Believe

‘When I was a kid I believed everything I was told, everything I read, and every dispatch sent out by my own overheated imagination.’ 

Steve chuckled as he tossed a dented box of cigarettes onto the marble effect plastic tabletop between us.  It skated lightly on runaway granules of salt and sugar. Ketchup smears baked in the glaring sunlight that burned in through the window and glittered on a chrome box of paper napkins.

‘So – what are you saying? That I should just throw it all away? Everything I’ve worked for?’ The wobble in my voice blew the cool demeanour I was working so hard at. 

‘Hey, listen – I don’t wanna piss on your parade!’ his startling clear blue eyes twinkled at me as he deftly popped a cigarette into his mouth. 

‘Not inside!’ The surly girl behind the counter shot a black look at Steve.

‘Alice!’ Steve called to her, leaning back against the red plastic of his booth seat and throwing his arms wide. ‘As if I would!’ He smiled his charming smile. Alice scowled darkly, and carried on drying glasses with a grubby rag

‘You done with that?’ Steve indicated the remains of my root beer float – a melted mess at the bottom of my glass, sticky foam residue clinging to the straws. 

‘Yeah,’ I said, pushing the glass away. With a nod, Steve snatched it up and bounced out of his seat. His fancy cowboy boot heels rang out as he crossed the room. I watched as he counted out shiny quarters at the counter. I could hear him flirting with Alice but couldn’t make out the words. I turned to look out the window, my brow knitted and eyes squinted against the light. Huge, gas-guzzling cars sat on the forecourt, shimmering and cooking in the sun. Even the dust on their hoods was listless. 

‘C’mon.’ Steve’s hand was on my shoulder, and I got up to follow him out through the door, the hinge shrieking and the blind rattling as I let it slam behind us. The instant we left the air conditioning of the diner, the sun immediately poured heat all over us. But Steve didn’t seem to notice; the jaunty swing of his gait was unhindered.

‘I know you gotta follow your heart n’ all that,’ he said as we trudged across the forecourt, the cigarette bouncing on his lip. ‘But I just don’t wanna see you get hurt. You need to keep an eye on reality. I seen this kinda thing happen before – and that industry, y’know, it’s fulla total shitheads that don’t give a fuck about you.’ I pushed my hands into my pockets, my head bent down. Our shadows were sharp and hard beneath us. We stopped at a midnight blue Ford with a mean chrome grimace, and two fat white stripes sliding over the roof and hood.  

‘S’open,’ said Steve as he made a grab for the driver’s door. I slipped around to the passenger side and folded myself into the infernal heat of the car. I fumbled with the scorching seatbelt buckle while Steve leaned forward, twisting the key in the ignition and sending the car into a furious roar. The radio burst into life, shouting deafening rock n’ roll through the loudspeakers. Steve glanced back at me and winked. As we rolled off the forecourt and nosed our way back onto the highway, my fingers slipped into my back pocket and drew out a slim, cream coloured card. Shielding it from Steve’s view, I turned it over in my hands, taking in the creased corner, the edges worn smooth from my pockets. My eyes lit over the printed name again. ‘Adam Sutcliffe, White Label Music, A&R’.  I quietly slid the card back into my pocket. I didn’t care what Steve said. I believed.