5Chapter 7–Not What You Know, but Who
Warning: Santana has a dream sequence in this chapter. Some readers could interpret its layout as a near-death experience. About the best, I can tell the reader who doesn't want to read the dream sequence skip pass the section after retail therapy and go to the next section that starts with the separator \\.
Santana collected all the bios. Cam, Franco, and Jon read like they copied from one another. Franco even forgot he played bass instead of guitar. She omitted Lennon's bullet item of taking her Llama to the state fair at 12. Roderick included his middle name, Ignatius. Santana snorting, the band includes an Iggy & a Starchild. Elliott's name displayed Elliott T. 'Starchild' Gilbert Santana left it as written. Still, she grinned at E.T. 'Starchild.' Dani's bio was the briefest instruments she played, vocal range, and employer. She realized it wasn't an attempt by Dani to show humility. An old romantic emotion raced through Santana. Her talented ex-girlfriend could reveal much more than these minor accomplishments she placed on paper. Dani's qualifications were as impressive as any of the band members. Instead, what she wrote Santana viewed it as an attempt to suppress. They shared a common evasiveness to protect their hearts before moving to the city. Dani's family didn't exist, and Santana never talked of Brittany. Santana patted her fingers next to her Apple's touchpad as she considered her options. Dani's exclusion of Angela Lansbury and One Three Hill were an oversight, without concern she copied and pasted from Elliott's bio to add it to Dani's. It wasn't enough, but it gave her a professional boost to her band cohorts.
Brittany wrote Santana's bio, listing all of Schue's or Shelby's assignment she completed. Every Sectionals, Regionals, and Nationals championship performance in Cheerios, Glee, and the Troubletones. Both musicals, she took part while at McKinley. Every dance routine Santana helped to choreograph. All the McKinley and Cardinals football games she cheered at, both at home and away. Santana's professional work since moving to the city and the Glee alums potluck karaoke nights. Brittany remembered to include the introductory conflict Santana experienced with LT, accompanied by the outcome. Santana gave into Brittany's beloved obese feline.
To escape the inevitable squabbling, she recognized would ensue if Kurt or Blaine or even worse, Rachel proofread her edits, Santana asked Quinn to help. Quinn turned her changes around in a day, adding to Jon and Franco's stint in New Directions during the Troubletones phase. She condensed Santana's 67-page bio down to two paragraphs. She even rephrased the LT incident to 'experienced with conflict/resolution techniques.' Santana laughed. Yeah, Quinn will make a brilliant lawyer, if that's the path she follows.
Santana wanted to delete the racier reviews left by fans on YouTube. Yes, she was hot. And the observations flattered her ego, now feared if they sent the wrong message to a bunch of suits. The sex tape she could handle. All she'd have to do is play the video to the suits to see, '2 Girls, 1 Cat,' was a complete misnomer. Her mental combat became moot when she accepted it was the suits who frequented Cashmeres, paid for high-end sex workers, and financed the porn industry via investments.
After analyzing the email to Mr. Tibbett's for the umpteenth time, Santana hit send. She was about to close out her email window when a new email from Samuel D. Evans at McKinley High School. Trouty often sent her emails of his latest impression, his usual modus operandi was to send them to both her and Britt with the subject line of 'Catch Trouty.' This time he left the subject line blank. Curious, she opened the email.
Hi Santana,
Blaine said you were looking for songs. I've written a song, well actually wrote it after Finn died. Its about broship. Hoped it might be a good song for Roderick or Kurt's friend Eliot to sing. No problem if you don't like it. I mean, the chord pattern is probably too simple, and so are the words. But saw it worth a shot as the feeling is real. Like really, really real. Anyway, like I said, no problems if you don't like it or even want to record it. I'd send it to Mercedes, but like I said, a bro should sing it.
Good luck and all.
Love, Trouty
Santana read through the lyrics. It spoke of chicks and beer. No surprise, she thought. Of friends teaching each other. How to respect differences and abilities. Not to leave a man behind. How they survived the loss when one went missing. Santana clicked on the forward button where she entered Jon, Cam, and Franco's names in the To line, including Sam's name on the cc line.
Guys,
Can you collaborate with Sam on his song? The words are perfect. He needs help with the melody. Perhaps the three of you can meet up during Christmas break to work on it with Sam.
Santana
Santana used her palms to rub the tears from her cheeks. The song wasn't just about Finn. It included Puck, Artie, Kurt, Mike, and Blaine. Yes, one of two men who never met Finn, would record the song the lyrics would resonant with any man whose friend he called bro.
LHA received a prompt reply from Mr. Tibbett. In his email, he repeated how much he enjoyed the groups' music. What a pleasure it was to meet Santana. He forwarded everything to a Glinda Sibylla for evaluation. He concluded by stating he expected to meet all the band members early next year.
Until their holiday break, the band discussed every verb, noun, adjective, and conjunction within the email. Tearing down each complete and partial sentence. Analyzed every comma and its placement. Reread every paragraph to decipher clues. Only to realize no news is good news, if for no other reason than to protect their collective sanity over the holiday recess.
