SEBASTIAN
“SEBASTIAN! OVER HERE!”
I turn to the sound of my name and a paparazzo’s camera flash explodes in my face.
“Argh, fuck it!” I throw up a hand to cover my eyes and pull the sunglasses down from my head. “I don’t mind the picture taking but do they have to bloody blind me?” I turn and say to my assistant, Hank, who throws me an unsympathetic look.
“Oh yes, poor you. Poor wittle musician eyeballs hurt by the wittle fwash.”
The look I give him is nowhere near as withering as I hope – I know this because his reaction is to double over in laughter.
“For god’s sake, hurry up, boys.” A voice admonishes us from behind. Our manager, Dennis, looks over at us, like he’s wondering for the hundredth time why he chose this job that’s the equivalent of babysitting a group of full-grown boy babies.
“Yes, boys, hurry up now. Hup, one, two, three!” Jez runs up between us, mimicking Dennis and throwing his arms over our shoulders, pushing us forward. “These Aussie babes aren’t going to wait forever now!”
We push through the hordes of people, half our own and half annoyed fellow travelers just trying to get home. We wave and grin gratefully at the crowd of smiling faces of fans greeting us as we walk to the exit, where our SUVs are also waiting for us.
“Sebastian! Jez! Marius! Brad!” The crowd kicks up into the familiar chant of our names.
Jez turns to grin at me after winking at a cute, perky blonde obviously vying for his attention. “Welcome to the land down under indeed. I think I’m going to like it here.”
I elbow him in the ribs and he faux cries out. “Just don’t be liking it too much. We have to go back to gay Paris someday,” I remind him.
“Not until my skin is brown and my butt crack is filled with sand.” And before I can stop him, he’s pulled out of the safety of our body-guarded entourage and off to flirt with the blonde standing behind the barricade.
“You got everything, Seb?” Hank asks me, taking my leather laptop bag from me and putting it in the backseat of my assigned car.
“Yeah, bro Except, I think I forgot to pack some new rosin before we left. I used it all up during the last practice.” I take a look around to see everyone else getting into their cars and I fold myself into the backseat of mine, moving over so Hank can get in behind me.
“We can pick some up on the way to sound check, boss.”
“Stop calling me that, you’re my nephew.” I snap at him.
“Fine. UNCLE.” He emphasizes the word, knowing I hate how it makes me feel old.
“Stick with ‘boss’, you little prick.”
He laughs and he sounds just like my brother used to and the veins in my chest tug on my heart just a bit.
“To the Shangri-La Hotel, please,” he says to the driver.
As the car cruises forward we lean back, sinking into the soft, butter-like leather and grin at each other, wondering how we’d gotten so lucky to have ended up here.
CADENCE
“You’re killing me here, George.” I tell the shop owner, not for the first time.
“Hey, you told me to tell you-...” He starts to defend himself.
I cut him off, “I know, but I have to work to a budget. A tiny ant’s bladder-sized budget at that.”
“Fine, give them back then.” He reaches for the stack of newly arrived sheet music and I pull out of reach, hugging them to my chest.
“Just let me...sniff them a bit?” I bury my face in the paper, inhaling the fresh ink scent of the thin lines and little black notes.
“You’d think I’d be used to musicians after owning this store for thirty-five years, but you crazies get more bonkers as the years go by. Fine, sniff all you like.” He turns back to his ancient register, glaring at the buttons as if willing them to work with the power of his mind.
I can’t help but grin at him over the top of the stack of music clenched in my hand. I bought my first piano book from this very store, from George, twenty-one years ago. And even now, as a music teacher, it’s here I come for all my supplies. This small, dark and dingy little music store, packed to the brim with all and any supplies you could possibly need. George can tell what you need the second that little bell on his door dings, and will make sure you get the right equipment. As he said, musicians are a crazy bunch and as unique and sensitive as snowflakes, and what works for one, may not work for another.
I put down the sheet music, resigned to the fact that the school can’t afford any more this month and wander to the back of the store just as the door clangs open and a group of young men barge in, talking loudly, disrupting the quiet sanctity of the store that I love so much.
I can barely make out what they’re saying, with as many accents among them as there are bodies. They head to the register and through the shelf stacks I can count 1...2...3 of them. They ask George something and I hear him explode into laughter. I scrunch up my nose and slink deeper into the store, annoyed that their loud banter is interrupting my happy browsing time.
Skimming over the list of things I need for my class, I head for the strings section.
The sound of laughter from the front of the store drifts down to the little corner in the back. I can’t help but smile to myself as I just make out George’s voice, three against one, and he’s still out-talking them.
“Pirazzi...pirazzi...” I scour the shelf for my preferred brand of cello rosin. There it is. On sale! And only one jar left. I reach out for it.
Then a white, painful spark zaps my fingers and travels all the way down my body.