Stage

By Justin Schorah

The four young musicians in rock band Hybris are about to make a name for themselves.

After three long years in the trenches of Florida’s underground music scene, they finally have a record deal in sight. An A&R hotshot fell in love with them upon hearing a few of their songs online, and suddenly all the sweat, blisters and soul-draining self-promotion seemed worth it. The band got a call asking them to bring their haunting mix of Clapton and post-hardcore up to Manhattan for a label showcase. It was the break of a lifetime. And now the only thing separating them from their dreams is a thousand miles of pavement.

Money is tight though. A hundred gigs a year and they rarely broke even. Between the cost of food, gas and everything else it takes to keep a band running, they made a habit of living in the red. The only way they would ever get to New York would be to pack up their aging Chevy Astro and book a tour that could lead them to the promised land.

All it took was six dots on a map. A handful of concerts to carry them to their destination. It was more than enough to keep them flush if everything went according to plan, but things never do when you’re on the road. And as they work their way up the coast, it all goes to hell.

They soldier through tough circumstances at first, making the best of it for as long as they can. But when the van gets ransacked midway through the trip, they’re forced to make a choice: crawl home empty-handed or charge onward at all costs.

Out of cash and desperate to make it, they set themselves on a collision course to New York. It’s a decision that forces each band member to consider just how badly he wants that record deal, and what he’s willing to do to get it.

Laws are broken. Friendships are tested. And so much violent momentum is built up that nothing and no one can stand in their way. Not even each other.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Justin Schorah
• Release date: Jan 4, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310126017

Justin Schorah

Born and raised in Delaware, I grew up like most kids in my neighborhood. I plodded my way through school, played pick-up games every night and caused trouble on the weekends. It was an endless parade of baseball, football, hockey, hiking and video games. But whenever I was by myself at the end of the day, I loved to write stories for my own amusement. I can’t even tell you how early that started because my memory doesn’t stretch back that far. Writing was always there.I focused on developing my skills all throughout high school with journal writing and the school newspaper. At the same time, I was also becoming obsessed with music. I had been spoon fed Aerosmith and Queen from an early age, but everything changed when I discovered Metallica. Just like a great book, heavy metal sparked my imagination, and it quickly became a huge influence on how, what and why I write.Penn State was my next stop. It was there where I indulged both of my loves to the fullest. Creative writing classes were a given, and my spare time was filled with guerrilla marketing for my favorite bands. I was covering shows, promoting new releases and reviewing music for online zines. All of that added up to a steady diet of free CDs and backstage passes. It was heaven. I got to hang out with dozens of my favorite musicians and spend some quality time in the trenches of the music industry. Trust me when I say I had one hell of a time.But college couldn’t last forever. I graduated in 2005 and got a real job as an advertising copywriter in the suburbs of Philadelphia. That’s kept my writing chops lean while I’ve spent many a late night working on my first novel, Stage. It blends all of my experiences and observations together with concepts drawn from my slightly cynical worldview. I’m excited for you to read it and even more hopeful that you’ll love it as much as I loved writing it.On the more personal side, I live in Royersford, PA, with my wife Jackie. We spend our days off traveling as much as possible, taking thousands of pictures, going to concerts and cooking elaborate meals that occasionally turn out right. I’ve managed to build up a monstrous CD collection over the years and it’s almost at the 2,000 mark. I worship Iron Maiden. I firmly believe Jaws is the greatest film ever made. And I think aged rum is proof there is a god.

Book preview

Stage

A novel by

Justin Schorah

Copyright 2013 by Justin Schorah

Smashwords Edition

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the author. In other words, don’t give my stuff away to freeloaders. I’ll find out, and then I’ll find you.

Story, cover and book design by Justin Schorah.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. However, some of the bands referenced outside of the plot are real and should be listened to often. You’ll know them when you see them. Hail to the gods!

For more information about this novel and its author, please visit www.justinschorah.com. For infinite good karma, share that website with everyone you know.

To my dad, Kenny:

I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to work even harder for you than you did for me.

