Hot Black Leather

His pale skin, which had been sheltered all winter, was suddenly thrust beneath the sun going on four hours now, just burning, and he didn’t care because he was the shit. Laying on the Miami sand like a rockstar, no beach towel, only his t-shirt keeping his tangle of hair from the sand, he was happy. His first show was tonight; he couldn’t believe it himself.

As soon as last year he would have been to shy to expose his flat chest in public, also worried about the boniness of his shoulders: he would have worn a shirt, no question. 

He was going to live in Dayton, Ohio for the rest of his life. He would go to the local school, get a side gig waiting tables, find a girl and marry her. If some cosmic inscrutable force hadn’t caught his song Nectar on fire, toying with his destiny somewhere up there beyond the blue sky, where the gods play with our fates on top of the clouds, hidden, he would be normal. Had Nectar not become the hit song of the country, a viral sensation of pop-radio stations, and the grocery store aisles where you’d hear it every so often, he’d have been normal forever. 

 Now he wasn’t. In fact, he had maybe another hour before they’d come pick him up; his entourage. How can one say that word plainly? How best to spend his last moments of peace and quiet? Perhaps with a swim? 

But his phone buzzed beneath his finger that had been trailing circles in the sand.

“Hey Gustavo,” Steven said.

“Steven, where are you?” Gustavo was agitated, clearly.

“On the beach- where you left me.”

“You’ve been there five hours?”

“Yes.”

“In the sun?”

“Yes.”

“Your white ass,” Gustavo whined. He was a middle-aged Cuban man, a veteran of the entertainment industry, getting his start as a club promoter. Steven met him for the first time a month ago- had hired him that day. When Gustavo, Steven, and his parents went to dinner that night, Gustavo drank a couple glasses of red wine, and after the second he told the quiet family his two best stories from that era in the 80’s, otherwise routine nights of security work besides the two in which his relationships with local law enforcement proved handy; when things got hot quick, and threatened to get worse. Time stretched on as he told it to the waiting white family from Dayton, Ohio; Steven’s mom didn’t take a breath the whole time (almost as breathlessly as she talked about Gustavo the whole drive home). “Do I need to get you some aloe?” he asked. 

“Uhh,” Steven wondered, pressing his hand to his chest, feeling the skin retain it’s warmth, the hand leaving a milky print on a rose background.

“I’m coming to pick you up,” Gustavo said. “Be in the parking lot in five minutes,” and he hung up. 

Steven stood and stretched, stared at the parking lot between towering white hotels, then looked at the ocean and hesitated. He tucked away his phone and trotted to the ocean unevenly on the impossibly soft, impossibly white sand. Each step was beautiful; first the sand got wet, then the water was at his ankles, then up to his knees, and finally he collapsed into the Atlantic and peed in it. From this further vantage he beheld the white Miami skyline behind him. This was his first visit.

He swam out further, deeper; and truly, he was sick of that song. “Now comes our favorite hit here at 106.5 Dayton: Steven Robinson with ‘Nectar’. Enjoy.” He made the song in his basement two years ago. Now it sounded cheesy, embarrassingly gooey, with its catchy melody of synths and his soprano. He was out of breath now amid the swell, tasting the salty water. If there was a shark out here, now was time to strike. He looked around but didn’t expect to see one, though it might still be hidden, like those gods on their clouds, watching him until the right time to chomp and rip away his leg. Thus giving himself reason to panic, he kicked at the horizon and swam back towards the beach; towards the skyscrapers waiting like judges, watching without helping him reach his salvation.

On shore he walked among sunbathers- girls reading lazily in their bikinis, groups of young men laughing to themselves how many will be at the show tonight, I wonder? Umbrellas, chairs , towels, all neatly spaced, enjoying the warm sun of April. He found his phone and wallet where he had left them inside the ball of his shirt, the only thing he brought in his rush to get here.

Gustavo’s Mercedes was waiting for him, white with black leather interior. He insisted on renting it, saying it was worth it to look cool. He looked at Steven getting in the passenger’s seat from above his glasses. The hot black leather seat stuck to Steven’s thighs, and slowly Gustavo’s smile crept up his face until he couldn’t hold in his laughter anymore. His eyes squinted and head wiggled as he laughed: Steven must have been that red. “I’m sorry” was all he could get out, waving and pulling out from the parking lot.

