Sometimes I still feel like that hopeless child, that worthless little fuck I was before Ramsey made me a star. I was nothing, a skinny kid wearing sneakers that were two sizes too big because the Salvation Army didn’t have my size, always wearing that stupid yellow t-shirt that hung over my ripped jean shorts. I can hardly blame my mother for not loving me—when I picture that twelve-year-old loser, it still makes me cringe.

Don’t get me wrong, my mother wasn’t perfect. When I think of her I see her in the corner of our garbage-filled apartment with a nee dle in her arm. Sometimes she had boyfriends that gave her money, and they were always surprised to see me, leaving after an hour or so. I called her by her name, Suzanne, because she said I sounded stupid when I said Mommy.

I was stupid.

Sometimes the police would come and Suzanne would be taken away screaming. She always yelled at me and said it was my fault. It probably was.

A nice lady that spoke to me like I was a puppy would be there and I would leave with her. She knew I wouldn’t leave without my guitar; I left the apartment holding her hand, dragging it to my temporary home.

My father, a musician, gave me that guitar. I didn’t remember him much but as a kid I thought the world of him. I figured when he got out of jail I’d show him the songs I made with that very same guitar, a Gibson. I had to steal it from a pawn shop more than once after Suzanne sold it to that creep that ran it.

That was the reason the police came that last time, so it really was my fault. Suzanne said she needed money for her medicine. She also said I should burn in hell, and that’s the last I heard from her.

The nice lady who treated me like a puppy stopped working at the house where I was living. She never said goodbye, and I always wondered if she hated my guts. Probably. Over the next three years I would move around. I never had friends, except Kevin Robson. He was an old guy that gave me music lessons for free. Mr. Robson, as I would call him, was the closest person to me.

He would always say the same thing when I walked into his recording studio with all the buttons and machines.

“Did they let you out of your cage?”

He sounded mean, but he wasn’t, and I would roll my eyes. He would usually shake my shoulder and say something about me being skinny and not eating enough. Then he would give me a few bucks to get us some burgers at Dilallo across the street. I would leave my Gibson guitar with him when I left – Mr. Robson was the only person I trusted with it. I didn’t have to ask him what he wanted, I knew. It was always the same routine; Mr. Robson would give me ten dollars and make a point of telling me to bring back the change. I always laughed at his jokes even if he wasn’t funny, partly because he was old and I wanted to be respectful. I liked him, I never knew why he was so kind to me. Perhaps he took pity on the pathetic loser that I was.

Mr. Robson worked as the sound man for the old theater where all the popular bands played. We were never allowed to eat our Dilallo burgers near all his fancy machines, so we would sit in the red little seats and look at the stage while we ate. It was a magical place; it looked so different during the day before the people poured in and fake smoke and colored lights filled the stage.

“It should look like a dream,” Mr. Robson would say, referring to the lights and smoke they were testing for that evening’s act.

We would play guitar together after lunch in his sound booth. The first thing he taught me was an E pentatonic scale, and after that, it was history. I would show him songs that I wrote at home, while my mother was out, and for whatever reason he always liked them and would tell the other workers to come and listen.

“You have to make people feel something, kid, that’s all that matters,” he would tell me.

If I finished a song completely, he would set me up on stage and I would play it for the crew while they worked. I liked how my voice sounded grown up coming out of the big speakers and how my acoustic guitar filled the room. Sometimes the lighting guys would turn down the house lights and light me up if they had time.

It felt good at a time when very few things did.

“Use the whole stage, kid. Don’t be shy to scream that last note,” he’d say, giving me courage. It always helped that I sounded great after he fixed up my voice with his recording equipment.

“Who’s playing tonight?” I would ask as if I wasn’t fishing for an invite. I would never show up without him saying it was okay, and he invited me almost every time. Then I would show up early and help set things up.

Looking back, Mr. Robson and that theater were my entire world. Later, I often felt guilty that I was having such a good time while Suzanne sat in jail.