To my wife, Jackie:

You’re an angel with a ruthless red pen. Thank you for making me earn this.

Chapter 1

How do I look?

Kris held up a pair of black trash bags at arm’s length. They were so overstuffed with crumpled t-shirts and jeans that the plastic was turning pale at the bulges. With one in each hand, he choked them like two furless teddy bears. Shabby mementos unloved or loved far too much judging by their wear.

He waited for a response from his girlfriend, Val, who was sitting on the bed. Babe? Sarcastic as hell, he gave the bags a shake, but she refused to pay attention.

Kris, I don’t see why I can’t come with you.

Frustrated, he plopped the makeshift duffels to the ground. This wasn’t anything new. He’d been hearing this kind of static from Val for at least a week. It was flattering that she wanted to tag along, but he was sick of repeating himself. Of course, not nearly enough to snap at her. He wasn’t that stupid. He knew exactly how to pacify her.

Always the sympathetic diplomat, he took a seat next to her on the bed and put her head on his shoulder. You know I’d love for you to come with us, he said in a calm, comforting voice, but there just isn’t enough room.

He rubbed her arm the same way you would a second grader who had a scraped knee. We’ve got to squeeze a drum kit, amps, guitars and all of our gear into one van. There’s barely enough room to fit my clothes. He tapped the nearest trash bag with his foot, rolling the bloated lump onto its side. Plus, no one in their right mind wants to spend nine days trapped in such a cramped space with four guys on tour. We’ll be ripe by day two.

Val nodded in disappointment. I guess you’re right.

If we had a bus and the whole nine yards, things would be totally different, said Kris as he returned to rummaging through the clothes scattered across the apartment floor. But that’s why I’m doing this. To get the bus and the whole nine yards. It’s a once-in-ten-lifetimes opportunity to finally get somewhere with my music.

He paced the bedroom looking for the last puzzle piece he needed before he could hit the road. Important things always seem to get lost in places you least respect, so he checked to see if it had gotten kicked behind the bookcase.

Kris knelt down, put his shoulder against the sparsely filled shelves and drove his hand between the narrow slats. After a minute of finger recon, he snatched out a tattered, paper-thin cotton t-shirt that looked twice his age. Judging by the grin on his face though, you would’ve thought he discovered a well-hidden hundred dollar bill.

He tugged the frayed sleeves taut and whipped off the dust. Across the chest read ‘hopeless’ in a chalky cursive scratch. It was a relic of zero value to anyone else, but to him it was pure gold. Donning this lucky shirt made him feel like he didn’t even need to sing. He could just stand on stage and record execs would be compelled to throw cash, checks and money orders his way.

Found it! He proudly tucked the shirt into one of the trash bags, pooled together the rim and gave it a quick flick of the wrist. With a grunt and a grimace, he yanked it onto his back and followed suit with the second bag.

Kris was finally ready, and Val knew it. She rolled to her feet with a sigh. I guess this is it.

Yup, I think I’ve got everything I need. He took one more look around the room. Lingered in the last few moments of months spent hard at work trying to make things happen. I’ve been dreaming of this for so long. Hell, since the first time I saw the Ramones on pre-Real World MTV. It feels like it took a hundred years to get here. He chuckled at the thought of his younger self pining away for rock stardom.

The goodbye tension quickly killed his levity, as Val was in no mood to reminisce. So Kris took a deep breath and gestured to start the long walk out to the parking lot. He squeezed his way over the threshold. Then he wobbled down the stairs to the ground floor with the bags on his back scraping the walls on both sides as he went. Val begrudgingly trudged several steps behind at half the pace.

To brace his girl for the temporary tear in their relationship, Kris reassured her the only way a twenty-something can—with vague vows of trying.

I can’t imagine getting another break like this. I’ve seen guys play in bands for decades without a shred of success. Kris grabbed Val’s hand. This is my chance, so I want you to know I won’t stop until I make this happen.

I know you will. You’ve given everything to get here, so I wouldn’t expect anything less. I just hope you remember me when you get there.

