Sweet Thing

by Renee Carlino

“Yeah, I’m nervous,” he said, voice shaky.

  Before we got out of the cab, I put my arm around Will’s shoulder. “You’re an amazing musician.”

  He turned to face me. “There are record execs here to see me tonight… It’s unnerving.” He swallowed and shook his head slightly.

  “You’re gonna do great, I promise.” He looked at me like what I said was the gospel.

  We grabbed the instruments and headed toward the stage, both of us a little apprehensive.

  Right away I spotted Sheil backstage, gracefully running the show. She was dressed in a gorgeous maroon and gold sari and her long, shiny black hair was woven into a perfect braid running down her back. When she spotted us, her face lit up and her mouth curled into a warm smile. She came over and kissed Will on the cheek before taking my face in her hands. “My darling, I’m so glad you’re here.” Sheil could say nothing and everything with just a look. She made you feel like the only person in the world. She turned to Will and asked if he would accompany her with his electric guitar on another song and they chatted about the details.

  When Sheil left, Will turned to me. “Okay, we’re doing our song last, so be thinking about which one you want to do, okay, baby?” I nodded.

  There was a whole slew of musicians standing around backstage and it seemed like Will knew everyone. He was in his element; his nerves calmed as the passion came out. I tagged along from group to group while he discussed specifics about different styles of music. It seemed like every other person thanked him for helping out with a song or a recording. It was becoming clear to me that Will was well-known and respected within that community of eclectic musicians.

  When it was time for the opening number, Will and four other men took their places in a line of chairs at the front of the stage. Sheil came out and gave a short speech about stringed instruments and the passionate musicians that the audience would see that night. She introduced the five men as talented artists who would be playing a medley of varying styles. Will had a dulcimer across his lap; the other men had assorted guitar-like instruments. As the show began, I stood offstage in the shadows, completely absorbed by the sound, where I decided that playing the guitar should be a prerequisite for manhood.

  I looked out to the audience made up of a large group standing near the stage. Farther back were scattered blankets and people in lawn chairs. The lights from the stage projected on the faces in the audience, creating a magical ambience. Listening to the sweet sounds in the warm summer night air was enchanting. Will was unyielding on the dulcimer as the group played a familiar bluegrass tune reminiscent of my father. A lump started forming in my throat when I thought about Pops and the discovery I had made earlier that day, yet my pride for Will’s performance was greater. He played with such ease, but with thorough focus and respect for the sound. It was as though he was paying homage to the instrument as his hands moved gracefully over the strings. Another act went to the stage as Will came running toward me.

  “That was amazing!” I said as I opened my arms for a hug. He hesitated a beat and appraised me before hoisting me up with his free arm and hugging me.

  “Thanks, baby. Those guys are rad,” he said, gesturing to the four men he performed with.

  “Everything is rad,” I said, poking him in the belly.

  He looked down at his shirt and back up at me. “I know, right?”

  The next song was an original Will played solo. It was the moment for the execs to see, and the moment for Will to really prove himself. He had calmed a great deal after the first number, so I knew he wouldn’t disappoint. He grabbed his electric guitar as Sheil made her way to microphone again. “I would like to introduce you to my personal friend, a very gifted artist who I believe you will be seeing much more of in the months to come. Will Ryan, everyone!”

  He turned and gave me his cocky grin, shooting his eyebrows up. I laughed as he strolled to the center of the stage. He gave Sheil a kiss on each cheek and approached the microphone. “Everybody okay so far?” The crowd cheered. “Good, that’s good,” he said and then drove into a powerful guitar intro. When the song started to take shape, I heard the familiar melody. It was one The Ivans played a lot. Will was playing a bluesier version; I knew his soulful voice would lend itself perfectly to it. He sang almost the entire song with his eyes closed; his passion was inspiring and his voice resonant. He ended the song with the same powerful guitar lick it started with and when the sound ceased, you could hear a pin drop. His eyes shot open, he looked terrified, and then the crowd erupted. Even people lounging farther out in the grass, sitting on blankets or in chairs, stood up and began clapping wildly. There were whistles and cheers and then Will leaned in with mock shyness and spoke softly into the microphone. “Thank you, I’ll see you again in a bit.” Wearing the cocky grin, he scurried offstage toward me. The moment he reached the side of the stage, he was swarmed. I stepped back and let Will absorb the attention from everyone around. He glanced over at me and mouthed, “Hold on one minute.”

