his sunglasses.
“Don’t you fucking let me down, Winston.”
“Um––”
“This is a big opportunity for you, but my reputation is also on the line, and so is Julie’s––especially Julie’s. You wouldn’t have this gig without her.”
“I know.”
“You thank her next time you see her.”
“I will.”
“Okay.” Kevin put his hand on my shoulder. “You ready?”
“A hundred percent.”
“Alright. That’s what’s up.” He patted me hard. “Let’s get it!”
We crossed the parking lot and the hipsters gave us amused, condescending looks as we entered SLVG.
The receptionist glanced up at us. “Yes?” She seemed very busy.
“We’re helping with Amanda Myrkoff’s show,” said Kevin.
“You’re very late.”
“He’s filling in last minute,” he said, pushing me forward a step.
The receptionist sighed. “Fourth floor. You’ll see it.”
“Thanks.” We hurried over to the elevator and pressed up, but after a couple minutes the button unlit and it never arrived. “Stairs.” Kevin held the door for me and we began our trek up the steel staircase, clanging past enormous grid windows looking out toward Little Tokyo and, as we got higher, making way for artists in paint-splattered clothing hauling huge canvases and lugging power tools and generators and other niche machinery. By the time we reached the fourth floor I was out of breath and worried I wouldn’t have enough time to recover before my first song.
The hall was lined with glass walls giving us a view into each exhibit, and we trudged past white rooms filled with massive black and white photos of eyes and naked bodies, collages of cowboys printed on paper towels, collections of beauty products on pedestals ringed by distorted paintings of women writhing in agony, and strange plastic sculptures made of hula hoops, pogo sticks, Bop-Its, Tonka Trucks, dismembered playground equipment, and other childhood detritus.
Finally, we found a placard that read Millennial Malaise, an experience by Amanda Myrkoff.
The exhibit was divided into four sections, each one outfitted to look like the room of a house. The room we entered was the living room, home videos and clips of children’s TV shows intercut with news footage of 9/11 and the Iraq War played on a TV set in front of a coffee table and couch. Collages cut from celebrity gossip magazines, old videogame guides, technology periodicals extolling the wonders of the internet, newspapers, and more hung framed on the walls like paintings, but also sat on bureaus and tables in small frames where family photos would have gone.
To our right was the kitchen and straight ahead was the foyer where gallery staff were making some final adjustments. I wondered why the foyer wasn’t set up by the actual entrance. High heels clomping, then Amanda emerged from the kitchen and greeted us with a big smile. She was wearing a dark green turtleneck and dark green pants, and her soft black hair was frazzled. She looked tired, but warm and pretty. I probably would have had a crush on her if I hadn’t been messaging Jennifer.
“Kevin?”
“You must be Amanda.”
“Oh my God, thank you so much for coming on such short notice.” She shook his hand with both of hers.
“It’s no trouble, thanks for having us. This is Winston.”
“Hi,” I said, giving a quick wave.
“Adorable. You’re actually kind of perfect. I mean I didn’t expect you to be Asian, but that’s actually, like––and you can really play, right?”
“Of course,” I said.
“Okay, perfect, let me show you your…” she trailed off and we followed her through the kitchen, stocked with junk food and portraits of obese people, and into the bedroom.
The walls were plastered with album covers and superhero posters, all of which were parodies and original works. The ceiling was spackled with glow in the dark stars, the desk had an old PC on it that probably ran Windows XP, and the twin bed was shaped like a race car.
“You’re gonna play right there,” said Amanda, pointing to the bed. “The idea is, like, you’re like a moody teen, like, a sensitive young man who deals with his emotions through music, except like, you’re not anyone in particular, you’re like, symbolic of the millennial zeitgeist. Like, you grew up watching movies where teenagers played guitar and wrote songs and started bands and got popular, and you thought that could be your dream too, but like, once you graduate high school, or like, even already, everyone’s just listening to like “Rack City” and “N-Words in Paris” and like, dubstep and stuff, like, rap and EDM have taken over and your dream is kind of dead, or like, not dead, but like, yeah, like the Recession’s already happened and Occupy’s failed and like, well, it all fits into the broader concept of the exhibition, but like yeah, you’re sad and you’re writing songs in your room and you have this dream, but like, it’s not gonna work out. Does that make sense?”
“Um, I think so?”
“Okay, so like, lie down.”
I lay down on the bed.
“No, with your guitar.”