Kris shrank at the encouragement with a self-conscious smile. He tossed the bags into the trunk of his car and turned back for the standard departure dance. Hug, kiss, hug and a sentimental stare. Saddle up and see you later.

When Kris pulled away, Val took a few gentle steps in his direction, like a train car cut from the freight, gliding along to a restless halt. A quick flash of taillights and he was free. Free to pursue everything he had been working for. Free to go all in and not give a damn anymore.

He had spent the better part of a year handing out demos to dozens of industry contacts who couldn’t care less. He reached out, schmoozed and even groveled in some cases, but stacks of burned discs kept flying out the door without a single prospect. Months went by, and then finally the phone rang. A record label was interested.

It didn’t take long for the word to get out. Another label caught wind of it and came sniffing around. Then another. And pretty soon there was enough demand to set up a showcase in Manhattan so all of the big city A&R guys could get a taste of the band’s live show.

Of course, being based out of Florida posed a bit of a complication, so Kris had to borrow a beat-up Chevy van and book a six-gig warm-up tour to help them work their way up the coast. Everything was meticulously mapped out. Every detail confirmed two phone calls past annoying. Countless hours of planning and soul-selling. But it was all worth it, because that was over with now. No more schmoozing. No more groveling. The only thing left to do was play loud and take no prisoners.

* * * * * * * * * *

A couple of miles away, Ash was cramming his Tama drum kit in the back of a grit-stained Astro. Every few minutes, he looked up at the bleak blanket of mid-August clouds with a glare that warned them not to burst.

That’s the last thing I need right now.

Soggy cargo wasn’t going to make for a smooth trip. He had to hurry if he was going to beat the rain.

Sweat was beading up on the shaved sides of his head. He used the sleeve of his t-shirt to swab away what he could, being careful not to disrupt the spikey black mohawk running down the middle. When he sprung the sleeve back to its resting place, he noticed a maroon blotch along the seam. He searched around for an explanation and found two of his fingers sliced across the knuckles.

The exposed bolts and sheet metal inside this hand-me-down van were becoming a nuisance too soon in the game. The tour hadn’t even begun yet and the injuries were already starting. On top of that, the humidity was rising. The sky was growing grim. A downpour was coming, and Ash still had the amplifiers to pack.

He flapped his hand to fling away the excess blood, but the movement only managed to yank the cuts open again. He milled his molars and threw an elbow into the side of the van. Almost hard enough to lift two tires off the ground. When he pulled back, it looked like someone had taken a Louisville Slugger to their ride.

Assholes!

If only his bandmates had taken the time to unscrew the seats like he told them to, he wouldn’t be bleeding. But no, they had to rip them out like a bunch of gorillas.

Goddamnit! He took another swing to get it all out of his system.

To say that Ash had an anger problem was an understatement. Sure, controlling his temper was an option, but containing a fire is the easiest way to get burned. It usually caused more trouble than if he didn’t bother trying in the first place. More often than not, biting his tongue in an argument would eventually lead to giving the other guy a broken nose. Bottling up frustrations only made him more combustible, so letting it out in small doses seemed to be the more sensible thing to do.

Luckily, music was the perfect vent for all of that aggression. A drum kit was one of the few things he could legally smash the hell out of without anyone having a problem with it. And he took full advantage every time he got the chance to play.

He quickly earned the reputation of being the hardest hitting drummer in the FLA scene after only a handful of five-song sets. Everyone assumed his power was the product of talent and confidence. In actuality though, he was simply prone to pummeling stuff. Just ask the van. It had the bruises to prove it. Two huge dents and Ash felt satisfied enough to get back to work.

He emptied his cupboards of every convenience store snack he could scrounge up and dumped them behind the front seat. Then he loaded in the amps. He shoved them in and strangled them with a web of bungee cords. Everything was secure. Windows up. Doors locked. The only thing left to do was take a shower. Then it was off to meet the guys at Barfly Blues, the site of their first paying gig.