  It was more than a minute. I saw record executives monopolizing Will every chance they had. I realized this was the beginning of a life for him that I probably wouldn’t be a part of. I suddenly felt a selfish pang of sadness. I watched as Sheil motioned for Will to get ready to go back out with her. He glanced back at me and surveyed my expression, then pointed and mouthed, “You okay?” I nodded. He went back out onstage with Sheil where they started tuning their instruments. They began playing a classical Indian piece; Sheil’s sitar playing was exquisite and Will complemented the sound delicately by playing just the neck of his guitar. He tuned the telecaster to the point where he was able to play the Eastern-influenced, bizarrely out-of-tune notes perfectly. Will’s musical acuity did not go unnoticed that night; the crowd went wild again.

  When they were through, he looked happier than I had ever seen him. Another act took the stage as he approached me. “Okay, baby, what’s it gonna be?”

  I stared into his eager eyes and said, “You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go.” He nodded approvingly. He knew the song and I think he knew why I chose it.

  When it was time to take the stage I was shaking. Will took my hand and held it all the way to our chairs. We sat down and began to play, me on the banjo and Will on the acoustic guitar. It was an out-of-body experience. I knew we played the song well; Will sang with a country twang but there was a blurriness in my vision that prevented me from savoring it the way I wanted to. It was over too soon and my memory of it would be like a dream. At the end, the crowd cheered and we walked offstage, waving.

  “That was exhilarating,” I said to Will. He wrapped his arms around my shoulders and pulled me in for a long hug. After the show, Will continued getting pulled in twenty different directions by all kinds of people who wanted to talk to him or offer him a spot in their band or represent him as his manager. There was no sign of his usual neurosis or spontaneous behavior—he remained gracious and attentive to everyone he came in contact with. After we said goodnight to Sheil, we headed out from the back of the stage where we ran into Frank Abedo, a well-known talent manager. I recognized him from an article I read in a music magazine where he was featured talking about the changes in the music industry over the last twenty years. He was widely respected as a manager with integrity and a real knowledge and passion for music.

  “Will, can I speak with you for a second? Frank Abedo, Artistry Management.” Will shook his hand and smiled genuinely.

  “Nice to meet you, this is my…” Will paused, stumped at how to refer to me. “Mia.”

  “Your Mia?” Frank said to Will.

  “No, I’m Mia,” I said giggling.

  “No, my Mia,” Will finally said as we all laughed at the awkward exchange. Even though it was a slipup, Will referring to me as his gave me a warm feeling.

  “Nice to meet you, Will’s Mia. Where are you guys headed?” Will told Frank that we were headed home, so he offered us a ride. When we got out to the parking lot we realized it was
a very nice ride in a stretch limousine. Will didn’t skip a beat and I wondered if maybe he was getting used to being courted by industry people. Once inside the limo, Frank told Will how it was unusual for an artist to have the kind of hype Will did without even so much as submitting a demo tape. He said Will’s name had been swirling around the business for a while and it was time to get serious.

  “You definitely need management, Will. There is no way you can navigate this industry on your own.”

  “I already have deals on the table,” Will said, shaking his head. I was shocked; I had no idea Will had already been offered a deal. I listened to every detail, not wanting to miss a thing.

  Frank continued, “I know every A&R person in this town. I know what they’re about. Artist development is practically unheard of today in this industry. What they’re offering you is a death sentence. They want one hit on one album and they want it fast. They’ll give you a tiny budget and a deadline and then when the album is finished they’ll promote the shit out of it, dress you up like a clown, make you cut your hair, and then fuck you in the ass if it doesn’t go platinum.”

