6—Oklahoma City （Merch Stand）
“We’re together.” What the hell am I supposed to do with that?
That tiny phrase has been blaring through my head in a constant loop since what happened on Larinda’s bus a few hours ago. She followed it up with a whole list of ground rules for our secret relationship, mostly related to the “no one has to know” aspect of the scenario. Apparently, “no one has to know” means “never on pain of death and every good thing in this universe can someone know.” What I do know? Within minutes I went from a lonely single guy with a hopeless crush to the forbidden lover of an A-list celebrity.
Operative word being forbidden.
The obstacles standing in our way are colossal and insurmountable. We’d lose everything if the label found out she broke their number one rule, and I wish I could say that fact helped temper our attraction. But it appears adding the word “forbidden” to something makes it instantly irresistible. Every second we’re apart feels excruciating. She’s all I think about. Is she also counting the seconds until we can sneak away and do whatever it is “forbidden” partners do? I still taste her, feel her as I lounge beside Chad at the merch table an hour before doors open. (How I got on merch duty with Chad is a whole other story.)
“What do you think?” he asks, stepping back to admire his work with a victorious grin.
I scan the piles of assorted fan apparel. Other than the consistent lack of order, I can’t make out a single pattern explaining his thought process.
“Um, well, typically, the same items are grouped together.”
“Yes, which is why I grouped them by possible purchase combinations.”
Hmm.
“I meant, by type. So all the blue tees would go in one pile, the gray hoodies in another, the hats in another, et cetera.”
“And perhaps it’s time to rewrite the rules on categoric merchandise sales, don’t you think? Innovative Transmutation, as they say.For example, if someone wants a bumper sticker anda hat, right here. Large hoodie and signed poster? Here. Extra-large hoodie and signed poster? Here.”
He’s not going to list every one of the twelve billion combinations, is he?
“Besides, I needed room for the Sandeke Telecom proprietary Mer-Nut goodies.”
I don’t even try to interpret that sentence.
“Okay.”
He nods, pleased at my agreement and shoves a giant box toward me. “Do you mind?”
“Mind what?”
“I’ll handle the concert-y stuff if you’d be kind enough to take care of the Mer-Nuts? Good care, if you know what I mean.”
When he winks, I know I don’t, but he returns to his incomprehensible sorting of “concert-y” stuff, so I yank open the box. I’m no less confused when I see what’s inside.
The first item is a packaged—I don’t know, actually. It’s plastic and has a shiny tail fin. It’s also wearing a monocle. The text on the packaging reads, “Lord Brighthut.” Also, “Collect all six!”
There are six of these things? Why is there even one?
“Neat, huh?” Chad says with a knowing grin.
“I guess?” The definition of that word is broad enough.
“Can I tell you a secret?”
“Sure,” I mumble.
I pull a handful of the weird plastic fish out of the box.
“I helped design every single item in that carton. Even sat on the test panel.”
Interesting. Isn’t the point of a test panel to prevent things like this from making it to market?
“Wow,” I say, holding up another… thing. This one has a crown. A scepter is glued to its hip-fin, presumably because it has no arms to hold a scepter.
“Can I tell you another secret?”
Can I say no?
“Sure.”
He leans close. “Don’t tell anyone, but I’m not actually a music tour person.”
No shit.
“Right. You’re the Talent Liaison for Sandeke Telecom.”
He snorts a laugh and shakes his head at my ignorance. “No, no, my friend. I’m not that either. Well, I am but in the same way Antarctica is a country. That’s just my cover.”
“Your cover?”
I’ll leave the Antarctica thing alone for now.
“I’m here undercover,” he whispers.
Oh right. The spy thing.
“Wow. So you’re spying for Team Jarvis?” I joke.
When his expression grows suspicious, so does mine.
“How did you know?” he hisses.
“Know what?”
“That I’m undercover for Jarvis.”
“You just told me.”
“No, I said… Wait! Who do you work for?!”
Pretty sure the entire planet knows the answer to that.
“Larinda,” I say.
He huffs as he straightens and returns to his pointless anti-sorting.
“Obviously, which is why I can’t tell you more.”
“You just told me, though.”
“No, I said… never mind. Put the merkins behind the collectible figurines.”
I choke a little. Did he just say merkins? He knows the primary audience for these concerts are preteen kids and their parents, right?
I scoop a pile of fabric squares from the box and stare at… yeah, still don’t know what I’m looking at. Whatever it is would make a terrible merkin, but I don’t really have a theory for anything else. Apparently, they think they can get ten bucks for it, though.
“These are… merkins?” I ask, glancing back at Chad who is now scowling while placing things in random piles. My own sleuthing abilities must have upset him. Not sure why since all I did was repeat back exactly what he told me but, admittedly, I don’t have a ton of tactical spy knowledge. Maybe the latest spy trend is to tell everyone you’re a spy and confuse the hell out of them.
“Yes. Merkins. You know, like napkins but with Mer? Mer-Kins.”
Oh.
His impatient tone makes me positive none of this ever saw a serious vetting process.
“Right. Um…”
“It’s a double entendre,” he huffs, clearly annoyed at my ignorance.
Yep. Got that much.
“I see.” I clear my throat and do my best to arrange the “Mer-Kins” in nice piles. No way in hell I’m selling these to a bunch of twelve-year-olds tonight. He’ll be running this table on his own. I’ll see if Bruce needs anyone at the main stand.
“You know what that is, right?” Chad asks.
“A merkin?”
“An entendre.”
“Yes, I know what an entendre is.”
“It’s a metaphor, Val.”
“Well, no?—”
“Take for example, an egg. It’s a key phase in a chicken’s reproductive cycle but also a breakfast food. A metaphor, right?”