Ash knew money would be tight on this trip, so this was probably the last shower he’d be able to take for a while. Crisscrossing the state every other day to gain new fans wasn’t cheap. The band had sunk almost every dime into gear, gas and self-promotion. Now airfare was out of the question and quarter-star roadside motels would be a luxury only luck could afford them.

A nightly income on the road was an absolute necessity if they were going to make it up to New York. Yet as bad as they needed the money, Ash wanted a record deal and the recognition that came with it ten times more. So much so that he was ready to split pennies to get it.

* * * * * * * * * *

In a cramped studio apartment ten minutes west, Rick stumbled through a dimly lit room searching for the essentials. With a couple of weeks to prepare, he opted to kick back and procrastinate until the half-hour rush. That’s a terrific plan right up until about thirty minutes before it’s time to leave. But it didn’t seem to faze him.

He tottered between the miscellaneous piles that had been plowed up into the four corners of his tiny living space. It was bad enough he lived like a bear in a dumpster, but the junk was filling up every last cranny and making it impossible to rummage.

He counted the days he would be spending on the road, divided that number by three and packed accordingly. Despite his lazy disposition, he was surprisingly passionate about recycling. At least when it came to dirty laundry.

Instead of trying to think of what else he needed, he asked himself, What can I borrow? Food, deodorant and everything electronic could be bummed off the other guys as needed.

Let’s see. No, don’t need that. Don’t need that. Definitely don’t need that. If only he didn’t stretch a few inches taller and wider than his bandmates, he wouldn’t have to pack anything at all.

He balled up each article of clothing and jammed it into his backpack one sloppy chunk at a time. A quick zip and he was ready to go in even less than the time he allotted. With a brash smirk, he turned to brag, but the familiar still life showed no reaction. The refrigerator, the bed, the Keystone cans littering the floor—all empty and apathetic to his departure.

The only thing in this world he was willing to work for was the fastest ticket out of this mess. Playing music and being on the road was his best bet to leave it all behind, so there wasn’t anything holding him back. He hoisted a graphite-colored Ibanez bass onto his shoulder, forced his way through the door sideways and locked it without a second look.

* * * * * * * * * *

The last of the lot was well prepared, but not nearly as eager to let go of home. With two slim suitcases flanking him on the couch, Larkin sat with his arms folded across his knees. He ran down the mental checklist of things he needed to tell his younger brother, Drew, who was mirroring his expression from the sofa.

"The bills are paid. The fridge is full. The grass is cut. The only thing you need to do is not burn the place down." He said it cool and composed like a true older brother. Mainly joking, but partially serious.

Drew laughed and looked down at his feet. Don’t worry, Lark, I’ll keep my pyromania in check until you get back.

I know, I know. You’ve got it under control. But if you change your mind, you can call Mom and Dad to stay with them.

"That won’t be necessary. Even if the house is burning down, I’ll take my chances with the flames."

Yeah, you’re probably better off. Lark kept it light even though he was a bit nervous to leave his brother home alone. He was fully aware that Drew, a recent college grad, was completely capable of taking care of himself. It’s just that younger brothers always seem so young. No matter how hard they try, they can never finish growing out of it.

Well, I better head out. Lark gripped a suitcase in each hand and used them to boost himself up. We’ve got gigs pretty much every day this week, and then the showcase is next Saturday. So, hopefully I’ll be back by Sunday night.

Unless you sign a mammoth contract. And then you get swept away to an L.A. studio for the next three months without daylight or any contact with the outside world.

Don’t worry. I’ll only sign it if they include an addendum giving you full visitation rights. Lark slapped his brother on the shoulder and leaned in for an awkward, hug-and-pat man farewell.

Drew grabbed one of the suitcases and walked Lark out to his car. They stocked the luggage in the trunk where Lark had sectioned off space specifically for it. Right between a cardboard box of assorted merch and a shopping bag full of travel-size toiletries and food. He slid a few tightly wound coils of electrical cord in front of the suitcases to hold them in place and closed the lid.

