by Simon Rich
“Well,” Mr. Bender said, raising an eyebrow. “I suppose this gives new meaning to the expression ‘YOLO’!”
The ghosts smiled uneasily, confused by the reference.
“Or is it ‘FOMO’?” Mr. Bender said. “Is it ‘YOLO’ or ‘FOMO’?”
His wife kissed him gently on the cheek. “It doesn’t matter, love.”
The ghosts closed their eyes and melted pleasantly into a ball of crystal light.
“Did it get warm all of a sudden?” Lily asked.
“Yeah,” her brother said. “I’m sweating.”
Lily raised her eyebrows. “Climate change. They say this is the hottest January on record.”
“I think I read about that,” said Brent. “In the New York Times.”
BIG BREAK
Tim was tuning his guitar backstage when he noticed something odd.
“Holy shit,” he said. “Look.”
Sanjay strolled over, drumsticks in hand.
“What’s up?”
Tim pointed shakily through a gap in the curtains.
“Have you ever seen anything like that before?”
Sanjay’s eyes widened.
“Not at one of our shows.”
Tim could feel his heart speeding up and time slowing down. It was just like he’d always imagined it. An empty chair, in the center of the bar, with a paper sign taped to the seat.
RESERVED
“Who do you think it’s for?” asked Pete, the keyboardist. “Fat Possum? Merge? Gigantic?”
“Indie labels don’t reserve seats like that,” Sanjay said. “It’s probably someone from a major.”
“It could be anyone,” Tim said, trying his best to stay calm. “Anyone from anywhere.”
The house music faded as the lights went down. Tim secured a daffodil to his lapel. He’d been employing this good-luck ritual since their very first show. Now, it seemed, it was finally paying dividends.
“This is it,” he told his bandmates. “We’ve waited five years for this. Don’t blow it.”
As the curtain creaked open, Tim thought about how far the band had come. When they’d first started out, as seniors at Yale, they barely had enough songs for an EP. Now, the Fuzz had four self-released LPs under their belt. Their latest single—a reggae-inflected surf tune—had amassed more than twenty-five thousand plays on SoundCloud. And when they’d needed to raise five thousand dollars to record their latest album, they’d gotten it on Kickstarter in less than twenty days. No one had ever come to see them perform, though. At least, not anyone important.
Tim tried not to stare, but it was difficult. The talent scout was tall and frighteningly thin, in a form-fitting charcoal suit. Club Trash served only beer and wine, but somehow he’d gotten hold of a martini. He sipped from his glass and smirked at the stage, his lanky legs folded at the ankles.
“Hello, Williamsburg!” Tim howled into his microphone.
The crowd politely cheered. He could make out his mother’s voice. She came to every show and her movements were as well rehearsed as the band’s. She began each set with a loud “woot woot” and always shouted “yay!” at the completion of each song. At the end of every gig, when Tim announced their time was up, she booed sarcastically. Sometimes people laughed at her joke. Sometimes they didn’t.
Tim launched into the band’s newest song, an ambient tune from their latest record. As he strummed his guitar, he spotted his stepfather, Henry, at the bar. His mother had clearly dragged him to the concert against his will. He was ordering a drink, his back to the stage. At Thanksgiving, after finishing his fourth glass of wine, Henry had suggested Tim apply for an internship at his consulting firm.
“I’m sure you’d be good at it,” he’d said cheerfully. “And you’d still have music as a hobby.”
The comment had so enraged Tim that he’d spent the next hour in his room. But now, looking back on it, he couldn’t help but smile. What would Henry say if the Fuzz got signed to a major record label? He pictured the old man reacting to the news, staggering backward, spilling wine all over his cashmere sweater. It was such an absorbing fantasy that he almost missed his cue to start singing.
They’d played “Abel’s Crossing” hundreds of times, but they still made occasional mistakes. Sanjay’s drum part was complex—a jazzy 5/4 beat—and it often caused him to mistime his vocal harmonies. Tonight, though, the performance was flawless. Their voices braided together, in key and on rhythm. They sounded like professionals. Tim snuck a glance at the man in the charcoal suit. He was writing down notes in a small black book, his eyebrows scrunched with obvious interest.
“Let’s play ‘Love Monkey,’ ” Pete whispered.
Tim hesitated. “Love Monkey” was their most popular song to date. (It had been featured in a local car-wash commercial just two summers ago.) But it wasn’t on the set list and Tim wasn’t even sure he remembered all the words. Before Tim could make up his mind, Sanjay grabbed his microphone.
“This one’s called ‘Love Monkey’! One, two, three, four…”
There was nothing Tim could do but play. The song was supposed to be midtempo, but in his excitement, Sanjay wielded his sticks like a punk rocker. It was hard for Tim to keep up with him, but the chords weren’t too hard and he managed to get used to the pace. Pete’s girlfriend had brought her friends from med school, and when the final chorus started, they sang along with Tim.
Love monkey, I’m a love, love monkey!