Over the course of those three years, I saw countless bands. Mr. Robson would tell me what the bands did right and what they did wrong at the end of the night while we were cleaning up. There were all kinds of acts—I will never forget the burlesque one-woman show that completely mesmerized the crowd. Her name was Ms. Sugar.

“Now that’s a real performer, kid. She had ‘em in the palm of her hand right to the end,” Mr. Robson said.

She would come by every few months and all the stage workers really liked her, for obvious reasons. I liked her because she was the only one who called me Brad instead of “kid.”

I later found out that Mr. Robson was a loner who never married. I guess it was pretty obvious there was no Mrs. Robson considering he lived on fast food and spent every waking hour in his sound booth. Either way, I’m pretty sure, after a while, he was as close to me as I was to him.

When I turned thirteen, I got my first official birthday present.

“Now this is from everyone, kid, not just me. We all chipped in and got you something.”

Mr. Robson presented me with an electric guitar, a Gibson SG like my acoustic. It looked like it was meant for rock and roll. It was orange-brown near the pick-ups and faded to black around the edges. I remember my throat feeling really small and tight and my eyes watering a little. I didn’t understand why I felt the need to cry, but somehow I kept the tears in. I just stood there like a statue, staring at the perfect guitar, trying to hold it all together.

I think Mr. Robson noticed so he spoke for me.

“This kid is going to be a star,” he said to everyone, and they all applauded in response, the noise overwhelming the small room. “Happy birthday, kid.”

That birthday was probably the best day I’d ever had up until that point. Mr. Robson said I was being silly about feeling guilty for having such nice things while my mother was locked up.

After receiving the electric guitar, my lessons with Mr. Robson were mostly plugged into an amp rather than on the acoustic, and the songs I wrote were based around that awesome electric sound.

Mr. Robson would say, “Don’t always play with the volume at ten, they won’t feel anything when you do that. For something to sound loud it has to be next to something quiet.”

Depending on who was playing the theater that night, we sometimes would have to set up a backline. A backline is a set-up of all the equipment that we had at the theater, and the band would just show up and play on our amps, keyboards, and drums. Usually smaller bands would do that, or maybe when there were multiple acts and tearing down and setting up a new equipment for each band wasn’t practical. Anyway, those days were the best because the crew would get a chance to jam on the equipment during the day. Sometimes, we would play one of my songs and I got to be front and center. It was amazing to play with a full band, drums pounding, bass rumbling, my guitar sounding exactly how I wanted it to when it was plugged into the Marshal amps.

The more we played, the more often they would ask me to take center stage. They weren’t as old as Mr. Robson, but they were still pretty up there. Even though they had grey hair, they acted like teenagers when they played, and they were really good musicians. One time we had fun with the smoke machine, using up all the dry ice. Mr. Robson gave us some trouble for that.

So, after such an epic thirteenth birthday, I would be lying if I said when I walked in a year later I was wondering if they would do something similar for my fourteenth.

“Did they let you out of your cage?” Mr. Robson asked without fail. I laughed and started coiling up some cables. I pressed on like any other day, not feeling bad that Mr. Robson didn’t know it was my birthday, but feeling bad that I had some kind of expectation. As if the electric guitar wasn’t enough. I quickly sorted myself out and tried to forget it was my birthday. I noticed they were setting up a backline so I hoped we would get a little jamming in.

“I was thinking of trying that burger place across the street,” Mr. Robson said jokingly as he handed me a ten-dollar bill.

“Bring back the change,” I said before he could and laughed at the scowl that melted into a smile.

“Who is playing tonight?” I asked as I walked away.

“Never heard of ‘em, kid. Take a look at the marquee on your way out,” he said.

As I walked out of the grand theater and into the foyer, I saw one of the crew members on a ladder beginning to put the black letters up outside. Still curious about who that night’s act was, I walked into Dilallo Burger and was greeted by the older couple that always worked there.

“I’ll take the usual,” I said to the smiling lady who took my money. I sat in a rickety chair and listened as they spoke in a language I couldn’t understand. I never could tell if they were arguing or not.

