BLACK to Reality

by Russell Blake

“Just Black.”

  “Then you call me just Rooster. You know any Hendrix?”

  “Of course.”

  “Or maybe we should just warm up with some slow blues? Let you get your footing?”

  “Whatever. It’s all good.”

  Forty-five minutes later Bobby waved from behind the console and stepped into the room. “I’m going to take off. Black? Call me when you’re done, okay?”

  “Yeah. Remember you owe me lunch.”

  “How could I forget?” Bobby walked toward him, digging in his pocket. He fished out a fifty-dollar bill and laid it on the amp. “There you go. Lunch for you and Rooster. Sounds like you’re earning it.” Bobby gave him a thumbs-up and hurried back to the door, anxious to leave.

  When they finally stopped after two hours of jamming, Rooster cracked his trademark toothy smile and shook his head. “See? I told you it would come back. You need some work, but you’ll do just fine. Better than that Rick idiot was, that’s for sure, even after twenty years.”

  “You really think so?” Black asked, cradling the Gretsch like a baby.

  “No question. You still got it, kid. Now you just need to focus, and you’re golden.”

  “I’m not sure the band will think so.”

  “Let me handle them. My job’s to take them to the finish line. I almost got ’em there last year. This year’s ours.”

  Rooster seemed convinced, and Black had to admit he felt better after playing, his old guitar like an extension of himself. Some of the old magic had slowly come back, and by the end of the session he started to feel a confidence sorely lacking the prior night.

  Now all he needed was to have that carry through onstage in front of thousands.

  Which was a different story than playing one-on-one with a legend who was throwing soft balls.

  Rooster disappeared into the equipment room and returned with the Gretsch’s case. Black lovingly tucked the old guitar away and retreated to the lobby to wait for Rooster. When the old bluesman came out of the studio area with Luther, the men were laughing. “Did somebody say lunch?” Rooster asked.

  “Yeah. I could eat. And Bobby’s buying,” Black reminded him.

  Rooster waved him off. “Put that money away. No way I’m letting you get our first lunch together. Besides, I have a special place in mind, and fifty bucks won’t even cover the cocktails.”

  Chapter 7

  Lunch on Melrose was a lavish affair. The steaks were juicy and well marbled, the wine pricey and delicious. By the time Black returned to Bobby’s office, it was four o’clock, and he was considering the merits of a long nap. The parking attendant hadn’t grown any fonder of Black’s car in the interim, but Black was now simply ignoring him, his mind elsewhere. He locked his guitar in the trunk and raced skyward in the elevator, wondering what a sixties-era Duo Jet was worth. It hadn’t been cheap when he’d bought it, and he was guessing that by now one in good condition cost thousands – maybe many thousands.

  The receptionist was as gorgeous as she had been that morning, and no warmer at Black’s arrival, but he didn’t care. Rooster thought he could do this, and if he did, then Black did, too. He wasn’t convinced, but he wasn’t as pessimistic as he’d been that morning.

  Bobby came out to meet him in the lobby, car keys in his hand.

  “We’ll take my ride. Simon Crisp, the show producer, wants to meet you. He’s waiting for us at his office. This won’t take long.”

  “Why would the producer care about the guitar player for one of the six bands in the show?” Black asked.

  “Eight bands. But a fair question. He probably wouldn’t care, except the last one screwed the pooch on TV. So my sense is he wants to ensure you’re not unstable before he green-lights you.”

  “But I am unstable.”

  “Compared to this bunch, you’re the rock of Gibraltar.”

  “Wait a minute. Simon Crisp…that name’s familiar.”

  “It should be. He was a record industry maven for years. Then he branched off and started his own production company. This show is his second outing, and it’s a smash. So was the last one. About crazy ladies and cat shows. Talk about watching a slow-motion car wreck. But audiences loved it. Now he’s one of the go-to guys for reality TV and talent contests.”

  On the way to Simon’s office, Black called Sylvia and tried to explain what was happening. She didn’t sound thrilled. When he told her he’d be living at a house for the next twelve weeks, she practically came apart.

