Page 69 of The River in Spring
“I have to take a shit,” ZZ says, apropos of nothing.
“Just fucking hold it.”
“I’ll hold it in your fucking hands,” ZZ comes back.
But it doesn’t piss Tony off, in fact it breaks the tension, and we start laughing.
“You’ll have time. We’re a little early.”
Jimmy leans in and addresses the group.
“Do you think this is normal?” he whispers, gesturing to the vehicle we find ourselves in. “Does everyone arrive in a limo?”
“Who cares? I’m just going to enjoy the ride,” Oscar adds.
“I’m thinking he wouldn’t send a car if he had any idea the music wasn’t going to pay off,” ZZ says.
“Or if he didn’t think he’d sign us.”
As the car pulls up to the elevators and stops, I add one more thought. “Don’t jinx it! Let’s just take it step by step.”
“What floor do we go to?” Jimmy asks.
“It’s all Studio James. Just walk inside. There will be someone there to guide you.”
“Thanks, man.”
“Good luck to you,” the driver says, turning to us with a smile.
“Thank you!”
Obviously, he has delivered other overly excited and nervous artists to this underground foundation of hopes and dreams. We share one thing, regardless of styles and genres. To reach this level, music has held a holy place in our lives.
It’s sweet that he understands.
We pile out and straighten our clothes as the limo pulls away. Even ZZ checks his zipper. Don’t think I have ever seen him in formal wear. The newer jeans and long-sleeved shirt qualify.
Getting in the elevator we meet each other’s eyes. Every single one of us aware of the weight of the moment. The first floor button is pushed. Jimmy lets out a long sigh.
“I’m so fucking nervous,” Tony says, fiddling with his bracelets.
“Me too,” I add.
“I have to shit.” ZZ states the more serious problem.
The door slides back to an understated small lobby. There are no gold records or awards on the espresso colored walls. Just modern furniture and upscale lighting.
The woman sitting at the modern desk at the far end is speaking with... Oh shit! It’s Marley Mantley. Country’s latest golden goose. Her writing is so good. Walking forward, it feels like I have cement in my shoes. She turns with our approach.
“I’m just leaving. I’m boring my friend here to death. That’s a cool dress!” She holds out my arms for a better view.
Now to pretend I’m perfectly used to speaking with a star.
“Thanks!”
I go blank. She must be used to people spazzing out and comes to my rescue.
“I’m Marley.”
