Sky's The Limit

xxix

twenty nine | ishaan

New Year's Eve. The brink of a new era, the dawn of a new day.

The country was on the cusp of a fresh beginning, filled with optimism about the new experiences and opportunities that lay before them— so close they could touch them, it was only a matter of hours before they'd be able to.

Mounds of snow had been soiled with mud and shuffled onto curbs. Frigid air bit at the skin of anyone who dared to brave the weather, even those who were bundled up in enough material to look like the Michelin Man himself.

While the streets of Times Square were pounded by tourists, the walls of the Palladium rang with the jeering of a rambunctious crowd. And we were soon to be called to appease them.

The Palladium had a grand lobby with tall ceilings and carpeted floors with grand paintings and a chandelier that gave an ethereal, warm hue to its surroundings.

The monumentally heavy doors led to a magnificent hall, where a sea of seats waited to be flooded with guests all anticipating one show upon the glorious stage.

Beyond the velvet colors and gold trimming were narrow halls of white brick and fluorescent lighting.

Those dingy halls were like a miniature Times Square with people going every which way.

In and out of dressing rooms, all of which being the size of bedrooms. All of which being packed with entourages and security, singers and dancers, wardrobe fixers and even barbers.

There was one green room, which became party central for acts who dared to have a little fun in such a stress-inducing environment.

Laughs and blunts were shared, and there was a lone bottle of champagne being saved for the end of the night. It wouldn't even last for half of the people who were housed back here, but it was the most special thing we had, seeing as though the snack table only consisted of chips and crackers and shit.

Damn. I knew I should've ate before comin' here.

Nonetheless, things were cool backstage. The green room definitely provided a channel for our nerves, even as stage hands and showrunners would call for the next victim to be baited for the vicious crowd of the Palladium.

At least, that's what was being said through the grapevine— that the audience was not only hard to impress but quick to boo, even if the act had only gotten through a single verse.

It made the butterflies multiply en masse, making me feel sick to my stomach. I shielded my anxiety with jokes, joining in on the snack table discourse dominating the conversation.

"They heard niggas was comin' and hid all the good silverware, I swear," a nigga named Crucial pointed out the tiny paper plates.

He frequented the Brooklyn cyphers, and was pretty ill with his technique— but he wasn't me though.

"And all the good snacks. Fuck is this?" I chuckled while picking up a pack of saltine crackers.

"They ain't even get the name brand shit," a singer named Xena giggled.

I'd just met her tonight. She said she was from Mount Vernon but just moved to Harlem.

She also said there was a crazy ass after-party that was supposed to be happening in Harlem too, and insisted that we kick off the new year right.

Shit, I was down, especially if I.V.'s set went well.

The thought of even performing rocked my gut again.