I got my guitar out and lay down with it. Amanda slid the case under the bed, then stepped back and assessed the situation.
“Actually could you, like, sit up and lean against the wall?”
I sat up next to the fake window and strummed a chord.
“Okay, I like that.” She nodded, squinted. “Um, one sec.” She went into the foyer and returned with a pack of wipes. “Do you mind?”
“Um—“
“You’re makeup’s like, a bit queer coded, which is fine of course, and if, like, you or your character is like, LGBTQ, that’s amazing, but like, for this, I don’t know if you—he’d—what are your pronouns?”
“He.”
“Okay, like, I don’t know if he’d be so loud and proud at this point in his life? Like for what I’m going for—“
“It’s his pop star look,” said Kevin. “But he should look how you need him to look.”
“Okay, awesome, thank you.” Amanda wiped all my makeup off, then dried my face with a tissue. “Much better.”
“Thanks,” I said.
Kevin gave me a strange look.
“Alright so like, can you play me a song? Or like, okay, let me see if this works for you. Like, part of it can be you playing songs, like covers or stuff you’ve written, but part of it should be like you writing a song and like the audience is watching you go through this intimate process. Like you can pretend to write a song you’ve already written but it would actually be amazing if you could like write a song from scratch in front of everyone. You do write songs, right?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I think I can do that.”
“Okay, amazing.”
“Do you still want to hear me play first?”
“Of course!”
I cleared my throat and started playing “Yesterday.” Partway through I played the wrong chord and stopped. “Sorry, um—“
“Oh my God, no, that’s perfect. That’s so organic. Like, do that when everyone gets here, or like, not on purpose but like, it’s perfect if you mess up a little so don’t apologize, just pretend there’s nobody here, you’re alone in your room playing for yourself.”
“Okay, that makes sense.”
“Awesome.” Amanda checked her watch. “I’ve got to finish up some things in the foyer. Feel free to grab a drink, grab a snack, and be ready in fifteen minutes, we open in twenty, okay?”
“Thank you,” said Kevin.
“No, thank you guys, seriously, the guy who was supposed to be here did some bad coke and like—anyways, you’re literally a lifesaver, Winston. See you in a bit.” She hurried over to the foyer and Kevin furrowed his brow.
“It’s a pop star look! It’s not gay!” he said.
“I think she just had a different look in mind,” I said, secretly relieved to perform without the makeup.
“Plenty of teenagers look like that!”
“Yeah, I guess, but—“
“What, you don’t like it either?”
“No, no, it’s great, Kevin. It’s just, she’s an artist with her own vision, you know?”
“Hmph.” Kevin stormed into the kitchen and opened up a pack of Oreos.
The exhibit opened, and as the guests poured into the living room I felt as if I’d been dropped off a cliff. All my songs and covers flew out of my mind, and worse, the gig was just as much about acting as playing, and I hadn’t acted in anything since elementary school. I’d played a talking clock in a class play, and when my first line came up I panicked and said “It’s time.. to go!” and ran offstage, the audience laughing as I hid behind the curtains crying.
A couple guests walked in and I accidentally looked them in the eyes. Whoops! I looked away, then before I knew it, I was strumming some chords, too loudly at first, then I settled into a gentle cadence like I was alone in my room, trying not to bother my parents sleeping on the other side of the wall.
“Love is… far away… like a mountain top… across the bay…” I improvised, trying my best to look sad and wistful.
“Is he… part of the exhibit?” asked a tattooed woman wearing a sundress.
“I guess?” answered her friend, a guy who spoke with a lisp and wore dangling earrings, a crop top, and ripped jeans.
“Huh.”
“Only you… can break my heart… ba da da… a new start…”
They watched for a couple minutes, then moved on to the next room.
I tried my best to ignore the comments and stares as guests passed through the bedroom, but no matter how comfortable I became in my role, it was impossible to ignore Kevin monitoring the situation from the foyer, from the kitchen, from the back of the bedroom, watching the guests even more than he was watching me. Every time someone laughed or said something negative, I worried Kevin might pounce on them and beat them to a pulp, or at least start an argument or something, which eventually he sort of did with a couple guests who were particularly outspoken about how lame I was, or really, how lame my character was, which I thought was maybe a fair interpretation of what Amanda’s piece was going for. But Kevin slid up next to them and countered with a long-winded, increasingly hostile rant about how inspiring he thought my performance was. Luckily, the guests just told him to chill and moved on to the kitchen before the situation got any worse.
