Takes One to Know One

Chapter 1

T HERE’S A BARE BUTT SHAKING IN MY FACE. C ORRECTION. There’s a sparkly butt in a barely there thong shaking in my face. There’s a butt on the wall, a butt near the ground, and a butt bent over and balanced on one leg. Everywhere you look, there are strong, beautiful booties gyrating to the music.

A dozen or so backup dancers have decided to rehearse in the middle of the hallway in the basement of this arena. They are pure, uninhibited sexiness. And then there’s me. The girl in the oversized vintage eighties silk blazer. Standing tall, but stiff. Like a gymnast that’s just nailed her floor exercises.

I check my phone again, but the walls down here must be solid cement. I only have one bar and it’s more of a stubbed toe than a bar.

I want to bolt for the exit, but some greater force is making me stay put. Like in one of those dreams where you can’t move no matter how hard you try. A lunatic with a chainsaw is running toward you but there’s a magnet holding you in place. That’s how I feel at the moment. It isn’t the dancers. Though they’re definitely not helping. It’s because I can’t afford to lose my job and there’s a very nice man standing inches away, trying his best to get me inside this door so I can interview a singer I know nothing about. I don’t even know what René “El Rico” Rodriguez looks like. Is he the one with the bleached-out goatee? Or the one with the thin, twirly mustache?

ángel, René’s manager, has the imposing physique of a bouncer. “We weren’t expecting anyone from the label tonight,” he shouts over the music.

“Yeah, sorry about that. It was a last-minute thing.”

He nods and checks his watch. “He should be ready. Give me a second.” He knocks twice on the door and steps inside.

The back of my neck feels clammy, so I pull my thick, wavy hair up into a tight bun with the hair tie on my wrist and check my phone again. Nothing. Not even the stubbed toe is lit up now.

A new, faster-paced song kicks on, startling me. I’ve hurled my phone across the hall, so I fumble around the backup dancers to retrieve it as they get into a new formation. In unison, the women drop slowly into a deep squat. I’m dumbfounded by them and the way they move their bodies. Technically, I should be more at ease. I’m half Cuban and half Puerto Rican. Cuba Rican. Or Puerto Cuban, depending on who you ask. But I grew up on salsa and merengue. This is reggaeton.

Salsa and merengue have rules. There are basic steps you can repeat for the stretch of a song and you’d be fine. Reggaeton, on the other hand, is lawless. Anything goes with this kind of sexy dance music that combines rap with Caribbean rhythms, and it’s way more sensual. There’s a lot of touching of one’s body, grinding, getting down low, rolling, bending, ass-shaking, and head-twirling. Reggaeton is salsa on ecstasy.

When I hear this kind of music, it has the opposite effect on me than what’s intended. My body receives the signal, and somewhere deep inside there’s a longing, but then I stiffen and take on a plank of wood quality. I don’t even feel comfortable standing here. I suddenly wish I had a sexier stance.

I really didn’t think this through. A few hours ago, I was desperate and about to lose my job.

“Dani, you may have already heard, but I wanted you to hear it from me.” My boss, Maureen, VP of Marketing and Publicity at Ocean Records, had called me into her office.

“Don’t you have a flight to catch, Mo?” I asked, wanting to avoid this conversation.

“I still have a few minutes.” She tapped the slim leather watch on her wrist without looking at it. “Grab a seat.”

I had heard the rumor all day. We had been bought out by some huge conglomerate, and in the merger, there would be downsizing. Here we were, end of day on a Friday, and I’m pretty sure I read somewhere most layoffs happen on a Friday. It seems unnecessarily cruel to ruin a person’s weekend like that. Mondays would be way better. Being sent home on a Monday would almost be a good thing, if you didn’t like your job. But I happen to love mine.

The aspect of the record label business I’m assigned to is all about looking forward. There are lots of calendars to manage. Production. Marketing. Launch. Awards. Each phase of the process, neatly divided into tabs on an Excel document.

“We’ve acquired a label out of Puerto Rico.” Maureen’s voice ended high-pitched with excitement. Late sixties, Mo wears a chic bob of thick ginger hair that’s always perfectly smoothed down behind her ears. “We’re expanding into reggaeton.”

I sat up in my seat, confused. So far, the rumor was way off.

“Unfortunately, that may come with some cutbacks here. But any expertise would be invaluable. Do you follow the reggaeton scene?” My stomach tightened.

