‘Thanks, Jerry. See you tomorrow.’
‘Don’t be late, yeah? We got that cyclist group coming first thing.’
I rolled my eyes and huffed. ‘Righto.’
‘Night, kid.’
Jerry was alright as far as bosses went. He could be a right royal prick under pressure, like when twenty two cyclists come in for coffee and breakfast at 7am, on their morning lycra tour of the county before work. To be honest, I don’t know which hurt more, getting up at 6am to be at work for 6:45, or putting up with Jerry’s cheerful morning attitude.
But all things considered, he wasn’t so bad. I’d certainly had my fair share of arsehole bosses. But he kept his hands to himself and his eyes on the till, rather than on me. And that was good enough for me… for the time being. I was still waiting for my big break.
But a professional singing gig was pretty hard to come by in Huntersville. With a population of sixteen thousand, there wasn’t much happening here at all. Any work worth going for was only happening in the Bay, population of just over fifty thousand. At least they had more pubs there. I’d have a real chance of finding a decent band and gigging regularly. And who knows, maybe even throw some of my originals at them. I mean, imagine that. My stuff played with a band… in front of a paying audience.
But without a car, humming tunes to the stray dogs outside of this crappy little diner was as close to singing in public as I was going to get. It might not have paid well but fortunately, I had a shitty campervan out the back that Jerry let me lease for free in exchange for a lower hourly rate. It wasn’t a great deal but at the time, I didn’t have anywhere to stay. He did me a solid.
What I didn’t realise at the time was that in taking the deal, I’d set myself up in a hamster wheel, the likes of which I couldn’t get out of; I needed money to fix my rust bucket and get it back on the road. But stuck where I was, I wasn’t earning enough, not even to leave the county. And even if I could leave, it wasn’t like I had a lot of options when it came to work.
So, I’m stuck in a shitty job waiting tables, putting aside my peanut shells of a wage to fix a car that shouldn’t be on the road anyways, to go thirty k’s up the road, to the more expensive areas, in the hopes of finding work… so I can do the whole routine all over again.
Yep, just living the dream.
I walked the thirty or so metres to my rusting abode, and had just put my key in the door when I heard some whistling.
Now, you’re probably thinking, so what? But it was 9:30 at night, the car park lighting is bad on the best of days, and I’ve seen my fair share of dodgy customers, plenty of which have tried to hit me up for the classic “one night” encounter. Honestly, there’s something about backwater-ville that brings out the weirdos. Maybe they think that no one will notice them, or that they live too far in the middle of nowhere for anyone to care. But something about the isolation of this area really brings them out of the woodwork.
I stopped and darted a look towards the source of the whistled tune. Then I waited, with pricked ears.
The whistling continued. Then footsteps followed until I saw a man under the dim street lighting of the car park. He had on a long trench coat with a high collar and a fedora. That in itself wasn’t too strange. It was, after all, a cool night. But as he walked towards me, his steps had a light bounce about them, almost like a light skip, like he was in a particularly good mood. His hands were in his coat pockets and the closer he got, I noticed that his steps were bouncing in time with his tune.
If he’d just been walking towards me, I would have just been scared. But the way he moved, that really got my heart pumping. That sort of confidence just screamed “creepyville”. I’m talking cocky, confident, serial killer sort of shit.
My hands started to shake. Then I looked around. Do I go back to the diner? Jerry would still be there. And he might have been an old grouch, but he could still swing a frying pan. But I’d have to run past this guy to get there. I’d be running straight into his arms.
The whistling continued. All things considered, he could hold a tune. But pleasant as it was, it didn’t stop my subconscious mind from interlacing my keys in my knuckles. I wasn’t going to rely on my short nails to do any damage, if it came to it.
I turned my body towards him. ‘Can I help you?’ I said, trying to sound confident, despite my shaky voice.
‘Good evening, Theodora.’
Theodora? I thought. Not even Mum called me that anymore. And it wasn’t even on my name tag at the diner, so he couldn’t have been a customer.
‘Do I know you?’
‘Don’t worry, ma chérie. I’m a friend,’ he said, with a dashing smile and a glint in his eye.
‘I’ll be the judge of that.’
He stopped walking just metres from me. Under the outdoor lamp of my campervan’s front door, I could see his clean shaven face, with perfect skin, and hypnotising devilish eyes. I won’t lie, he was stunningly attractive. But maybe that’s what he used to lure his victims.
‘What do you want?’ I asked, sounding frustrated. ‘It’s been a long day and I’m tired.’
‘Well, of course you are,’ he replied with a smirk. ‘You’ve been living the dream: waiting tables, mopping floors, putting up with fat, indecisive customers. Come now, did you really think that life would get any better for you here? Of all the backwater towns you could have landed yourself in, you chose the one with two roadside bars, and a barber’s that’s been open for a hundred and two years. I mean, it’s not exactly at the forefront of change, is it?’