Even in Lima, Santana couldn't escape the future. The entire band plus the Klaine's were texting her for any news. Even the St. Berry's, Chang-Changs, Sam, and Artie, besieged her with questions. The dilemma, Santana didn't have answers. At the Hummel-Hudson Christmas celebration, Rachel presented her with a two-page list of opportunities to get Mr. Tibbett's response. She trashed the list in the bathroom, using it to dispose of a used tampon. Brittany showed her apprehension through her superstitious beliefs. Chickens were safe, but to ward off any evil spirits, she wanted Santana to wear heavier eyeliner and smoky eye shadow along with cloves of garlic roped around her neck. The garlic discarded when Santana wore it to bed. Mercedes spent Christmas with her parents in LA, wished them good luck, as did Quinn and Puck, who were in San Antonio.
What she thought would send her nervousness into a full-formed nightmare turned out to be the least upsetting and the most relaxing five days spent in Lima with her family. Santana attended midnight mass for the first time since 2011. Santana sat between Brittany and Abuela, Maribel, next to Brittany. In the sanctuary, as she knelt in front of the crucifix, the potent scent of incense floating through the air, she discovered a wave of inner peace.
At the Pierce home on Christmas day, Pierce kept a smile on Santana's face, teasing her of ultimate stardom. She helped Ashley download the band's songs on the new iPhone. She discussed Lima gossip with her mother-in-law while helping her peel yams and carrots. Santana giggled as she watched Brittany hold Lord Tubbington while opening his present from Santa. She stretched out a shirt with a heart with the phrase 'I Love NYU.' Yes, Tubbs was following them to Brooklyn.
The Pierces not positive what the brides needed in New York phoned Quinn's mother. Judy gave them Quinn's number, who put them in touch with Rachel. Rachel suggested tickets to either 'Hamilton,' or 'Beautiful: The Carole King Musical,' they purchased both. Santana screaming in shock, "How in the hell did you score 'Hamilton' tickets? It's been a sell-out since opening night," Whitney, in her calm disorganized manner, replied, "Rachel suggested I call a fellow by the name of Sidney something. Oh, I can't recall his last name." she nudged her spouse. "What was it, Pierce? Blue or yellow, maybe? He seemed very nice on the phone. Anyway, Rachel said he has connections with inboxes or something. Gosh, I don't remember, sweetie. Did we do something wrong?"
She and Brittany exchanged their gifts in private. Brittany bought her a necklace. The pendant was a heart with both a treble and bass clef woven within it. Santana gave Brittany a light grey NYU hoodie with Courant scrawled across the front. Courant Institute of Mathematical Sciences, where Brittany devoted most of her time on campus. Santana's parents gave them cash. Her Dad calling it doctor prescribed retail therapy.
Santana wandered down a narrow-cobbled city street, the stucco houses on each side colored in faded yellows, pinks, blues, and greens. Above her, laundry stretched to dry by the apartment dwellers swayed in the gentle breeze. Her steps hesitant as she stepped toward the sunshine. Echoes of a syncopated rhythm carried her closer. The melody played with a guitar, trumpet, and conga. A merengue band, she wondered. As she drifted closer to the bright light, she could pick up Spanish lyrics sang in a spirited, joyous fashion by a tenor.
Llego la booooomba ha ahyyyyy Rosario!
Esa muchacha si que baila bueno (que bueno)
Esa muchacha si que baila bueno (muy bueno)
Esa muchacha si que baila bueno (ha)
Esa muchacha si que baila bueno
The music resounded off the surrounding building as she came into the warmth of a sun-drenched plaza, the sky blue above her head. She darted back over her shoulder at the lane, no more an alley, no a tunnel. The tall apartment building and laundry cut off the sun's rays. When she turned back toward the plaza, she found three men alone. One man done up in the olive drab of the US Army Service Uniform played the guitar. Another sported a gray suit jacket over a pink shirt, a tie of gray and pink around his collar. He pounded out the rhythm on a small drum he gripped between his knees. And the third, clad in a black suit over a white shirt with a striped blue tie, the knot loosened. His mouth puckered against a trumpet's mouthpiece as the fingers of his right hand flew over the keys. The guitarist and drummer singing.
Yo yo yo me la voy a llevar (pa' donde?)
me la voy a llevar (pa' donde?)
pa la discoteca (pa' donde?)
Para (pa' donde?)
vamos pa Santiago (pa' donde?)
pa' la capital (pa' donde?)
me llevo a esa hembra (pa' donde?)
y vamos a gozar (pa' donde?)
The man seeing her stilled the guitar strings with one hand, bracing the instrument against his body. He waved a hand to his friends to stop the music. "Rosario, you've found us," he said with a Spanish accent.
The man holding the trumpet gave a gentle slap to the shoulder of the guitarist, "Her name is Santana, named after St Anne, not your Tia Rosario, Hector."
"And a poor decision on my daughter's part, Raul." The man chuckled. "Though Diabla as a middle name is how they say―awesome. I thank God," his hand made the sign of the cross. "I didn't have to listen to my beloved Alma curse at Maribel and Eddie for that choice."
A hearty laugh came from the drummer. "Oh, she gave Eddie hell for that. I believed she'd melt the phone. She was breathing fire." He gave his shoulders a shrug. "Course, she forgot all that at the hospital when she held her first granddaughter."
Hector nodded. "I wish I'd been there, Pedro, not just in spirit."