So the rumor was at least partly true. There would be layoffs. I quickly read into what Maureen was saying. If I could attach myself to this new genre, my position as marketing coordinator was secure.

Maureen isn’t just my boss; she’s always been my guardian angel. She mentored me all through my college internship and, when it ended, created an entry-level position just to keep me on. I’ve learned so much from her in the past seven years. I admire her ability to connect with artists. She always has lunch with them when they’re in town and gets invited to their weddings.

Mo is in complete control and born for this job. She and her office always smell like an expensive candle, and her skin is flawless and matte. I’ve never seen her break a sweat. If she has any personal problems at all, they’re tucked neatly away somewhere in expensive canvas boxes.

As far as I could tell, Maureen’s one and only fault is always assuming that just because my parents are from the Caribbean, I have extensive knowledge and passion for all music ever to emerge south of Texas.

“Oh my God, yeah,” I blurted out. “I’m very familiar with reggaeton. Been following it for a long time.”

“Coming out of Puerto Rico?” She raised one of her eyebrows.

“Well, yes. Of course.” The look of relief in her eyes made me feel instantly guilty. “Where else would it be coming from? Am I right?” I was a devious snowball plummeting down a mountain. In my defense, I thought I’d have time to research. As music genres go, reggaeton hasn’t been around all that long. I could be an expert by Monday.

“But do you like it?” This time her face was more serious.

My cheeks froze in a half smile, hiding the preparation of another lie. The only time I listen to reggaeton is when it’s forced upon me. Like my little sister, Meri, playing it whenever I drive her anywhere. I could only define it in vague terms: Sort of like reggae, kind of like hip hop, always with the same incessant beat. The kind of music that makes you want to get an extra job so you can buy your sister a car.

“Do I like reggaeton? No, I don’t like reggaeton, I love it.” I leaned back in my chair and exhaled. “Reggaeton is my life. I just can’t get enough of it.” When Meri forces me to hear it, I zone out using different techniques. “I know everything there is to know about it.” Humming other songs is effective. “The Hills Are Alive” works well. “I love how each song is so different and you can really hear the nuances, you know, the, uh… the sounds.” Last summer Meri and I drove to the Keys, and after three hours, I could feel my brain slowly turning to mush. “But my favorite thing is, um, how this new wave of reggaeton artists are always pushing the limits of the genre, you know?” Because the same must be true for every artist in every genre, right?

Mo’s face lit up. “That is great to hear. Who’s your favorite up-and-comer?”

“My favorite? Oh wow. My favorite up-and-coming reggaeton artist…” I spoke slowly to gain some time and scanned the wall behind her. There was the picture of her with one of The Rolling Stones members and another one with Yo-Yo Ma. “There are so many…” I said pensively and looked out the window. “It almost feels wrong to pick just one. Like choosing a favorite child, you know?”

I tried to keep it together, but it felt hopeless. I was sinking into the plush chair. I tried to think up an elegant way to excuse myself and thank her for her mentorship all these years, but I couldn’t look her in the eyes. I stared off at the view of the green tops of banyan trees outside her window, and the delicate wisp of a single cloud on the bright blue sky… when a name popped out of my subconscious.

“El Rico.” At that answer, Maureen’s smile became almost too big for her small face.

“What a coincidence!”

“Yeah?”

“Well, this is just amazing. Isn’t his voice magical?”

“Magical. That’s exactly how I would describe it.”

“I knew this would be the right fit for you.” The lines around Mo’s eyes spread out like sunshine. “You’ll get a chance to step into a leadership role. It’ll be a small team, so it’s not going to be easy. You’ll have to wear a lot of hats.”

“Are you kidding me? I love hats!” Mo smiled at this. I knew nothing about the label we had acquired, but the only thing that mattered was I had secured my job. I was taking charge and Mo’s excitement was contagious. The room felt electric with possibilities.

I was so grateful my sister loved reggaeton. And thankful El Rico’s name had somehow lodged itself in my brain. Like all reggaetoneros, he must always say his name in his songs. Just in case we forget who we’re listening to.

This could mean better job security. Ocean had released successful albums in the world music scene, but hadn’t had any major luck in a long time. A reggaeton artist could go mainstream. Sure, for every Bad Bunny and Daddy Yankee, there were plenty of flops. The genre didn’t guarantee success. But if my sister had heard of this guy, he had more potential in the United States than the Bosnian ska band we had been promoting the last few months.

“Do you want to meet René?”