Pretty sure that’s just the food chain, but okay.
Chad scoops up one of the fabric squares and flattens it tenderly between his palms.
“In this case, we have this cloth here that’s part Mer, part Kin. Mer-Kin. But wait! See the designs?”
“More Mer… things.”
“Yes, but not just random ones. They’re a family. See where I’m going with this?”
“Not really.”
“Try to keep up, Val.”
“Sorry.”
“Anywho, this one is the grandma. The uncle. The little sister. A cousin. Another cousin. Also a cousin… The point is, they’re all related. Yes, this is a napkin, but these little ones are also kin. So Mer-Kin and Mer-Kin. Get it?”
Right.
“Okay,” I say with a tight smile. “Cool.”
I have zero intention of explaining what an actual merkin is. May I never have to have that conversation, or anything close to it, with this person.
As Chad goes back to work, my thoughts return to the less amusing aspect of his info dump. I can’t begin to guess what any of the Jarvis spy stuff means, but the fact that there even is a Team Jarvis is concerning. I’ve never trusted the guy, and now I have evidence that I shouldn’t. Why would he need a “spy” in the first place? And why would it involve Sandeke Telecom and their weird-ass fish dolls?
I have no idea, but whatever the reason, it can’t be good for Larinda. My instinctive need to protect her triggers all kinds of alarming scenarios in my head. From now on, I’ll have to stay close to her and even closer to Jarvis, who hates me. I’ll also have to work my new bestie Chad to find out what the hell Jarvis is up to, all without anyone being aware of what I’m doing. Which means…
Fantastic.
Now I’m a spy too.
As soon as I finish pulling all the fish crap from the box, I sneak away to call Nash. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve called him without warning, but it’s highly unlikely I’ll have another chance to talk privately anytime soon. Once doors open, I’ll be too busy working, and after that I’ll be shadowed by Chad until I’m able to pull the curtain on my bunk. I swear the guy would hover outside the bathroom door when I take a piss if there was enough room on the bus to hover.
My heart rate picks up while the phone rings. What if he doesn’t answer? What if he thinks I’ve lost my mind? What if?—
“Hey, dude. Everything okay?”
Whew.
“Hey, Nash. Thanks for picking up. You have a sec? Sorry for the call but it’s kind of urgent and I don’t know when I’ll get another chance. You know how it is on tour.”
“One hundred percent. I have to restring my guitar, though. Mind if I put you on speaker. It’s just Abram here.”
Abram? Great. That won’t help my pounding pulse. I’ve chatted with Redburn’s iconic lead singer a few times since my dream-date hang with him last year (thanks to Nash), but I’m not sure you ever get used to interacting with your idols.
“Hi, Abram,” I say.
“Hey, man. I’ve been loving what you and Larinda are putting out. Her stuff’s actually good now. You’re one helluva producer, dude.”
And there go the rest of my words. Why am I on the phone again?
“Th-thanks. It’s been fun working with her.”
“We can tell. You two have great chemistry. You’ve got a good thing going.”
“Which is why you won’t screw it up with something silly like a relationship, right?” Nash says.
I swallow hard. Right.
“Oh. Yeah. No, of course not. That’s actually why I’m calling.”
Silence.
“Wait, no! Not because we’re in a relationship. Just… I’m calling about her. Well, about a possible threat to her and I wanted to get your thoughts.”
“Threat? Let me guess… Jarvis?” Nash grunts. “There’s no chance that tour ends without someone losing an eye. I don’t know what Lakebend was thinking putting them together.”
That losing eyes make great headlines.
I hear the distinctive whine of a guitar string getting stretched and tuned.
“Sort of. Maybe? I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to figure out. There’s this guy on the tour named Chad.”
And that’s the distinctive thunk of a guitar string getting smacked.
“Hang on. You don’t mean Chad Smith, right? Please tell me it’s not Chad Smith.”
“I think so. His business card says he’s the Talent Liaison for Sandeke Telecom—along with a bunch of other shit I don’t remember.”
“Well, that’s not good,” Nash says.
“Is he the Mer-Berry dude?” Abram asks.
“Mer-Nut,” Nash corrects. “Pretty sure they’re nuts. Unless… Did this guy say anything about weird mermaids?” he asks me.
Ah. Those fish blobs were Mer-Nuts. That makes sense. Well, as much as that can make sense.
“Afraid so. I just dumped a bunch on the merch table.”
And that’s distinctive snort-laughing.
“Sandeke is sponsoring the tour,” I mutter. “Anyway, that’s not why I called. This Chad dude was saying some strange stuff about being a spy? I don’t know. He made it sound like he’s working for Jarvis, and with all the shit that went down last year between Larinda and Jarvis, I don’t like it.”
“Uh-oh. I was afraid of this. Have you talked to Steve, yet?” Nash asks, all humor gone from his voice.
“Her PA?”
“Yeah. He’s a lot, but he’s also loyal and knows everyone. You’re right to be concerned. If your gut is telling you something’s up, it probably is.”
“Okay. I’ll bring Steve into the loop when it feels right. So you don’t think I’m overreacting?”
“There’s no such thing as overreacting when it involves the diabolical partnership of Jarvis McKinnley and Sandeke Telecom. Neither have a shred of conscience or regard for anyone except themselves. I wouldn’t discount any possible threat if it furthers their interests. You just have to figure out what that is. Once you know the endgame, you can decipher their plan and stop it.”
Well, I already know what Jarvis wants: to be the only human in the universe.
“Hey. We got your back,” Abram says. “You need any help, give us a ring.”
“Thanks.”
Because what help could I possibly need to singlehandedly take on the world’s biggest country music star and telecom conglomerate in order to protect the woman I’m not allowed to love?