"I recognized the minute I saw the first picture of her wrapped in a pink blanket, with more hair than I'd ever seen on a newborn. She'd grow into a beautiful woman," Raul sadness that he wasn't closer to his son, to be with his granddaughter as she grew up replied. "And now here she is. All a woman and more beautiful than I imagined."
"She got my mami's smile and the dimples too."
"My Maria's warm brown eyes."
Pedro grinned at his friends. "See what you will, boys. She's all Alma with her attitude. She called the delivery room nurse fat." The three men laughed. "At least what Eddie told me. Can you imagine being in the delivery room to see your first child born?"
"Not me, I'd be on the floor." Raul joked with a grin, "Why my son is the doctor." Raul looked over to the guitarist. "How about you, Hector?"
Hector shook his head, his tone somber. "No. Too much blood in the war." An awkward nod between the two men, as though they'd crossed a line with Hector.
"Uh, excuse me." Santana shouted, crossing her arms, "Where am I? And who are you?"
"You're dreaming of Ponce. And we're your Abuelos, Santana. That's Hector, who you never met. You remember Raul? And I'm Pedro."
Santana's thoughts scrambled as she tried to follow the scene played out before her. She looked away, feeling a tingling in her chest. Pedro resembled the grandfather she knew. His voice, the set of his jaw, his smile. Raul, she remembered smelling like cigar smoke, his teeth yellow when he smiled, his rough hands from working on the boats. Hector's uniform from a picture her mother hung on the wall. "All my Abuelo's are dead, they were old men."
"When you die, you go back to the age at which you were your best, Santana," Hector said. "I'm sixteen. Pedro twenty-seven and Raul is twenty."
"Look uh―I've never been to Ponce."
"A fault of your parents. Too busy with Miami and their sound machine." Hector gruffed, annoyed with his one grandchild, knew little of his family's roots in Ponce, Puerto Rico.
"Don't worry, Santana, this is my first visit to Ponce. I suggested Santo Domingo, and Raul wanted Little Havana. We let the soldier have his way. It doesn't matter. You're here."
The tingle in her chest now throbbing, the men believed they knew her, "And why am I here?" she asked thanking her acting skills to control her voice so it didn't go to high or sound like a husky growl.
"Aside from seeing you again, we want to talk to you," Pedro answered.
"About your future and this band," Raul added.
"We feel your hesitation. And we notice things too."
"Hector, you're walking a thin line there, amigo." He issued a word of caution to the soldier.
"Si, I'll be careful, Pedro. Santana, please sit," Hector said, affection in his voice as he offered his granddaughter the seat next to him. "This band is good for you, no?" Santana nodded as she inhaled a whiff of aftershave citrus and woody spices. "You like to sing and dance, yes?" another nod. "You like the members?" Santana still nodding. "Good, this band needs you."
A frown creased her forehead, "I'm not following?"
"This group will bring you many great things," Raul replied, "And as in life, some sadness."
Pedro waved off Raul's comment, "Ignore him, life is full of small moments of sadness, it's the joy and compassion you show to others that people remember in your life."
With a look of sincerity, Raul said, "And why you must stay in the band."
Feeling flattered, a mocking brief smile playing about on her lips, she replied, "Yeah, joy and compassion aren't exactly my long suits."
"Ah, but they will be." Hector hinting at an enlightened understanding of her future. For a minute, Santana pondered over his words. Should she make light of his message? Or ask for details? Before she mustered a sentence together, he continued, "You're confused? Music is joy. You realize this from your school club. In your heart, the lyrics speak to you, like 'Songbird,' yes?" Hector placed his hand over his heart. Santana, uncomfortable that he perceived what meaning that song held for her, squirmed in her seat. "Music, song tell our stories. They empower people and comfort them."
"Your life, too, will transform people." came Raul's soothing voice, "You will encourage many to shed their cloak of suppression, to be bold and brave. For others, you will foster understanding, acceptance, and gain great praise in living your life without judgment or fear."
"They put us all on this earth for a reason, Santana. For most, it is to absorb a lesson. For you, mi cielo, it's teaching that lesson."
"Honey, wake up." Santana distinguished Brittany's voice, "You're having a bad dream" as she felt her wife shake her awake. She squinted the sleep from her eyes as she adapted to the blackness of their bedroom. The lucid dream, the three men, they lingered with her as though the simple act of shutting her eyes would bring them back again. The worry of them showing up again sent a shudder through her body. Yet she didn't feel scared, she felt peace within her heart. Her ancestors came to her with a message. An instruction to teach to others. She needed to stay in the band. Keep them together. Santana curled over, accepting Brittney's offer to snuggling up to rest her head on her wife's shoulder. Brittany's fingers drawing circles on her arm. She burrowed her face closer to Brittany's warm body, "Hold me, Babe, til I fall back to sleep." She purred. Santana closed her eyes, the stroking caresses of Brittany's touch soothing her to sleep, as she thought of Pedro's childhood nickname for her, mi cielo. My heaven.