Lark got behind the wheel and buckled himself in. Drew hung back, waving to him from the sidewalk. Have safe trip. Good luck.

Thanks. I’ll see you later.

All of Lark’s planning was finally turning to present, and he knew as soon as he pulled away things would never be the same. He wasn’t sure what would come of this tour. It could be the best thing to ever happen to him. Or it could be a monumental bust. But he knew Drew would be there for him either way, and that was all the confidence he needed to press his foot on the gas pedal.

* * * * * * * * * *

By the time Lark arrived at the Barfly, Kris and Rick had already finished off their first round at a booth in the back. Except for a few sweaty regulars perched along the center slab, it was a slow Friday night. They had the rest of the room all to themselves.

Lark strolled over to their table under a runway of poorly strung pendant lights. He brushed his wavy, chin-length hair out of his eyes as he walked by the bar. Although he was twenty-four like the rest of the guys in the band, the only thing that kept him from getting carded on the spot was his scraggly start of a beard. It concealed an otherwise young-looking mug. Pair that with his wiry frame and he seemed half his age if you took away the facial fuzz.

Rick, on the other hand, looked twice as old sitting in the dim fluorescence. Tall and heavyset, he had the lethargic look of a retired offensive lineman. Dark skin swelled around his eyes like he’d been watching late night infomercials until sunrise. A uniform blanket of black stubble covered the majority of his head. It spilled from his scalp over his round cheeks and down his neck. Judging by the growth, it had been well over a week since his last shave, and he was due without a doubt.

By comparison, Kris looked like he should be modeling underwear in a Calvin Klein ad. With tousled, dirty blonde hair and soft blue eyes, he was average turned handsome whenever he was hanging out with Rick. His standard build suddenly seemed muscular. His polished punk aesthetic looked business casual. All thanks to having such an unflattering counterpart.

This relative appeal and an extroverted personality made Kris the obvious choice for a frontman. Of course, it didn’t hurt that he secretly enjoyed the spotlight either.

Hey Lark, sorry we started without you. Kris flipped his empty beer bottle upside-down, draining out the last pillow of foam onto the table. I was going to get another round. What’ll you have?

Nothing, I’m good for now. But thanks.

You sure? Rick asked. It could be a while before Ash gets here. We said seven o’clock, but god knows with that guy.

Lark shook his head with a slanted grin and sank back into the heat-crackled pleather cushions. It wasn’t uncommon for Kris and Rick to criticize Ash in his absence. It’s true, he was late to just about everything, but he also got stuck carrying the weight of the band on his back most of the time. Whether it was keeping practices on track or fixing broken equipment, Ash took on all the responsibility he could. He was the drill sergeant and clean-up crew all in one.

Keen as he was, Lark had no problem seeing this. But public slack cutting wasn’t a good idea in such a small group, so he rolled with the jokes. To Lark, getting along with everyone was more important than sticking up for only one person. And with three guys to please, he kept his mouth shut.

I expect him around eight or nine. Rick continued ribbing just to make conversation. In fact, I’ll bet you five bucks he doesn’t show in the next hour.

Shut up, Rick, said Kris. You don’t have five bucks. You know what? I’ll pay you ten if you can pull one measly dollar out of your pocket right now.

Rick dipped his hand into his pants, dug around a bit and snatched it back out with nothing but his middle finger held high.

All three busted out laughing.

It didn’t matter when Ash got there. They knew they’d have more fun without the serge anyway, so Kris and Rick ordered a couple more beers.

Alcohol rarely passes the time though. Instead, it tends to take you back in it. So as their wait dragged on and the drinks grew stronger, their conversation got nostalgic.

Do you remember that one time when we were playing in that dude’s basement? Rick asked. His question was as vague as it gets, but Lark immediately knew what he was talking about.

Yeah, and we blew the power out during the first song? I remember.

That’s right, said Kris. It only took a couple of minutes to get everything turned back on, but by then everyone had left. It was just the four of us standing in the back corner.

Exactly!