  I gasped. Will looked over at me and smiled, totally unaffected.

  Frank was really on a roll, now. “Then if that’s not bad enough, they’ll make you go on tour in every godforsaken country until you can make enough money to pay them back for the second-rate studio work they paid for on an album that nobody cares about because they wouldn’t let you do it right in the first place.” Frank raised his eyebrows at me, then at Will, and waited for the response.

  “What do you suggest then?” Will finally got serious.

  “Let me manage you. You’ll keep doing what you’re doing, building the hype. I’ll book more solo shows so you can develop your songs in front of an audience. You’ll keep writing and building a good catalog. We’ll get into a studio and cut a quality demo and then we’ll shop you out and stand our ground. I know you’re the real deal. It’s rare anymore and I don’t want a label turning you into their monkey.”

  It was the whole stick with me speech and it was convincing as hell. I was sold and somewhat shocked when Will said, “Give me a month.”

  Frank smiled. “Okay, guy, but you’re not getting any younger.” Just like that, the conversation was over.

  As we pulled up to our building, Will took Frank’s card and we both took turns shaking his hand and exchanging pleasantries. Once inside the apartment, Will plopped on the couch and patted the cushion next to him, encouraging me to sit. I was happy to. He pulled my legs up, removed my sandals, and started rubbing my foot. With all the craziness I had forgotten that I was still nursing an injured foot and although I was out of the cast, I was supposed to be taking it easy.

  “How’s your foot?” he asked, his voice low and gentle.

  “It’s fine,” I lied.

  “You’ve had quite a day, haven’t you?”

  “Me? I think you’ve had quite a day, buddy.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.” He stared into space, then rested his head on the back of the couch and continued rubbing my foot.

  A few moments of silence passed before I could no longer contain my curiosity. “Why didn’t you tell me you were offered record deals and why don’t you want Frank to be your manager?”

  Will took a deep breath before answering. “Remember when I told you that I was still trying to figure things out?” I nodded. “Well, I’m still trying to figure things out,” he said, smirking.

  “Figure what out? Everybody wants you and you’re sitting on your thumbs.”

  He turned his head and looked at me, eyes narrowed. “No! Not everybody.” He got up and headed toward his room.

  I followed. “You’re my friend, Will. You’re my best friend. I’ll always be here for you. I want you in my life, just not in that way,” I said, pleading.

  When he reached his doorway, he turned toward me. “I know, Mia, you’ve made that abundantly clear.” Then he slammed the door and yelled “Goodnight!” through the closed door.

  I pressed my forehead against his door and took a deep breath and then said in a low voice, “Will, you can have anybody you want. You’ll get a record deal and go on tour and everyone will be falling at your feet.” My eyes filled up. “Please, Will, I care about you. You’re my family; this is the way it has to be.”

  He opened the door and drew me into his arms. “Okay, then,” he whispered and held me against his chest. “You must really be into that guy.”

  What? I realized Will thought I was still with Robert. Why did everything have to be so complicated? If I told Will that Robert and I were over, it would hurt him even more that I didn’t want to be with him. I wasn’t entirely sure Will wanted to be with me anyway. Will was just a lover through and through and he prided himself on being true to any spontaneous physical desire he had, or at least that’s what I thought. I imagined that Will slept with all his friends with no commitment and I imagined it wouldn’t be long before he was partaking in the perks of being a swooned-over rock star. I had no desire to be his humdrum history on Before They Were Famous. Yet, I couldn’t deny that I loved being with him and it took every fiber of my being to refuse his touch in that way.

  Track 10: TGIF

  Over the next two weeks, I spent almost every waking moment with Jenny, finalizing the wedding plans. She and Tyler decided on a small, private wedding at her uncle’s cottage in South Hampton. The wedding was a couple of weeks out and Jenny asked if I would spend a weekend with her out at the cottage getting everything in order; I agreed. We were to leave Friday night after I closed up Kell’s. That day would become one that I wished I could forget for a long time. I packed my bags in the morning and left Will a note asking if he would take care of Jackson until Sunday. I hadn’t seen Will much that week. He was busy, I guess. “Figuring things out,” or maybe he was avoiding me again. I took Jackson for a walk through the park before I went into the café. Just my luck, I ran into Robert and Jacob eating donuts on a bench near the children’s playground.

