The Master of Stage Antics

“Whatever, dude, you know I’m right.”

“Pshh.”

“Pshh.”

We exchanged a couple more psh’s before I forget what we were arguing about completely. I know it was really just invented out of boredom anyway. I’m sick of sitting here. I hate TV interviews. It could be worse though; it could be a photo-shoot. I hate sitting still. Something always starts to itch. 

Sam gets up and leaps off stage; Christina’s here. 

I cup my hands around my mouth and call to her, “Hey Christina!” 

She smiles, and waves to me, but gets back to Sam quickly. He’s freaking out a little, I can tell from here. He forgot something. He always forgets something. 

The interviewer finally arrives, her camera guy, Matthew, at her heels like a German shepherd. 

He snaps a photo as they come in, no doubt hoping to get a rise out of Sam, who has always hated being photographed unexpectedly. Sam ignores him though, he’s got bigger things on his mind than that hideous picture today. He turns and comes back on stage with us. 

“Okay, let’s get this party started!” Says the interviewer, Lindsay Quin. Every time we come out with a new album or win an award we end up back in this studio. We hate talking to Lindsay; she’s irritating and disingenuous, but somehow we end up back here every time. We pride ourselves in our hospitality toward interviewers, so we’re always civil, but it’s not easy. 

She looks us over and frowns as much as her paralyzed facial muscles will let her. “Only five chairs?” She looks at the men who had erected the set and now stood in a corner of the audience section slowly packing their tools away. “Where’s wifey supposed to sit??” She motions toward Christina, who is already sitting in the audience section, looking like a cow caught in a tractor beam. 

“She’s not here to be interviewed.” Sam explains, tersely. 

“Come on, Sam, Christina never does interviews with us.” Richard offers. 

He’s right, but I don’t blame Sammy. This is the first interview we’ve had since his second wedding a few months ago. He knows they will get grilled about it if Chris does do it with us and he wants to protect her from that. Christina gets really nervous about interviews, even when they aren’t televised. The first time she was supposed to do one with us she wound up getting sick and we had to do it without her. She is getting better, though, and if Richard thinks he can handle it, she probably can. 

So Sam says it’s okay, Christina is quickly dusted with makeup and someone fetches a chair for her. 

“There, all nice and cozy. Now, let’s get started.” Lindsay stretches her face into a smile, reminiscent of a halloween mask in its tortured, forced appearance. Christina shifts uncomfortably in her seat on Sam’s other side. 

“Matthew, start the camera.” Lindsay barks. I shut my eyes for the countdown and open them as Lindsay begins her trademark greeting, “Gooooooooood morning, Los Angeles! I’m the one and only Lindsay Quin here with some very special guests from the hit band Ghosts Against Mirrors.” Matthew pans toward us and James waves like a dumbass. “They’re here in the studio today to tell us about their up and coming CD and the whirlwind romance that lead to the marriage of lead vocalist Samuel Keystone and Christina Balson.“ She steps behind Chris and Sam, then moves toward James. “Sooo, let’s chat, James. What’s your favorite thing about the new album?”

James is a doofus, and he always makes an a*s of himself on camera. Something about that big, black lens turns him into a babbling idiot. 

“Uhhhh. . .” He’s worse when he’s out of practice like this. “The bass.” His reply is half-muttered into his chest. 

She laughs, maybe she think he’s joking, but sadly he is not. He stares at her until she moves on. She goes to Zachary next. “So, Zachary.” I’m impressed that she remembers his name this time. “What inspires you?”

“Huh?” Startled, Zachary drops two handfuls of shredded flowers. He’s been picking apart the cheesy flower arrangement some idiot put on the table next to him. 

“What inspires you?” She repeats.

It’s such an interview question. I’ve always hated that question. What inspires me? Your mom. Ask me a real goddamn question. 

Zachary has a handle on it, though. His answer is even better than mine. “Oh, Marla.” Marla inspires him to live, even before the band. 

“Marla?” Lindsay feigns interest, “Zachary Coleman has found love?” She gushes. 

Zachary nods, “Sure have. I don’t know what I would do without her. I’d still be in the same place that I was three years ago if it weren’t for her. You know? It’s the little things I love about her. Like the noises she makes when I get in and out of her. . .”

Lindsay laughs uncomfortably, visibly disgusted, but holding back. “Wow, okay, this is a family network, watch what you say, big guy.” 

I can hardly contain my laughter at this point. That big ape sure can wax poetic about his car. “Why don’t you show her a picture, Zach?”

He digs out his wallet, grins at the snapshot of himself standing with his cherry red convertible MR2, and shows it to her. “She’s beautiful isn’t she?”

The muscles in Lindsay’s face bend, twisting into the most genuine emotion she has expressed all day. “Marla is. . . Your car?”

“Yea.” Zachary smiles, looks at her. He’s oblivious. 

Zach’s had Marla as long as I’ve known him. Most of us have that one dream car we would buy if we got up the money. James got his a couple years ago, a ‘79 camaro in banana yellow. Anyway, Zachary just dedicates more money to Marla instead. When we go back to New Jersey we all have our routines, I spend the night at my mother’s house, Chris and Sammy go have a cup at the coffee house where they met, and

Zachary spends three days washing, waxing and vacuuming Marla. 