\\
Santana stopped at the receptionist's counter, waiting for Marge to wrap up with a caller. On the wall next to the counter hung her dad's medical degree. Ohio State University, School of Medicine, Eduardo Luis Rafael Lopez, she could read with ease from where she stood. The first doctor in his family. The reason she spent much of her early childhood years with Abuela. Her early memories of her Papi were of him with a book in front of him, saying to her in Spanish, 'not now, Papi is studying.' When all she needed was to sit on his lap. Held in his sturdy arms. Calmed by his warmth. Instead, he pushed her aside. Through medical school, residency, his surgical specialty, orthopedics, telling her she was too much of a tomboy. Then he moved out of their home from what she would afterward understand to be an affair with a resident. She relived the coolness between her parents that year. Her Abuela and mother quarreling over a choice. She wouldn't understand until later that her mother's decision was to forgive him or divorce him. She forgave him. He came home, and they moved to Cleveland, where Santana started school. It wasn't until he accepted a position in Lima, that he said 'come here, Santana.' By then, it was almost too late. He surprised her, accepted her, hugged her, and took pride in her achievements.
Drawn from her musing as Marge set down the phone's handset onto the base, "Santana, haven't seen you since your wedding. How's married life?" The phone rang, Marge gestured to the door. The receptionist snatched the handset. She put the caller on hold. "Your Dad's with a patient now, but if you want to go back to the office, he should be there shortly." Santana mumbled, 'Thank you.' Opening the door, she chatted with Peg, who dealt with the referrals for her father's practice. She overheard Marge in the background. 'That's his daughter. Please take a seat, Dr. Lopez will see your mother soon.' Peg shook her head, 'America's Greatest Generation are too senile to stay inside after an ice storm. The Silent Generation is too confident to stay off the ice. And my boomer generation is asking what ice? Ah, well, all job security to me.' Santana nodded. 'Yeah, sure, Peg.' Showing her a grin along with a brief wave, she went on back to her father's office.
Dr. Lopez's office was in the building's rear. Santana took the short walk passed examination rooms on each side as the smell of medicinal disinfectant permeated the air. A smell that always reminded her of her Papi. The building included rooms with an MRI along with standard x-ray machines provided the physicians with the capability to expedite diagnoses. Upstairs were physical therapists, small labs, and suites for ambulatory surgery that kept Santana and her father from sharing breakfast together when she lived at home. In the basement were rows upon rows of files kept from past patients, along with a raised floor area for the computer room, and a handful of IT employees kept the entire process functioning. Along with designated spaces for accounting staff. Her father's practice appeared more like a miniature-hospital than just a physician's office.
When her father joined the Lima Orthopedic Group, he replaced one of the group's original founding physicians. And he opted to keep the doctor's furnishings. Kurt would claim the décor shabby chic or any sensible person would recognize them from a sixty's sitcom. A large wooden desk with a cardinal high back leather chair that sagged in the middle. An uncomfortable mid-century box sofa. Two leather armchairs in front of the desk. Her dad re-upholstered both after the staff griped about a 'spring up the butt.' And the credenza that had known better days with family photographs. Her graduation picture, confirmation picture, a family gathering when both sets of her grandparents were in Columbus for his graduation from medical school. School pictures of her at various ages. And the latest that sat front and center her and Brittany in their wedding reception outfits, with their parents wearing their OTP caps. Of all the pictures, he could have chosen the OTP picture would have been her last guess. It was more Pierce Pierce style then Dr. Lopez style.
"Mija," she heard her dad as he opened the door, "Apologizes for the delay, busy day." He stated as he strode around his desk, tossing a patent's file down on the desk blotter. "Sit down." As he plopped down in his high-back chair, rubbing his face as if trying to wake up from his early morning page out for an older man with a broken hip. "I wanted to have a chat with you alone, something we don't get to do much," He beamed at her.
Santana sat down in an armchair, crossed her legs, as she bit on her lower lip, dragging out the movement, "Why you summoned me? A chat?" she felt a knot build in her gut.
"Don't be so suspicious, mija. You're too old for me to lay the law down on you anymore."
The knot dwindled to a flutter in her belly, "Not that you ever could." She tipped her head to the side with a tentative laugh.
Her dad chuckled, "You got me, you're too much like Alma to listen to anyone." He shoved the file off the blotter to the side, "Tell me about your band, this group you're in."
Her smile wavered, as she flipped her hair off her shoulder, "It's just a cover band, we play at clubs around the city. It's not interfering with my classes if that's what you're worried about."
Nodding, as he tuned in to his daughter's explanation, "Burt Hummel came in last week. His knee is hurting him again. He told me about your band. Mentioned you'd done videos. Recorded songs, put them on the internet. Approached by a record company. I just nodded, not having a clue what he was describing."
"Papi, it's all just a pipe dream. You realize how Burt is with Kurt, the sky's the limit for his son."
Dr. Lopez leaned his arms on the blotter, "And why can't my child pursue her dream? Why can't I say the sky's the limit for my child?"
Santana stumbled for words to explain, "It's a fickle business, Papi. More bands fail than succeed. I'm married with obligations. Britt's and I want a family. I don't have to tell you how we'll manage that."
"You know, Santana, when I told my parents I wanted to be a doctor, you know what they did? They laughed at me. No one in my family had ever been to college. I was a poor Latino boy." he leaned back in his chair, "The one thing that came close to stopping me was you." pointing his index finger at her. "When I told your mother that I was going to quit medical school, become a high school science teacher."
