Best Of Everything (22 page)

“Oh,” I say. I thought I’d at least get my own room, but it makes sense that the only other female and I would share digs.

“Don’t worry. We’re just being conservative. If this maintains velocity, you’ll be in your own bus staying at top places before you know it.”

“When will you know?”

“Figure a week to ten days to be safe.”

“That’ll be a long week.”

“It’ll fly by.”

“Well, it’s not like I’m a princess or anything. After sleeping in the park, this will be nothing.”

“I think you’re the first artist I’ve worked with where running water is a luxury. It’s refreshing.” Her voice changes. “Don’t worry. As soon as it’s practical, we’ll upgrade things. I promise.”

“Fair enough.”

“Ruby picking you up?”

“Yeah.”

“Have a good day. We’ll be in touch as I put interviews through to you.”

“Okay.”

I hang up and check my messages again, limiting my responses to one and two words when possible, and confirm I’ll meet up with Ruby at noon for lunch with a reporter before the radio interview.

I’m not sure I’ll have time to make it home again between sound check and the show, so I fold my stage outfit and slide it into my backpack, which triggers luggage remorse for the umpteenth time – I’ve been swearing I’ll get something decent for months, and I still have the same ratty bag I used when I was homeless.

Ruby’s right on time and is all smiles when she picks me up. “Hey there. You recovered from the party?” she asks cheerfully.

“I only had one glass of champagne all night, so yeah, not much to sleep off.”

“Smart. I should take a page from your playbook.”

“Who is it we’re meeting?”

“A different journalist from
Rolling Stone
. They called this morning and said given the reaction to your album, they want to do a feature. A cover feature.”

“No way.”

She nods and edges into traffic. “Yes way. She was really interested in your story leading up to the talent show, so be prepared for some tough questions.”

I shrug. “I’ve got nothing to hide. I’m just not sure anyone will care. It’s not all that fascinating.”

“Let her be the judge of that.”

We arrive at the seafood restaurant ten minutes late, and an older woman with a mane of untamed salt-and-pepper hair is sitting by the front door. She rises as we near and adjusts her steel-rimmed spectacles.

“Sage! What a pleasure to meet you. And you must be…Ruby? Nancy Clemmons,” she says, holding out her hand.

I shake it and Ruby does the same, and then, after a quick discussion with the host, Ruby returns to where we’re standing.

“I pulled some strings. We’ll get the private room in the wine cellar. It’s chilly, but nobody’s going to bug us.”

“Perfect. Lead the way,” Nancy says, and we file into the restaurant and through the doors leading to the kitchen before making a hard left and going down a flight of stairs. The wine cellar is maybe ten by twelve with a dining table set for four. Ruby wasn’t kidding about the temperature, and I pull my jacket tight around me as I take a seat.

We make short work of the menu, and after a waiter takes our order and brings our drinks, Nancy sets a small recorder on the table and turns it on.

“I hope you don’t mind if I tape this,” she says. I shake my head and she leans into the device. “December ninth, interview with Sage.” She lets a few seconds go by and then fixes me with a serious stare. “First of all, let me say that I listened to the whole album this morning. Twice, actually. To call it an impressive debut is a serious understatement.”

“Thanks. I’m very proud of it.”

“You should be. Let’s cover the making of the record for a few minutes, and then we can get to more interesting questions. How long did it take to record?”

“About six really intense weeks. Sebastian, my producer, pulls eighteen-hour days, minimum. With someone normal, it would have taken double that.”

“That’s not long.”

“Well, it depends. We didn’t want a really overproduced record. I prefer a more stripped-down approach, so it sounds like you’re sitting in the room with us while we’re jamming, you know?”

“‘Intimate’ is one of the words that came to mind over and over as I listened to it.”

“Yeah, well, that’s kind of the sound I hear in my head, because of how I’m used to performing, so instead of some big orchestrated thing, I wanted that raw essence to come through. I think it makes for a more interesting sound, don’t you?”

“Definitely.”

We talk about the recording until the food arrives, then she switches gears. “So homeless girl becomes pop sensation. How did that happen?”

“You have to know the story by now. Derek and I hitched cross-country to try out for the show, and we got seriously lucky.”

