Press tour.
Busy.
Hectic.
Rushing.
Hurry up and wait. Wait and hurry up.
"Stand here. Step back. Over here. Back to one. Find the X. What are you doing!? Stand HERE."
Tap, tap.
"This thing on?"
Tap, tap.
"Louder, please."
"Can you hear the monitor? Oops, let me adjust that. Try again."
Tap, tap.
"Less echo, please."
Thumbs up. Thumbs down. Thumb level, in between.
Count down.
Count off.
"Wait, wait, let's try that again."
Take one.
Take two.
Take seven.
"Sounds good. Where's my water?"
"Can someone bring him water?"
"Here's a cigarette."
"Here's a bandana for the sweat."
Rush, rush. Hurry up.
"Wait, we're too early. No, we're not. Come on, guys. Let's go."
"Can we get moving? We're on the clock. We have a tight schedule."
"We have to be at 30 Rock at noon."
"Plane leaves in four hours."
"See this headline."
"Where'd they get that photo?"
"That doesn't even look like me."
"Look who's dominating Billboard again."
"Someone hobnob with their manager!"
"Seven weeks in a row! Top 10."
"Stop. We'll catch them. Stay in the game."
It was all a whirlwind of intensity and irritation. Nerves were shot; everyone they came in contact with was on edge and racing to complete their task. Mics were pinned to shirts, chairs dragged into configuration, TV cameras positioned, directors holding fingers, nodding, watching with nervous eyes.
Alec's phone would ding and he would see Marie's text, some variation of how much she loved him, missed him, wanted to see him soon.
The eyebrow raise from Paulson; the phone-snatch by John.
"We are WORKING," John would growl through a clamped jaw. "Do you want me to text her that?"
Interviews.
Questions.
Lights.
Clocks.
"What's next on The TV Stars horizon?"
"What did you mean, Alec, when you wrote, 'This country is detached at the seams'?"
"Tell us about Lassie."
"What's your position on climate change?"
"When will the next album be ready?"
"Where can fans in the city catch you live this week?"
"What inspires you?"
"Do you want to talk about Marie? Can we talk about Marie?"
"What was it like opening for McCartney?"
Sweat stains on inner cap band; bloody hangnails from obsessive picking.
"Can someone get him water?"
"Late for soundcheck. Use that door there."
"How long is the song you're playing? We can fit two if they're each under three minutes."
"Gotta go, gotta go, cut to commercial!"
"This is live TV everybody, please help us stay on time!"
"Voices on set. Quiet, please!"
"Stand here. Step back. Over here. Back to one. Find the X. What are you doing!? Stand HERE."
Tap, tap.
"This thing on?"
Tap, tap.
YOU ARE READING
All the Love in the Universe
General FictionAlec and Marie are two teenage rock stars divided by a tragedy, and a secret too disturbing to divulge. Finding a way to stay together is essential if they want to manifest their shared destiny: in love, and on stage.