“I wish my parents would leave me alone…” I sang, trying to tell Kevin to back off, but I think he thought it was just part of the piece.
“Play ‘Hearts Collide,’” he said.
“Huh?” I caught Amanda’s eye and quickly slipped back into character. “You’re breaking me down! Yeah, yeah, yeah! Don’t wanna see you around! No-o-o!”
“Come on! ‘Hearts Collide!’”
The other guests were all cringing at Kevin.
Amanda broke off her conversation in the kitchen and hurried over, all smiles.
“Hey Kevin, can I talk to you for a sec?”
“Yes?”
“Um, outside, if you wouldn’t mind.”
Kevin glanced back at me and gave me a nod, as if to give me the go ahead to play “Hearts Collide” while he was gone, then followed Amanda through the rooms and out into the hall. The exhibit door clanged shut, and the guests began muttering amongst themselves.
“Who the fuck was that?”
“What was he thinking?”
“Was that… part of the exhibit?”
I tried not to listen and kept on playing, and despite all the drama and gossip, everyone seemed extra respectful of my performance. I guess they felt sorry for me, or Amanda, or something. Either way, I had their attention––the moment had arrived. I finished my riff and lay back in bed, pretending to daydream. A couple people even clapped and I pretended not to hear them, but I didn’t want to keep them waiting. I sat back up and started playing “Hearts Collide” just as Amanda returned without Kevin. I had a feeling she wanted to talk to me, and I became self-conscious about how different “Hearts Collide” was from the rest of the performance, not to mention Kevin having requested it. Nevertheless, I forged ahead. If people liked the song, maybe I’d have a chance to tell them to check out my Soundcloud after the exhibit.
“I guess he can actually play a full song.”
“Isn’t this what that guy was telling him to play?”
“So that really was, like… part of the exhibit?”
Amanda bristled at these comments, but as I finished the song and the guests clapped, and she saw me do a great job ignoring it all as I sighed and gazed out the fake window, I think she made peace with the performance spilling outside the boundaries of her intentions. She strolled over to the foyer as I started playing “Brother.”
As the exhibit wound to a close, I realized a strange man with gelled brown hair wearing tight clothes, sunglasses, and boat shoes had been watching me for over an hour. As Amanda passed through, chatting with some guests on their way out, he broke his silence.
“Amanda.”
She whipped her head around. “Just a second—“
“I’m buying this.”
“You’re—“ she turned to her group. “Excuse me.”
The group nodded and smiled and gave her thumbs up and murmured curiously about the mysterious buyer as they left.
“This work,” mused the mystery buyer, “it evokes…” Lost for words, a tear slid down his cheek. He pinched his shirt and dabbed beneath his sunglasses. “This is the childhood I wish I’d had. This is who I always wanted to be.”
“It is?” I asked, then cringed and strummed a chord and fell on my back when Amanda gave me a harsh look.
“Of course!” said the mystery buyer. “To be a normal teenager… it was impossible, forever impossible now, but this…” He made a frame of the exhibit with his thumbs and index fingers and looked through it with one eye. “This is the closest I’ve ever felt to my dream life.” He put his frame down and nodded, as if to tell his past self It’s okay. We’re finally here.
“Well that’s great to hear!” said Amanda. “My photographer Miles took some shots earlier if you’d like to select some prints––”
“No, I don’t want prints.” He spread his arms wide. “I want this. All of it.”
“Um, okay––”
“There’s a room in my house that will be perfect. I want to be in this space every day, Amanda.”
“I, um, okay, I understand,” said Amanda. “I was only planning on selling prints and certain aspects so, like, I need to talk with Rachel about a price––”
“That’s okay.”
“And like, the exhibit is still running for the next couple weeks and like––”
“Of course. It will be painful to wait, but I wouldn’t want to spoil the integrity of your vision.”
“Okay great, um, let me go talk to Rachel and we’ll get back to you with a price.”
“Perfect.”
Amanda hurried out of the empty exhibit, her high heels echoing in the hallway until the gallery door closed. I sat up. The buyer was staring at me, grinning. I lay back down and noodled a mysterious melody.
“What’s your rate?” he asked.
“Huh?”
“You’re part of the exhibit, no?”
“Um, yeah?”
“Yeah. I’m buying you. So what’s your rate?”
“Um, I’m not sure––”
“I’m bringing this exhibit to my house. You are part of the exhibit. Amanda is the artist, so I pay her her price, but if you’re going to be coming over every day, I need to know your rate.”