A silent laugh escaped from Dr. Lopez's lips. The memory of his soon to be wife's fury. A rage that rivaled his future mother-in-law. "It was a new side to her. So passionate that I not quit on my dream." He let it sink in, "Now I will admit from your side, it was," he wavered, realizing what he would say next might sound cruel "a shitty childhood. We concentrated on my dream and ignored your needs. And I'm sorry we did that, but we did, so I could reach my dream." He glanced away, as he rubbed his nose, to allow the remorse for all the wrongs Santana experienced to emerge. He exhaled, "The only way for me and your mother can make up for lost opportunity is to support your goal. If you want to leave school, your mother and I will support you."
He studied his daughter for the first time, his extremely sharp, accomplished, wonderful child, afraid to run after what she craved. Who right now needed encouragement, not from a skilled physician, but a loving parent, "Santana, mija, I'd rather you try now instead of growing old saying I wish had." A tap on the door interrupted him. Peg poking her head in "Forgive me Doc, but the hospital is on line three, your patient from this morning, they need to talk with you."
Lin sat in her office chair, a lowball glass in her hand, twirling the amber liquid around as she observed Mitch walk back and forth in front of her. His eyes closed, responding to the melody radiating from the speakers. He'd stop. His hand would flow like an orchestra conductor accompanying the tempo or lifting it as the vocalist carried a note or executed a run.
"Well, Mitch?" she demanded, taking a sip from her glass.
He opened his eyes, "Where did you find them?"
"Jeff caught them at Dolloway's bash. He sent over the files to me."
"That would be rich. Jeff's virtually tone-deaf. And what's Dolloway doing promoting a band? Not like that old bat."
"I take that as you're interested?"
"They're a gang, Lin. That means four egos to massage."
"Eight."
"That's even worse, eight egos to rub. You'd be better to choose any of the vocalists, put them in front of a studio ensemble as a solo artist, and send them on the road with a DJ."
"Ego's aside, is the band worth the investment?"
Mitch chuckled with a smirk, "Lin if you're seeking advice from me, you've already decided. You're hunting for a producer."
"And?"
"What kind of name is LHA?"
"How about loyal honesty appreciated?" Lin responded, finishing the liquid in the glass, setting it on her desk, "You're hedging, Mitch."
Mitch exhaled, "100K per song, 4% of the royalties, and 2% from publishing rights for songs I produce."
"You have confidence. Ten songs?"
He spun to leave. He peered back. "You realize they already have two probable top 40 songs within those tracks. Likely three."
"Why I knew you wouldn't say no."
A Brand New Year
As December concluded, they all crawled back to the city they called home. Some needed to come back to temporary careers, others to attend J-Term classes. On New Year's Eve, they assembled at their favorite spot, the Diner. Both Kurt and Dani disappointed, Gunther scheduled both to serve the evening clientele. Mel already at her trade, prepping for the predicted partygoers at her employers. Kurt stood next to Blaine, expecting a group of diners to leave so he could clean the dinner table. Dani stood opposite him next to Elliott, with her pad and pen, calculating each bill for the table.
"Since I'm working every day until NYADA classes start up again at the end of the month, what's everybody taking for J-Term?" Kurt inquired, grinning, "Except for Blaine, that is. Blaine is taking Cinema and Urbanism. He and Artie have already been discussing it."
"Production Safety and Set Protocol. All theater majors have to take it. Thought I'd get it out of the way early." Kitty groaned, having found out from another student that the professor could lull a hyperactive child to sleep.
"Since Shue was clueless, Caribbean Cultures," Santana replied, nudging Brittany.
Brittany fixated on her iPad, not bothering to look up, "Oh, yeah, uh, History of The Universe,"
"Will it teach you the difference between an asteroid, comet, and meteor?" Kitty jested, Brittany responded by flipping her the bird, Kitty feigning offense. "Santana, you've been an evil influence on your spouse."
Santana snorted, "That wasn't me, MIT did that to her. How about you, Roderick, what are you picking up?"
"Uh, Studio Recording for the Modern Producer slash Engineer. Had to get approval from the professor. But when I described what we'd been up to, it turns out he was at Callbacks the night we played. He's impressed."
"No word, yet Santana from Epic?" Blaine asked as Santana shook her head. Stirring the ice around with his straw, dissatisfied at the lack of movement with the record label, "So what plans do you guys have for New Year's Eve? Attend the ball drop-in Times Square? Check out clubs? Go to Rachel's NYADA party?" he asked those around the booth.
"First, I'm not an NYADA student, and the second two wine coolers do not make for a great party," Santana retorted, with a mischievous smirk.
"I'm not much into the Times Square party. Too small, can't see, and being short in a crowd, I'll guarantee you I'll get a lukewarm beer poured down my back by someone less drunk than me," Kitty responded.
Elliott elbow on the table to lean his chin on his palm, "I'm invited to a party at a co-worker's place. Should be interesting drunk straight people with one thing in common, work,".
"We're going to the off-campus campus party, it's free, the band's not too awful, the beer is dirt cheap, and it's an easy drunk slog home," Cam nodded.
Roderick, patting his fingers on the table, "Thought I'd check out the Superman marathon at the Old Holland Theater."
Franco elbowed Roderick next to him, "Dude, come with us, bring your student ID. Find a chick."