“The aloe is back there. I’d start applying,” Gustavo chided. “Why’d you stay out there all damn day anyways? You know pasty white folk like you need small doses of the sun, especially after winter. When’s the last time you’ve been to the beach anyways?” Gustavo was an aggressive driver, thus Steven was too busy grabbing the handle above him in fear to reply. “Well you’ve got an hour and a half to get showered and ready. What’re you wearing?”

Steven looked down at his wrinkled shirt, shocking Gustavo. “No.  No sir. You are not wearing any of that. It smells.”

“Then what am I wearing? It’s too hot for jeans.”

“Jeans? Jeans? C’mon now; we’re going to the shoppin’ mall Stevie Believie, mm-mmm.”

“Aren’t you worried about time?”

“You just buckle up.”

Steven did so just in time: Gustavo swooshed back and forth dodging cars without hesitation, cutting it close while Tina Turner came on and he turned her up, singing along in his big commanding voice that would suddenly become gentle, higher through the tender parts he’d make a good backup vocalist. Every time they passed an expensive car, Gustavo would ballpark the price, naming off all the vehicles he had bought and sold over the years. In warm nostalgia he said, “They used to make fun and tell me I got a new man when I got a new car, and I got a new car every year. Every year,” he wiggled and giggled.

All Steven could think to say is “Good for you, man,” realizing Gustavo was gay were there signs I missed?

“But now I’m happy with my Myles. Yes I’m happy with my man,” then he muttered, “I’m thinking this is going to be a Nords situation, mm-hmm.” Once snug in a parking space he added, “And we got the expense account to do it.”

“Really?”

“Honey, yes. You’ve got a lot to learn about this industry,” he took off his sunglasses, folded them, and fixed Steven with a serious stare. “Let’s go,” he said,  striding through the automatic doors into a whoosh of perfume and light, the racks of beautiful clothing all clean and gleaming. Gustavo kept looking around and walking quickly, looking for something in front of Steven, who was overwhelmed.

Then Gustavo stopped in the intersection of two aisles of white tile, pausing like a dog on a scent. “There he is,” he grumbled, staring at a sales associate across the store, and off he went. 

The salesperson was a youngish white dude with red hair wearing a white sweater, black boots, and black pants with chrome chains looping from pocket to belt loop (this adornment was easily the most notable part of the whole ensemble, an edgy layer of badassery Steven had never, could never, and would never pull off. This dude harkened back to 90’s grunge rock and - now that he thought about it- was the antithesis to how Steven perceived himself). Steven was intimidated.

“Who is he?” he asked.

“The one.”

“What one?”

“Do I have to teach you everything? You pick the hottest one here,”Gustavo said walking up to the guy. “Hello, I’m Gustavo and this is Steven; nice to meet you.” They shook hands, then he pointed to Steven, “He needs clothes to look like a star; can you help him?” 

They both scanned a shy Steven up and down for an uncomfortable time, and the guy grimaced. But he collected himself and declared, “Well let’s do it! I’m Trevor. Lead the way, champ” he gestured with an upturned palm.

Steven wasn’t accustomed to taking the lead, leastways in a department store where his mom usually commanded her children like a general under siege, with limited time and resources. He held up things he liked, reluctantly, but Gustavo shook his head no each time. This continued again and again, and at once Steven dug in his heals and grabbed his hair, pulling; and before tensions got too high, Trevor said, “Why don’t we let Steven pick the outfit he wants, and then we can supplement with our selections afterwards.”

“Yes. I agree.” Gustavo replied.

Steven picked a corduroy set- a navy jacket and matching pants. It looked dressy yet casual (Steven was intimidated by fashion, and he often played it safe and casual, the few times his mom didn’t pick something out for him already). Eventually Gustavo couldn’t help himself and pieces were wrenched off the shelves and thrown onto Steven’s waiting arms, last being a seductive pair of black leather pants. 

“Really?” Steven was aghast, green eyes unbelieving.

“Just try it on.”

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t?” Gustavo was incredulous. “You mean you can’t be a rockstar? Because if you truly believe that, then I’m wasting both of our time.”

“Well, I’m more of an electronic-”

“No no no, no. To your fans, you’re a rockstar; I don’t care what your genre is. They want you to dress like a rockstar. They want you to act like a rockstar. That means signing autographs and boobies.”