I looked at him curiously. I wanted to say so much, to defend my actions. To explain that I didn’t choose to be stuck here. But at the same time, I felt an anger building up. Just who the hell was this guy? And how did he know so much about me?
‘There are worse towns,’ I said finally.
‘Yes, ma chérie. Yes, there are,’ he replied. ‘But backwater towns are a dime a dozen. That doesn’t interest me. What I want to know is why you’re not following your true dreams. Just because your car breaks down doesn’t mean you can’t stick your thumb out and hitch a ride to a town with a pulse. No, no. I want to know what’s holding you back. I mean, let’s face it, waiting tables can be done by a flock of well trained pigeons.’
I shook my head. ‘Look, it’s late. And I have an early shift tomorrow. So thanks but--’
‘Hold on,’ he said, calmly raising his arms. ‘What if I said that I could make your dreams come true?’
I raised an eyebrow. As far as pick up lines went, that was pretty bad.
‘I’d say I’m still not interested.’ I put my key in the door, and the lock opened with a clunk.
‘So you’re telling me that you’d prefer to mop up after fat, lazy patrons, squandering your true potential? Well, then why not go all out? Offer your customers a nappy changing station. That way they don’t even have to get up from their seats. You’ll certainly have your work cut out for you. Especially with El groucho’s spiced ribs.’
‘Look, I’m not interested,’ I snapped. ‘Now just get out of here.’
A smug smile curved the side of his mouth. ‘We both know that you have a wonderful set of vocal cords, ma chérie. It’s just wasted on those fat buffoons, gorging themselves on slices of pie, and umpteen mugs of coffee. You, my dear, are a talented soul. And you deserve more.’
His smile turned warm. But it was his eyes that delivered the full charm. And I felt myself suddenly curious.
I hesitated, then sighed and turned, leaving my keys dangling in the door. ‘And what exactly are you proposing?’ I said, not bothering to hide my scepticism. ‘You’ll make me a star but I have to sleep with you first? Is that it?’
He shook his head. ‘Not quite, my dear. I’m not a stranger to the odd sexual favour. But that’s a small payment compared to what’s really on offer. Tell me, what do you really want? What’s in your heart? What drives you?’
Still sceptical, I answered with frustration. ‘At the moment? To get out of this town.’
He shook his head again. ‘You could do that any time. But that’s not what drives you. What do you really want? What makes you get up in the morning? You know, besides fat, middle aged cyclists.’
‘I have to fix my car.’
‘Nope. Try again.’
I sighed. ‘I want to sing.’
‘Still not convinced. You can do that in the shower.’
‘I want to sing in front of a crowd.’
‘Then go busk somewhere!’ he snapped. ‘Stop lying to yourself and let yourself dream, my dear. Admit it. Say it out loud!’
‘Fine! I want a band!’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake. How am I supposed to help you achieve what you truly desire, if you won’t even admit it to yourself! What. Do. You. Truly. Want?’
‘I want to be famous!’ I shouted. ‘I want a record deal! I want my own band, and to tour, and be loved by millions of fans. I want my songs to be heard all around the world!’
‘Why?’
‘Because I deserve it!’ I snapped. ‘I’ve worked my arse off and I haven’t gotten anywhere. And now, out of the blue, my car’s totalled, and I’m stuck in this damn town, shovelling shit while my life gets wasted away, when I should be out there, on a stage, with a top band, letting my words get heard by every soul who has access to a radio. I want to make a name for myself. I want to be the talking point of every household. I want even great grandmothers from distant lands to know my name.’
‘That’s it? You want to be famous just because you deserve it?’ he asked. ‘Well, that feels a little shallow. There are plenty of people more worthy of fame and fortune than you, ma chérie. What makes you so great? Hmm? Why should you stand out?’
‘Look, this is bullshit. And you’re wasting my time. You can’t give me what I want, no matter how hard you try and sell this. And I’m sure as hell not going to sleep with you to make it happen. So just piss off and let me get some sleep.’
‘If you can’t be honest with yourself, you don’t deserve a lukewarm coffee, let alone to have your material exposed to millions. So cut the nonsense and tell me why your material should be on the lips of every man, woman and child. What makes your stuff so different?’
I sighed, and an uncertain silence enveloped me. I’d never actually asked myself that. Why did my stuff deserve to be out there? What made it stand out among the millions of other songs that already littered the market?
I racked my brain but I couldn’t actually answer the question. All I knew was that writing songs and singing was all I wanted to do – all I ever wanted to do. But was that enough?
