Estimated reading time: 14 minutes
The man, despite his diminutive size, managed to fight his way bravely through the crowd. Using the boy as a battering ram, they reached the gated perimeter, elbowing two excitable teenagers, busy taking shots on their mobile phones, aside.
“Is that him?”
The boy pointed toward the stage. Not much taller, the man could see the pop star still making his way slowly offstage, pausing to sign photographs and take selfies.
“Not yet, Guti. Hold on tight son, don’t let go.”
In one hand, the boy held a small teddy bear dressed in a little suede outfit with an American bandana. Frightened, he turned and looped his other arm through the metal barrier fence and held onto it for support as if he were adrift at sea. In fact, the crowd of concertgoers, rolled in waves, desperate to get a glimpse of their musical hero as he inched nearer the arena exit.
“Excuse me,” the man shouted.
The security guard, if he had heard, showed no sign. He was one of many dotted along the open aisle. A minute later, they began to feel the crush from behind. Little Guti, despite the protective efforts to guard the space around the boy, was pressed harder against the gate, crying out for help.
“Sir, excuse me!” The guard’s back was to the crowd, but his head swivelled on the thick neck, locking eyes with the man. “My son.”
“Ten thousand sons in here, mate,” he replied.
“But, please.” The man pointed at the little cowering figure below him. The guard had to strain to see amid the tangle of limbs and jostling feet. There, a little moon-shaped face, looking up in desperation. The guard glanced sideways, seeing the approaching pop star and the accompanying heave of the crowd and acted fast.
“George?” he said into his earpiece. “Two in Gate B. Row 11.”
A moment later, a second guard arrived. The barrier gate was opened briefly, and the man and his son were ejected, almost collapsing into the newcomers arms.
“He’ll take you somewhere safe.”
They raced through the tunnel, escorted by the guard. The guard flashed a card in a door panel, and they entered a small sitting room. There was a long low couch against one corner, and a table with various industry magazines splashed across their surface. The walls had several framed portraits of familiar rock and pop icons. A half chest fridge-freezer completed the decor, its lid open with icy mist spilling from inside. Several people were milling around, generally ignorant of man and boy, moving in and out of the room through an open doorway.
“Take a seat,” the guard said, pointing to the sofa. “Grab yourself some water or Coke from the fridge. When you catch your breath, just leave through that door you came in, OK?”
The guard left, with the sound of the cheering crowd cutting off when the door closed on him. They had just grabbed drinks and sat down, when a smiling lady with red hair and a clipboard appeared. She was wearing a diamond spangled eyepatch.
“It’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt.”
“Sorry?”
“I’m Terri. With one eye. Obviously.”
The boy hugged the bear closer to his chest, cowering behind the man. She lifted the eyepatch to reveal a perfectly functional eye.
“Just a little joke! You’re fans of Stevey D? Cool bear! That’s got his likeness down to a T.”
“It’s not—”
“I’m Manesh,” the man interrupted, reaching around for the boy. “This is my son Guti. I can’t thank you enough. We’re used to crowds like this back home, but not for a concert.”
The woman took a seat opposite and nodded slowly. “Not many people are. He certainly knows how to whip them into a storm. Did you travel far to get here?”
“Bolivia.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. La Paz to be correct. Guti here is Stevey D’s biggest fan.” The man reached down and tousled the beetle black colour of the boy’s head. “He’s followed him all his life.”
The woman set her clipboard to one side and eased into her seat. “Is that right Guti?”
The boy looked up, uncertainty etched on his face. “It’s OK, son.”
“He speaks English?”
“He does. In fact, it was Stevey D’s songs that inspired him to learn. That’s what made you want to learn the language, isn’t that right?”
The woman tapped the pen between her teeth, watching the little boy nod with each of his father’s statements.
“What’s your favourite song?” she asked.
The boy’s face came alive, breaking into a big smile. “Walk like you talk!” he blurted, and then, embarrassed at his boldness, poked his nose between his father’s shoulder and the couch, trying to hide.
“Good choice. What is it that you like about the music? How old is your son, by the way?”
“Oh, he’s ten. Go on, Guti. Answer the nice woman.”
The boy, feeling more emboldened, and after taking a few sips of his Coke took a big breath to steady himself.
