Page 52 of Down Beat
My share of the rent alone is four hundred and eighty a month. My credit card has a debit balance larger than the figure he just gave me.
“I know it was a big show, love, but you have to remember the few bums on seats who paid to see you were upstairs. The only reason you get so much is because they agreed to cover the full venue costs.”
What did I expect? That Dark Tide would cut me in on the total ticket sales? Of course it would have been kept separate. It was just a spur of the moment deal, after all.
“Thanks, John. Message me when the transfer has been made, please.”
“It’ll be a few days, Tabitha.”
Stab me while I already bleed out, why don’t you?
“I have to wait for their PR company to wrap it all up and release our share.”
“Fucking jailers, you know? That’s all they are; holding our money captive.”
“It’s standard business.”
“Yeah, well nothing about this is standard for me. Not when the cash literally means whether I eat or starve.” I slam End on the call and pocket my phone.
I am so up shit creek without a paddle.
In a moment of petty rage I whip my phone back out and hammer out a quick message. My gut churns as it makes the sound to confirm the words have been sent. Probably wasn’t such a smart idea. Oh well.
T: You can have your damn flowers back.
The reply is instant.
R: Why?
Was he sitting on the thing? I gather up my bags and hail a cab, giving the driver directions to the theater before I respond to Rey.
T: Why didn’t anyone tell me I’d have to pay to use Toby on stage? Let alone that it costs to play your recent tracks in a paid performance?
R: What choo talkin’ about, Willis?
I chuckle, earning a glance in the rearview from the cab driver.
T: I’ve just been informed it cost me $700 to play that cover last night.
R: Fuck off. Who by?
T: Your label.
His replies cease, not even a dancing dot or three to indicate he’s formulating one. I give up waiting as the cabbie pulls up outside the theater. He takes the bill I hold out for him, my frugal grip on the note meaning he has to tug a little hard to release it from my grasp.
I can’t even look at the building without wanting to go on a murderous rampage and smash every pretentious light that still spells out Dark Tide’s name. The time on my phone reads 11:36. I pocket the device and head for the brass-handled doors, surprised to find that the damn things won’t budge. I try the other side just in case, and find the same.
Breathe, Tab. They’ve probably kept it closed to the public. Look for a stage door.
Like a homeless woman staking her claim for the night, I head down the adjacent alley with my bags of groceries in hand. Sure enough, a black stage door sits two-thirds of the way down the building.
It’s also locked.
Totally okay. Maybe I misheard the guy last night when he said come back tomorrow. Maybe he meant Monday? I retrieve my phone and thumb through to the theater’s number. To my horror I can hear the line ringing out as I approach the front of the building again, right before the answering service picks up.
This isn’t happening. Seriously—how shit can the day get?
As though rising to the challenge, the universe decides now is a good time for one of the plastic handles on my shopping bags to snap, spilling my bagged milk all over the dirty sidewalk.