Chapter 8 #2
“Pshh.” I can picture Roger shaking his head.
He’s in his fifties, but looks eternally thirty-eight.
If you can imagine the idea of Hollywood manifesting into a living, breathing person, that’s him: his suits are so slick, his shoes so shiny, his hair so perfectly coiffed that the first time I met him, it took me a while to register he was real and not a walking caricature.
He’s the undisputed king of the music industry, at least on the label side.
A living legend, a wheeler and dealer of the highest order.
When I started at Manifest right after college, my shiny Dartmouth degree wasn’t worth the paper it was printed on to the guys with decades of road-tested experience.
After the requisite mailroom stint, I was given the crappiest assignments no one else wanted, the bands we were planning to cut loose.
But one by one, I sorted their issues, squeezed records out of them, and sent them off with happy memories.
A few of those records had even been damn good and sold well.
When I started to get a reputation as a problem solver, I’d also gotten Roger’s attention.
“Always take credit,” he tells me now. “That’s rule number one. Hey, I’m calling with more good news. We’re still getting flooded with calls to book the Saints—they’re a trending sound on TikTok now, whatever the fuck that means.”
I glance at the dressing room mirror. I’m glowing.
“I’m adding more shows,” Roger says. “We’re going to make this minitour a midi.”
In the mirror, my smile drops. “But they need time to record, Roger. We’re trying to get them to deliver their last album, remember?”
“The Saints are hot right now, so people will shell out to see them. Those same people might not care in however many months it takes them to record. Hell, they might not care in the next twenty minutes. Speaking of which,” he says suddenly. “You gotten Hannah under control yet?”
My first thought is Have you met Hannah? but instead I say, “Roger, you could’ve warned me the dead manager I was replacing was her best friend from college.”
“Eh. It’s hard to keep track of who likes who and who’s sleeping with who and whatever else.”
“Well,” I say carefully, “Hannah’s probably one of the most troubled musicians I’ve ever worked with.”
“Look,” he says. “I’m not telling you to be unsympathetic. But between us, I need you to get that woman in line. I mean it. They sent me a demo of their new stuff and it was horrible.”
“Some of the new songs are bad, but ‘Six Feet Under’—”
“Exactly. I need all their songs to be like ‘Six Feet Under’ from now on. They’ve got to be hits.
I mean it, Theodore. Remember, this is a group who’s never had a successful album.
I don’t want ‘Six Feet Under’ to turn into another ‘Head in the Sand,’ where we get all excited about a breakout single, only to find out the band doesn’t have the talent to sustain the momentum, and they shit the bed with the album. ”
“Roger.” The censure is out before I think twice.
“Ah, kid.” Roger chuckles. “Sometimes I forget how young you are.”
“I just don’t think we should be betting against them—”
“Listen. All I’m saying is, this attention they’re getting needs to translate into money for us. So get Hannah in line.” He uses a clipped voice that tells me he’s about to hang up. “At the very least, don’t let her get drunk and fall off any stages again.”
Again? Jesus. I must’ve missed the first time in my research.
“I’ll have Maureen send you the details about the new tour stops.”
“But—”
“And for the love of God, what’s your number one objective?”
I sigh. “Make Manifest money.”
“That’s right. Peace. Be well.” Roger hangs up.
I look in the mirror. The phrase soulless corporate drone echoes in my mind and I have to admit I can maybe see where the Saints are coming from. Roger doesn’t seem particularly interested in them as artists. Or people. But he’s a busy man, and a business icon—
That’s when the raised voices hit me. I jog into the hallway, heart pounding, and the voices only get louder.
By the time I burst onstage, I find Hannah and Ripper squaring off, their cheeks red, body language screaming.
Kenny’s watching them, pale-faced, behind his drums. Bowie, God help him, is between Hannah and Ripper, arms outstretched.
“What the hell?” I boom.
Ripper points at Hannah. “Her ego is out of control.”
She looks incredulous. “My ego? News flash, Ripper: I’ve played guitar since I was ten. I’m better than you. That’s a fact.”
“Come on, guys,” Bowie tries, but Ripper’s not listening.
“It’s not just lead guitar. You think you’re in charge of everything. You’re the one who gets to decide whether we’re a band or not.”
“I thought we moved past this,” Kenny says.
Ripper shakes his head. “You always have to have it your way, or nothing.”
“Trust me, Ripper, none of this is my way.” Hannah’s voice is sharp. “You know what would be my way? If we acted like Ginny existed instead of pretending she never did.”
Ripper’s face turns stony. I register the change in the pit of my stomach.
“There’s no need to say hurtful things—” I start.
But Ripper cuts me off. “Just because Kenny and I haven’t let our grief consume us doesn’t mean we don’t miss her. But someone’s got to keep their shit together while you go off the deep end.”
“Of course you’d say that.” Her voice is lower and more controlled than I’d expected.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Her eyes are dark. “You didn’t love her as much. That’s why you can just move on. It’s easier for you.”
Surprise etches into every line on Ripper’s face.
“Hannah,” Bowie pleads, but she ignores him.
“It hasn’t even been a year since she died and all you can talk about is fucking lead guitar.”
Everyone in the room is deathly quiet. Even the noise backstage— the crew, setting up—has gone silent.
“You have to stop punishing everyone because she died.” Ripper swallows. “It’s not our fault. We don’t deserve you steering our lives into the ground just because you’re angry and powerless.”
Hannah’s gaze snaps away like he’s hit her. Then she throws her guitar down and storms out, the Sunset’s double doors swinging wide in her wake.
“And I did love Ginny,” Ripper says hotly, to no one in particular. His eyes are glassy. “Screw what anyone says.” He turns and knifes across the stage. I pity any crew members in his path.
It’s just Kenny, Bowie, and me left. I turn to Kenny, rubbing my temples. “Please tell me this doesn’t happen before every show.”
Kenny stands up and gives me a weak smile. “You want my advice, Suit? Book a flight back to New York and tell Roger he’s not getting his new album.”
“This is what I wanted to talk about earlier,” Bowie says guiltily, as Kenny leaves. “The band might have some unresolved issues.”
I sigh. “Yeah, well . . . what would the amazing Ginny do if she was here?”
A small, sad smile curls Bowie’s lips. “She always used to say that Hannah was the most stubborn one. She’d probably talk to her and pull some sister magic.”
I frown. “What do you mean, sister magic?”
Bowie stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Because . . . Ginny was Hannah’s sister? Virginia Cortland?”
Ginny followed Hannah everywhere . . . I’ve never met two closer people . . . You didn’t love her as much . . . It’s easier for you.
My god. Piece by piece, the past rearranges itself until everything finally makes sense, from my first encounter with Minnie the superfan to the invisible weight that hangs over the band, a subject too raw for anyone to address unless they’re screaming at one another.
And in this new light, nothing is more obvious than the fact that from the beginning, it’s been me—Manifest’s so-called Fixer—who has handled everything completely wrong.