Page 104 of Not Just a Trick Play

The Gotham Guides team arrives shortly after. I’ve chatted with Emily, the head of partnerships and my point-person.

She introduces me to Julian, whose hawkish gaze sweeps over my setup, my logo, my headsets, and I second-guess every choice I’ve made. I wonder how much of the gossip he’s already heard.

Marissa, the other rep, sports a smile that’s a touch more welcoming, suggesting she’s at least open to being charmed.

“I’m delighted to meet you all,” I beam, trying to find the balance between professional and personable as I hand out the headsets.

I’ve triple-checked everything—no technical difficulties on my watch.

Once everyone’s equipped, I haul in a deep breath and launch into my script. “Welcome to RhythmRoutes, where every step is a story.”

My voice is steady as I continue. “I’m excited to share this spot—these two tenement buildings are the basis for Led Zeppelin’sPhysical Graffiticover, one of the most intricate in rock history.”

I hold up the precious record. “The jacket has cut-out windows, with internal sleeves that can be swapped for different scenes. One spells out the album cover in red letters, and another has famous faces—Lee Harvey Oswald, Pope Leo XIII, and Buzz Aldrin among them.”

I quickly gauge my audience, nerves bubbling beneath the surface. So far, so good. Now for the juicy part. “Take a closer look at the building and compare it to the cover. Notice anything? The album version is missing the entire fourth floor. Some say it was a design choice to fit the square format, but rumor has it that Jimmy Page’s drug dealer lived on that level. To ease Page’s anxiety, they left it out. Fact or fiction? You decide!”

I sneak a glance at the Gotham Guides team. Emily looks thoughtful. Marissa’s still smiling, at least. Julian…stoic as ever. No reaction is better than a bad one, right?

I swallow and signal the group to follow me, but before we can take a step, commotion erupts. I may have chosen a different starting point for the tour, but we’ve been found.

“Amelia, were you fired from the Titans because of your involvement in the scandal with Jake Cunningham?”

“Some sources suggest you were hired specifically to cover up the incident. Can you comment on that?”

Both questions land at the same time, as if the reporters are in parallel dimensions, oblivious to each other.

Panic bleeds into my already simmering unease. I ignore them, marching ahead to the next point of interest. “And here is Holiday Cocktail Lounge. They say this bar was the inspiration for Madonna’s hit ‘Holiday.’” I raise my voice to be heard and hurriedly move on.

Bloggers and people in Titans gear pop up at every stop, gathering behind us like a swarm I can’t shake off. “Amelia, shouldn’t you be playing cheerleader at Jake Cunningham’s big game?”

That question isn’t so bad. I ignore it, hoping he’ll lose interest. But my lack of a “no-comment” fuels more questions about Jake’s game-day rituals and insinuating my little tour is nothing but a sideshow to his main event.

Trying to maintain my composure, I pivot away from one microphone, only for another thrust at me. It’s a never-ending game of whack-a-mole. Each stop transforms into an interrogation.

“Amelia, is it true that your tours are only successful because of your relationship with Jake Cunningham?”

That shot hurt, and I wince. From the corner of my eye, I catch the Gotham Guides trio exchanging looks that scream “Is this for real?” or “What have we walked into?”

With a forced calm I don’t feel, I muster a “No comment,” and herd the group along, only to face another barrage.

The interruptions are relentless. Each historical anecdote I offer is met with a torrent of questions directed at me, the Gotham Guides team, and even unsuspecting bystanders.

I overhear Julian muttering to Marissa, “I didn’t sign up for a reality show calledThe Real Tour Guides of New York.” That almost cracks my professional façade, but I don’t let my smile waver.

The death blow arrives at what should have been the tour’s highlight. As I’m about to dive into the history of Joey Ramone’s Place, a microphone is shoved in Emily’s face. “Is Gotham Guides planning to cash in on the celeb-obsessed culture with tours like Amelia’s?”

Her features twist as if she’s just bitten into a lemon.

By the time we limp to the conclusion at CBGB’s, the damage is done. The Gotham Guides team, polite but frosty, deliver their verdict in the chaos of flashing cameras and shouts.

Emily peels off her headset and passes it to me, her gaze skirting mine. “Thank you for your effort, Amelia,” she says, her tone measured and cool. “But we require a more…distraction-free experience.”

“I…see…”

With a sympathetic tilt of her head, she adds, “Perhaps in the future, with some refinements? When things are more…under control?”

It’s a gentle rejection, kinder than I deserve. And the truth is, I can’t even promise that the chaos will die down—this might very well be my new normal.

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