by Amiee Smith
Everyone on my team gives it their all. Troy keeps everyone on track. My band members are some of the best musicians in the Bay. I’m so grateful.
Alex enters the room without knocking. Dressed in a navy suit and a crisp white shirt. Silver glasses. Clean-shaven. Chest like a brick wall. He holds Troy’s clipboard in his masculine hands. Even with a scowl, he seems joyful. Calm.
Our trip to Gap was just a battle of wills, and we left with nothing. The compromise was an all-black pair of leather low-top Chuck Taylors bought at the Foot Locker next door. Even in sneakers, he looks corporate. All business.
Luce gasps.
“Oh, my God! Can he tone down the hotness? I don’t want to pass out with a flat iron in my hand. When you said you were going through a divorce, I thought he was some Dungeons and Dragons playing dude. I was not expecting all that,” Luce mutters, returning the flat iron to the table.
Ignoring her, I focus on Alex.
“Why do you have Troy’s clipboard? He protects it with his life,” I say.
“I fired that guy. He’s worthless. I gave him $100 for his notes. You have soundcheck in twenty minutes. And Luce, that’s way too much makeup. Brit is not a circus act. Fix it.”
Alex turns to leave. Without questioning him, she starts wiping away the Monet painting on my face.
“Wait! You fired my show manager?!”
“Good riddance,” Luce mumbles.
“Brit, he was a liability. First, he’s obsessed with you. To the point that even if I weren’t your husband, I’d be scared for you...”
“He just had a little crush,” I say.
Luce tosses a used wipe covered in ten different shades of makeup on the table.
“Girl, that dude was hella creepy. You never noticed that he always wanted to help you put on your shoes?” she asks.
“I have really good shoes. I just thought he was respecting and honoring their craftsmanship,” I say, sincerely.
Alex continues his argument against Troy.
“Secondly, he doesn’t do any work. Your band sets up their gear. Mal runs all the sound. Alisha runs your merchandise table. And the venue staff does the rest. All that twig of a man did was line up your guitars and talk about how he loves the way your nails pluck at the strings. He had to go!”
I cross my arms over my chest. Ugh! I’m not angry at Alex for meddling in my business, I’m just pissed that he’s right. Troy was all talk with a clipboard, but since he worked for Norah Jones (I’m still sketchy on what he actually did for her), I’ve been giving him the benefit of the doubt.
However, in his own unique way, Troy served a purpose in ensuring I give my audience the best show possible. I’m not sure Dragon can handle the unglamorous side of show business.
“Soundcheck in eighteen minutes!” Alex calls.
He flips through Troy’s notes, leaving the room.
***
Fifteen minutes later, I walk across the stage cradling my first acoustic guitar and looking more like myself. Just a little foundation and powder, simple black eyeliner and mascara, and a natural matte lip color. My smooth dark hair falls nearly to my waist.
I step from side to side in my red TOMS shoes, tuning my guitar.
Roy, my drummer, speaks from behind.
“Oh, girl! That Alex is the man. Went and got me a fifth of the good gin. The tiny dude was always hiding my liquor. It’s going to be a good night!”
His voice is uniquely Oakland. West Coast ‘hood with a little southern twang. Late 40s. African American. Bay Area native. Roy has played every club and bar throughout California but has never left the state. He says: “Planes and cold weather ain’t worth a paycheck.”
I found him playing a blues and BBQ party in deep East Oakland. I went for the ribs but stayed for the music. After his set, I bought him a fifth of the “good gin” and asked him to join my band.
Roy always shows up, on time, dressed in a neatly pressed black suit and usually just drunk enough to keep the beat so tight, the room could be on fire and he’d still be holding it down.
“Where do you wanna start, lady boss?” Willow says from my left.
A bass-playing musical prodigy, she’s a petite, bullish, twentysomething blonde with the soul of Charles Mingus. A Mills graduate, I met her at a dive bar near campus one night.