Steven blushed, “I’ll try it on,” then trudged into the changing room.

Their chatter seeped through the flimsy door as he hung the clothes as best he could. Off came his shoes and bathing suit and on came the leather; the material stiff and tight, strangling his legs, though he liked his appearance: somewhat evil, all angles and edges, like Dracula. Dare I say I’m looking more like Trevor? Do I even like it? Yes? When the crowd watched him tonight and all eyes were on him, would the clothes constrict him like an anaconda, their grip unrelenting as his sunburnt skin itched and he perspired. Would his voice catch in the middle of Nectar, breaking the unspoken contract when all anyone wanted to hear was the exact thing they were used to, just louder, otherwise a perfect replica of the radio.

Two shirts, two pants, and two jackets came over the door- additional things to try on. Then some shoes slid under How does he know my shoe size? When he finally opened the doors again Gustavo said, “I love it,” and Trevor nodded.

Steven clenched his fists, feeling like he was being bossed around by his mother again; so he looked at the ground and said, “I’m worried I won’t be comfortable. If I’m not comfortable, I won’t sound good.”

“Escuchame, Steven: you have to sound good no matter what you look like. Those are two separate things. I trust you to handle the music. My job is to get you on that stage, on time, looking like the hero you need to be to those fans who spent money on a ticket.”

Shaking his head, he looked in the mirror on the wall again: a dweeb with a purple shirt with silver polkadots, tight even on him, and the black leather was waxy under the store’s fluorescents. Trevor appeared in the mirror behind him and attached one of his chains to his pocket, then up to his belt loop. He rose then and whispered hot breath in Steven’s ear, “Go be a star.”

They left the store to go back to the hotel, where Steven showered gingerly, taking his time, then drenching himself in aloe.

As the doors to the elevator opened below Gustavo bellowed out “I loooove it!” Drawing attention from everyone. Then when Steven got close he said, “ Ooo, I can smell you.”

“You said to where aloe,” he huffed.

“That’s good, that’s what we want. Where’s your things?”

“Right here,” Steven held up his briefcase, computer inside.

“That’s it?”

“What else do I need?”

“I forgot you’re a one-man show. Well let’s get you to rehearsal.”

Dilly-dallying no longer, the two made their mad way through the streets of Miami, with the windows down, the city’s sounds and smells breezing by, until the theater’s art-deco facade lit the road beside them. Steven realized he had forgotten to call his mom at any point of this grand adventure, pulled along at Gustavo’s insistence into the lobby where staff smiled at him and waved, recognizing his face from the posters. His dressing room was down the hall, and there were stagehands waiting to help if he needed anything. He clambered up the steps to the stage before the bright lights under which his soul laid bare. A stool, desk, keyboard, and mic were all ready for him. The sound guy came over the intercom and introduced himself as Phil; his silhouette waved to Steven from the glass window above the last row. He’d handle the sound tonight; and, by the way, he has heard “Nectar” so many times by now that it infects his dreams. 

 With shaky fingers, watched by the few assembled and maybe some more he imagined, Steven opened his laptop and pictured himself at the center of a great a coliseum rising up around him, the rocky edifices reaching towards the sky, light pouring down on him as he pressed play. He began with eyes closed, his thin voice sounding like someone else’s at first, but momentum grew as he added instruments to the loop layer by layer like he was building a brick wall, remembering the spirit of the song as his voice filled the space. When he finished Gustavo whistled.

“Damn! You sound good. I mean really, really good. Now let’s keep the energy going with Nectar!”

“Oh, I wasn’t playing Nectar yet,” Steven admitted.

“Your not going to play it next?”

Steven stared. Gustavo turned his chin, waiting for a response. “I was planning on it being the encore.”

“The encore! You don’t mean it!” Gustavo wailed, waddling his way up the steps to confer with him in private. He patted Steven on the back and cooed, “Listen, Steven. I know we haven’t worked together for long. I know there’s some trust that needs to be built up between us over this tour. But you gotta listen to me. Your fans want one thing tonight, and that’s to sing along to Nectar while watching you play it. The women want to yell their ‘woo woo I love you Steven!’, and their parents want them home before bedtime. Got it?”

