When we got to the restaurant, Rady came stalking toward us in his black mohair suit with Ray-Ban Aviators peeking from the pocket. He was good-looking in a clean way, but he was fat. He looked like he’d eaten Ryan Seacrest for breakfast. He waddled up to Will, holding the black Gibson.
“What the f**k are you doing with my guitar?”
“Shut up, Will. Give the execs something.”
“Why, you guys having second thoughts?”
“No, of course not—it’s a nice gesture. They’ve made concessions, we all have. Pull your head out before you f**k yourself into obscurity.”
“Charming,” I said to no one in particular.
“I came here to have dinner, I brought my girlfriend; I’m not a circus monkey.”
“Hey, doll.” He finally acknowledged me before looking back at Will. “One song, blow ‘em away, it’ll get everyone off your back.” Will begrudgingly snatched the guitar from Rady and walked away. I stood there, not knowing what to do with myself until I spotted Frank sitting at a table nearby. He motioned for me to come over and then he stood up and pulled a chair out for me.
“Are you working on him?” he said, gritting a cigar between his teeth. He was pickled in Polo cologne, which I loathe. I squinted, trying to prevent the smell from permeating my space.
“I don’t know what to say, he has his own agenda. Maybe he thinks he’ll get another deal.”
“Maybe, but once word gets out that he’s difficult to work with, labels will keep their distance. What’s this master plan he keeps ranting about?”
“Never heard of it.” I searched my mind for some mention of a master plan, but there was nothing. While Will tuned his guitar on the tiny stage, I looked around the dimly lit room. The walls were painted blood red, which caused me to repeat REDRUM, like the kid from The Shining, over and over in my head. Then I imagined Will decapitating everybody but me with his guitar like it was a machete. I spotted Sonja ogling him; I hoped he would get to her first.
I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to see Nate. “Hey, how are you?” I said as I stood up from the table.
He hugged me and whispered, “I’d be a lot of better if he would sign the deal.”
I yanked my head back. “What’s in it for you?”
“They’ll keep me on, send me on tour with him. I’ll get paid for once. I hope you’re not the reason he’s f**king around with this,” he said derisively.
“I can assure you, it has nothing to do with me. It was good seeing you,” I said sarcastically before sitting down. I finally understood what Will was fretting about. Bloodsuckers coming out of the woodwork, pressuring him to do this and that—it was frightening.
Will cleared his throat into the microphone. In his soft, sweet voice he spoke. “Hi, everyone.” People clapped and cheered and a few said “Hi” back. It was a very casual atmosphere except for the elephant in the room, which was the table of execs from Live Wire. I half expected Will to burst into a punk-rock rendition of the Rolling Stones’ “Schoolboy Blues,” a song written as an “Eff you” to their label, but he didn’t. “This is the song we’ve been working on and it’s evolving still, so bear with me. It’s called “Lost on You.”
No apologies for what I’ve said before
I’ve told you time and time again
I’d sell my soul for something more.
You’ve left me standing here
a thousand times
waiting on this big world to make up your mind
But I promise I won’t get lost on careless thoughts
‘cause love’s lost on you this time.
So put me out, don’t put me down
I can’t wait another minute to be found
When no words have been spoken
They say still waters run deep
But not when mislaid plans are broken
With nothing left to give
I’ll fall fast out of my mind
But I promise I won’t get lost on careless thoughts
‘Cause love’s lost on you this time.
He sang a saccharine and predictable version of the song the way he knew the suits wanted to hear it. He couldn’t massacre it if he tried, but there was little passion behind his performance and it may have only been evident to the people who really knew him, because most of the crowd clapped wildly. Without acknowledging the applause, he immediately went into another song with a slapping motion over the neck of the Gibson. This time there was passion and he didn’t strum smoothly, he played with disconnected movements and dramatic passes over the strings. It gave the song a melancholy vibe with bluesy undertones; I decided I wanted to be eulogized over that type of guitar playing. When he started humming, I found the melody vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place it. The humming went on for several minutes, albeit it was perfectly euphonic humming, but I saw a few bewildered expressions throughout the room. I thought it might have been a strange version of “Amazing Grace” until Will uttered the first words.
How many times have you heard someone say
If I had money, I do things my way.
It was the song “Satisfied Mind” and he was making a statement or a declaration, maybe to me, maybe to the suits, or maybe just to himself, because he didn’t open his eyes once. He had no restraint when he sang and I thought he might miss a note, but he never did, it was always right in tune, completely effortless like it was impossible for him to sing badly. The words gave me pause; I feared Will had made up his mind about the deal and that it wasn’t a favorable decision. I chose denial at that point; I wouldn’t interfere with his decision-making process like everyone else. I would not pressure Will—I loved him too much and if he wanted a satisfied mind over his own page on the iTunes store, more power to him. If he could see the value in having dignity over money, then I would love him more for that. At least that’s what I told myself at the time.