  “Have you lost your mind? Three months living in some absurd TV show? What are you, nineteen?”

  “Honey, it pays really well, and it’s an assignment. I’m not just doing it to get back into music.”

  “Right,” she said, skepticism dripping from her voice. “Does this mean I don’t see you for three months?”

  Bobby had laid out the rules: He would have to live at a mansion in Malibu with three of the other bands, two people to a room, and they could only see girl or boyfriends at contests open to the public, or one day a week when the cameras weren’t rolling.

  “No. We’ll have time together. Just not as much.”

  “What does that mean? How often?”

  Black gritted his teeth and winced. “Sundays.”

  “That’s it?” Sylvia said, her voice now dangerously quiet.

  “And at the shows. You can come to those.”

  “How nice. Along with the rest of the, what do you call them, groupies?”

  “It’s not like that, Sylvia.”

  “Right. Because rock bands are well known for their conservative lifestyles.”

  “I’m a little old for the party-all-night thing, honey.”

  “Don’t honey me. If I’d wanted to date a musician, I could have thrown a rock and hit a dozen from my apartment.”

  Bobby pointed at a copper-colored glass building. “We’re almost there.”

  “Sylvia, I have to go. We’re still on for dinner, right?”

  “I’ll think about it. I may decide to run off and join the Foreign Legion in the interim.”

  “Okay, then, I’ll call you later.”

  The phone clicked, and he found himself listening to a dial tone. He glanced at Bobby. “That went well. She was really excited and happy for me.”

  “I read between the lines.”

  Bobby parked the Tesla in the underground garage and led the way to the elevator bank. This building made Bobby’s look only so-so and Black’s like a Detroit tenement. When they arrived at the production company’s floor, there was only one door when they stepped out of the elevator – a double teak job that likely cost as much as Bobby’s hair plugs.

  They were kept waiting the customary Hollywood fifteen minutes, and then a pencil-thin young Vietnamese man with an edgy haircut led them to a palatial corner office. Bobby entered, all energy and sizzle, now in his element. Black trailed him, his sense of misgiving mounting with every step as the door hissed closed on hydraulic hinges at his back.

  “Simon, you look like a damn teenager. What the hell’s your secret? Tell me. Botox? I want a gallon.” Bobby was shaking Simon’s hand like the mogul had just posted his bail.

  “Just Jesus in my heart and a youthful disposition, my man,” Simon said and shifted his attention to Black. “This the guy?”

  “I’m the guy,” Black said, offering his hand. Simon shook it with considerably less enthusiasm than he had Bobby’s.

  “Little…long in the tooth, no? I was expecting someone younger.”

  Black offered a wan smile. “Don’t worry. I’ve had a ton of practice disappointing people.”

  Simon laughed – a good sign.

  “Funny guy. Good. The show could use some funny. Last season the dialogue was as dull as a State of the Union address, am I right? Funny’s good.”

  “He’s also a certified rock god, Simon. I gave you his pedigree. How many guys sold that many records?” Bobby chimed in.

  Simon looked at Black more closely. “Yeah, but he d
oesn’t really look it, does he?”

  Bobby rolled his eyes at the comment. “The man’s a frigging stealth fighter. Silent but deadly. And don’t worry about the glitz. I’ve got a girl that’s going to make him look like Bon Jovi. Trust me on this. Plus, he can actually play. Anyone else in this office had twenty-nine million people buy his album?”

  Simon’s door opened, and Alex Sands walked in, dressed in a tight black knit top and cream linen slacks. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “Gentlemen. Alex. Winner of last year’s show, and this year, one of our three judges,” Simon announced with the solemn gravitas of a diplomat.

  Alex moved to where Black and Bobby sat and shook hands. He leaned against the bookcase on the wall, and all Black could think was that the man was beautiful – dark, thick, curly hair; chiseled tan features; the physique of a gymnast. Black’s sense of inadequacy intensified with each passing moment.

  “We were just talking about how Mr. Black here sold more records than Elvis,” Simon explained.

