3. Phoenix St. Pierre
PHOENIX ST. PIERRE
Ican’t go home.
My adrenaline is at an all-time high. I feel untethered to the earth.
Wired. Floaty as fuck. I didn’t even give Jeremy the promised hour in the studio.
It took twenty minutes to conclude that Tom Cobalt is an egotistical, talented, unfiltered dick.
Unfortunately, he’ll be mine for the foreseeable future.
Tom and I agreed to send our schedules to each other and figure out a time to meet up next. But I haven’t opened my calendar on my phone since I was blasted with a new message from my mom.
MOM
There’s a new opportunity with The Manhattan Symphony. They’ll need extras. Link: Star Wars Film Concert Series at The Manhattan Symphony Hall
New opportunities is code for look into this right now. I’d rather chew on chalk than be thinking about playing timpani during The Empire Strikes Back. My mind is elsewhere. For once I just want a blissful moment consumed by thoughts of new music, a new band…hell, even Tom.
Yeah, Tom, who grated on my last fucking nerve tonight.
But playing with him for five minutes made me feel more alive than I’ve felt in five years. It’s got me jittery like I drank seven cups of coffee, downed three Red Bulls, and then streaked naked across Bleecker Street.
I crave to return to the studio and revisit that song.
His song. To play it just one more time and release this feeling that’s stirring inside me.
But I don’t want that nepo baby to think I need him, want him, or can even stand to be around him.
His ego is actually asphyxiating. If it grows any larger, we’re going to have more problems than we already do.
I honestly can’t imagine having a decent conversation with him that doesn’t grind my muscles. He’s everything I hate about the music industry. Sure, he’s talented, but he didn’t have to beat at the door to bust it down. It was held open for him by his parents.
I hate that.
I also hate that I can’t get his fucking song out of my head.
I ache to listen to his voice again. When I open my phone to a music app, a notification pops up with a message from my dad.
DAD
Did you read the link your mom sent? The auditions are next week.
I didn’t click into the link. They’re just trying to be helpful, I remind myself. I’m still swimming in student debt, even after graduating from Berklee College of Music three years ago, and my parents would be the first to tell me I’m making a grave mistake joining another rock band.
They will never approve of this, and even though I’m not seeking their approval, I’m exhausted even thinking about the impending conversation regarding my future.
I don’t want to have it tonight.
Fuck it—I do something I hate doing.
I put my phone in airplane mode.
Cellular data and Wi-Fi are now off, so I won’t be able to receive texts or calls. I can only access my downloaded music.
Just like that, I’m a pinball ricocheting across the city.
I’m at Gillies, a dive bar in Chelsea, until the sun rises.
Then I spend two hours at the gym lifting weights, an hour in the showers, four hours at the library, and another at my favorite ramen joint by Union Square.
I lose track of time when I walk around Central Park in the cold.
Music blasts through my headphones all day.
A bundled violinist plays to a crowd of two near the Bethesda fountain.
I can’t hear the harmonies over the bass in my ears, but I watch her eyes squeeze closed and her body shift to the movement of the melody.
A sign is perched against her violin case. Tips appreciated! Happy New Year!! There’s a QR code and a glass mason jar. I dig five bucks out of my pocket and slip it into the jar.
When the sun sets over the hazy winter sky, I circle back toward Gillies.
They haven’t put away their Christmas lights yet. Red and green bulbs dangle from the ceiling, and garland wraps around the barstools. I’m drinking a beer and jotting in a journal when I see the clock hanging on the wall. My stomach overturns.
It’s 10 p.m.
My phone has been in airplane mode for almost twenty-four hours.
Reality crashes back into me, and I take out my cell. As soon as I turn on data, my phone is a bomb. It buzzes hysterically with notifications. My heart thrashes against my chest, and I silently pray my parents have been busy all day and forgot about me.
When I see the screen, I rub at my eyes. No, I’m not seeing things.
I have fifteen missed calls from my brother.
Five missed texts—also from him.
Surprisingly, my parents haven’t reached out, which is the only bright spot in this whole mess I created.
I click into the texts.
BIRDIE
HELLO? ARE YOU ALIVE? ANSWER YOUR PHONE!
So you’re not going to believe this, but you’re an idiot.
Actually you will believe this.
You were supposed to fill in for Stewie today, asshole. You no-showed. And guess who’s your emergency contact?
The most recent text he sent was just two hours ago.
BIRDIE
The Nutcracker is my bitch. You’re welcome.
Fuck.
I stuff my journal in my back pocket. Then I grab my black moto jacket off the stool and my helmet off the bar and walk out into the frigid January air.