“Moving on.” Lindsay comes to me now. Her face might be plastic, but her tits are like sponge cake. 

“So, Keith. . . They say you’re the master of stage antics, how many of your stunts are planned?”

“Stunts?” I repeat the word numbly. 

Yea, you know, crowd-surfing, stage-diving, the thing with the water, tackling each other. . . Standing on the drum kit.” She checks her notes. 

“None of them.” The ignorance is incredible. “The audience can feel the energy you give off, if I planned s**t they could tell.”

There’s a pause, she sighs and her breasts heave forward. Finally she moves on.

I zone out. We’ve done this a hundred times. It’s pretty much always the same. They want to know what inspires us, our song-writing process, everything about Sam’s hair. If it were up to me we would never do it, but the label insists and Sam says the fans need direction. They need to know what we’re thinking. Sam takes himself too seriously.  But seriously, what he does is pretty f****n' serious. I mean, Sam's voice brings people to tears. And having that much control over an audience is a big deal. So Sam works really hard to keep our message positive. We get s**t tons of fan mail from kids with healing scars, just like ours. These kids needed something to believe in, these kids need to hear that their lives matter from someone they feel understands them. 

So, he’s right, there are times when we do need to speak up. All of this is stupid, trivial bullshit, but the big questions are coming. Chris and Sam are being passed over on purpose, A small-town girl in an all male band draws some scandal in the first place, heap on top of that her marrying the very recently widowed Samuel and you have a veritable rumor magnet. Don’t get me wrong, the kids know what they’re doing, but I can’t even imagine. . . 

Suddenly I see a flurry of motion out of the corner of my eye and Lindsay starts to scream. 

“Oh my God, ew, ew, ew!” 

I look over, Lindsay’s note cards are scattered on the stage below her. Sam is smirking and Richard looks totally bewildered. 

Matthew gets out from behind the camera and leads Lindsay off stage. 

“You people are freaks!” She screams over her shoulder at us. I’m mildly curious about what Richard said to spark this outburst. 

When they’re out of sight Richard says, “Dude, Sara seriously had him incased in lucite?”

“Yep.” Richard says. 

Oh, this is about Scruffy. “Your sister’s hot.” I interject. I would never do it myself, incase a dog in lucite I mean, but I guess I get it. Lindsay clearly doesn’t. 

Christina laughs, shakes her head. “You always add something special to the conversation, Keith.” She rubs her arms and looks at Sammy, “When is this supposed to end?”

“Eight o’clock I think.”

I check the clock on the back wall of the studio. It is six thirty. This sucks dick. 

After a moment Lindsay comes back, but stands at a distance. I’m sure Matthew told her she needs to play nice, we’re crazy, but we’re important. After a moment she comes back in stage, apologizes for freaking out. “So, you guys next, right?” She spears Christina and Sam with a less than affectionate look. 

Matthew returns, getting behind the camera. “Ready when you are, Miss Quin.” He sounds almost as excited to be here as I am. 

I take a deep breath and Matthew counts down again. Lindsay introduces herself again, then steps behind Christina. Sam has it together, but Christina is freaking out. 

“So, you have been married since last June? Why in the world did you keep it quiet so long?”

Christina looks at Sam, completely dependent. 

He just shrugs, “Everyone who needed to know knew.” He says it bitterly and matter-of-factly. I don't know how he stays so chill all the time. The questions this girl asks him sometimes make me wanna' punch her in the face, and I don't hit women. 

Lindsay is thrown off, “Wellll, story-time then! How did you two meet?”

I hear this story all the f****n’ time, someone always wants to know how the little, Catholic girl from the deep south met the international rock star. I never get sick of hearing it. (I would never tell them that though.) It’s sweet. Christina usually tells most of it, she has a better memory than Sammy does. Since it’s an interview, though, he’s going to start it for her. 

“We met in a coffee shop in my hometown, Newark.” He starts slowly. 

“Stephano’s Corner.” Christina adds, because he always forgets the name of the place. 

He smiles at her. “Three years ago.” She smiles back. “We were meeting the director there to talk about the next video we were shooting, Broken Heart Hurricane.” Sam explains.

“I was a waitress, but some slow days when Stephano forgot to book entertainment I got up and played my guitar and sang a little. . .” Christina says, touching her hair as she thinks back.

“It was beautiful.” Sam and Chris lock eyes. She still blushes when he compliments her. “So I asked her to record a song with us afterwards.”

There’s a pause. “And!” Lindsay interrupts it, “Obviously you did more than that!” She seems genuinely interested now and the rest of us laugh. Usually an overview is satisfactory, but it is strangely devoid of detail. So Chris and Sam launch into a more thorough version of events. It’s cute, but I can’t help thinking more about how Carlee and I met. Because, I mean, Sam and Christina’s story is so Sam and Christina. You know, they met in broad daylight, with no intention of ever having sex. Carlee and I’s story is, well, different. . .

Author's Note

This chapter marks the beginning of the perspective change. I would like to say they are both distinct and necessary, but I'm not sure I am to that point yet.