  “Oh, wow, you’re him! That’s right. Simon said something about that. Cool. Nice to meet you,” Alex said, and Black’s opinion of him dwindled with each word. Pretty house, but nobody home, Black thought. Figured. Probably had hot and cold running Lamborghinis and a Victoria’s Secret girlfriend.

  Simon beamed like Black was his new puppy. “And he’s funny. A comedian. I don’t need to see any more. The man’s got my vote. Oh, one thing – you on dope or an alcoholic or anything? We had a problem last year…”

  “Nope. Although do you pay more if I am?”

  Alex looked Black up and down. “You think you still got what it takes to wow a crowd and win this? No disrespect, but a lot of the audience is going to be young – teens and twenty-somethings.”

  “My assistant came to a show last night and was literally speechless. Need I say more?” Black figured he might as well get some mileage out of the ordeal.

  “Yeah – she’s a pistol,” Bobby confirmed.

  “But what about your…image? No offense, but you look kind of like a movie extra,” Alex said.

  “I was shooting for mortician.”

  Simon laughed nervously. “See? Man’s a regular Louis CK. Whadda ya think, Alex?”

  Alex shrugged. “If he’s okay with you, I’ve got no problems.” He gave Black a skeptical look. “You met the band yet?”

  “That’s next. He just finished jamming with Rooster. I thought the man was going to offer him a production deal on the spot,” Bobby said.

  “All right. Congratulations, Mr. Black. Or Jim, right?” Simon asked.

  “Everyone just calls me Black.”

  Simon stood and rounded his desk, glancing at his platinum Rolex Masterpiece wristwatch. “Thanks for coming by, Black. A real pleasure. You’re going to do great. Bobby, have your friend go to work on him, doll him up. You know the way out, right? Grab some Perrier or something for the road. Me and Alex need to have a talk. You excuse us?”

  The Vietnamese assistant materialized just outside the door and led them back to the lobby, his steps silent on the granite floor. Black and Bobby were quiet until they were in the elevator. When the doors hissed shut, Black broached the subject that had been nagging at him.

  “Bobby, I hate to bug you, but if I’m going to do this, I need the first week’s pay up front. Just like any other job. Two grand. Is that a problem?”

  “No problem at all. Can you swing by tomorrow and get a check?”

  “Sure. In the morning.”

  They arrived at the garage level. “Perfect. I called my friend Monique earlier, and she knows all about you. Head over to her place after we get back to my building so she can get to work. Everything’s covered by the show, so don’t worry about paying for it.”

  “What did you tell her to do?”

  “Make you look like a rock stud. Don’t worry, dude. Trust me.”

  The famous last words were familiar. The same words he’d spoken when he’d had Black sign over all rights to his songs for a lousy hundred grand of hush money.

  Back in Bobby’s Tesla, Black called Roxie.

  “Hey. I’m doing the show. I just met the producer. It’s a go.”

  “Does that mean you have my salary?”

  “Not yet. But I’ll be making enough so that once I pay for the back rent on the office, three or four weeks from now…”

  Roxie’s flat tone went even duller. “If you last that long, you mean. Looks like I’m stuck riding herd on the old buzzard.”

  “I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

  “It’s not that. I mean, not just that. I think I’m already regretting taking this job.”

  “That bad?”

  “You don’t know the half. Can you say control freak?”

  “Maybe you can kill her by smuggling Mugsy into her house. Although that would be like trying to sneak a medium-sized Kodiak bear in…”

  “The other line’s ringing.”

  “No, it isn’t. I don’t hear anything.”

  “Ring. Ring.”

  “You saying ‘ring’ isn’t really the same.”

  “Gotta go.”

  “Roxie.”

  “Ciao, boss. See you tomorrow. Last day, right?”

  “I guess so.”

  The hair salon was on Rodeo Drive, and Black was able to squeeze his car into a parking place a block away. When he entered the shop, house music throbbed from hidden speakers, and an anorexic blonde with black nails greeted him at the reception counter.

  “Hello. Welcome to Shear Attraction.”

  “I’m here to see Monique,” Black said.