“You were living on the streets of San Francisco?”

“Yes.”

“Describe that for the readers. What was it like?”

I consider the question. There are so many possible answers. I debate how gritty I want to make the interview, and then decide, screw it, I’ll tell the truth.

“Living on the street is hard. You can never let down your guard. I don’t think I slept for more than an hour at a time, anywhere, because I was always on the lookout for predators.”

“Predators,” she repeats.

“You know. Perverts. Pedophiles. Criminals. Muggers. Crazies. Junkies. When you live day to day, that’s your reality. Anyone that hears about me and thinks, hey, that sounds like a cool way to run away from my problems, it isn’t. It’s scary and dangerous, and I’m super lucky I didn’t get raped or killed. Lots do.”

“Where did you actually live? Describe a typical day.”

“I’d play for eight or nine hours in my spot in the Haight Ashbury, a few yards from my favorite coffee house. When it started to get dark, if I’d made enough for dinner, I’d kill a couple of hours in a cheap restaurant. Then, if it wasn’t raining, I’d start my night routine. I scoped out a few places in Golden Gate Park and the Panhandle that were sort of safe, so I’d try to grab a little sleep. Then I’d move and find a bus stop and crash there for a while. The whole idea was to keep moving so you couldn’t be tracked.”

“Tracked by whom?”

“Whoever,” I say, realizing I sound paranoid as I say it. “When you’re a young girl on the street, you’re a target. Some people want to rob you, some are after sex, some view you as victim material waiting to happen. You have no idea the kinds of sick fu…bastards are out there. Like I said, it’s scary.”

“You were on your own for four months?”

“Yeah. And then I met Derek. The rest is history.”

“Tell me about that meeting.”

I push my fish around with my fork and consider how to tell the story. I could embellish it, but what’s the point? I tell her about our first day together, how we teamed up. She seems fascinated.

“And then you two decided to cross the country, just like that?”

“Not like it was a game. I mean, we were broke, living hand to mouth. Hitching to New York was a major gamble for us, for sure. But we figured that as long as the weather wasn’t bad, we might as well go for it. I mean, it wasn’t like we were leaving anything but some city streets, and those all look the same when you’re living on them.” I recall Memphis, and the pervert at the rest stop, and decide that some memories are best kept in the past. “It turned out well.”

“I read one of Derek’s interviews. He mentioned living in the subway tunnels?”

“Oh. Yeah. I’ll never forget that.”

“What was it like?”

I take her through Lucifer’s, the rats, the constant noise, the danger of the third rail, and by the time I’m done, her eyes are wide. She sits back and shakes her head.

“You aren’t exaggerating?”

I laugh. “If anything, that’s the tame version.”

When we’re done, she turns off the recorder and Ruby pays the bill. At the entrance we shake hands again and she looks me up and down. “Your story’s a real inspiration, Sage. Congratulations. You deserve every bit of good that comes your way. I think my readers are going to be spellbound by your account. Tell me, though, who can I contact to fact check before we go to press?”

“Ruby should be able to find me.”

Ruby nods. “Call me anytime. And now, if you’ll excuse us, we have a radio show to do…”

More goodbyes and we walk to the car, Nancy going her separate way in the opposite direction. As we approach the lot, Ruby’s staring at me.

“I had no idea how…how much you’ve been through, Sage.”

I shrug. “It’s yesterday’s news, right?”

“It’s an incredible story.”

I take a deep breath.

“Try living it.”

Chapter 29

I do my duty by the radio and TV, and make it to Staples with no time to spare. Terry’s there with Amber, who drapes a lanyard with a backstage pass around my neck and takes my backpack as she leads me into the bowels of the building.

The backstage area is immense, and our dressing room is modern and clean. There’s a case of water and another of mixed sodas on ice, two cases of Heineken in another tub, and a platter of cheese and cold cuts. The band’s already on stage. I can hear the kick drum pounding like cannon fire as Amber sets my bag down and makes a sweeping gesture with her hand.

“This is it. All yours. The middle bill band’s next door, and Bruno’s next to them. Anything you need, ask me and I’ll take care of it,” Amber says.

“Great.” I crack open a bottle of water. “Is my stuff safe here?”