“Kid!” The man who did the cooking shouted and handed me a paper bag with the burgers. The bag had a shine from the grease soaking through.

“Thank you,” I said, and walked toward the exit.

“Hey, kid!” the chef shouted again.

With one hand on the door and my other hand cradling the greasy goodness, I turned my head toward the smiling man behind the counter.

“Don’t forget about us when you’re famous!” he shouted.

I had no idea what the hell he was referring to. His wife smiled and pointed to the marquee across the street where the night’s acts had been posted. The crew member was walking away with his ladder in hand.

In big bold black letters, the marquee read:

Iggy Pop

Ms. Sugar

Brad Snyder

I threw the door open and stood on the sidewalk staring at the sign in disbelief. My heart was racing and I felt my throat tighten up. Alone, on the sidewalk, I shouted for joy like a wild man and ran across the street getting honked at by the cars I was cutting off.

I stumbled into the theater out of breath and smiling.

“Happy Birthday, kid!” Mr. Robson cried out joyfully.

I was completely overwhelmed. I had never played in front of anyone, and this was going to be a full house. I was sweating and probably looked a little green.

“Sugar said she would go on first and get them ready for you. You’re going to do great.”

I must have looked like I felt because Mr. Robson took me by the shoulder and guided me to a seat.

“Relax. You’re ready, so just have fun with it. The guys will meet you backstage and you can decide what you want to play. Just do twenty minutes tops. You’ll do great.”

I didn’t respond—I just stared at the stage in disbelief and ate my burger like a smiling idiot.

***

I met Iggy Pop briefly, and he was nothing like I thought he would be. He sounded like a grown up and was actually very nice. Mr. Robson said I could learn from him but complained that he kept the volume at ten too much.

I watched Ms. Sugar from the side of the stage. She would give me a wink here and there. I had a crush on her even though she was twice my age, and I think she knew it.

I wondered why so many fans would want to watch a show from the side of the stage. The sound was awful. I tried to poke my head out to see if I could see Mr. Robson, but the lights were blinding, making it impossible.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Sugar said in her sultry voice. “It is with great pleasure that I announce the next act. I have a feeling that you all will one day be able to brag to your friends that on June 7^th, opening for Iggy Pop, you saw this young man’s debut performance here in this theater. This boy is going to be star, and we all get to witness where it all started, right now, on this stage before you. Ladies and gentlemen…Brad Snyder.”

The crowd applauded politely as Sugar strutted off the stage carrying her clothes, a large feather boa wrapped around her neck and pasties on her nipples. She leaned over and in an airy voice spoke into my ear, “Don’t forget to have fun, Bradley.”

A stagehand handed my Gibson SG to me and I walked to the mic with a fraction of the confidence Sugar walked off with. I kept on trying to see Mr. Robson, but the lights were too powerful. The applause had fizzled out and the room was quiet. I plugged in my guitar and it made a crackle that filled the room. I remembered Mr. Robson’s lesson about looking confident. The microphone gave some feedback when I put my lips close. The band looked like soldiers holding for their command. Mr. Robson said it’s best to just get playing when you walk out, so I counted off and we slammed into action.

I can barely remember that first show. I do remember that I could hardly figure out what side of the guitar to hold when I first stepped out onstage, but somehow after I played the first note I glided along.

It was the perfect escape. I felt love. Mr. Robson may have been my only friend, but at that first show I felt like everyone in the theater was my friend. I wasn’t a stupid kid with big sneakers that screwed everything up, I was something very different.

That’s when it started for me.

That’s the day I was born.

When the house lights came on at the end of my last song and I said thank you and good night, I spotted Mr. Robson at his sound booth. He was smiling and waving his hands in the air. Seeing him so proud of me is one of my nicest memories.

Over the next year and a half I played at the theater often, and sometimes I would play other venues in town with Ms. Sugar. She always looked out for me and I could tell she wanted me to do well. It was she who got in touch with Ramsey Records.