“I like the way he has reinvented himself in the last decade. Coming from a successful band that was, by all accounts, manufactured for commercial interests – and a very fine product it was – Stevey D has since come into his own. That’s reflected in his catalogue of songs such as, ‘Let me be me’, ‘Mr Understood’, ‘Jibe Talkin’’, not to mention several others in his second to last studio album, ‘The Pretender’. Changing gears from pop to rock to pop, without ostracising your core audience – namely those that made you who you are today – and yet, still willing to take risks, well, that’s highly admirable.”
The boy paused, consulted within himself whether there was more to add, and seeing there was not, a satisfied expression dawned on his face. He leaned back, took a swig of his can of Coke and glanced at his father, who nodded satisfactorily.
“Well,” Terri said, laughing. “I don’t know where to start! Ten years old and you have a vocabulary better than most people I know. Plus you seem to know more about Stevey D than I do, and I’ve been his publicist for seven years!”
“Oh, Guti here spends every waking hour reading, watching YouTube and listening to his records. Him and his friends even started their own tribute band, styled after the band that Stevey D started in the 90s. In fact, one of the original band members of Electric 5 was Bolivian and somewhat of a hero in our country. Guti and his friends are forever listening to the old records of the band. I mean before they split.”
Terri raised a finger. “Went on an extended break.”
“I stand corrected,” Manesh said.
Terri glanced at her watch and then at the clipboard. She was half-way out of her seat before pausing and lowering herself.
“Would you like to meet Stevey?” The boy’s mouth dropped open. “I mean, if it’s OK with your dad?”
“That…I mean…that would be amazing. Right, son?” The boy nodded energetically. “Do you think he would meet us?”
Terri smiled. “I’m sure of it. I’ll make arrangements, if you just hold tight for a second.”
She was standing when the boy spoke again.
“Will they get back together?” Aware that she was speaking to a boy, albeit a very intelligent one, she hesitated, unsure how to answer. Little Guti filled the silence. “I know with the acrimonious departure and subsequent passing of Miguel Gonzalez, it put the band in a difficult position, especially Stevey D.”
“Well, never say never,” she said, and patted the shoulder of her father. “Perhaps your tribute band will carry the torch!”
Twenty minutes and two Cokes later, the redhead had returned with good news. She ushered the pair through a maze of corridors to a smaller room deep in the belly of the auditorium. It was modestly decorated, with a long table and mirror along one side. Several brightly coloured and oversized beanbags were scattered, and there were a few empty bottles which the publicist picked up as she entered. A large plasma TV was on and muted. The images suggested it was a nature programme. The man followed the woman, glancing around the room as if eager to soak up everything from the experience, despite its benignness. The boy trailed close behind, holding his father’s hand and his teddy bear in the other.
The woman stopped suddenly and turned, asking them to wait. They watched as she disappeared around a corner. There was mumbling and a raised voice of a man, before it seemed to calm. Terri emerged again and drew closer to the couple.
“He’s tired, so I can only give you five minutes. He’s so excited to meet you Guti,” she said, gently squeezing the boy’s shoulder. “Go right ahead. Back soon.”
The boy, nervous now, and with feet like lead stood rooted to the spot. He held the teddy bear up to his face, and started sucking his thumb. The man whispered in his ear, and by inches, slowly came unstuck.
“Anyone there?”
“Yes,” Manesh said. “We’re here.”
They rounded the corner to see a seated man, being attended to by a woman. Wet wipes were clearing the makeup from his face, dunked in a small bin at one side. The man, Stevey D, dismissed the helper and swivelled around in his chair.
“Always a pleasure to meet my fans,” he said and in smiling, displayed the whitest teeth they had ever seen. “And you must be Guti? From Bolivia. That’s a long walk.”
The little boy stared at the seated man, shifting his feet. Manesh put a protective arm around the small shoulders, nudging him forward but the boy didn’t seem to want to come closer.
“Guti? What do you say to Stevey D? I’m sorry,” Manesh said, shrugging. “He’s not normally like this. He’s been looking forward to this for years.”
“Twenty-three years,” the boy mumbled.
“I’m sorry?” Stevey D said. Silence hung in the air like a bad smell. “Cool teddy! From the band days, if I’m not wrong? Chatty sort. Did you enjoy the show then?”
Again, Manesh looked at the boy, saw him clutch the doll even tighter, obscuring his face. “Yes, it was wonderful. My son is your biggest fan. He knows all the records. All the lyrics. We had a magical time.”
Stevey D’s smile was sardonic. “Great. Tell your friends.” Again, silence. “Tell you what, would you like some merch little man?”
