Less Than Nothing (23 page)

I look up at him with bloodshot eyes and point at the park with a trembling finger, and tell him about the thief. His expression goes hard as he stares at where I’m pointing.

“What was he wearing?” he demands.

“A blue T-shirt and jeans. He looked like a street kid. Maybe twelve or thirteen.”

“Stay here with the stuff. I’ll be back.”

Derek takes off like a marathon runner and vanishes into the park. I dry my tears and pull our stuff closer, closing the barn door after the horse has bolted, feeling as low as I ever have. Derek’s guitar is gone because of my carelessness, and everything’s ruined.

Half an hour later he returns empty-handed and sits heavily next to me. I look over at him and search for words that will make it better. There are none, but I have to try.

“I’m sorry, Derek.”

“I know.”

I don’t ask how his search went. I just want to die.

We both stare at the traffic going by on Central Park South. Lincoln Town Cars and Mercedes and Audis. There’s so much wealth only a few feet from us, but it might as well be on the other side of the world for all it helps. Eventually Derek rises.

“What are we going to do?” I ask. “I ruined everything.”

“How much money do you have left?”

“Same as the other day.”

“Okay. This isn’t the end of the world. It’s just a little setback.”

“How can we audition without your guitar?”

“Maybe I can borrow one from one of the other musicians?”

I shake my head. “Maybe isn’t a solution. Besides, who’s going to lend a competitor anything? I wouldn’t.” Sometimes Derek, for all his street smarts, doesn’t seem to understand how petty people are. No way will anyone lend him a guitar.

He glances around, thinking, and then smiles grimly. “Come on. We’re going for a walk.”

I look up at him. “Where?”

“To find a music store or a pawn shop. We’ll find a cheap guitar. Shouldn’t break the bank.”

We gather our stuff and head to Times Square, but after several tiring hours trudging along the baking sidewalks, discover that all the pawn shops are closed on Sunday. And we have to be at the audition first thing in the morning. It starts at eight, but contestants will start lining up in advance, so we’re going to get there at six.

Starbucks with AC is totally worth the price of the coffee. We sit on a sofa sipping our drinks, Derek pensive while I’m only a hair away from losing it. He finishes his cup and walks to the counter and, after a brief discussion with one of the baristas, returns with a hopeful grin.

“There’s a music store down on 33rd. She thinks it’s open on Sundays.” He looks at his watch. “Chug it. It’s almost five. Probably closes soon.”

With the way our luck’s been running, I’m not in a wagering mood. I finish the coffee in two swallows, and we press back out into the heat.

When we find the store, it’s still open. We enter the large, cool showroom, and are immediately stopped by a guard. “Leave the bags here,” he orders, his tone gruff. We carry them to an area with a wall of cubbyholes, and he stuffs our bags and Yam into three and gives us tickets.

I want to ask if he’s sure our gear’s safe there, but realize that asking the guy who’d be going through them and stealing dirty underwear is futile. We approach the wall where the acoustic guitars are displayed, and our hopes are quickly shattered by the prices. Five hundred, a thousand, two thousand dollars. Insane amounts of money.

A salesman approaches with an oily smile.

“Looking for something special?” he tries.

I take the lead. “Yeah. Do you sell used guitars?”

His face falls. ‘Used’ coming from a pair like us is code for time wasting. “What did you have in mind?”

“A cheap acoustic. Steel string.”

He shakes his head. “The only previously owned guitars we stock are trade-ins. Electrics. High-end.”

Derek clears his throat. “What’s your cheapest new one?”

“We have an Ibanez mahogany top that’s popular with beginners,” he says.

“How much?”

“Hundred and sixty. Plus tax.”

Derek and I exchange a glance. He nods. “Show me.”

“I have to get one out of the back. We don’t put them on the wall.”

Of course not. The wall’s for winners.

He returns after five minutes with a guitar, its surfaces gleaming in the harsh artificial light. He tunes it and holds it out. “Who wants to try it?”