At seventeen I was actually making some money. It wasn’t much, but at least I could pay for the Dilallo burgers sometimes. Sugar would always give me a few bucks at the end of the shows and Mr. Robson said there were more people there to see me and that’s why I played last. For some reason, he didn’t seem so sweet on Sugar anymore, but he didn’t talk about it.

People seemed to know me around town because one of the shows I played made it on TV. I hoped my father was allowed to watch television in jail and would recognize me. I wasn’t spending any time at foster homes anymore because I would get in trouble for coming in so late after shows, but I had friends in the city that let me sleep on their couch. More often than not I would sleep at the theater in the backstage area. Mr. Robson pretended not to know I did that.

It was a rainy winter evening the day Sugar introduced me to Ronald.

That night, I said goodnight to the crowd and smiled at Mr. Robson in his sound booth who was clapping and waving his hands as enthusiastically as ever. I walked offstage and Sugar greeted me with a funny smile.

“There is someone I think you should meet, Brad.”

I followed her backstage and out the back door into the alley behind the theater. The cold winter rain made everything dark and there was a black limo with tinted windows parked in front of us. Sugar opened the door to the limo and slid in, motioning for me to follow her.

“Ronald, darling, how are you?”

Sugar spoke differently than usual as she addressed the large man sitting across from us. Ronald didn’t look at Sugar; his eyes stayed on me.

He looked at me like he and I were aware of some kind of amusing secret. I smiled and nodded as if I were agreeing to something, but the truth is I had no idea what was going on.

“Brad, look, I’m hearing good things, and I liked what I saw tonight. I’m willing to work with you. How old are you?”

“Seventeen,” I answered.

Ronald smiled. “Do you know who I am?”

“No,” I answered truthfully.

“My name is Ronald Ramsey. I own Ramsey Records and I can make you a star. With your talent I can see big things. Huge things. But, look, it won’t be easy. It will be work. Hard work. Are you willing to work for me?”

I looked at Sugar who was nodding yes and motioning me to answer Ronald.

“Yes?” I answered.

“There is nothing wrong with playing these small clubs,” he said. “You can have fun with that for now, but what I’m talking about is making you an international star. I can’t do it for you, Brad. At the end of the day, you have to put your heart into it. There will be times when it’s hard and you’ll be tired. There will be times when you might want to give up, and I need to know that you won’t give up on me if I’m going to invest in you. I need to know I can trust you. You’re not a quitter, are you, Brad?”

“No.”

“What about drugs, do you do drugs?”

“No.”

“Drink?”

“No.”

“Look, I’m not trying to scare you, kid. You have talent. I’m not worried about that because it’s clear you have something special. I just need to know you won’t let me down.”

Ronald leaned forward so I could see him better. He had a shock of blonde hair and a chubby red face. He was smiling, but it was hard to tell if he was happy or angry. He was a large man and I thought about how it must have been hard for him to get in and out of this limousine. Ronald kept his gaze on me nodding his head up and down like he was having a conversation in his own mind about me.

“I won’t quit playing, Mr. Ramsey,” I told him, still taken aback about it all.

“Ronald. Call me Ronald.”

“Ronald, this is all I want to do. I have a ton of material no one even knows about and…”

He cut me off. “Come to the office tomorrow and we’ll talk more.”

I took the business card he was holding out for me and stepped out into the cold winter rain. I gave Sugar a nod as she lit a cigarette and gave me a wink, and I closed the heavy black limousine door.

I walked away from the car barely noticing the awful weather, my leather jacket open and my long dark hair soaked and sticking to my face. I needed to go for a little walk before I went back into the theater. I needed for everything that just happened to sink in.

I walked into the night smiling. I knew this was the beginning of the rest of my life.

Fast forward to today, and I’m sweating nervously on a turbulent flight from Austin to Los Angeles. I’m twenty-seven years old and nothing like the kid with those cheap sneakers and the second hand t-shirts.

Ronald kept his promise. He had made me a star.

Over the past ten years since that fateful day in Ronald’s black limousine, I have been on countless flights, and even though the pills they give me keep the anxiety under control, I just can’t get used to flying. I had never been on a plane until I signed with Ramsey Records, so who would’ve known I have such a fear? It’s probably the only complaint Ramsey Records can make about me.

