Just a few more minutes, and it’d be over. And I’d be on to the next.
The cheers that exploded from the live audience as my name was announced made me grin for real. This was what I did everything for. Even more than the money—the supposed pot of gold I’d been told was out there—I lived for the adulation.
The respect.
I’d never gotten any before this, except when I’d worked my way through the schoolyard bullies and earned their grudging admiration for beating their asses. This was different. Singing, playing the guitar, and writing music were my skills. The only things that mattered.
So what if I didn’t have much family that counted or even friends? I’d been alone all this time and I’d gotten used to it.
Everything would be fine after tonight.
I took my guitar from one of the crew and looped the strap over my head, then blew kisses to the fans cheering for me. Thank God for them. They would get me through this.
Cupping the microphone, I waited for my cue and began to sing the classic from Extreme, “More Than Words.” It was a stripped down song, meaning there was absolutely no place to hide weaknesses in my voice. I didn’t have any. My ribs might be sore from the bruises, and my face might look rough around the edges despite the makeup, but this I’d been born to do.
No matter who thought otherwise.
I moved back from the mic a little and strummed the simple melody, letting the romantic sentiment sweep through me enough to carry through to my voice.
And for a moment, I used Simon in another way. I pretended I was my older brother, singing to my wife. To someone who mattered to me more than my very heartbeat.
Not that I knew what that truly felt like, but I could im
agine. Oh, there’d been women, and girlfriends now and then when the loneliness grew to be too much. But I did better single file. Didn’t know how to be any other way.
Right now, I could play make-believe.
When I reached the high note at the end of the song, I gripped the microphone as I went for it, scarcely able to feel the bite of my rings as I curved them around the webbed metal. I held onto the mic as I dropped my head back to let the applause sink in, then the inevitable booming, TV-ready voice that brought me back to reality.
I kissed my fingertips then held my hand high as I stepped back from the mic, my focus solely on the fans. Already the commentary of the judges didn’t matter. This was obviously all rigged. A sham like so much else in my life.
But still, I gripped the well-worn neck of my guitar as I waited for the judges to weigh in.
Even the words like “extraordinary range” and “this competition is just the beginning for you” barely registered. I smiled and thanked the judges, then waved at the fans and the cameras and took my bows.
Then I took my leave.
A crew member chased after me for my guitar, but I waved him off. I was finished with all of this pomp and circumstance, signifying nothing.
Voices hammered at me, but I ignored them all as I headed for the dressing room to gather my things. There wasn’t much. Wasn’t much in my flat either, to be honest. I’d have to sell what I could and pack up the rest.
Luckily, I was almost at the end of my yearly arrangement with my shithead landlord. The guy thought I would be sticking around, but plans changed. For now, I’d take what I needed and leave the rest until I could get back and deal with it. Wasn’t like I owned anything of value except my guitars, and mostly sentimental at that.
My name was my only priceless possession, and no one could strip that away. Though they would try.
I removed the show polish and took odd comfort in seeing the bruises reappear. There was an honesty to them I couldn’t find in the powder on my damn nose and the glitzy jacket they’d had me pull on over my T-shirt. Quickly, I tugged it off and hung it on one of the clothes racks. Not like I wanted to hold onto it. Cheap sequins weren’t my style. Then I grabbed my knapsack, pushed a hand through my hair, and took off.
No one tried to stop me. I’d almost hoped they would, so I could tell them—someone, anyone—to go fuck themselves. Instead, I hurried down the hall without being disturbed. They were too busy trying to keep people from sneaking backstage to worry about someone leaving.
With every step, the sound of applause rung in my ears like a sense memory I couldn’t shake.
It wasn’t going to be the last time they clapped for me. Not by a long shot.
I rode the Tube to the stop closest to Primrose Hill. I took a meandering route to the park on foot after getting off the train, going in whatever direction struck me. It was later in the evening, but people still clogged the streets, ducking into pubs, spilling out onto the rain-soaked sidewalks. I dodged them all, smiling at a pretty girl or two, even bumming a smoke off of one who asked for my number.
Since I wasn’t planning to be in the country much longer, I declined, but showed my thanks for her generosity by giving her a long kiss on that rainy street corner. Not sparing the tongue either. She’d been into her cups so she didn’t find my behavior the slightest bit odd. Or at least she didn’t admonish me. And she gazed up at me with starry eyes afterward, the neon from a sign reflected in their depths.
She didn’t know it, but tonight, I would write a song about her.