"Get laid," Jon added through a giggle. Roderick's face transformed into a light shade of red. Dani chuckled at his dilemma. While Kitty stared at Jon.
"Have you made out with a girl yet, Rod?" Cam inquired, "Made it to first base?"
"Boys quit harassing him." Santana reprimanded the men.
"Emma Pillsbury didn't do the dirty until she was what 34?" Jon laughed.
"It's an awesome new year's resolution you won't forget." Cam went on the tease.
"Yeah, and you don't have to learn their names either." Franco sputtered as he roared, "Not even what they looked like."
"Nah, screamers, you remember. Ahhhhh Ahhhh." Jon imitated, "they blow your eardrum out."
Franco's lack of a filter made Santana snap, "Seriously, guys. Imma about to go all Lima Heights Adjacent on your miserable asses if you don't stop, and when I do, none of you will have nuts to get laid."
"Come on, Santana, they're just joking around,"
"Elliott, inform me, what's the difference between teasing, joking around, and being a bully? Words hurt just as much."
Brittany lay her palm on Santana's thigh, "Honey, what was the name of that woman at Epic?"
"Uh, Glinda Sibylla. Why?" Santana took the iPad from Brittany's hand, scouring the screen "It's her. Epic replied." Santana screamed, "Oh my god." Uneasy anxiety coursed within her as she felt those around her stare over at her. "She wants to meet us. All of us. Monday at 2:00 her office on 25th and Madison."
"They can't be too far from the National Museum of Mathematics," Brittany scrunched her face up "10 minutes from NYU's main campus. 30 from Brooklyn."
"Never mind that, Brittany, did she say what she wanted to discuss?" Blaine said than uttering, "Sorry." At Brittany for showing disrespect at her observation.
Santana shook her head, "No, she doesn't. Nothing beyond vision, demographics, wanting to meet us in person." She handed the tablet to Blaine, who already had his palm stretched, waiting for the tablet. Suddenly dragged into a hug by Brittany, who murmured 'Rich and Famous' in her ear.
Kurt, giddy with emotion as the message sunk in, clapped, "You know what this means ?" Vacant stares, gazed at him, except Santana, recognizing what Kurt was leading toward, "It means 'Don't Stop Believin' we have a band, a stage, and a captive audience." He grinned, squirming as though he had to pee.
"No. No. Let's savor the moment. Like reasonable people," Santana, brandishing a free hand, countered.
"Oh Santana, don't be a spoilsport, let's enjoy the moment the way Mr. Shue taught us, through song."
Dani shrugged, "Part of my job."
Jon, Cam, Lennon, and Franco nodded in unison, getting up from the table, Dani following. While Kurt rattled off solos, "Santana can sing Rachel's part, I'll sing Finn's, uh, Dani can sing Tina's part, Blaine will sing his own. Roderick, let's see uh, Mr. Shue's section, lucky you, you and Blaine will sing together. Who've I forgot?" Kurt whispering the lyrics to himself, "Oh, Elliott can sing Artie's."
"Where's my solo, Kurt?" Kitty asked with a shade of chagrin in her tone.
"What's Mr. Shue's lines?" Roderick called out as he got up from the table.
"Or Artie's?"
Brittany rose, presenting her palm to her bride. A bashful smile cut across her face, "It's a tradition."
Blaine slid the iPad into his messenger bag for safety, "Come on, Santana, you can elbow my head again." He gave a broad grin to the Latina.
Santana shook her head with a groan, "No. No. No." as she stood, Brittany and Blaine, shared a smirk between them as they stepped with Santana to the stage.
Enthusiastic applause followed their performance. The group later went to Times Square, then to a club, dancing, and drinking until it closed. As the sunlight ascended on the first day of a brand-new year, they expressed their Happy Year wishes to each other at the subway station to stagger back home.
The eight members of LHA, with Blaine and Kitty, assembled in a comfortable conference room on the upper floor of the skyscraper. One wall of the room, the name EPIC in standout stylistic red cursive block letters. Another wall had portraits of current artists. Another wall with a whiteboard. The back wall a credenza where bottles of water and fresh fruit were available. At the oval table were cables at various points that crept out from underneath like small arms of an octopus searching for prey. Blaine sat in a comfortable upholstered armchair in his suit and bowtie, fidgeting with a file he brought. Santana wore one of her trademark short dresses, sat next to him, checking her new manicure. Across from them, Roderick, in an unbuttoned cowboy shirt over a white tee, chatted with Kitty next to him. Kitty wore dress slacks, a low-cut blouse with a jacket over it. Dani and Elliott, next to them in black denim jeans, Elliott in a collared shirt, Dani in a sweater both with their sleeves shoved up to their elbows. Dani running her fingers through her black hair, while Elliott told her the achievements of the acts signed to Epic. Lennon next to them in an OSU hoodie, now both sides of her head shaved, tapping her thumbs furiously on her cell. Jon and Franco, in jeans with shirts and ties, sat on the same side as Blaine and Santana, both played with the chair's lumbar adjustments. Cam, in a lime green t-shirt with a clashing striped tie draped around his neck, sat next to Franco, tapping a beat with his fingers. After what seemed an insufferable wait, an average height, rather overweight woman in a styled taupe dress suit, with reading glasses slid up over her brown hair came in the room. Behind her, a younger taller woman in a well-tailored conservative black pinstriped suit followed. The first woman choosing her seat at the head of the table, the other one sat at the opposite end.
