by K. S. Lindsay
Jane burst through the door, stumbling on the uneven pavement. Haste always diminished her limited stock of grace. The dim light illuminating the hall did make it possible for her to keep her feet.
As she stabilized, Jane spotted two musicians leaning nearby. She recalled Shaylee’s oft-repeated snap about slowing down already so she didn’t make them look foolish. Jane shook off the memory, and dismissed dignity in favor of meeting her responsibilities. “Do you know Shaylee?” she asked the musicians, “Have you seen her?”
The two young men gave vague nods to the first question and disinterested shrugs to the second.
Jane thanked them distractedly, and went back to navigating the partially enclosed pathway that would take her from the concert space of The HiFi Lounge to the rough-hewn outbuilding that served as the green room.
Spotting a bar server crossing the hall, Jane grabbed his arm and demanded, “Do you know Shaylee?”
The staffer glared at her, and then the hand on his arm. “Sure,” he said, plucking her hand and flinging it off.
“Have you seen her?” Jane asked as he shoved past her.
“Isn’t she on stage?” the man responded over his shoulder.
If only. Jane turned her head to watch him sink into the darkness and noise of the club. She could hear the rhythmic thrum of the recorded music the Stage Manager had promised to play until she got Shaylee & Storm on the stage, like a good band manager would.
Jane took a deep breath to fight off the building panic, and turned her face back to the green room. She spotted Trace meandering his way towards her. The tall, lean young man tapped a slow beat on his thigh with his drumsticks, gripped tightly in one hand. The only bit of tension, off-stage, Jane ever saw Trace exhibit was in that grip.
She dashed toward him, noting with some relief that he was dressed, made-up and ready to play. These details eased her stress a bit, but failed to take even the smallest edge off her panic.
“Is Shaylee here?” she asked him.
Trace rarely moved with more than glacier speed, yet he actually managed to slow down as he regarded Jane. She waited for his answer, harnessing her frayed nerves as best she could. Even with just a few months spent managing the band Jane had learned that she could no more hurry Trace than she could the IRS.
“What’s that saying about the definition of crazy?” Trace asked her.
Jane gaped at his random question. She rarely understood Trace, but this particular departure from reality seemed more deliberate than usual.
He also hadn’t stopped moving. Jane shifted to block his path. “What?” she asked.
“You know that saying about doing stuff over and over?” Trace smiled as he spoke, and adjusted his lopping path to get around her.
Jane shifted, and tried to smile back. Honestly, looking Trace in the face helped. He’d stopped shaving a few weeks ago, and the dark blonde scraggy beard growth only increased his resemblance to a live action, terminally mellow version of Shaggy from Scooby-Doo.
At 5 foot nothing, even her thick, broad body, Jane really couldn’t physically intimidate the drummer, but usually her trademark intensity stopped him. Today, he showed a rare amount of determination.
It made her want to throttle him. “Trace, is Shaylee here?” she demanded.
Trace smiled, and adjusted his path again. “Crazy, man, crazy.” He shook his shaggy head of hair at her, and wiggled his drum sticks near his temple.
Immobilized by frustration, Trace slid past her.
Still, Jane couldn’t get mad at Trace, or the rest of Storm. They were here, and ready, while Shaylee, her best friend, was not. The last time Jane had seen Shaylee had been at home – Shaylee was staying with her for a while until any day now when her singing career got off the ground – and Shaylee hadn’t been dressed for the show. Jane knew her search had more to do with denial than any real reason to believe Shaylee would show up and follow through.
And that’s when the nightmare began for real.
The other three members of Storm emerged from the green room in front of Jane, discussing what they could do. Jane adjusted her stance, prepared to face them, going for something apologetic but capable.
“Jane? Jane!” she heard from behind her, and the voice took all the starch from her spine. Jane spun to see the speaker, and saw a shadowy figure that could be the Stage Manager coming her way.
“Where is she?” another voice bellowed from behind him. Jane physically quaked at the sound of the club manager’s voice.
“What the hell is going on?” Jane heard from behind her. “What are we going to do?” said another member of Storm.
Jane closed her eyes momentarily to summon strength, and the shreds of her confidence. She opened them and turned so she could face both groups as they began to converge upon her.
She blocked out the tempting thoughts of spreadsheets and business forms. Right now her real job, as a freelance bookkeeper, seemed idyllic. It had its frustration, but right now she’d give anything to be facing down even the most dull-witted client.
Instead, she faced her imminent disaster. She had to figure out how to appease these people, when Shaylee, the singer and the star, hadn’t bothered to show up for her first real show.
A few days ago, Jane had heard Shaylee dismiss the show as a waste of her time and talent. When Jane faced her, and reminded her of how much she’d had to do to talk the Hi Fi manager into letting them play, Shaylee had reassured her, in her always charming and engaging way, that she was taking this seriously, really.
Now, at 9:20 pm (the opening band always went on at The Hi Fi at 9p,) Jane realized that Shaylee had, once again, decided to do what she wanted to do – not what she’d promised Jane.
Jane heard the voices of the band, the managers, and she wondered, ‘What could she say?’
That’s when Jane finally figured out what Trace had meant. She smiled, and wanted to laugh. Crazy was right.
Jane’s mind had slid to all the rehearsals, appearances and a spectacularly botched photo shoot that Shaylee had blown off. Jane now mentally thumbed through all the excuses, cover-ups and storytelling she’d done in her efforts to ‘help’ Shaylee get a singing career.
‘The definition of insanity,’ she thought, ‘is doing the same thing over and over expecting a different outcome.’
“Shaylee isn’t coming, I guess,” she announced to the furious, concerned and alarmed voices rising around her. The men instantly quieted and waited for her next words. “Can Storm perform alone?”
The men went into negotiations, and Jane listened but she also made some promises to herself.
Tomorrow, she promised, she would return entirely to spreadsheets and client accounts, and give up the part-time band manager work she’d taken on to try to help Shaylee.
Tomorrow, she promised, Shaylee could take over her own singing career – and find a new place to live.
Tonight, she promised, she’d do what she could for Storm. She’d listen to them, and the rest of the bands, and maybe even drink. She’d not spend the night making contacts, or getting Shaylee’s name out.
Tonight, she’d do something different. Maybe even, she thought, tonight she’d have fun.
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©2014 Kirby Lindsay. This column is protected by intellectual property laws, including U.S. copyright laws. Reproduction, adaptation or distribution without permission is prohibited.