‘I don’t know what makes my stuff different,’ I said softly and with a heavy regret. ‘Maybe I’m no different from anyone else. But it matters to me. What’s the point of writing songs and performing them to an empty room? I guess, I’m hoping that my experience will resonate with someone. You know, if just one person can relate to what I have to say then it’ll be worth it. It’ll be… I don’t know, like some kind of validation that my life hasn’t been a total waste.’
The man smiled. ‘So. You think you might actually have something worthwhile to say. Something you believe in. Perhaps even influence others? Interesting. Let’s say that’s enough of a reason. Well, true success, at least on the level that you’re seeking, requires true sacrifice. So what are you prepared to do to make it all come true? What are you truly willing to endure?’
I looked around the darkened car park. There still wasn’t another soul in sight. If this guy was just softening me up before his big move, I had to admit, it was working. I’d never had anyone show even the slightest interest in my music. Maybe that was his angle – flattery. He’d soften his victims with their own narcissism, fattening their egos like a Christmas turkey before he went for the throat.
Well, he’d made it this far. It wouldn’t hurt to see what this was all about. Maybe he was a producer. Or just someone with money. I’d keep my distance to be safe. But if he could make it happen, and he wasn’t a serial killer, maybe the price wouldn’t be that bad. One thing was certain though: there was always a price.
‘I’ve been working on my songs and trying to get my stuff performed. But I’ve hit a dead end. And it doesn’t help being stuck in this town.’
‘Yes, we’ve established that. It isn’t the life of the party, is it?’ he replied, raising an eyebrow. ‘What if I said that not only could I get you out of this town, but I could get your material in the hands of the right people. I do happen to have quite a few connections. But in order for this to happen, you’ll have to give me control of the music.’
‘You’re not getting the rights to my songs!’ I snapped. ‘They’re my songs, about my personal experiences. You’re not just going to take them.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t own the rights, ma chérie. You’d still have those. In fact, as far as the world was concerned, I wouldn’t exist. But between you and I, I’d be driving every negotiation, every decision, every public appearance.’
‘So… what, you want to be my manager?’ I asked, still confused.
‘Not quite. Tell me, just how important is it to get your material out there for the world to hear?’
‘Well, that’s the end goal of every artist, isn’t it?’ I answered. ‘We do what we do out of love. It’s just a bonus if the rest of the world thinks the same way. It’s the perfect validation.’
‘What if someone else was performing your tunes?’ he asked with a curved mouth.
‘They’re my songs. If I’m not performing them… I don’t know. I’m not just a songwriter. I’m a performer too. That’s half the fun. The lights. The full band. The screaming audience singing along. It’s the full package. If I couldn’t perform them then it wouldn’t be worth it.’
‘But don’t you want the very best for your songs?’ he asked, tilting his fedora up slightly. ‘What could you do that couldn’t be overshadowed by… say, a full choir. Or a ten piece brass section. There’s always a better performer out there. You might want to consider that.’
I shook my head. ‘There’s always a better player out there. But my sound is the one thing that I add that lets me stand out. And my sound comes from me performing. It’s either me, or no one.’
He nodded, almost as if finally impressed. ‘Alright. So you’ve finally set your boundaries. I can respect that. Then this is what I can do for you. I can get you exactly what your heart desires. I can get you that deal. I can promise you the fame and fortune that comes with the success. And I can get you touring continents within six months.’
I humphed, with the corner of my mouth curved. ‘Really?’ I said sarcastically. ‘And what exactly do I have to do for that exposure?’
‘You just need to sign this contract,’ he said, pulling out a folded piece of paper from within his breast pocket. I opened it up and read a single line. I Theodora Josephine Tillman relinquish all control in order to make my dreams of becoming a successful singer/songwriter a reality. Signed, Theodora J. Tillman.
I looked at the contract and suddenly froze. It was bad enough that he somehow knew my formal first name – a name that not even my mother called me anymore. But no one except for my parents knew my full name. Certainly not the locals. I’d been going by Teddy Waters for the past eighteen months, since I’d been on the road. It was my given stage name, and the one I wanted to be known by.
But this was a breach of privacy on a whole new level. And any amount of salesman charm that he’d mustered, went flying out the door, overrun by suspicion and doubt and scepticism. Something wasn’t right.
‘You never told me how you know my name,’ I said coldly. ‘And you haven’t even introduced yourself,’ I added, with a confident clarity, like someone had just pulled the veil from in front of my eyes. ‘You want me to sign a contract giving you all control of my music, and I still don’t know a damn thing about you. So what’s your deal? Huh? Are you stalking me? Is that it? Because no sane music producer would have tried something this low. You should be ashamed of yourself trying to take advantage of a desperate artist.’
