Super Fake Love Song - David Yoon Page 0,67
spackled in the gaps between words, and if you didn’t look too hard, you didn’t even notice the seams.
“You sure?” said Gray.
“Nn,” I said.
“So I lied earlier,” said Gray. “You’re almost at ninety percent. Don’t tell the guys, shh.”
“Shut up,” I said. “Really?”
“It’s kinda true that rock is mostly three chords and an attitude,” said Gray. “Most anyone can get the chords right. What they don’t get is the last ten percent. That’s the attitude part, or showmanship. That’s what we work on next.”
“Uh,” I said.
“We have to,” said Gray through a hot samosa. “Think about it: We really only have three more practices left. We gotta cram in some style.”
Gray abruptly straddled the recliner and clawed an air guitar before him while whipping his necktie around in wild ellipses. I could almost see the flames of hell licking at the pale skin of his exposed Adam’s apple as he cackled before the burning sea of the damned.
“Like that,” he said, flopping back into his chair.
I sucked in my lips. “Cannot. Do not have skill.”
“You do,” said Gray. “You will. Because you guys already have the discipline to do the work. It’s good habits from all your nerd prop making. It’s inspiring.”
“You’re saying you’re inspired by me?” I said.
“I keep coming back to coach you guys, nn?” said Gray.
I dared myself to say it: “It’s been nice to see you in your natural habitat.”
Gray smiled, but there was some sadness there.
“To provide a belated answer to your question,” said Gray, “what happened in LA was people . . . producers . . . kept telling me I wasn’t authentic enough. Which is their flaky Hollywood way of saying I wasn’t good enough.”
I nodded. I lowered my head. People never said what they actually meant, in my experience. “Why didn’t you stay there and keep trying?”
“I ran out of money.”
I understood. It killed me that people had to cancel their dreams for endless toil, unless of course we somehow managed to pull ourselves out of these late-stage capitalist dark ages and into a Star Trek (TNG) future blessed with a universal basic income and sweet jumpsuits.
“Why didn’t you just ask Mom and Dad for more money?” I said.
Gray shot me a look before he caught himself. He jabbed his fingertips at his heart. “LA was all me. I needed to know if I could do it. Me.”
I understood this as well. Imagine Mom and Dad funding DIY Fantasy FX—and now imagine all the advising that would come with such an investment. The thought was so preposterous I almost laughed out loud.
“Anyway,” said Gray to the floor, “I’m gonna take that Trey Fortune job. I’m staying here in Rancho Ruby. I’m not going back to Hollywood.”
“Hey,” I said. “What if you tried again? What if—”
Gray shook his head. “It’s better this way, trust me.”
“Okay,” I said.
For a moment we just sat. Gray handed me a samosa.
I took a bite and made a face: Pretty darn tasty!
We ate without saying much of anything. Gray thumbed his phone. He noticed something, peered at it, and chuffed. An idea seemed to occur to him.
“You know what,” said Gray. “I think I will go back to Hollywood.”
My eyes got big. “What?”
“Not for me,” said Gray. He stood.
“Huh?” I said.
Gray tossed me a samosa for the road. “We’re going to Hollywood for you.”
Pathetic
The Inspire NV crested a hill and sailed into a black ocean glittering with pinpoints of gold and red and green.
“Angel City, baby,” said Gray.
Los Angeles.
Everything Rancho Ruby was not.
A grimy endless tumble of sagging dingbat apartments next to gleaming taco trucks next to million-dollar condos, all flanked by mile-long rivers of homeless encampments. Everyone driving too fast and playing music too loud and wearing too little, boys and girls and everyone in between. As we glided along, the maze of downtown’s deserted skyscrapers helplessly gave way to the vast autonomous regions of Koreatown and the Byzantine Latino Quarter, which in turn gave way to the inscrutably hip drag strips of Third Street, Beverly, Melrose, Fairfax, and so on, with all their cryptic signs and signifiers.
I loved LA. I was terrified by LA.
Gray reached out to close the mouth that I’d left hanging open in awe. “You’ll catch flies,” he said.
I smiled. It was ten o’clock, and me and my big brother were going to Hollywood on a Friday night. There was no other word to describe this except cool.
Gray thought so, too. “It’s so friggin’ cool here. I can’t stand it.”
I nodded. “It’s a