“Absolutely.” Who’s that? I wondered but I was on autopilot. I’d figure it all out later. I was about to thank Maureen for always believing in me, when she told me El Rico was making a guest appearance at a concert tonight and I should pop by for a quick introduction and to get a quote for the press release about his new album.

“What a coincidence that René ‘El Rico’ Rodriguez is your favorite, right?” She did her best attempt to roll her R ’s, her compact frame shaking with excitement.

“Yes, absolutely.” The skin on my face froze, like the runner-up of a beauty pageant pretending for the cameras that everything’s fine. She offered to drive so I wouldn’t have to deal with parking.

While I considered feigning a stomach flu, Maureen told me she trusted me. That she was relieved it was me representing the label. How great it was for him to meet someone who really knew him and cared about his music. Mo hadn’t met René yet, but she’d had a few meetings with his manager.

“I hear he’s not much of a talker. Let him know you’re here to help every step of the way,” Mo encouraged me as she pulled up backstage.

“Of course,” I said, feeling dismal, and slowly opened the door to let myself out.

“He only just recently signed and is recording his first album in a few weeks. Let him know Ocean acquiring his label is a good thing. I don’t want him to think we’re out of touch,” she added.

“Oh, no. We wouldn’t want that.”

Right then, his manager met me at the door, so I’ve had absolutely no time to learn a single thing about the guy.

There’s a painful pulsing all along my forehead. I’d love to track down a cold towel, but at any moment the door will open and I’ll need to step inside. The one time I lie. The one time I don’t stick to the rules.

I wish I’d had time to request a cameraman, then James could be here with his supportive presence. As one of our regulars for press interviews or behind-the-scenes of music videos, he’s reliable and tech savvy. He would have made me feel better and I probably could have used his cell phone. Somehow his budget cell plan always mysteriously secures a signal whenever mine won’t.

I take a deep breath. If I could just formulate a few poignant questions, I’d feel more confident. One of the backup dancers flips onto her hands, creating a shaking halo of bootie for the dancer in front of her. The loud music ricochets off the bare walls and isn’t letting me concentrate. The lyrics in the song are about wanting to undress all the girls “in el club,” as well as all the girls “outside el club.”

I can’t think of a single question that isn’t insulting. What do you think about the blatant machismo often found in your genre? Are you all for it? How do you make the boring, repetitive beat found in every reggaeton song all your own? That’s gotta be a challenge.

I try to think back to when my sister introduced me to his music. The beats and the vocals sound faint and mumbly in my memory, like they’re being played underwater.

Whenever we drive anywhere, Meri and I take turns playing music for each other. I bring in classic punk or new alternative artists from our label. While Meri’s turns are almost always reggaeton.

I take a deep breath and decide I have no choice but to go with a less-is-more approach. Pop in, shake his hand, introduce myself, tell him how excited I am to get started and show the world what he’s all about. All I need to do is get him to say something fun and interesting about his new album.

The song ends and the dancers finally disperse. Now the sounds of the packed arena stomping their feet and cheering echo down the hallway.

The door opens and René’s manager steps out. “All right, we’re good. You’ve got five minutes.” I thank him and he waves goodbye, leaving me there.

Five minutes? Five minutes sounds like an eternity. Thirty seconds would be plenty.

I step inside the room and a security guard shuts the door behind me.

There’s a large clothing rack near the door preventing me from seeing too much at first. Chill rap music is playing. A relaxing beat with soft Arabic flutes. The whole room seems warm and soothing, and completely the opposite of the cold hallway. I step slowly around the rack and take in the dressing room. Dark wood-paneled walls, well-worn golden velvet sofa, black floors. One wall is a large mirror with old-fashioned stage lights around it.

A makeup artist is sprinting about, a barely clad stylist is sifting through a box of clothes, and a girl in a large floppy hat is lounging on the couch watching me. She’s the only one who seems to have noticed my arrival. I muster a half smile in her direction and then turn to face the mirror on the far side of the room. I feel instantly nauseous. My vision goes blurry in what I can only imagine is some sort of stress-induced blindness.

I’m in a house of mirrors.

There are three guys standing next to each other, dressed in the exact same monochromatic look. Thick, white turtleneck sweaters, white slacks, and white sneakers. The one on the right is looking in the mirror and getting his hair teased by a makeup artist, the one in the center is scrolling through his cell, while a stylist is helping the one on the left with the cuff of his pants.

My eyes dart from one to the other. One of these is the real René, but I have absolutely no idea which one.