  “Mia!” Robert called out to me. I glanced over and immediately wished I could disappear. Robert told Jacob to go play as he stood up to approach me.

  He smiled kindly and gauged my expression before he spoke. I had to make a concerted effort to mask my hostility.

  “You look good,” he said shamelessly, his eyes glancing down at my chest.

  It was so nauseating that I couldn’t for the life of me spare him at least a little of my wrath. “Yes, I am alive, after being left in midtown at three in the morning.”

  There was a long pause.

  “There’s no shortage of cabs in that area, Mia,” he said smugly, “and if I recall, you chose to be left in midtown at three in the morning. On top of it, that’s not a dangerous area.”

  “Actually, Mister Native New Yorker, contrary to popular belief, there is more crime in Midtown than in Harlem or the Bronx, so it’s miracle I wasn’t murdered and dumped in the East River,” I said, smirking.

  “Well, I guess that makes you the naïve one for traipsing around Midtown in the middle of the night.” The back-and-forth comments were reminiscent of our fateful taxi ride. I was stumped, fumbling for words, when I thought, why the hell am I standing here talking to this assclown?

  “Good day, sir!” I spat at his shoes and hurried away. Great start to my Friday, I thought, TGIF.

  I cut Jackson’s walk short and headed to the corner market where I grabbed a chocolate bar to eat for breakfast; it was going be that kind of day. As I stood at the register, I noticed a variety of those little airplane bottles of liquor. I decided on the tequila, no surprise there. I stood outside of the market and tied Jackson’s leash around my waist. I had the open chocolate bar in one hand and the open mini bottle in the other. I took a bite of the chocolate and then slugged back the tequila; I’m not going to lie, the combination was growing on me. I headed home, wearing Jackson’s leash like a belt and enjoying my breakfast. When I got back up to the apartment, I peeke
d in Will’s room. His bed was made and the stack of mail I left there the day before was untouched. I thought maybe he’d stayed at Tyler’s, working on whatever secret website project they had going.

  I headed down to Kell’s, whereupon walking through the door Jenny held up the phone and yelled, “There she is! Hey! Your mama’s on the phone.” She was a little too cheery for the early morning hour. I shook my head frantically, but Jenny just smiled at me and nodded, saying “Oh yeah,” over and over again. She was being bratty; she knew I was avoiding my mom and she probably thought I needed a little nudge. Her antics would have been hilarious if it wasn’t my life she was messing with.

  “Hello, Mother,” I said with my tequila-inspired confidence.

  “Mia, I talked to Martha. Let me explain.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Your father and I didn’t want to confuse you as a child, it’s as simple as that,” she said in her determined lawyer tone.

  “Whatever.”

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I would never do anything to hurt you. I was young and I didn’t understand your father’s world. I got nothing out of the lifestyle; it was a party trick to me back then. I would rather have had my head in a book than sit around singing songs… Your father knew that. We weren’t wrong for being ourselves, we were wrong for each other.” There was a long pause. “I see the way you are when you play, Mia, I see the passion like your father’s, and I think it’s time for you to be honest with yourself. All the time you spent in college trying to fight it and look where you are? In the village, giving music lessons, living with Will.”

  “I had no choice.”

  “I think you did.”

  “I gotta go, Mom. I forgive you.” I hung up the phone, told Jenny I would be right back, and headed to the corner market. I set a chocolate bar and mini bottle of tequila on the counter for the second time that morning.

  This time Benton, the eighty-year-old cashier, eyed me and shook his head slightly. “Miss Mia, you know it’s ten a.m.?” I nodded. “You’re too young to be so unhappy.”