The pop star rolled his seat across to the corner and flipped the lid of a large perspex box. Inside, he pulled out a purple velvet bag with gold embossed initials SD. He tossed it to Manesh who caught it.
“Who doesn’t love goodies?” Stevey asked, watching the man pass it to the boy who didn’t as much as glance at it. “Only those from Bolivia, it would seem,” he muttered.
“You have been to my country?” the boy said. It sounded more like a statement than a question.
“I have. Many times. Played there often in the band. Long before you were born I’d say.”
“You remember Sucre, perhaps? 2003?”
The boy’s fixed stare never left the face of the rock and pop star who seemed to be giving the question considerable thought.
“I do. Final leg of our American tour.”
“The final gig of the band.”
Stevey D nodded. There was a tall glass of clear liquid on the counter and he reached for it, taking a large swallow.
“Good times. Anyway, it was nice—”
“The last performance by my father before you had him killed.”
The colour drained from the man’s face. He scooted back in his chair, hitting the table and almost knocking over the drink. Without makeup, he looked decades older than his onscreen persona, cast across the stage and TV screens around the world.
“Who…what the… don’t you come in here with that shit,” he said, pointing at Manesh.
The man shrugged his shoulders, clearly seeking no part in the conversation. The boy stepped forward, all previous timidness gone.
“Answer the question.”
“Listen, I don’t know who you are, or who put you up to this, but Miguel Gonzalez was no angel. He was a small-minded, angry little drunk. We’d all be on skid row if he had his way. He was holding us back. I’m sorry for your loss kid, but his death was the best thing that ever happened to the band.”
“The best thing that ever happened to Stevey D, you mean.”
“Same difference.” The man lifted the drink and downed the contents with the icecubes.
There was a brief impasse, the boy staring at the faded rockstar who was angled away from the couple, eager to close the conversation.
“Come on, Guti. Let’s go.”
Stevey D, suddenly angry at the ambush and reminders of the ghosts of the past, raised his voice: “Yeah, you go, Guti. Go with your fake father or whoever he is.”
“Uncle, actually. Miguel was my brother.”
Stevey gave a nonchalant shrug and threw his arms in the air. “Whatever. I’m done with you.”
The boy was rooted to the spot, a perfect picture of stillness.
“Take your gift bag and go. Comprende?”
Guti approached the man and held out the teddy bear. He waited until Stevey D took it.
“In Bolivia, we have a saying, ‘Los muertos nunca nos dejan.’ It translates as, ‘The Dead Never Leave Us’. He would have wanted you to have this.”
Stevey held the doll in his lap and looked down, into the shiny black button eyes. The thought streamed through his mind, windows to the soul, and he almost smiled. Almost. Except, there was nothing in those eyes. Nothing but a dark, cold void. He tried to shake himself free of the dark thoughts encroaching. The room felt like it was getting smaller. He was dimly aware of the man and boy slowly stepping away. For that, at least, he was grateful. But, he couldn’t yet look in their direction. The doll held him in its gaze, and he felt it grow heavy in his arms. The ice he had swallowed felt lodged in his throat. There was a sudden coldness taking root there, rising to his face and temple.
“Vamos, Guti. Let’s leave the man alone.”
A few minutes later, Terri met them in the corridor as they were making their way from the arena. Asking about their experience, she found it odd that the boy seemed on the verge of tears, clinging to his father. The man expressed his sincere thanks and explained that it was all too overwhelming and they were eager to leave.
When she arrived in Stevey D’s dressing room, she was almost struck by the stylist. The woman ran from the room in floods of tears. Entering, Terri called out for Stevey, and hearing no response, ventured further inside.
“What’s her problem?” she asked. The man had his back to her, slouched on the chair in front of the mirror. “Stevey?”
As she gently prodded his shoulder, the chair spun around. On Stevey’s lap was a teddy bear, clutched in the pale arms of the singer. She raised her hand to her mouth in a silent scream, not unlike Stevey’s except there would be no sound there ever again. A deep gash had been carved across his neck. As the chair continued to swing in a circle, a broken glass fell from the man’s hand to the floor. Beyond, scrawled on the mirror, four bloody words.
The band. Finally reunited.
This story was written for the ambitious creative project, ‘The Weekly Kook’, where I release a brand new short story every week for a year, totalling…yep, you guessed it – 52 stories.
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