For example, I’m pretty sure most musicians wouldn’t be putting up with the shit I’m going through right now. I try to be a nice guy and play along with the games they play with the media, and so when they asked me to fly down to Austin to do a duet with Lindsay Wilder, I obliged.

Lindsay is a young starlet on Ramsey Records who is supposed to be my on-again off-again girlfriend. It’s all a ruse. Everything is a fucking ruse these days. One time, on another flight, I sat next to one of Ramsey’s henchmen who had too much to drink. She told me my entire working life is mapped out. If it looked like I cheated on Lindsay, or got in a fight with a security guard, or even got arrested, it was all for show. Everything is planned to keep just the right amount of exposure and intrigue.

The duet with Lindsay was lame. She wasn’t even there. She recorded her parts last week. I’m sure they will do some photo trickery to make it look like we were in the studio together having a ball.

Other than flying, I don’t have any major complaints. I don’t agree with most of what the record company does, but it’s still good work if you can get it. It doesn’t feel that long ago when I didn’t have my own bed, and now I have a house in the hills with a pool and everything else you can imagine. Funnily enough, after a decade Mr. Robson is still my only real friend. He still complains that I don’t eat enough, and he still makes the same jokes on cue when I see him. I just wish I saw him more often. With all the recording, touring, photoshoots, and interviews, I barely have the time.

You would think with all the fake show business stuff, I would have lost my passion for music, but that’s totally not the case. Somehow I manage to keep the two separate. My last single, “Violent Little Things,” went to number one. Ramsey Records can manipulate the entertainment media as much as he wants, but at the end of the day all that matters is the music. I still write all my own material, except, of course, when I’m doing a lame duet for a starlet’s record.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we will be beginning our descent into Los Angeles shortly. Please remain seated with your seatbelts fastened.”

I feel the engines power down and my stomach knots. Usually I have my bandmates with me, but I was on my own for the hellish experience in Austin and this one too. I fucking hate landing. I also hate take-offs and everything else in the middle.

When the wheels touch down, all my tense muscles relax and I let out a deep breath.

We all know that there is an alarming number of musicians that die in their twenty-seventh year, most of them in plane crashes.

I guess that wasn’t the flight that will kill me.

I only have a carry-on, so I quickly make it to the arrivals gate and look for my driver who is normally waiting for me.

To my surprise, I’m greeted by someone else.

Lael Ramsey.

Ronald’s only daughter, a fresh-faced beauty with brown eyes and long hair dyed teal. I haven’t seen her in a few years.

When we first met she was just a teen, so it’s strange seeing this young woman who must be at least twenty by now.

And far more attractive than I bargained for.

She spots me and stretches her arm up high, waving at me with a smile.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” I ask as I approach her, smiling back.

“Hi, Brad. How was the flight?” she says.

“Are you my ride?”

“I am. C’mon,” she replies, grinning, and I follow her out of the airport, trying not to stare at her ass. No sir, this is definitely not the bratty young girl I remember.

That said, it is unusual that she’s here picking me up. Something’s wrong.

“Look, Brad,” she says slowly as we approach a small blue electric car in the parking lot. “I have bad news. I just don’t know how to say this…”

“What’s up?” I ask, my stomach turning with nerves. This isn’t going to be good.

“It’s your friend, Mr. Robson,” she says quietly. “He died last night.”

It takes a moment for the news to sink in. I’m not sure what I feel, or if I’m even feeling anything. I just stare at nothing, trying to understand. Actually, what I’m feeling is almost the same as the day he gave me my first present, the guitar I still play. My throat is tight, my body is growing hotter by the second, my eyes are starting to water.

Only this time, unlike back then, I can’t stop it. It hits me all at once, like a tidal wave. I break down and cry like I’ve never cried before, surrounded by this massive, lonely parking lot.

I barely realize it when Lael, Ronald’s daughter, a girl I hardly know, is pulling me into her arms.

I hold on to her like she’s the only person left in my life.