Page 101 of Not Just a Trick Play

Wednesday.

It’s not.

I really thought I had a handle on things, armed with a cup of oolong and bucketful of good intentions, my shoes slapping against the pavement in a staccato rhythm that matches my dubious heartbeat. It’s not going to get to me today. All I need to do is employ some coping strategies. Breathing. Reframing. I sip my tea, my version of liquid courage.

Catching my reflection in a shop window, I attempt an expression that I hope screams “cool, calm, and collected.” I’m in my tour-guide chic—a proper coat on instead of a bulky parka, spiffy Chelsea boots, and meticulously applied makeup. I force on a practiced smile. The glass, however, is merciless, reflecting back a woman who’s clearly a nervous wreck masquerading as a functioning adult.

By the time I reach to St. Mark’s, my game face is on. More people have shown up, though few look like they are there for the music. A chill starts up inside me at the sight of the vultures.

But as the tour kicks off, it’s apparent that the universe hasn’t received my memo of positivity because I walk straight into gems including “Any truth to the buzz that your safe word is ‘touchdown’?” and “Does he call out plays in bed? What’s the penalty for a false start?”

We’re marching past the famed mural on Second Avenue when serendipity throws me a bone in the form of Dave, a local busker I know from a spot farther along my route, who strums into view, his guitar slung over his shoulder. Relief washes over me at a familiar face in the sea of skepticism.

Until he starts challenging my stories. “That’s not quite how it went down,” he interjects, eyeing the nearest camera,radiating authority even though I know for a fact that his words are more fiction than, well…fact.

Somehow, Dave still manages to hijack two of my guests and an influencer with his tall tales. No sooner does he saunter off with his ill-gotten entourage than a woman dressed like a punk rocker sidles up beside me. My spirits lift for a second. “You have a question?”

“Hi! I’m Gina!” She beams. “You pass my shop around the corner every day—Bound to Please? We’re the one with the Shibari display?” At my blank stare. “The ropes and mannequins? Anyway, we develop top-tier toys for the discerning BDSM enthusiast. Would you consider a sponsored post, or maybe a shout-out during your tour?” she pitches eagerly. “We do toys suitable for individuals, couples, and multi-partner play.”

As I’m processing this unexpected business proposal, a particularly bold voice from the anonymity of the crowd pipes up, “Totally up for an MFM with you and Jake Cunningham.”

Marla attempts to continue, “Of course, we would compensa?—”

“I’m sorry, that isn’t the focus of RhythmRoutes,” I interject, quickly turning back to my own group, pointing at a famous mural, trying to steer the crowd’s attention to the art.

But before I can begin discussing it, another speculative offer rolls in. “Or you and a few of the Titans cheerleaders could make some music history of our own.”

I shoot a death stare his way, even as a mix of hoots and chuckles fills the air.

I continue to navigate through a minefield of inappropriate offers, unsolicited business proposals, and the ever-present doubting Thomases, Peters, and Pauls, my mind stuck in a loop of, “reframe, reframe, reframe”—like some magical incantation that might restore order.

Finally, we reach the gates of Albert’s Garden, and I gesture toward a brick wall in the far corner. “The Ramones’s first album—” I start, but am cut off by a jarring question.

“How do you justify your presence at public events for children? Do you think your chosen lifestyle is appropriate for that?”

My stomach churns with something uncomfortably close to shame, even though my brain’s screaming I’ve done nothing wrong.

“Pardon me?” That’s what slips out of my mouth, instead of a fiery “How dare you” or a sharp “Get the bloody hell out of my way.” No, like some well-mannered automaton, I stand there and say, “Pardon me.” As in, pardon me while I brace for your next blow. I’m ready now. More please.

I keep praying for a miracle. And one comes. Kind of, though not the sort I had in mind. The sky turns a shade of doom, and before I can herd my dwindling flock to shelter, the heavens unleash a deluge of biblical proportions, washing away any pretense of control I had over the day.

The tour is a washout, literally, and I terminate it less than halfway through. Most of my actual clients flee, leaving only the reporters, still snapping, unfazed by the downpour.

I look up at the sky and swipe at my face. Off comes my made-up bravado, streaking my fingers, a dark reminder to spring for waterproof next time.

At least Jake is out of the spotlight, deep in preparation for the playoffs, and I’m glad for him.

But there’s a tiny voice reminding me of his promise to weather this storm with me. The only support I have are his texts and a few quick phone calls, as useful as a parachute in a snowstorm, but I dismiss those thoughts quickly. It’s not his fault.

By Thursday,my panic has reached a new high. The rain hasn’t let up, forcing me to cancel yet another tour.

To make matters worse, my broker contacted me. Because of my lack of a credit history in the United States, the landlord wants an extra month’s rent.

I’m somehow able to wrangle a few more days to come up with the funds. But I’m worried. Really worried. Because my google reviews are nosediving and requests for refunds are coming in fast and furious. Tips? What a joke. If I burn through the rest of my savings, I’ll literally have no money.

Photos of me from the day before surfaced, and I’m an absolute wreck. I should have popped into a loo somewhere, put on a bit of blush and lipstick. Or at least run a comb through my hair. Because I look like I’m channeling Medusa. Or the corner bag lady. A hag. Flattery, thy name isnotAmelia Stevens.

But amidst the ones of me impersonating drowned raccoon and some of Jake and me from the gala, they’ve also unearthed photos from Fordwich. Some from the inn. A few of my tours back in England. I hope they didn’t speak to Gran. Or Ben—who knows what he might have to say about me.

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