With a Red Stripe beer in her small hand, I overheard her say, “There needs to be more dykes in jazz.” I hadn’t even heard her play live, only a track streamed from her iPhone while we smoked a joint in the parking lot, and I asked her to join my band.
Like Roy, Willow always shows up, on time, dressed in a neatly pressed black suit and just drunk enough on feminist righteousness to keep the beat so tight, the patriarchy could blow up the world and she’d still be holding it down.
“If it’s cool, Brit, I want to run ‘Colorado Boulevard’ first. I saw your email with the changes and I just want to make sure we’re on the same page,” Nico says from my right.
I’ve known Nico for years. We met during our undergrad days at Cal.
Me, him, and Malachi were an inseparable threesome for four full semesters, kindred jazz-loving musicians trapped in the Aerospace Engineering program. Then Mal jumped ship and transferred to SF State to study music. I followed and transferred to Occidental in L.A. to study music. But Nico stayed the course, finished his degree and continued to torture himself by working twenty-hour days for a space technology company in Silicon Valley.
Three years ago, his company was bought by SpaceX. Cashing out his stock options made him a millionaire at 30. He bought a tiny house and an acre of land in the hills of Santa Cruz, grew his black hair to his shoulders and started an all Japanese jazz quintet.
Sax. Trumpet. Trombone. French horn. He plays every note I wish I could find with a hauntingly beautiful precision. Unassuming. Entrenched. Deeply devoted to the music.
Nico always shows up, on time, dressed in a neatly pressed black suit and inevitably holds a note during one of his solos that is so piercingly poignant, Miles Davis would offer a stoic nod of approval.
“Let’s start there,” I say, before Roy counts us all in.
We rehearse three songs. On each song I play a different instrument; guitar, piano, organ. I’ve got more instruments in my toy box, but those don’t need to be paraded out right now. Mal stops us several times to check mic levels, calling out to us from the sound booth in the back center of the venue.
Once a factory, the converted warehouse surprisingly has amazing acoustics. A simple black stage. Concrete floors. Exposed wood beamed ceiling. The open space is filled with 50-75 black folding chairs, lounge-style sofas, and the ceiling is decorated in strings of large white lights. A makeshift wine and beer bar is set up off to the side in the rear, next to the merchandise tables.
It’s a lovely space, and when filled with people, it is my version of jazz utopia. The owners can be a bit difficult and far too exclusive for my taste, but what I appreciate most is that they pack the room with people who really love music. All music. Before me and my band do our thing, a bluegrass band, an electro-soul singer-songwriter, and a Yeah Yeah Yeahs style indie band will open the show.
I rise from the piano and leave the stage. Alisha and Alex stop me on the way to my dressing room.
“Troy has listed that we’re selling vinyl copies of your album tonight. I didn’t see them in any of the boxes when I was setting up the merchandise table,” Alisha says.
“Yeah, I thought it would be cool to sell some advance copies before the official release, but I changed by mind,” I say, moving past them.
“Why not sell them? Alisha says this crowd would buy anything from you. Are they here?” he asks, following behind.
“Um, I don’t know,” I mutter, shrugging.
I hear Alex grunt from behind me. I enter my dressing room. Luce scrolls her phone.
“I was watching you through the monitor. Your hair needs a little body. Sit and I’ll add a few curls like this Sarah Jess
ica Parker pic,” she says, showing me her phone.
“That will be fine.”
“Hold off, Luce. We need to get this resolved,” Alex says.
“Yo! You can’t boss my team around,” I say, sitting so Luce can curl my hair.
“Yeah, he can. He’s hella hot. And he ordered us all pizza from Amici’s,” Luce says.
“Alex! I treat everyone to dinner after the show.”
Luce continues. “About that. I love our after-show dinner parties, but by the time we get to the restaurant, I’m so hungry, I can’t see straight.”
“I always offer you and everyone else some of my snacks.”
Alisha chimes in. “Brit, we love you, but you are the only person who likes Cheez-Its with caviar or hot sauce on saltine crackers. Oh, and let’s not forget...”
“The fruit snacks,” they all say in unison.