"Sorry for the delay," the older woman spoke as she laid paperwork and phone down on the table, "I'm Glinda, Lin to my friends and this is Deedee with legal." Lin peered around the table at their faces. They were so young and innocent compared to the videos she'd checked out. "So, this is LHA? I assumed there were eight members, not ten?"
Blaine, in a shaky voice, lifted his hand, dropping it when he felt foolish for doing it. "Uh, I'm Blaine Anderson, Kitty Wilde, and I have been supporting the group, LHA, with management duties," he said. Kitty waved to Lin, cramming her hand back in her lap, embarrassed. "That is limited administration duties."
Lin acknowledged, "Ok, I see. You're serious about LHA, I appreciate that." Flipping open the folder, "So can someone explain to me what the acronym LHA means? I suspect it doesn't mean Landing Half-Assed." Making those around her chuckle.
"Uh, no, it's a lower-income neighborhood in Lima, Ohio. That abuts a historical, more affluent neighborhood. It means Lima Heights Adjacent." Blaine replied.
"Clear enough. I suppose you'd like to know why I requested this meeting and who I am." Watching as they all responded with nods and mumbled yes's, "Bottom line is we think LHA has got something. Something different. That we can market to a mass audience and where we enter into a contract so we can all make money." Watching as the ten shifted in their chairs to tune in to what she had to say, "I'm the director of new talent development. I've been in this field for over three decades. The acts I've worked with are a who's who of Billboards top twenty charts. A few are already in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. I'm confident a few more will follow." She allowed that to sink in "My task isn't to re-brand you, or to provide fashion advice," peering over at Cam, "but to develop your brand, hone it. Market LHA. Facilitate getting you and your music out to a vast public. I must caution you, it means giving up some independence in the promotion. If we set up a radio interview, you'd better be there and on time. Not blow it off. Some have and are now nameless musicians teaching high school choirs. It also means we get the final say on which songs we drop for airplay and to inform you if you don't have one. We're not here to smother your creativity. Your independence. Your gift. Or your aspirations in the music industry. We're here to help you get there." determining if her supportive words had stuck," it won't feel like it. And I'm guessing all of you wish to be rich and famous rock stars with thousands of adoring fans or you wouldn't be here." From experience, Lin knew these weren't hardened musicians with decades of doing it their way. They were fresh faced college kids who needed the first break. She could see the eager scared shitless expressions on their faces, "Ok, then Deedee will go through the standard one-year contract which all new talent signs. There isn't any wiggle room, you're not Beyonce or Aerosmith yet."
Lin left while Deedee reviewed the 10-page contract. The paralegal answered questions as they cropped up. Afterward, she turned over to them a copy of the document to have their lawyer review. After a quick break for trips to the restroom and vending area, Lin came back to the conference room. Instead of taking her place at the end of the table, she instead moved a chair in between Roderick and Dani. Her tone shifted to a more affable voice, "You're all from Lima, Ohio?"
Elliott and Dani shook their heads as Blaine spoke, "No―"
Lin lifted her palm above the table to quiet Blaine. Elliott took this hint. "No, I'm from Paramus, New Jersey. And Dani is from" drawing a blank at where Dani grew up, "Uh ―"
"Pittsburgh."
Elliott smiled at the woman next to him, "All I could remember was Pennsylvania, sorry." He confided as Dani shrugged.
"I take it you're Santana?" Lin stared across the table at the Latina. "You have some professional experience, I see. Acting, modeling, commercial work, studio production, a tour, even a duet that did well. So why not a soloist? I ask because I reached out to DeShawn Howard. You impressed him with your skills as a vocalist. As was Sidney Green when I phoned him."
Santana sensed all eyes on her as she reflected on Lin's question. Like Mercedes and Rachel, singing was her childhood dream. She remembered the solo competitions in Glee. She recalled Cedes tour, how stressful it was on her friend to carry the entire company. How tedious and demanding it could be for her and Britt at times. Yet, this was different. These were other musicians. They invited her to join them. What had Cedes told her? She was 'a work in progress. Who was worth it' Santana cleared her throat, "Uhm― We split the solos. I'm in the lead, sometimes. At other times I sing backup. We're a team. We make each other better. Like Fleetwood Mac or Little Big Town"
"An admirable ambition and comparison to be Fleetwood Mac. I don't know if LHA will achieve those peaks, but we'll at least say we tried― Together."
Lin continued around the table, questioning each on their involvement and why they wanted to be in a pop band. She didn't interrogate anyone, but Santana could tell by her outward expressions certain answers didn't give her much confidence. Franco's comment about girl groupies and bras thrown on stage caused even her to cringe. Later, LHA returned to their makeshift studio to study their copy of the contract.
"Why go through the trouble of setting up an independent label if we're signing with Epic?" Cam glanced around his partners. "I mean, it defeats the purpose."
Jon tossed his copy of the contract on the coffee table, "Even a publishing company. They'll own the masters to any songs we record once we sign this." He added. "And they'll sell 'em to some third party. We won't see a dime."
Blaine shook his head, "No, you'll keep the copyright to the song. The label pays a percentage to the composer for the mechanical recording."
