“So, Emily…” My boss starts, and I don’t want to hear it. Not after the day I’ve already had.
“This is so unfair, Phil. You hired me to be honest, you hired me for my ‘fresh opinion’ as you put it…well, that was it. And I’ll be damned if you’re going to censor me!”
The two men stare at me. Mouths open. And the silence is unnerving, so I try to fill the void by continuing my rant.
“And who are y-”
“Wait. What? What are you talking about?” Phil cuts me off.
“Wait. What what? What are you talking about? Didn’t you call me in here to tell me off for what happened at the press conference today?”
The two men now chuckle in unison.
“Far from it. We thought it was great.”
That can’t be right.
“Your question and Brad’s response has been on the airwaves and newsfeed since it happened. It’s all over the place. I’m surprised you haven’t heard it yourself,” my boss tells me in a manner I can only describe as gleeful, something I can’t say I’ve experienced from him before.
“Rolling Stone even tweeted that it’s about time music journalists stopped kissing the asses of artists for the sake of their careers and go back to asking the important questions.”
In the corner of my eye I can see Dennis nodding along. It’s not the reaction I expect from him.
“Okay, so I get why you are happy, bloodsucking editor that you are,” I say to Phil and get a grin by way of reply, “but what about him?” I gesture toward the band’s manager. “He can’t be thrilled I insulted his precious boy violin band.”
Dennis stands up again and walks over to where Phil is leaning against his desk, facing me.
“Emily, I’m not going to tell you that there’s no such thing as bad publicity. Because there certainly is, well, there is if you don’t know how to control it. But what’s going on right now? This is good publicity. Your dialogue with Brad was unexpected but entertaining. And it’s got people talking about the Rock Chamber Boys. And that, that is what I want.”
My eyes narrow at him. He can shove what he wants right up where he doesn’t want it.
“But I know, your job isn’t to please me.”
He’s got that goddamned right.
“But it is to please me,” Phil speaks up.
“So what am I here for?” I try to say lightly, not wanting them to hear my impatience.
“You’re here to accept your new assignment. Six weeks following the band, covering the launch of their new album and their European tour,” Phil says, without a hint of a joke.
“No,” is my immediate response, shaking my head. Over my dead, rotting, stinking body.
“Yes. It’s the kind of assignment you’ve been begging me for,” my editor says plainly.
“Abso-freakin’-lutely not.” My head shakes are double time now.
“Give me one reason why not.”
“Because I’d rather have my intestines sucked through my nostrils and then wrapped around my throat than be a glorified groupie.” I don’t add, “To my ex-best friend slash one-night stand.” It’s probably not pertinent.
“You won’t be a groupie, you’ll be reporting and writing an in-depth piece on the Rock Chamber Boys, music’s biggest stars right now,” Dennis says, seemingly oblivious to the ridiculousness of it all. But I know him. Even eight years ago he was wily as a fox.
“Says you,” I sneer.
“Says the two Grammys they just got, and an album they’re about to launch that’s going to get them their third one.”
I scoff, because it’s the closest thing I can do to show my disgust without having to lie and say they suck. The truth is, he’s probably right.
Fuck. Any other band and this’d be my dream come true. As it is, nightmarish would be the only way to describe it. Why them? Why now?
“Emily. This isn’t a chance I’m going to give you again,” Phil says, softly, but firmly. “This is it. And it’s perfect for you. The kind of article you want to write, about the music you want to write about. You have this unexplained chemistry with the band. Don’t give up this opportunity. I can’t say if it’ll ever come again for you.”
I know he’s right. I take a step back and take Dennis’s spot on the couch. Is there any way I can make this work? Can I just focus on the job for six weeks and then move on? Do I really want to regret not taking this assignment? My phone beeps and I look down. Notifications fill the screen, among them I see news headlines, “Journalist calls Grammy winners glorified cover band”; “Rock Chamber Boys Tainted Love Battle.” I can’t help but feel a thrill at the recognition.
“So. How ’bout it?” my editor presses.
I know I should be thanking him. He’s been supportive of me from day one. So he should know why there is more than one reason why taking on this assignment is impossible for me.
“Phil…you know why I can’t go galivanting around Europe for six weeks at a time,” I say pointedly.
“I know, and we’ll do whatever needs to be done so you can make it work.”
“But-”
“No, stop thinking of reasons to say no. Just say yes.” Yes. Say yes, Emily, my head tells me.
“Exclusivity?” I ask Dennis.
“Well, we can’t stop other outlets writing reviews and even articles, but you’ll be the only one coming along for the tour.”
“I want total access.”
“Is that your way of saying yes?” Dennis asks, a smile starting to spread across his face.
I take a breath. And hope I don’t regret my answer. “Yes.”
Brad
I’ve always felt as if I have two sets of ears. One of everyday noise, and one for music. How my brain decides which is which I don’t know. Because sometimes I find the most beautiful melodies in the most mundane of life’s experiences.
I remember one time almost being late for school because I was riveted by the metallic percussive symphony of a garbage truck going about its business on a cold winter morning-the crash bang clang of its talons clamping around the cans, and then the deep mechanical whirl of its pistons firing as it lifted its cargo into the air.
Rattle rattle rattle like maracas as it shook the contents of the can into its cavernous body, then, with a low, dull thud, like a muted timpani, it placed the can back on the ground, before taking a gas-cloud breath and moving onto its next victim. Over and over, the same musical pattern as the truck lumbered down the street, creating a rhythm against which the rest of the waking neighborhood’s sounds danced.