Michael Stood straight up and dialed Gabe's number.
“The number you’re trying to reach is unavailable…”
“Damn!" He cursed. "They’re recording today."
Michael grabbed his coat and ran up the stairs of the dark basement. His feet pounded down the hallway of a brownstone building in Fort Greene, Brooklyn. He rushed through a the small foyer with mailboxes and began sprinting down Lafayette Street to the G train subway stop.
He approached the Brooklyn Academy of Music and gave a commemorative fist-pump, while he passed the gorgeous white building. He spotted the subway's black sign with white lettering quickly and jumped down the steps in three's to get to the turnstile to swipe his metrocard.
“Come on train,” he said, willing the sporadic inter-borough rail line to quickly approach.
“What a day not to bike to work,” he said, disappointed at his timing. He looked at his watch. It had already been about 15 minutes since he had talked to Jon.
“Should I run to Williamsburg?” he thought. “It’s about two miles away. If I sprinted it, it would take me 15 to 20 minutes…”
Then he heard the sweet relief of the train barreling through the tunnel, and quickly ruled out the run.
He boarded the train, took a seat, and began thinking about Jon’s proposition and how he would sell it to the boys.
“I mean it’s a free trip to London, that’s worth it right? He said aloud.
He was trying to think, but couldn’t concentrate. To his right someone was blaring music from his speaker set.
(lyric 0:22)
Fix up look sharp
don't make me paint a bitch
something get dark
hear the bang, see the spark
duck down, lay down just (get on down)
Michael looked over and saw a grey, stone-washed jeans on the slim legs of a black male wearing a fluorescent green t-shirt. He had on big sunglasses, and his Nike Dunks had a pink swoosh. He also wore a big-rimmed soft cap that fit his egg-shaped head perfectly.
Michael tried to get his focus back.
“How crazy can it be to do this?” He asked himself.
“Are you talking to me?” The black hipster yelled over his speakers. “Sorry but I can’t turn the music down.”
“Why don’t you turn it off then?” Michael replied.
“Once off, it don’t go back on,” he said. “I need this to practice once I get to the studio.”
Michael shook his head. “What a random, weird dude,” he thought.
“And,” the man continued. “If they’re people on the train I practice for tips.”
“Makes sense,” he replied. “Not,” he thought.
The train stopped and a group of 10 people filed in and moved into separate areas on the train.
“Watch,” the man said. Then he placed the speakers on the seat that he was occupying.
To the heavy Dizee Rascal beat, fluorescent colors began to swirl. Michael was in awe. The finesse exuded from the man’s fingertips. He seemed to incorporate how the colors moved on his wardrobe with the music. He was on his back, his head, his hands, and then jumping using the subway poles as leverage.
The subway patrons began to hoot and clap. Michael would have joined, but he was looking at his watch. The time was passing too quickly for his taste. The dancer stopped and began collecting tips using his hat as the collection plate.
“What did you think?” Shouted the dancer as he approached Michael.
“You’re solid man,” he said.
“Solid? Try phenomenal.”
Michael laughed. “What’s your name?” He asked.
“Samuel, but my friends call me Switch.”
“I’m Michael. Can I call you Switch?”
“Possibly,” he said.
Then Michael realized they were approaching his stop.
“Great show. I gotta run, but you have mad skills. I don’t know anything about dancing, but I know what I like.”
Switch handed him a flyer. “Check us out sometime.”
But the doors to the train were already opening. Michael grabbed the 4x6 inch postcard and started his sprint again. His black boots heavily pounded up the stairs. Michael finally broke to the surface and emerged in Williamsburg. He ran down Bedford Avenue toward McCarron Park.
“God why does Adam live so fucking far away from the subway,” he thought as he continued to move his burning legs as fast as he could down the street.
He ran through the park, passing artists sketching on benches and some couples enjoying their fall afternoons in the grass. A dog walker didn’t see him coming and his ankles were almost clothes-lined by a barkey beagle, who got excited as he sprinted their direction.
“Sorry!” Michael screamed behind him as the parking picked up after he avoided the net of leashes.
Finally he got to the apartment. While panting, he took out his phone and dialed Adam’s number, then leaned on the buzzer to the apartment. The door released as the door released to his body's pressure, and he jetted through another foyer with mailboxes.
“More fucking stairs,” he said, groaning as he wound his way up to the 3rd floor of the building. He finally landed on his desired floor and turned the knob to the proper door. He finally found the faces of Adam, Jack and Gabe huddled around Adam’s computer.
They turned the volume off as soon as he ran in. (VOLUME OFF)
They turned the volume off as soon as he ran in. (VOLUME OFF)
“Guys!” Michael said, panting. Then his labored breathing took over, and all you heard were deep breaths.
“Michael? What the fuck is wrong with you?” said Jack, confused.
Michael leaned over his knees, placing his hands on his thighs for support.
“Adam get him some water,” Jack said.
But Michael put his hand up to stop him.
“Guys. We got invited on an European tour.”
The three boys stared at him.
“I’m serious,” Michael said. His breath was returning to a normal cadence. He stripped off his jacket and used his shirt sleeve to wipe his forehead. “I just got an email from Jon McDonald, the manager for The Dark Keys. They’re looking for an opening act for a six-week tour, and they want us for it.”
“That’s awesome!” Adam cried. “When do we leave for it?”
“Well, that’s the thing. We’ll leave in two days. They arranged flights for us, and we have another 10 minutes before I have to call Jon back with an answer.”
“Can we afford this?” Jack asked.
“Nope,” Michael replied. “That’s why it’s great that we’re getting baked into another tour. They’re covering transportation and logistics. The band has a crazy Benefactor that’s covering the costs of the tour. We just have to get our asses out there.”
“What’s the catch?” Jack asked. “I feel like we could be getting sold into white slavery. I’m too young and innocent to be a Dateline special.”
Adam and Jack cracked up. Michael stayed firm.
“The catch is that we have to leave in two days and deal with this crazy bullshit of the ‘Benefactor’ or whatever. And we have five minutes until we have to call Jack back.”
The group got quiet.
“Let’s do it,” Gabe said firmly. “What have we got to lose?”
Michael smiled. This was the first sign of decisiveness from Gabe since the funeral.
“Done,” Michael said. He picked up his phone and hit the green button to call Jack.
* * * *