Franco scoffed, "50%, the label takes 50% too."
"I thought you guys were music majors. Isn't this covered in your classes?" Kitty asked. Santana's phone buzzed, preventing an answer.
"Hey, Cedes. Yeah, we spoke to them. Hang on, let me put you on speaker."
"Santana tells me y'all got a dose of recording contract truth this morning."
"I wouldn't say that―"
"Bullshit Blaine. I'll tell you this. Major labels are major because they write the contracts and make money."
"And we're their indentured servants. No offense." Franco grumbled.
"None taken. This time Floppy Hair. Listen, y'all can sit tight to your independence. It's worked for Coldplay. Imagine Dragons. Or you can sign that 18-month contract. With it, you'll get distribution channels. Streaming playlists. Which means airplay to a global market. Songs on worldwide radio stations, international charts, not just Billboard. Look, the best song ever recorded won't be a hit without volume. And volume means distribution channels. And in today's world, it says what the major labels have always had cash to promote you."
"Yeah, but they want our songs too," Jon yelled at the phone on the table.
"No, publishing copyrights are for 70 years, that's 70 years after the composer's death and it doesn't matter who records the song if it's heard in a movie. Or commercial. Even sampled. You get compensated for it. Unless you sign your rights away. The label will get part of the mechanical recording rights. That's a given no matter who are, which also means they own the masters. Hell, neither Michael nor the Beatles owned their masters. Is it fair? No. But until someone like Katy or Taylor or Drake makes a move to change it, it will not change."
"So, you're stuck with this too?" Cam leaned over the phone so as not to yell.
"I am. But that doesn't mean you can't keep your independent label for new artists you find. Hell to the No records is alive and well because I let someone I trust run it for me. He's brought in two Cali rap artists that have 360 contracts. Are those contracts fair? No, but it gives the artist time to develop. And once things roll for these two guys, they'll leave. In music contracts, it's all in what you think is fair."
"Did you find out about this Glinda Sibylla?" Santana asked.
Mercedes laugh reverberated from the phone's mic. "Yeah, about Lin. My industry contacts say she is A&R at Epic. She's the only one who has carte blanche to sign any new talent. Her education is more managerial and promotion. Uses her gut instinct to determine who she chooses and she's been damn good with her intuitions. In this business, Lin Sibylla has the respect. One of them told me she's got more Rolodex on her desk, then room to write."
Jon leaned over to Blaine, "What's a rollo deck?"
"Catalog of contacts," Blaine whispered. "It's old school." Blaine shouting into the phone, "Mercedes is there a 'yeah but' to Glinda? She sounds too perfect."
"No, not at all. One guy called her the female Clive Davis."
"How come we haven't heard of her?"
"Cos she's not a man. No, seriously, this is a male-dominated business, Lin has had to earn her stripes the hard way."
"That sounded wanky Cedes. I'm still not convinced," Santana added, searching around the room for any who agreed with her but hadn't admitted it yet.
Mercedes chuckled "Yeah, it did sound wanky, Santana" She took a breather to contain her amusement "Kinda what I thought, too. So, I called up one act she worked with. What she told me is that if Lin's involved, she'll have your back. Be your champion. An advocate. And she'll make you money. Lots of money, but you're gonna have to work for it. Lin's not afraid to drop acts that aren't pulling their weight. And if that happens, look for an indie label, cos majors won't care either. I suppose that's the downfall, you play it her way. Oh, one other thing, she likes to save money."
"Meaning?" Elliott asked.
Mercedes giggled, "Hope y'all like camping. She regards it as a bonding exercise on your first tour. She spent a few years as a Deadhead in a hippie bus. Flipside, she's a negotiator. That recoupment clause if you go on tour? Yeah, she'll make sure that's paid down, if not paid off, by the time your tour ends."
"So why did your contact leave, Lin?" Dani replied
"EMI offered her more money. No other reason." Mercedes chuckled again, "She said. Her favorite memory of touring is that first tour with Lin. Camping was the calm before fame hit her square in the face."
"Mercedes, straight up, are you suggesting the band should sign with Epic?" Kitty asked.
"Well, I can't tell you what to do, but if Epic's putting their numero uno A&R woman on LHA, they're not, forgive my French, fucking around. Anyway, I gotta go. I'm having lunch with Tank. Let me know what y'all decide."
Seven days later, they found themselves back in the conference room, with Lin and Deedee. One by one, they placed their autographs on the line above their name and social security number. Dani was the first Santana the last. The contract using their complete given names. Santana explained that Diabla wasn't she-devil. It was from a la Diabla an idiom for carelessly. No one dared ask about it in the room. Later, under the influence of alcohol, she admitted she's the 'fruit' of her parents' failure to use protection while dating. Elliott's immediate response, 'Thank God, they didn't.' That lead to a toast and more drinking, a regrettable choice when they woke up for early classes or work the next morning.
Reviews are always welcomed.
Notes:
Song Title: Esa Muchacha Band: Los Hermanos (2011) apologizes if the words are incorrect, found the song, then looked up the lyrics and copied them.
For those who skipped the dream: 1.) Santana needs to keep the band together. 2.) Her music will influence people. 3.) She'll end up as a role model too many. And the dream section was written long before we lost Naya (RIP).