“I’m coming to your house?”
“Yes, yes, I’m buying the exhibit, you’re coming to my house! It’s not complicated.”
“Um, okay, um––where do you live?”
“In the hills. I’m local, obviously.”
“Okay, well, um, I do have some things going on––”
The buyer groaned. “We all have things going on. But you’re here, now, doing a job, and I’m extending your contract. So please, give me a rate.”
“Um…” I thought about it. It wouldn’t be that much work to lay in bed playing guitar all day, and I didn’t want to seem like a jerk. “A hundred dollars?”
“A day?”
“Um, I guess so.”
“Deal.”
“No deal,” said Kevin, emerging from the kitchen.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“His manager. You want to book him for a show, you talk to me, and I assure you he’s worth more than a hundred dollars.”
“I’m not booking him for a show, I’m buying the piece.”
“Congratulations. But Winston is not for sale. Let’s go.”
I got up.
“How about two hundred a day?”
“One thousand,” said Kevin.
“Two-fifty.”
Kevin laughed. “Two thousand.”
“Come on, we just had a deal at a hundred.”
Kevin spat on the floor.
Amanda walked in. “What’s going on? Why are you spitting?”
“Winston is not for sale. Especially not for so cheap.”
Amanda sighed. “I’m sorry, Claude. Winston’s just filling in for the time being while––”
“I don’t care. He’s part of the piece. I want him,” said Claude.
“Um, well, like I’m not really sure I can give you part of the sale––”
“And we wouldn’t expect you to,” said Kevin. “But unfortunately Claude’s rates are unacceptable.” He took my guitar and we started walking.
“Okay, a thousand!” said Claude.
“Okay!” I said.
“No,” said Kevin. “You have better things to do. Once you’re a pop star, you’ll piss on that money. Come on.” He put his hand on my back and marched me out of the exhibit.
“He said yes! We had a deal, you motherfucker! Fire him, Winston! Fire him! You’re making a big fucking mistake! I have friends in the industry and you’d better believe I won’t hesitate to––”
Kevin closed the door and cut Claude off, but as we walked down the hall I could hear him screaming at Amanda. As we reached the stairs, she ran out into the hall.
“Wait! Guys, wait!”
We stopped and waited as she ran up to us.
“First of all, I still need to pay you,” she said, handing me six twenties. “Thank you so much for helping out today, like, you nailed it.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Seriously, like––”
“Congratulations on your big sale,” said Kevin, purposefully glancing at my wad of cash.
“Thanks, um, so like, can we work something out?”
“I’m sorry, but Winston is very busy.”
“I know, okay, I understand and like, Claude was being an asshole, but like, I really need this sale to go through and like, without Winston––”
“That’s your problem. He came here to play a gig and the gig is over.”
“Okay, but like, Claude’s offering him a lot of money! Like I don’t get––”
“How dare you. Winston is an artist, just like you, no, better than you. Why? Because he has integrity, and no amount of money is enough for him to sacrifice his vision.”
Amanda looked ashamed of herself.
“Um, Kevin––” I started to say, but he held up his hand and I shut up.
“Be that as it may,” said Kevin. “I have a solution. Winston will not set foot in Claude’s house, not once, not ever. However, I have many connections in the technology space, and a close friend of mine is an expert in augmented reality, including holograms. For a large fee, we will record another performance of today’s exhibit and allow you to install the hologram in Claude’s house. The fee will be large because the piece will gain value once Winston becomes a star.”
Amanda took it in. “Um, okay, that might work. Let me check with Claude and––”
Kevin laughed. “You really have no idea who you’re dealing with. This is the offer of a lifetime. Once Winston is famous, your career will explode. You have my number.” Kevin opened the door to the stairwell. I could tell Amanda had a lot to say, but she shoved it down.
“Okay. I’ll talk to Claude and get back to you.”
“Please do.” Kevin waved me through and closed the door. We started down the stairs.
“Um, Kevin?” I asked.
“Yes?”
“Um, Claude was offering a lot of money.”
“Yes, but for what?”
“Um, to lay in bed and play guitar?”
“No, Winston. That was blood money. He was going to take over your life and ruin it, your music, your dreams, everything.”
“But with that kind of money I could––”
“It’s okay, Winston, you’re still learning. I know that wasn’t easy to walk away from, but someday you’ll be at the Grammys telling the whole world that you turned this down because your music came first. Trust me, I just saved you a lifetime of pain.”