“Thanks, guys. Now I’m going to have to work out my snacking insecurities in therapy,” I grumble.
“No. No. Brit, you’re just a weirdo and we all totally accept you as you are. However, no one is going to turn down pizza from your hot husband,” Luce says.
“Curl my hair. I need to finish getting ready and write out the checks. While I’m a snacking weirdo, I still make sure you all get paid. Not pizza man over there.”
“We’ll get out of your way as soon as you tell us where the box with the albums is located,” Alisha says.
Luce perks up. “Oh, I can tell you. It’s over here. I opened it during soundcheck. And I must say, Brit your cover photo is ah-maz-ing. I did such a good job on your hair.”
“Dammit. I told Troy to put those back in my car,” I mutter.
Through the mirror, I watch Alex, Alisha and Luce pull vinyl copies of my forthcoming album from a brown postal box.
“Brit, it’s perfect,” Alisha says.
Alex’s masculine hands cradle the record that took me eight years to birth. He glances up, our eyes meeting in the mirror.
Hints of shame cause my skin to flush.
I’m so very proud of the work. It’s my truth. I have no reason to be ashamed. Yet, I have never felt more exposed.
“Luce, help Alisha carry this box up front,” Alex says.
“What should I price them at?” Alisha asks.
Instead of turning to me, she directs the question to him.
“Troy’s notes say $50.00. But for this crowd, let’s do $85.00. It’s a collector’s piece. If they don’t sell, we’ll lower the price before Brit goes on stage. Give the price verbally. Don’t label it,” he says.
(I’m not going to argue with that markup. It cost $1,800 to have 100 records pressed. So those are some fine profit margins, hunky husband with a business mind.)
Luce and Alisha leave my dressing room. Alex closes the door.
Nervousness replaces my shame.
A small voice inside of me speaks: Maybe I should have asked for permission?
But a larger voice inside of me roars: I have done nothing wrong.
I simply told my story of staying alive, being myself, and answering the call.
CHAPTER 19
ALEX WILLINGHAM
“You named your album Mrs. Willingham,” I say, quietly, peering down at the cover.
A color photo of my wife looks back at me. “Brit Palmer” is written in a white all-caps font in the top left. Mrs. Willingham is stretched across the bottom in a modern white cursive font, an almost handwritten script.
The shot is taken from the shoulders up. She looks directly to camera. No smile. Only a hint of eyeliner. A natural lip. Dark curly hair shapes her light brown face. Her usual silver nose ring replaced with a tiny diamond stud.
Years ago, I bought the stud for her to wear to a holiday party in Brentwood hosted by one of my clients I acquired from the contacts she made while in rehab. At the event, we were seated with other professionals who supported the family: their attorney, accountant, publicist, private physician, life coach.
At 24 years old, I was the youngest person at the table. We both laughed at the place card because it said: Mr. and Mrs. Willingham. On the Westside of Los Angeles, among the wealthiest people in the state, we were a young, happily married, well-dressed couple.
That night, after Brit made the rounds, singing my praises to the other wives, I was approached by at least ten men seeking a meeting with me to discuss my wealth management services. My company has made at least a million dollars in fees from that one night.
But what I remember most, is holding my wife in my arms on the dance floor as we swayed to Nat King Cole’s “The Christmas Song.” Wearing a red Dior skirt suit, she quietly sang along, in my ear, tickling the tiny hairs, and forever cementing a place in my life and business.
Overt or covert. Real or fake. Sex or no sex. Brit is as much Mrs. Willingham as my mom and my sister-in-law, Lynn.
“Don’t worry. I didn’t say anything negative about you on the record. It won’t affect your business. It’s an independent jazz album, I doubt any of your clients would ever hear it.”
I approach her, sitting in a folding chair.
“I know. I’ve listened to every song on this record at least a thousand times. Mal gave me a thumb drive with all the tracks after they were mixed and mastered.”
“And? What do you think of the album?”
“Dumb...”
Brit’s eyes widen in horror. Or pain. Shit. I’ve said the wrong thing. In these moments, with her, I always say the wrong thing.
