Authors: J.D. Hawkins
“Wow,” comes a low, strong voice behind me. A deep New York drawl obvious even in the single syllable. “That was a great set.”
“I’m surprised you could hear it,” I say, not even turning around as I fiddle with the stuck zipper on my jacket.
“I’ve got a good ear.”
Frustrated with it, I give up on the zipper, pick up my guitar case, and turn around to face the growling voice. From its bass I’d have guessed its owner was big, but I’m still surprised – he’s a mountain of muscle, filling up almost the entire doorway, granite pecs and biceps obvious even through the thick fabric of his expensive suit. Between shoulders the size of a bridge his face looks like it was carved out of marble, brutal and beautiful. All jawline and sandpaper stubble, the face of a comic book superhero brought to life, topped with black swirls of thick, soft hair.
“My name’s Brando Nash,” he says, taking a card out of his inside pocket and handing it to me, “and I’m about to make your dreams come true.”
I hold his satisfied gaze as I take the card. Eventually I peel my eyes from his oak-colored irises and study it.
BRANDO NASH
A & R, Majestic Records
155055 Wilshire Blvd. Los Angeles
I look back at him and flash a cynical smile. Clearly this guy thinks it’s my first rodeo. And guess what? It ain’t.
“Is this the part where I’m supposed to cry and get all excited?” I ask. “Jump up and down as if you’re the star quarterback who just asked me to prom?”
He frowns and turns his head slightly, sizing me up through squinting eyes. A look that would have knocked me dead before I came to LA – now it just makes me roll my eyes.
“Yeah,” he says, slowly nodding, “this is something you should be very excited about. I’m a talent spotter, a record label’s agent. I can get you studio time, a deal. Put your music out there. Unless playing grungy open mic nights for no pay is the height of your ambitions?”
“Great. That sounds fantastic,” I say, too tired to try and hide the sarcasm. “Should I fling my panties off right here, or do you want to string me along for a little while, you know,
really
get your fill?”
He sighs deeply, smiling, and if I wasn’t in the city of Hollywood, I’d almost believe he was genuine.
“This isn’t like that. Maybe you need to read my card again.”
I glance down at the card, the embossed letters, the matte cream cardstock. Expensive. So sure, he’s legit. But that doesn’t mean a damn thing in this town. I glare at him. “If having a card proved anything, I wouldn’t still be playing
grungy
open mic nights. So thanks, but no thanks. I know your type.”
I rip the card in half, let the pieces flutter to the floor, and step forward to go past him. But instead of letting me pass, he steps back, filling up the hallway and opening his palms out as if he’s the one scared of me.
“Whoa there! Look, I’m not trying to pull anything here. I genuinely think you’ve got something going on, and I want to be a part—”
“Bullshit!” I yell, pushing him away from me, my palms pressed for one hot instant against his rock-hard chest. His eyes widen, and I have to admit my outburst is a surprise even to myself. Weeks of frustration I’ve kept boiling inside of me burst out like a volcano. I glance down at the torn business card on the floor, my fury still raging. “Bullshit,
Brando Nash!
You’re very recognizable, you know, with your Easter Island head face and your Gladiator body. You think I didn’t notice you out there? You say you enjoyed my set, was that while you were picking up women, or when Lexi Dark showed up in a dress too small for my nine year old niece? Maybe you caught the chorus as you were bullying that short guy with bad shoes?”
“I…look, it…okay. Just…”
“You didn’t hear a damned note I played. I bet you can’t even remember one of my lyrics, can you?”
He stares at me, mouth open, before his eyes drop to the floor.
“I thought not,” I say, breathing deeply to regain some calm. “Look, I’m tired, and I have work in the morning. So nice try, but we’re done here.”
His hands go to his hips as he steps aside, and I push past, out through the crowd of strangers, and into the city that keeps on disappointing me.
“Another late night?” Jenna asks over the sound of the cash register as I tie my apron on hurriedly, join her behind the counter, and slip into my role as underpaid coffee dispenser for the morning rush.
“Late nights are fine,” I reply in between the hiss of the coffee foamer, “it’s the early mornings that get me.”