  “I’ll page her.”

  Black wondered whether she had a bat as a pet. The intercom buzzed, and a perky voice chirped, “Tell him I’ll be right out.”

  The blonde shrugged and fixed Black with a dead stare. “She’ll be right out.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “I just did.”

  The chrome and glass coffee table was covered with cosmetology magazines featuring impossibly beautiful people. A teenage girl sat across from him, texting away on a four-hundred-dollar phone she’d extracted from a five-hundred-dollar purse. Black idly wondered which of the expensive sports cars in front was hers, and decided he didn’t want to know – it would only depress him.

  Ten minutes later a thirty-something woman with too much makeup and an outfit that would have been at home on a stripper emerged from the rear of the shop and approached him.

  “Hi. I’m Monique. Bobby touched base. Oooh, I love your hair. I was expecting something way harder to work with.”

  “Nice to meet you. Why were you expecting…?”

  “Oh, I think Bobby likes to screw with me sometimes. I was expecting old, fat, and bald. Come on back into the magic kingdom. We’ll have you fixed up in no time.”

  They walked through a door into a large, well-lit salon with twenty stations, the area a buzz of activity as the pampered and privileged were primped and snipped. Monique’s slot was at the far end, and Black removed his jacket and hung it up before sitting in the chair.

  “What did you have in mind?” he asked doubtfully, staring at himself in the harsh light.

  “Retired by forty and married to a billionaire,” Monique said and laughed, a percussive bray Black instantly disliked. What had Bobby gotten him into?

  She played with his hair and nodded as she hummed softly to herself. Black watched her examining him with the clinical precision of a coroner and felt a tickle of trepidation in his gut. Finally, she stepped back and nodded.

  “We’re going to have to give you some length, do some bangs instead of brushing it back, maybe spike the top a little, and go black – maybe with a midnight orchid cellophane. Something edgy, you know?”

  “How are you going to give me length?”

  “Extensions.”

  Black’s eyes narrowed. “You aren’t going to make me look like a freak, are you?”

  “Of course not. I mean, no
more than necessary. Part of this is to make you look a little freaky, right? You’re in a band. Can’t have you looking like Sinatra.”

  Black sighed and closed his eyes. “I have a feeling I’m going to regret this.”

  “You want some white wine?”

  “Make it a double.”

  Two hours later he was staring at himself in the mirror in horror and fascination. His hair was now around his collar with a Ron Woods cut, jet black and tousled.

  “I look like a transvestite.”

  “You look hot.”

  “If you think the guy from Spinal Tap was hot. Nigel? The dumb one?”

  Monique stared at him, uncomprehending.

  “Never mind. I look like a paunchy Liza Minnelli, so if that’s what you were shooting for… How often do I need to get it redone?”

  “Once a month.” She considered her work and winked. “A goatee would work well with the hair. Might want to consider it. As far as the maintenance goes, I can come to you if the money’s right.”

  “Bill Bobby.”

  On the way to the restaurant to meet Sylvia, Black’s cell jangled in his pocket. He answered, and Bobby’s voice boomed at him. “Hey. I hear you look like Marilyn Manson now.”

  “I hate you.”

  “No, you don’t. Listen, I was going to tell you to pack a bag, but go light. The show will provide a wardrobe for you. They want to pick you up at noon tomorrow.”

  “What? But I thought I still need to meet the band.”

  “You do, but they’re already getting set up in the house. Rooster told them he’d found a guitar player, so that’s already decided.”

  “That’s not how bands operated when I was playing.”

  “Rooster’s responsible for doing whatever it takes to win. He vouched for you. You’ll meet them tomorrow and rehearse for the next week in preparation for the first contest.”

  “Wait. So I’m moving into the house tomorrow? I thought I had till Monday?”

  “Rooster thought you needed a head start. And what Rooster wants, Rooster gets.”

  “Shit. Will they be filming?”

  Bobby hesitated. “I don’t think so. Not until Monday.”

  “Do I have any choice?”

  “Nope. So enjoy. Look at it this way – twelve weeks of easy living and free beer.”