Chapter 12
Sarah rubbed her eyes. The JackRabbit crew had taken over the upper level of the Sacagawea restaurant for their after-hours bar and mess, not to be confused with the actual American Fantasy crew bar several floors belowdecks.
Most of the JackRabbit staff was dressed exactly like her, in Carhartt pants and big heavy boots.
To their credit, the men (the staff was almost all men) were moving heavy shit around all day, and no one needed to lose a toenail.
There was an ice bucket of Budweisers for the drinkers and an ice bucket of sparkling waters for the recovering alcoholics, and the room clicked with the metallic chorus of a dozen cans being opened at once.
“Listen,” Sarah said. She was standing on a stool at one end of the room, shouting.
There was no mic, which was classic for people who did nothing but put on music shows.
“I know it’s late, but I just wanted to say great job today.
Everyone is super pumped.” The assembled offered up a weak woo.
“Ha ha,” Sarah said. “Just remember, for most of these guests, this is the biggest trip they’ve planned all year, and they’ve been looking forward to and planning it for months, and you are the ones who get to give it to them. ”
“Cheeseball!” Tyler called out.
“Nice,” Sarah said, and gave him a look, not that he cared. “Anyway, see Team One on the third floor at nine a.m. to set up for the photo line. Get some sleep!”
Groans went up around the room, but laughter, too.
The world was divided between people who actually gave a shit about their work and people who tried to work as little as possible.
If she had even three of the hard workers, everything would be fine.
Most of them were like Tyler, though—lazy, like everything was beneath him, and he was just barely willing to do the job he’d been hired to do.
Sarah gave a wave and headed back to her room.
The narrow hallway swayed slightly. The red, white, and blue waves of the carpet were busy enough to distract the eye when the ship was keening or pitching, but Sarah felt it all the same.
When Sarah told some of her friends about how much she liked Boy Talk, how hardworking she found them, her friends would roll their eyes.
“Oh yes,” they would say. “How hard to be middle-aged rich white guys. Boo-hoo.” Boy Talk did make millions, sure, or at least they had thirty years ago, but they probably didn’t anymore.
Who knew what their royalty checks looked like?
That wasn’t any of Sarah’s business. They hadn’t written the songs on the albums that had actually sold well, but she was sure they still got nice checks every time their hit songs were used in an orange juice commercial or played at a baseball stadium.
For the cruise, they would pocket between one and two million dollars, which they would then have to split five ways.
It was a lot, more than most people made, but it wasn’t astronomical.
Not billionaire money like some of the pop girlies were making nowadays.
Yes, they were rich dudes who had been famous since they were teenagers.
Regardless, they all still had hopes and dreams and lives with their own peaks and valleys, and if you paid enough money, you could get on a boat and watch them perform for you, like a Russian cat circus.
But also—this was important to her—Boy Talk were the hardest-working people on the boat.
They stood on that tiny stage all night long.
They sang the songs, they told the jokes, they did the dances people remembered.
Except for Terrence, who was famously Libertarian, they never said a word about politics in public, rather than risk losing half their audience because of their stance on vaccines or genocide or whatever.
They’d already gotten clean from whatever ailed them, more or less.
Scotty and Shawn had gotten new noses; they all seemed to have miraculously grown more hair.
Scotty and Terrence and Shawn still couldn’t sing, but they fucking showed up and did it anyway.
Keith and Corey sang their fucking hearts out to make up for the other ones.
They were famous, and that was all some people needed in order to feel like they were successful, but Sarah knew better.
Fame and money operated separately, as did fame and respect.
Serial killers were famous—it didn’t mean you wanted to be one.
Sarah respected the hell out of their effort and dedication, and the Talkers did too.
It wasn’t the key to achieving success, but it would have been impossible to hold on to their success without it.
Keith and Shawn Fiore could have been coal miners, and they would have given it their all.
That was what Sarah admired—people who worked as hard as she did.
She knocked her key card against her door, and it whirred open.
She pitched forward onto her small bed and fell asleep with her clothes on.