“Absolutely. I’ll lock up when we go up.”

“Then I’ll just leave everything here.”

I follow her to the stage and nod at Jay, who’s standing by his amp, waiting his turn. Terry’s on her cell phone the entire time, and whispers that she’ll be back later before ducking back into the depths of the hall, leaving Amber and me with the band.

Sound check is anticlimactic. After getting our tones we do two songs, and that’s it. The monitor mix is adequate, and everything sounds about right, but it would have been nice to have had more time to get acclimated. Not this time. That’s for the other bands, who had hours earlier. Yet another way that life’s unfair, I think, as we walk back to the dressing room as the band works with the road crew to stow their instruments.

Amber unlocks the door and I enter the dressing room. The band arrives ten minutes later and everyone’s in good spirits. Jay has one of his acoustic guitars with him, and he’s noodling away as we sample the refreshments and chat.

Boredom drives me to sit next to Jay and we work on our harmonies, fine-tuning them. We’re so much better for the many hours of street performing it’s remarkable, and we’ve already had as much experience as a band that’s been together a lot longer – and the easy familiarity shows.

We’re in the middle of a Janis number, “Ball and Chain,” when there’s a knock at the door and Bruno Sears’ distinctive face appears. We’re still singing, and I’m tearing it up on the lead vocal before it registers on me that we have a visitor. Jay stops playing and Bruno smiles and applauds slowly as he enters the dressing room. He’s shorter than he looks in his videos, but I have no room to talk – I’m more than familiar with how the camera lies.

“Well, shit. I might as well pack it up right now if I have to follow that kind of talent,” he says, with a warm smile.

“Says the man with the number one song in the country,” I say, returning the smile.

“Not much longer. You’re going to push me out of the way.” He shrugs. “Seriously, I saw your video and checked out the album. Man, that’s some heavy grooves. You got magic working for you.”

“A lot of it’s my producer. He deserves most of the credit.”

“You can try selling that somewhere else, because what you were just doing was better than anything on that record. And that’s straight-up truth.” He stops and appears to think for a moment. “Hey, how about you and me work something up and we do it during my set? The crowd will go nuts.”

I nod. “Like what?”

“A standard. Oldie?”

“I’m game. I know a lot of them from doing the street thing.”

“That’s right. You know ‘Dock of the Bay’?”

“Sure. Probably sung it a hundred times.”

Bruno glances at Jay. “Can I borrow that for a minute?”

Jay hands him the guitar and Bruno pulls up a chair. “I’ll take the first verse, you take the second, and just riff along over mine and then I’ll do the same. You cover the high harmony on the choruses, okay?”

“Let’s do it.” I’m sitting here with the most recognizable pop star in the country, getting ready to jam like it’s no big deal. If it gets any stranger than this, I can’t imagine it.

He does an instrumental opening, running some jazz riffs between the chords, and then we’re in the song. He’s really good, so much so that by the end of the tune we’re both grinning ear to ear.

“One more time, yeah?” he says, and we try it again. It’s even better this go-around, and when we finish, he’s shaking his head. “Damn, that’s going to be all anyone remembers about my show. You watch. Tell you what, we’ll do it as one of my encores, okay? First one.”

He speaks with the confidence of someone who’s used to getting many. I don’t doubt it.

“Cool. I can’t wait.”

He stands and hands Jay the guitar. “Thanks, man,” Bruno says, and Jay’s all smiles. It’s not every day a massive star plays your axe, and I’m sure he’ll get more than one story out of it.

Bruno shakes hands with the rest of the band and then exits, leaving us to ourselves. Jay flashes me a grin and holds a water bottle up as a toast. “Tell me that’s not awesome.”

“It is pretty amazing, isn’t it?”

“On a scale of one to ten, that’s a twelve.”

“Yeah, but look at the negatives.”

“Which are?”

“Now I’ve got to stick around for the whole show.”

“Taking one for the team, I think they call it.”

“Put that way, I guess I can make the sacrifice.”

We’re the first band on the bill for the initial leg of the tour. Unlike the show, where there were hairstylists and makeup people, it’s a do-it-yourself job for us. I’m not big on makeup, so that suits me fine. My concession to the spotlights is some mascara and rouge.