Steven was stricken. “I guess I could move it up the setlist.”

“Good,” Gustavo sang, patting his shoulder and descending the stairs again.

“Won’t that mean they’ll all leave early?”

Gustavo shrugged. “Maybe. Hell, that makes it even easier. Play your first song, play Nectar, then let them go their way. You still get paid.” 

“Doesn’t sound rockstar to me.”

Gustavo laughed and called out “Welcome to showbiz, kid!” and disappeared into the lobby.

Steven felt like he did after playing Nectar for his dad the first time. “Foo foo” was how he described it. Might as well have just said “gay”, the thing Steven most feared to be. Sitting as he did most nights alone in the unfinished basement (the only place in the house where he could play music late without disturbing anybody), he’d think of fairy worlds come to life: maybe a door suddenly appeared then opening in the brick, revealing a purple light that washed over him and the dark room. He could step through the threshold and be whisked away into the mystic, where gray bees drank golden nectar from giant flower cups and were made colorful again, their yellows bright and happy. He hunched over his laptop until the sounds were of that magical realm. Let it be foo-foo then, dammit! Foo-foo was prettier anyways.

He finished rehearsing and went backstage. In the room next to his was the opening band, a few years older than he it seemed; two guys layed on couches with their phones while ostensibly the lead singer put on her lipstick in the mirror surrounded by amber lights aglow. He watched them, the true rockstars, bored with another night and another gig. 

Once alone in his room he called his parents and told them about his day. His mom was happy for him and asked many questions. She put his dad on the phone, who wished Steven well before handing the phone back. In the remaining interlude he paced and stretched as the crowd rumbled outside. He warmed up his vocals and heard the openers doing the same. They found harmony together and he was transfixed, held on a string vibrating as long as they held him captive by the sound. I wanna be in a band.

Their laughter and yelling echoed from the hallway. Gustavo stopped by and asked how he was doing; Steven gave him a thumbs up. Gustavo recommended not to sit on the sofa, let alone lay on it, saying no more. So Steven got up and watched the opener play from the dark sidestage; watching his new heroes. He wished the show ended when they were done.

But his turn did come. He was dizzy from the sound of hundreds of screaming fans. The moment he stepped in the light, the upswell of their screams was the most shocking pop like a bomb going off; it was everything he could do to not run back into his dressing room and hide there shivering until the girl in the opening band found him in there and rubbed his back then. 

He tried getting up on the stool, but his leg could only go so far in the tight leather, he had to try lurching his way up one leg at a time, and his left buttcheeck scooched on, making a fart noise that squelched into the mic and echoed throughout the theater, startling Steven and he went toppling onto the stool and they crashed in a heap. Damn these leather pants! 

There were only gasps. He gazed out at the gawking teenage girls pointing at him. So he dusted himself and stood as confidently as he could, making like he meant to do all that. He grabbed the mic and said “Sorry, I had Mexican for breakfast.” , but luckily Phil had turned off the mic, so as to avoid any further disgrace, only the front row heard this abomination of a joke. 

His voice caught, what now? What should he do, make a further mockery of himself? There was no where out, but running down the aisle and out of here would take ten seconds tops. He could go back to that basement, and maybe his face would be forever forgotten. 

He waved to Phil a desperate plea and stomped his foot: “return me my voice, please Phil”, stomp, wave, stomp clap, trying to get attention. But then a peculiar thing happened: the folks in the back row thought it was a special message to them- get amped and look alive! So they stood up, only a few at first, but he kept clapping and stomping, and soon the whole lot of them were hooting and hollering probably laughing up there. When he waved one way, they did too. Now even the moms were standing up while their daughters held their signs and jumped up and down. So he jumped with them, it felt fun. Their souls were in communion, reverberated from the stage to the crowd and back. He beseeched the first rows to join the fun, lifting them with a gesture, like vegetables pulled from the garden soil. The energy was electric and miraculous and overwhelming, and they chanted “Nectar! Nectar! Nectar!”Is this how Freddie Mercury felt?

The white lights of their cellphones turned purple; all the people turned into bees. a scary mean world had fallen away, and they had found each other in another dimension, with nothing to do but buzz around at peace. He held up the mic, pointed at Gustavo and phil and swept his hand in a circle, yelled, “Who wants some Nectar?”

and pressed play.