Jenna and I shouldn’t be friends. She’s a morning person, I like the night. She ties her pretty blonde hair in a ponytail that swishes around as she moves with all the grace of a ribbon, while taming my thick brown curls feels like putting out a fire every second of every day. Her wardrobe consists mainly of skin tight designer gym clothes and colorful classics, mine is a funky combination of ripped jeans and faded vintage t-shirts. She’s the prom queen, I’m the rock chick. When you spend eight hours working in a shitty coffee shop, though, all of that fades, and all you’re left with is the stuff that matters. And what matters is that we get each other.
I pour the coffees, glide toward the counter with them, and hand them over to my customers with a big white smile and a nod. Coffee machines and cash registers you can learn in a day, the smile and the nod, however,
that
takes weeks. I can only just hold it for a full three seconds, just enough time to send the customer on their way before turning around and settling into a more comfortable bleary-eyed scowl.
Jenna moves to the machine as I step toward the cash register and take another order.
“Well,” she calls over her shoulder as she pours out some coffee beans, “how did the open mic gig go last night? I’m still bummed I couldn’t make it to see you kill it, but someone had to cover your shift so you could go,” she winked.
Taking orders while holding conversations is another useless skill I’ve picked up since working here. I sidle up beside Jenna and pretend to do something practical, like rinse the frothing pitchers, while I talk to her.
“Well, you didn’t miss much. I was pretty much last on a bill that included a guy singing songs in what I think was German, and a comedian who – if anyone could hear him – would have probably offended every minority in the crowd. And then Lexi Dark decided to show up just before I started my set and get everybody’s attention. I played to the back of about fifty heads, so all in all I guess it wasn’t a total bust. I mean, nobody booed me, right?”
Jenna’s face registers shock. “Wait – Did you say
Lexi Dark?
The singer? She showed up at the open mic?”
“She of the perfect boobs and come-hither looks, yes. I don’t know if I should be glad she did, because it meant nobody could be bothered to hear me play the worst set of my life, not least because I broke a string halfway through.”
“Oh, Haley…”
“Just to top it all off, a guy who looked like someone breathed life into a Greek statue and dressed it in Tom Ford tried to pick me up by pretending to be interested in signing me.”
“Jesus…”
“After all that, even the fact that my roommates were having a drunk kung-fu movie marathon until five am wasn’t enough to stop me from crashing out.”
Jenna slams down the pitcher of hot milk she was carrying with a clang that gets everyone’s attention and grabs me in an embrace, clutching me so close I can feel her heart beating.
“Oh, Haley. I’m so sorry. That sounds awful. I wish there was something I could do.”
“I know. I’ve got nobody to blame but myself, you know? It was my damned idea to come to this city. My stupidity that made me think I could make it. My decision to go to that open mic last night and stick it out, even though all the signs were wrong.” I allow myself a few self-indulgent sniffles and then rapidly blink back the tears stinging my eyes until they go away. I refuse to cry at work.
Jenna steps back out of the hug, clutches my shoulders and forces me to look into her aqua-blue eyes, full of seriousness and compassion.
“Listen to me, Haley, you’re following your dreams because you know you have to. I don’t know anybody as talented as you. The problem isn’t with you, it’s the rest of the world. They don’t see talent until it smacks them in the face. You’ve just got to keep smacking them with it until they see it.”
I let out a gentle laugh.
“That’s…a hell of an analogy.”
Jenna smirks as she takes her hands away from my shoulders.
“I’m no songwriter, that’s for sure!”
We relax and smile, and at the same time realize there are about a dozen pissed commuters sulking on the other side of the counter as they watch us have a moment.
“I guess we’d better get back to ‘following our dreams,’” I say, before turning back to the espresso machine. Jenna flashes her dimples sweetly and goes to deal with the angry mob of caffeine addicts.
About an hour of furious coffee-pressing and register-banging later the rush ends and Jenna and I enjoy the lull. I sit on a stool behind the counter lazily writing lyrics in my notepad while Jenna leans over the counter and people watches.
“Yowzer,” she whispers to herself.
“What?” I say, without looking up.
“Crap, he’s coming in!”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. But he’s beautiful.” Jenna stands upright and smooths her apron. “Morning sir, what can I get you?” she says, with so much charm I almost fall under her spell myself.
“Does a girl named Haley Grace Cooke work here?”
