CHAPEL - chapter nine

I didn’t expect her to pick up. It was eight o’clock in the morning on a weekday, and even if Rapture was bordering on bankruptcy— or perhaps exactly for that reason—, I was sure Stacy Fry’s phone line would be busy. Still, she answered on the first ring.

“Scott,” she said, her voice exhaustion wrapped in syllables.

I was crouched on the floor of the motel room, back against the foot of the bed, phone cord draped over my shoulders. The room was starting to smell more and more like me, the tang of old cigarettes fading as the weeks stretched on. A half-drunk cup of coffee sat on the windowsill, the light outside sharp and flat, early October trying to feel like fall but landing somewhere between stale and wet.

“I need a favor.”

“Jesus. What now?”

I steeled myself, then said, “You’ve heard the tape.”

She sighed, resigning herself to my conviction. “Don’t tell me you’re asking for gear or press photos. We don’t even have layout funding this month.”

Of course I knew. I was already blowing through the last of my savings, everything I’d stockpiled from summer jobs and Rapture scraps and whatever was left of my dad’s veteran benefits, just to afford one more week in the motel, something I’d told myself three times already.

“I want you to book them,” I said, “for the Tannery set next Friday.”

Silence.

I stared at the ceiling, the paint cracked and water-stained above the bathroom vent. I imagined Stacy doing the same in her half-lit Manhattan office, her eyes turned up to find a hairline fracture in the plaster by the door, her fingers absently discarding a smoldering cigarette in her coffee mug.

I kept going. “One night. Editorial spotlight. Tie it to the piece. They play that night, the issue drops Monday morning. It’s a clean line— rebrand ‘Next Big Sound’ to ‘Last Big Find.’”

She laughed once, expelling a huffed, tired breath. “That’s for signed acts. Touring names. You think the Tannery books nobodies just because a dying alt mag says they’re cool?”

“I think they’ll book them if you say it’s for print. That it’s tied to coverage. Do you even have someone else lined up for that slot anyway? I know it’s Rapture’s. Tell them it’s an exclusive discovery. A spotlight showcase. Tell them it’s editorial. Whatever you have to.”

A beat.

“And if they ask who’s playing?”

“Chapel.”

Another pause, longer.

“You’ve named them?”

“We named them,” I said. “Together.”

I heard her flick the lighter. There was the sharp whoosh of a singular inhale.

Then, “You came ready to offer me the byline, didn’t you.”

It wasn’t a question.

I closed my eyes. “Yeah. I did.”

She didn’t answer for a moment. Finally, she sighed. “Don’t. Your writing’s got your fingerprints all over it. If I ran it under my name, people would wonder if I’d had a stroke.”

I laughed, just once, the same as hers. Our breaths met in the atmosphere somewhere between the motel and Manhattan.

“You’re lucky I liked the tape.”

“I know.”

“And luckier I think you finally found something that’s actually worth giving a damn about.”

That shut me up.

“I’ll make the call,” she said. “If they say yes, you get one shot. No stage crew, no soundcheck, no second chances.”

I nodded, even though she couldn’t see it.

“And I want photos for the piece,” she added. “You’ll need to get those yourself.”

I didn’t have a camera, but I bet Tommy knew someone who did.

“That won’t be a problem.”

“Don’t make me regret this, Walker.”

---

That afternoon, the garage smelled like cheap soda and sweat and something burning faintly from Mark’s drum pad. It was hot again, unseasonably so— one of those October days that started chilly but later forgot how to be fall.

Robbie was half-tuned, slouched in a lawn chair with his Mustang on his chest like a shield. Tommy was tapping out scales on the bass, mostly to kill time. Avery was barefoot for some reason, playing a riff too fast and pretending it was on purpose. I got a better look at his guitar then— that cherry red SG, 90s model, taped up at the input jack already and missing two knobs. The finish was half rubbed raw by then, glossed over in streaks from sweat and grip. Some time in the past week, he’d ripped the P-90s out and shoved high-output humbuckers in— later said he liked when it growled. One string buzzed at the 7th fret, and he’d scoff sheepishly every time but refused to fix it. Mark kicked at a duct-taped hi-hat with no real commitment.

I stood in the doorway feeling like Tommy the first time he pulled up to the curb, waiting for them all to get up and greet me. Just like back then, no one looked right away.

“I got us the Tannery,” I said, as casually as I could manage.

Tommy froze midscale.

Mark blew a bubble of gum and let it pop all over his lips.

Avery’s head snapped up and his guitar squawked. “Come again?”

Robbie sat forward, just slightly.

“One night,” I said. “Spotlight slot. Next Friday. Your name on the board, Chapel.”

“Are you serious?” Tommy asked, but there was already a grin tugging at his mouth.

“They’re actually letting us play the Tannery?” Mark said, his voice rising. “That’s, like, the place. That’s the place.”

Avery whistled. “If only Monica could see me now.”

“I called in a favor,” I said, hands in my jacket pockets to hide the shake. “We’ve got one shot. No crew, no soundcheck. You’re closing.”

“And it’s unpaid,” I added before Avery could say anything about that.

Robbie cleared his throat. “You think we’re ready?”

“To be discovered? Yeah.”

Years later, I still think about that moment and wonder whether I did it. Whether I ruined it. Whether I set Robbie on the trajectory towards discovery, because surely that was the thing that broke the rare, beautiful thing I called play.

Because I saw it even then, the tendencies. The perfectionism taking root, the doubt triggered by even the slightest bit of expectation, even if it wasn’t crippling yet. I remembered the days following the gig at Old Point and the shredded papers on the floor, remnants of chords trashed because they didn’t sound immortal. I knew what kind of ambition lived in him. Back then we were the same and it lived in me too, something bright and passionate. I’d told myself he ought to chase it— immortality, stardom— because he deserved it.

I’m proving something. I want to be in a band.

He was too talented to be a nobody.

I’m not hurting yet and it’s still so much fun.

He was allowed to want more.

I want to make something so good I want to die.

We all were.

So good I want to die.

Avery just muttered, “Jesus,” and started tuning.