When they finished the song, everybody went nuts, cheering and laughing and whistling. Even Henry put down his wineglass and clapped his hands with feeling. Tim eyed the man in the charcoal suit. He was typing out a message on his iPhone, his lips parted with concentration. Tim was trying to decipher his opinion of “Love Monkey” when the scout looked up from his phone and—shockingly—flashed him a thumbs-up. Tim turned to his bandmates. They were trying their best to stay cool, but he could tell by their grins that they’d both seen the gesture.
Tim checked his watch. The club had given them only twenty minutes (it was a Tuesday night and they were the first of three bands performing). That meant they had twelve minutes left—exactly enough time to play their magnum opus.
“Echoes Lowering” was the most ambitious piece of music that Tim had ever written. It was a meditation on music itself and the inherent difficulty of artistic expression. The song included a three-minute bridge during which the only instruments played were a toy piano, a triangle, and a purposefully untuned guitar.
It was during this bridge that Tim began to daydream about his future.
“Why the triangle?” Tim imagined a reporter asking him six months from now, in the penthouse of a European hotel.
“It is what it is,” Tim would say through a translator.
“Do you enjoy touring? You seem frustrated by all the media and photographers.”
“I just want to be back in the studio. Where things make sense.”
Sanjay hit the crash, pulling Tim out of his revelry just in time to launch into the song’s discordant outro. It was his favorite part of the album—an ironic series of power chords culminating in a blare of distortion.
Tim looked straight into the scout’s eyes as he strummed the final bars. He played the last chord so aggressively that the daffodil nearly fell out of his lapel. When the song was over, he bolted from the stage without a word. What was the point of saying thanks or goodbye? The music had done the talking. Pete and Sanjay followed his lead, looks of intense stoicism on their faces.
The club owner was waiting for them in the greenroom.
“You only brought in five guests,” he said. “So your take is ten dollars.”
Tim chuckled. Normally, this kind of exchange would leave him shaken and humiliated. But now all he felt was pity.
“Was it difficult in the early days? I read in NME that you once played a set for ten dollars.”
“That’s a true story. But back then we didn’t think about the money. We were just kids. Give us a s
tage and some amps, and we were happy…”
“Tim?” Pete said. “Do you have any cash on you?”
“Huh?”
“You each had two beers,” explained the owner. “So that’s six beers times four dollars is twenty-four dollars. Minus the ten, you still owe me fourteen. Plus tip.”
Tim flushed.
“I thought the beers were free?”
The owner folded his arms across his chest.
“Beers are only free for headliners.”
Tim rooted around in the pockets of his skinny jeans. His mom had given him sixty bucks a week ago, but he’d spent most of it on guitar strings. All he had left was a single crumpled twenty.
“Keep the change,” he said, handing it over.
The owner grabbed the cash and walked away.
“Oh, one other thing,” he said, spinning around suddenly. “There’s some guy, he wants to talk to you. Says he’s an agent. Asked me to tell you to meet him outside.”
Sanjay swallowed.
“Are you sure he said us? And not one of the other bands?”
“Which band are you again?”
“We’re the Fuzz,” Tim said with annoyance.
“Yeah, it’s you guys,” said the owner. “He’s right out front. In the limousine.”
“Remember!” Tim said. “Don’t sign anything, no matter what he says, until we speak to a lawyer!”
He was trying to act professional, but he couldn’t suppress the childlike lilt in his voice. He realized he was happy, genuinely happy, for the first time in recent memory. He’d never admitted it to anyone, but lately he’d started having doubts about the band. When he first moved back home after school, he genuinely believed the situation would be temporary. He assumed he’d be on tour most of the summer and that, within a year at least, he’d be supporting himself with his music. It ended up taking him three years to organize a tour—a nine-day trek across the Midwest. And between the van and the gas, he’d ended up losing money.
“What’s the absolute worst show you played?”
“Milwaukee. Hands down.”
“Tough crowd?”
“Worse. Nobody came.”
“What do you mean, ‘nobody’?”
“Literally, nobody. The owner never promoted it and we didn’t sell a single ticket.”
“What did you do?”
“We played a few songs anyway, just for the waitstaff.”
“Did they like it, at least?”
“They didn’t even make eye contact with us. You could tell they were embarrassed that we were playing to an empty room.”
“Did you ever think about giving up?”
“Never. When you believe in your music, nothing can stop you.”
The limo was long, black, and gleaming. Tim was debating whether or not to knock when the door swung open automatically.
“Come in,” said the man in the charcoal suit. Tim, Pete, and Sanjay climbed into the backseat. It was too dark to see. The only source of light was the man’s cigar, a gleaming ring of fire casting shadows everywhere.
“I’ve been watching you for some time,” the man said between puffs. “I think that’s the best you’ve ever played.”
Tim smirked at Pete. He’d always been the naysayer in the group, the one who threatened to pursue other projects. Now he was smiling like a five-year-old at Christmas.
“Do you know who I work for?” asked the man.
The bandmates looked at each other.
“Capitol?” Sanjay ventured.
“No.”
“Atlantic?”
“No.”
“Are you from an indie?” Tim asked, trying to mask his disappointment.
The thin man laughed.
“You kids are way off.”
He picked up a crystal decanter and poured out a round of scotches.