I place my hand on her leg, stroking her thigh.
“No, sweetheart. I meant to say, I was dumb for pressuring you to get a tenure-track teaching job instead of making an album. Your songs are impeccable and need to be heard by everyone.”
“No, Dragon. You were right on some level. I do need to be teaching. Having two gigs keeps me grounded. Every semester teaches me something new. About myself. About music. I’m a better artist for it.”
“I want to help you. The way you helped me. In just the last few hours, I have felt more alive than any client meeting I’ve ever been in. I don’t have much experience, but I know business and I love music. And I don’t know exactly what my role would be, but I’d like to replace Troy permanently.”
“Are you asking me for a job, Alex Willingham?”
“Yes. And before you say no, I want you to know, I’m more than willing to help you put on your shoes. And take a class or two to learn the music industry. Also, the 20% cut the venue gets on your merchandise is ridiculous.”
“Right?! I tried to negotiate but they wouldn’t budge.”
“Sweetheart, you are the worst negotiator.”
“I negotiated with you to get Miz Pepper.”
“Yeah, and it took you years to convince me to do it.”
“Two of those years don’t count because you stopped talking to me. And besides, it doesn’t matter how long it takes, it just matters that it happened.”
“Brit, I will never stop talking to you again. And you can badly negotiate any time you want. But only with me. Let me handle the business stuff. Hire me.”
“I have a feeling if I hire you, I would be hiring my husband. Not some hot dude who loves jazz and buys pizza and booze for my band and team. So, I need more time to think. Husband and wife teams rarely work out in show business. It’s either the marriage or the work.”
“Well, good thing we both have other gigs to support us. So, there is less pressure. And for the record, our entire relationship has been business and marriage.”
“I’m aware, but that was before.”
“Before?”
“Before you went down on me,” she grins.
“I won’t lie. I can’t wait until after the show.”
“Why wait? We’re on schedule and there is a lock on the door.”
“Brit, we’re working.”
“It’s show business, Alex. The rules are a bit more fluid. And we’re married, after all.”
“Damn, wife. You’re awfully convincin
g,” I say, rising to lock the door.
“No, husband. You’re just easy,” she says, stripping off her shirt and bra.
“Yes, when it comes to you, I’m very easy.”
I sit, leaning forward and licking her exposed nipple. Brit moans.
Standing, she slides off her shoes, pants, and panties and sits on the edge of the table in front of me. At eyelevel, my wife’s slick center is in full view. Retrieving one of the wipes, I cleanse my hands, tossing it on the table.
I run the tips of my fingers over her swollen lips several times. Brit sighs and moans. My mouth waters as I gently feather the area around her clit. This is my favorite pussy. This is my favorite girl.
“Hire me as your manager.”
“Yes,” she moans, closing her eyes.
I stop touching her.
“Brit! That’s why you need me. You can’t just say yes to every person.”
She opens her eyes, staring at me. Her gaze dark. A smirk decorates her pouty mouth.
“You’re absolutely right. Why don’t you lecture me after you suck my clit?”
She edges her body to the end of the table, so her sex is closer to my mouth. With her feet planted on the floor, she spreads her legs wider.
Brit continues. “And after you’re done licking and sucking, Manager, I need for you to give notes to the lighting tech, issue checks to everyone, help me decide on a shoe, and talk to Jameson & Dixon to see if they want me to join them on stage tonight. If so, I will need to figure out a different outfit and get my banjo tuned. Also, you need to get that fifth of gin from Roy. If he finishes it, he will still play well but he’ll get too chatty on his mic between songs and the only person I want talking to my audience is me. And there will inevitably be more to do. Check Troy’s clipboard.”
My innocent, do-gooder, feminist wife, places her hand on the crown of my head, pushing my face toward her pussy and letting me know... it’s time to get to work.
I’m all in.
***
I unbutton and remove my dress shirt while I wait for Brit to write and sign another check for the band and team. She put her pants and T-shirt back on, but her bra and panties remain on the floor next to her TOMS.