Derek takes it and strums a few chords, then runs some fluid riffs. The salesman watches, unimpressed. He sees hundreds of players every day. This is a nothing sale, and his professional courtesy is already wearing thin. He’s probably paid on commission, and what he’ll make off this won’t pay for a decent lunch.

Derek plays for a few more minutes and then looks at me. “What do you think?”

“Sounds like a guitar.”

He looks at the salesman. “What kind of case does it have?”

“Doesn’t come with one. Case is extra.”

“How much?”

“Sixty bucks.”

I snort. “You’re nuts.”

The salesman looks me up and down. “Maybe I can find a gig bag that it’ll fit in. I can sell you one of those for forty.”

I bat my lashes. “Can you make it thirty? The guitar’s at my limit.” I lean into him and whisper, “It’s his birthday present. I had to save up all year for it.”

He returns with the guitar in a black padded gig bag and rings up the sale. I ask for a complimentary set of strings, and the guy shakes his head and tosses a pack into the bag with a glare. Derek and I count out our money. After paying we have fifty bucks apiece.

I’m now actually looking forward to hot dogs. We scarf down two each before heading back to Lucifer’s lair, emotionally drained, our meager nest egg depleted. We take turns showering so we can get up early and make it to the audition before everyone else. When I get to our cots, I almost lean over and kiss Derek, but he’s already asleep.

I lay my head on my backpack and study the ceiling, the mortar between the bricks crumbly from the persistent dampness, and try to shut my racing brain off, the thoughts coming at hyperspeed, our big break only hours away.

We need to kill it tomorrow, or we’re going to live in tunnels for the rest of our lives. The thought depresses me more than anything so far. For the first time since leaving San Francisco, I’m daring to imagine a better life than the one I have, at the mercy of the elements and the predators that hunt the downtrodden and weak. I think about my tattoo and frown. There’s always something left to lose.

I’ve gotten so I hardly notice the trains rolling by during the night, shuttling the drunk and desperate around the island. My final thought as I drift off is that if freedom comes from having nothing, they don’t come any freer than me.

When we arrive at the audition, there’s already a line around the block, and my heart sinks. I know we’re only one of hundreds of hopefuls, but to see everyone lined up like that, desperation wafting off them like heat from a furnace, brings reality home with a vengeance. NYPD uniformed cops are stationed along the sidewalk, doing crowd control and waving cars by, and even at 6:00 a.m. it’s controlled pandemonium. Portable toilets sit near a table with tanks of coffee on them, and I get us two cups.

A harried woman in a T-shirt and tan cargo shorts is moving slowly along the line, checking names from her clipboard. Behind her, a shorter man is handing out yellow paper squares with numbers etched on them with a black felt-tip. Clipboard woman makes her way to us, and we have a frightening moment when she can’t find Derek’s name. After a few minutes of checking, she finds the problem – somebody hit the wrong key and Derek became Erek. She hands us a square and moves on to the next contestant, her face tired even though the festivities are only starting.

As the morning wears on, the line inches forward, and I strike up a conversation with the guy in front of us – slim, his hair dyed Rhianna red, wearing skin-tight white jeans, white leather slip-ons, and a white silk dress shirt with ruffles down the front. He’s from Atlanta, his name’s Jeremy, and he moved to New York two months ago. He’s got a snarky sense of humor, a flamboyant Southern accent that’s musical, and spends the morning entertaining us with wicked comments about the other hopefuls. He can’t take his eyes off Derek, which I think is funny, although Derek doesn’t.

As the sun climbs into the pale blue sky, Jeremy fans his face with a folder containing head shots and a brief résumé. “Lord, it’s hot. I’m going to melt if this gets any worse.”

“At least they’ve got water,” I say. The crew’s been handing out bottles as the heat mounts.

Jeremy looks me up and down. “Where you from, sugar?”

I tell him our story. He runs a delicate finger over one eyebrow. “That’s doing it the hard way.” Another glance at Derek. Derek eyes the long line and ignores him.