“I’m sorry, I’m confused,” Tim said. “Ralph said you were an agent.”
“That guy is hard of hearing,” he said, handing Tim a giant tumbler. “Hasn’t got long to live, you know. Two years, five weeks, and a day.”
The boys stared at the man in silence.
“I’m not an agent,” he said. “I’m an angel. Can you guess which kind?”
He pointed a spindly finger at Tim’s heart.
“Here’s a hint.”
Sanjay gasped as the daffodil in Tim’s lapel began to wilt. The petals browned and crumpled into dust.
Tim glanced at Pete. He wasn’t much of a drinker, but he’d already finished his scotch.
“Please,” he whispered. “I don’t want to die. Please, please…”
The angel held up a pale palm.
“Relax,” he said. “I’m not here to kill you.”
“Then why are you here?” Tim asked, a slight edge in his voice.
“To kill your dreams.”
He topped off Pete’s scotch.
“It’s a new thing I’m doing,” he explained. “Claiming lives is depressing. I mean, it can be fun, in a ‘gotcha’ sort of way. But it doesn’t do the person any good. By the time I show up at a guy’s doorstep, it’s too late for him to change his ways. That’s why I’ve decided, pro bono, to tell people when their dreams have definitively died. So they can move on with their lives.”
“We’re not quitting,” Tim said through gritted teeth. “Music is our life.”
Death smiled sympathetically.
“Did you know Sanjay’s applying to law school?”
Tim glared at his drummer. “Is that true?”
“I was going to tell you,” Sanjay said.
“And he’s definitely getting in,” the angel continued. “He spanked the LSATs Saturday.”
“What did I get?” Sanjay asked.
“One seventy-six.”
“Holy shit!” Sanjay shouted, bursting into laughter. “Holy crap!”
“You can still stay in the band,” Tim pleaded. “You can go to Columbia and we’ll work around your schedule.”
“He’s going to Yale,” Death said.
Sanjay began to dance.
“You can’t do this,” Tim begged his drummer. “What about our fans?”
“You have no fans,” Death informed him.
“Oh yeah?” Tim said. “Then how did we raise five thousand dollars on Kickstarter?”
“All the money came from Pete’s mom’s bridge club.”
Tim winced. He’d always wondered why they had such a large Boca Raton fan base.
“Pete’s going into finance,” Death told Tim. “He’s already been through four rounds of interviews.”
“I was going to tell you,” Pete said.
Tim’s eyes filled with bitter tears.
“What am I going to do?” he asked, his voice as small as a child’s.
“You’ll work at an SAT-test-prep company,” Death said. “The one Sanjay’s sister runs.”
“Oh my God!”
“It’s not so bad,” Death said. “It’s where you’ll meet Rachel.”
“Who’s Rachel?”
“Your wife.”
Tim’s sobbing slowed to a stop. He’d never had a serious girlfriend before. He’d always been too focused on his music.
“What’s she like?” he asked.
“She’s cool,” Death said. “You’ll like her.”
“Will I still play music?”
“Not for a while,” Death said. “You’ll be so busy with work, you won’t really have time for any hobbies. But in your forties, you’ll form a cover band with your brother-in-law and do some free shows at local bars. Your daughter will be embarrassed by it, but then later, at her wedding, she’ll ask you to play ‘Forever Young.’ Everyone will cry. It’ll be a nice moment for you.”
Tim nodded slowly. It did sound like a pretty nice moment.
“What’s my cover band called?” he asked.
“The Fuzz!” Death said. “It’s a great name. The name was never the problem.”
Tim smiled with pride.
; “Wish I could stay and chat,” Death said. “But I’m running late. Gotta hit up some open-mic poetry shows in Tribeca.”
The boys respectfully exited the limo.
“See you when I see you!” Death called out.
Tim sighed with relief as the black car sped away. He checked his watch. It was still early.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I want to thank my incredibly patient agent, Daniel Greenberg, for reading all my work these past ten years. I don’t know where I’d be without him.
I also want to thank Laura Tisdel and all the other wonderful editors who took the time to help me with these stories. They are: Susan Morrison, Lizzie Widdicombe, Emma Allen, Michael Agger, Rebecca Gray, Dan Abramson, Daniel Wenger, and Gail Winston (who doubles as both an editor and my mother).
I’m also extremely grateful to Reagan Arthur, Elizabeth Fisher, Tim Wojcik, Lee Eastman, Gregory McKnight, Ruth Petrie, Amanda Lang, Hannah Westland, Karen Landry, Jake Luce, Flora Willis, Anna-Marie Fitzgerald, and Brent Katz.
Most of all, I want to thank my brilliant, supportive, and supercool wife, Kathleen Hale. Meeting her remains by far the luckiest break of my life.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SIMON RICH is the author of The Last Girlfriend on Earth, What in God’s Name, Ant Farm, Free-Range Chickens, and Elliot Allagash. His work appears frequently in The New Yorker. He lives in Brooklyn, New York.
Also by Simon Rich
The Last Girlfriend on Earth
What in God’s Name
Elliot Allagash
Free-Range Chickens
Ant Farm
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CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Welcome