Every cell in my body goes cold. My head jerks up from the notepad and freezes. It’s him. Unmistakably him. Voice like melted chocolate, the strong, bitter kind. From where I’m sitting, down low behind the cash register, he can’t see me – and I’d like to keep it that way.
“Um…” Jenna starts. I reach over and jab my pen into her calf. “Maybe… Ow! I mean, no. No, I don’t think so.”
“You sure about that?” he says, low and sensual, as if trying to hypnotize Jenna.
“Well…yeah, sort of…I mean, if there was a girl called that working here—ouch!—I would probably tell you because…there’s, like, no way I think she would
not
wanna see you?”
I drop my head into my hands and groan deeply before standing upright. Jenna shrugs and nods toward the guy as if looking at him explains everything. She glances at him one last time, her tongue on her lips, before stepping away into the back room, pointing at the clock as if it’s actually time for her break right now. Traitor.
“For a singer you sure do hide yourself away a lot,” the guy offers smoothly.
I’m not to be smoothed. “How did you find me?”
“It’s kind of my job to find aspiring musicians.”
“By stalking them?” I blurt.
He laughs. It’s so charming my blood boils. “I just visited your website to get more info and noticed your work uniform in one of your Instagram photos.”
“Sounds a lot like stalking,” I say.
“It’s not stalking if you agree to have coffee with me.”
“Look, Brian.”
“Brando.”
“Whatever. Last night I was tired, depressed, and lonely – and I
still
didn’t fall for your record label shtick. What makes you think I’m going to fall for it now?”
“You know what? You’re right.” He leans back and folds his arms.
I shake my head in confusion.
“Forget about record labels, music, all of that,” he continues. “I’m here talking to you simply as a guy who likes your music. A guy who wants to take you out for coffee and talk about the Angela Carter references in your lyrics.”
For the first time I’m stunned by something other than his eyes.
“Nobody ever really picked up on that…”
“Really? Seemed pretty obvious to me. That and the alternate tunings. You like Nick Drake, right?”
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.
“I don’t know why you use a pick on that song
Forgotten
, though – your fingerstyle would go so much better with it.”
“I burnt my finger on the coffee machine the day before I recorded that on—” I stop mid-sentence and snort a little laugh, shaking my head in disbelief. “This is insane!”
“No it’s not,” he says, his New York drawl slowing down into a hard, persuasive drumbeat. “What would have been insane would be giving up on a girl who has the kind of talent you have. Not just talent, but the passion and drive that kept her singing til the end of the night, despite every reason not to.”
I shake my head and look at the floor, hoping he’s not perceptive enough to see the redness in my cheeks.
“So how ‘bout that coffee?” he presses. “Or a drink? Whatever you want.”
“What if I had a boyfriend?” I say, folding my arms defensively. “He would have something to say about me ‘having coffee’ with some…strange man who seems way too into my music.”
“He probably would. So it’s a good thing you don’t have one.”
I narrow my eyes. “How do you know?”
“If you did, then he abandoned you last night. Either way, you don’t have the kind of guy who would care about coffee with a ‘strange man’ who is
deeply
interested in your music.”
I grin and laugh. Whatever I think of this guy, he’s definitely got some balls on him. I look to the side and see Jenna way off in the back room, her face going through a million emotions. She bites her fist to express how hot he is, drops her jaw wide open to tell me she finds it incredible I’m blowing him off, and settles on nodding vigorously to urge me on.
“So?” he says, leaning forward, his palms on the table, the muscles in his neck tense and irresistible. “What do you say?”
I suddenly feel more vulnerable than I’ve ever felt before. But Jenna’s words come back to me: this is my career, and I have to fight for it.
“Okay.”
Brando
IT TAKES years to find someone who’s got that spark, that indestructible core that relentlessly drives them mixed with solid talent and that indefinable X factor that sets them miles apart from all the others. Years again to find the right people to put around them, musicians, writers, studio crew. Months to strategize and plan, to sculpt and mold the public perception through blogs and marketing and word of mouth, to play that fine game of giving just enough that they get it, but not too much that they don’t beg for more. It takes power, connections, hard work, and experience. Even after all that, you may as well buy a lottery ticket, because the amount of luck you need to create a hit would bring Vegas to its knees.