He didn’t answer. He just put his hands back in his coat pockets, and stood, hinting a smile. Then he raised an eyebrow, as if suddenly considering my words.
‘Well?’ I prodded. ‘Who the hell are you?’
‘Ma chérie,’ he replied with a smug grin. ‘I’m merely your biggest fan. But you’re right. Introductions are long overdue. My name is Lucien Héroux. I’m, what you can call, a dream maker. But I don’t waste my time with everyday dreamers. If there isn’t substance to a soul’s desires, then it doesn’t matter how tempting the offer, people just won’t get off their arses. You can lead a horse to water, and all that. So I look for people who are passionately driven. And you, ma chérie, have passed the test. As to how I know so much about you? Well, I do my research. Truth be told, I’ve been following your exploits for a while. To be honest, I thought you would have left Huntersville by now. But I feel you’ve become a little stagnant. This is why I decided to finally step in. I had hoped to at least see you make it to a stage on your own before I introduced myself. But sometimes, we all need a little nudge along.’
‘So you’re a producer?’ I asked, now mildly sceptical.
‘I produce, I manage, I mentor, I parent. Basically, I’ll do whatever it is that needs to be done, to get the job done. The world is seriously lacking passion. So I plan to singlehandedly replenish the world’s dwindling supplies. You, ma chérie, are next on my radar. So the offer is there. But I don’t have all night. And there are many others in my sights. So I’ll need your answer now, I’m afraid.’
‘Wait, you can’t expect me to jump into this completely blind.’
‘How many times does opportunity come knocking, ma chérie?’ He winced. ‘For most souls, it almost never comes. You have a chance to finally get your name out there. To fill the world with love, and affection, and music, and art. You could have your poster on the walls of teenage boys and girls all around the world. And inspire little girls to be just like you. And it all starts with a signature and a leap of faith. But time is money, ma chérie. I need your answer now.’
I looked around frantically. What if this was my golden opportunity? Do I let it pass me by just because I wasn’t willing to put my money where my mouth was? If he was legit, I could finally get out of this town, and get to where I’m supposed to be. But wait. I couldn’t just jump into this. I don’t know anything about him. This could all be fake. It wasn’t much of a contract, after all. It didn’t mention anything about the money, or the touring, or whether I’d be giving up any creative control over my own songs. For all I know, he could start off with dimples and smiles, but as soon as it got serious, he could turn into the manager from hell. At least here, in this shitty little town, I had some control over my own fate. If I went with him, there was no telling where I’d find myself.
Is this the time for a leap of faith? Or am I throwing caution to the wind? I want so much for this to be true. But it just didn’t sit right in my gut. It felt too good to be true.
But then, he did know things about me that had to have been researched. He was nothing if not thorough. I’d give him that.
My confusion and uncertainty must have been all over my face because after a slight pause, he finally said, ‘Ma chérie, I can see that your heart is ready but your mind is not. Another time perhaps.’ He tipped his hat, put his hands back in his pockets, spun on a heel and made to walk away.
‘Wait!’ I cried, feeling the pang of a missed opportunity. On my own, I wasn’t getting anywhere. Truth be told, I needed help. A benefactor of some kind. And this was the only person to put his hand up for the job. ‘Ok,’ I said with trepidation. And I reached out my hand.
He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the contract and a pen. ‘Fame awaits you, ma chérie,’ he said with a devilish smile, like a contented cat with a wriggling mouse trapped between its teeth.
My heart began to race. Was I signing my life away? Time would tell. But before I realised what I had done, there was my name, scrawled across the bottom of the page.
‘Wonderful!’ Lucien said excitedly. ‘I see wonderful things in your future, ma chérie. Wonderful things. Now, we must not dawdle. If we want to make an impact, we have to hit the ground running. Forgive me, ma chérie, but I’ll have to take it from here.’
He grabbed me by the hands and stared into my eyes. Then everything went black.
I opened my new eyes and noticed the night sky. Dim stars appeared from behind patches of clouds. I breathed in through my nostrils. The cool air was crisp but stale, tinted with a lingering stench of garbage, motor oil and tarmac from the empty car park, and of rust and rubber from my campervan. I looked at my hands then rubbed them together. My skin was soft though I could feel the calluses on my left hand’s fingertips. How she maintained it with all the diner’s detergents and harsh chemicals was a true mystery.
Then I ran my hand over my body, over the various curves and bumps. Over my hips, buttocks and thighs. I’d forgotten how much fun it was playing a woman.
Then I grinned. Oh, this was going to be so easy, I thought. Humans really were such simple creatures. ‘Ma chérie,’ I muttered. ‘The world won’t know what hit it. I’ll have a recording deal by this time next week.’