“What’s in the folder?” I ask. Jeremy proudly shows off his résumé and photos. I read his accomplishments – musical theater, a band, an indie CD out – and feel totally unprepared. We don’t have anything but the clothes on our backs.

A gullwing Mercedes rolls by on the street, and Jeremy bursts out in song. “Oh, Lawd, won’t you buy meee, a Mer-say-deeeeeez Benz…”

His voice is beyond awesome. Derek and I exchange a glance. If everyone’s as good as Jeremy, we’re screwed.

“What are you going to sing today?” I ask.

“A Queen tune. ‘Crazy Little Thing.’” He breaks into song, and it’s Freddie Mercury reincarnated. Jeremy mugs and eye rolls and wields the folder like a diva, and I can’t help but laugh. Even Derek smiles. When he’s done, I applaud.

“You’re really good.”

“Thanks. I hope you don’t get all pissy when I win. I’ll still talk to you even when I’m a star. Whatever your name is,” he declares theatrically.

“I’m Sage, and this is Derek.”

Derek grimaces. “We’ll try to hide our disappointment.”

He shakes our hands, his nails painted a bright red, and his gaze lingers on Derek. Then he looks at me and says, “You go, girl.”

I blush, and then the line shuffles forward a few feet as the next group of ten is herded into the theater. A camera crew from one of the local TV stations appears from a double-parked van, and a female reporter with wonder hair and a raptor smile stands with us in the background and does her thirty-second sound bite. Some of the hopefuls wave at the camera, and several passing cars honk.

At four o’clock we’re finally at the stage door, and the woman with the clipboard appears wearing a wireless headset and mutters into it. Jeremy leans toward me and says, “Here we go. You ready?”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Lunch was another hot dog, and I’m running on adrenaline and caffeine now. I just want to have a chance to do our thing and get it over with. The woman motions for us to enter, and we tromp into the darkened interior, where it’s thirty degrees cooler. I hear someone singing to piano accompaniment – they’re good, but not great. The woman directs us to a waiting area just offstage, and a short man with a crew cut, wearing black slacks and a green polo shirt, nears.

“All right. Listen up. I’m Paul, the stage manager. When your number’s called, go onstage. You’ll be asked your name and where you’re from. Speak clearly. Name and place. They’ll ask you what you’re going to perform. You tell them, and they’ll give you the nod to start. You each have three minutes unless the judges cut you off, in which case the only response is ‘thank you,’ and you leave the stage. We’re filming the auditions, so everyone needs to sign a release.” He peers at me. “Are you eighteen?”

I lie. “Of course.”

He studies me and nods. “Hmm. All right. Everyone, the bathrooms are over there. We’ll be going in sequence. We’ll be ready for the first of you in about six minutes.” He eyes the four of us who have guitars. “You should tune up now, because once you’re on, that’s it.”

Paul holds his hand to his headset and listens, and then storms off with a curse. Jeremy grins and makes a face. “Drama llama.”

Derek and I drop our bags and pull out our guitars. We’re in tune in a couple of minutes, and we start warming up. Paul returns and calls the first contestant, number three hundred and seventy, who’s a nervous-looking young man wearing an oversized basketball jersey and baggy jeans. He follows Paul to the stage, and we turn our attention to the monitor, where we can watch the filming live.

The judges ask a couple of perfunctory questions and give him the go-ahead. He sings an a cappella version of an Usher song, and it isn’t bad. Not great, but certainly solid.

The next contestant is a country singer, one of the others with guitars. He makes it less than a minute before he’s stopped.

Then it’s Jeremy’s turn. He blows me an air kiss and does his best Japanese fan girl peace signs, and then sashays onto the stage. The judges seem amused by his cheeky attitude, especially the woman, who’s the wife of a has-been rocker best known for his inability to say anything intelligible or remember where he is.

Jeremy does his number, and when he’s finished, the judges actually clap, and after a short conference, congratulate him – Jeremy’s made it onto the show. I want to congratulate him, but he’s led to the far side of the stage – the winning side, I think – and Paul comes for us.