A Week Alone Pt. 1: Agents

Issei held Murasaki’s number in his hand, never taking his eyes off the note even as he boarded his train and wandered home. Suddenly possessing a woman’s number after just one night of knowing her was not just unexpected: it was bizarre.

If he wanted to get some shut-eye though, he had to watch what he was doing.

Fermata Homes appeared as he rounded the corner, a giant complex filling three blocks and two stories of one-room housing for those living on borrowed time. Rent in Morioka was crushing. If Issei didn’t have his savings, he wouldn’t have anywhere to live besides back home. He felt his pockets for the key as he languidly climbed up the cheap metal stairs.

Apartment 315. Finally. Issei inserted the key, then pulled open the door and flicked on the light.

Band posters lined his wall: Catalot; Twilight Hope; Eight Marvels; Life Cycle; Pauldron; Legenica and, oddly enough, Samuel and Cousins. The cramped space considered the “living room” was clean, but the computer desk was littered with old food tubs, dirty bowls, glasses, and candy wrappers. The kitchen sink was hardly better.

If a girl walked in right now, Issei was sure she would turn on her heel and walk right out.

His mind flashed back to the note and his stomach churned. “I should clean up,” he said aloud.

Trash bags lined Issei’s front steps, sorted and ready for pickup, and fresh soap residue lingered on his hands. Sighing, Issei flopped on his thin, one-mattress, single-size bed and pulled out the note. When did Murasaki place the note in his ear, and why there? It couldn’t possibly have been when he had that moment of weakness, could it? No, Murasaki was a sweet girl, she wouldn’t just take advantage of him like that.

Issei pulled out his phone and glared. Should he call it? No you idiot, it’s late at night, and she said ‘if something comes up’. Nothing comes up around here.

His phone vibrated–with a yelp, Issei lobbed the phone like a shot put ball behind his bed frame as it played a guitar riff repeatedly. He crawled with his hand groping the floor until at last he seized it, then Issei held the phone to his ear, his heart drumming like mad.

“Hello?”

“Issei! It’s Satoru: you forgot to get paid tonight! You guys ran off all of a sudden.”

“Ah–oh, my bad! Yeah, we were starving, so we just left. I totally forgot.”

“Alright, well, swing by The Montauk tomorrow and I’ll hand you your payment. Nice work by the way–you really held your ground and kept the venue rocking! I owe you some information.”

“Information?”

“Come by and I’ll tell you. Later!”

Issei stared at the blank screen then slapped his forehead with the corner of his phone. Why was he so surprised? Murasaki can’t call him if she doesn’t know his number! Dumb-ass.

“Guess I’ll visit the boss,” he said. He flicked the switch off, plunging his room in darkness, then climbed into bed. Issei rolled on his back. There was one other band poster taped to the ceiling, but it was made of computer paper and a single photo: Secret Prose, with he and his band mates staring back, folding their arms and posing like they were in a professional photo shoot.

They’ll make it big one day. Issei staked his life on it.

Heading to The Montauk was on the list, but one place took priority above all others, a place Issei went to every day: the gym. Ever since high school, Issei never once skipped a day to lift weights and run on the treadmill. Any idea of taking a day off was met with disgust. Thoughts like “how dare you?” and “giving up again?” pervade his mind until he goes.

It just so happened that today was the 21st. Every month on that day, Issei would test himself: how much can he bench press, and what weight can he dead lift?

After an hour of high-intensity exercise, Issei showered then took off for The Montauk. Since it was mid-morning on a weekday, the venue hardly had the business a Friday night did, but small shows still played for those on the night shift, and as he never hangs out at the venue on weekdays, Issei had no idea who was playing. The four-man J-Metal group was in the middle of their head-banging solo when Issei clambered up the corner steps and entered the manager’s office.

“Excuse me,” he said. A curly-haired, middle-aged man with a baseball cap of the venue’s logo wheeled away from his monitor. Then he threw his arms wide open.

“Issei! Come in, come in!”

Issei bowed, the manager doing the same. “Beautiful gig last night,” he said, beaming. “Never seen anything like it.”

“Me neither.”

The manager, Mr. Satoru Matsuda, burst out laughing. “I tell you, if I can get a couple more acts like you and Purple Lotus, The Montauk will be a national treasure.”

Mr. Matsuda snapped his fingers. “Right, your pay.” The manager grunted as he reached for the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled, where solid bricks of cash sat waiting. It felt impolite to stare: that had to be a whole year’s profit he’s looking at. What happened to using a bank? Issei glanced away and watched the J-Metal group finish.

He heard the desk door shut. “Eight, nine, ten thousand yen.”

Issei recoiled, stumbling backwards in shock. “But Mr. Matsuda, we only played one song!”

“I know–but you kept that ruddy crowd from walking out. We can’t have that. Bad for business. You played like two bands that night, so you get a bonus.”

He handed Issei the cash, which made him bow deeper. “Thank you, Sir.”

“No, thank you!” Mr. Matsuda sat back in his wheely chair. “One more thing. I said I had information.”

Mr. Matsuda narrowed. “Listen to me very carefully, Issei: I have it on good authority that an agent watched the show last night.”

Issei gasped. “Are you sure?”

He nodded. “When you’ve been at this for years, you get a feel for who’s here to rock out, and those who are scouting. Agents aren’t stiff men in suits with sunglasses like in the movies; they’re usually guys and gals with band shirts who look like they’re gonna tear up the front row, but instead sit at a table and have a drink. I saw maybe seven of them with that vibe. But there was one man. One guy was starin’ real religiously at the stage. Didn’t move a muscle.”

Issei’s brain fired up: this was the life-changing moment he dreamed for.

The manager leaned forward with clasped hands like a father imparting words of wisdom. “I won’t lie Issei, the competition is fierce, and The Montauk is not the only venue they scout, so it’s best to be realistic. But I think you have a shot. Secret Prose is easily one of my top five bands. The crowd looks forward to you guys.”

“Except that one time.” Issei said bluntly.

Mr. Matsuda barked a laugh. “Well it couldn’t be helped. Purple Lotus was certainly a bombshell band, that’s for sure.

“One more thing. Agents aren’t gonna wait for you to make your repertoire–you gotta get an album together! How many songs you got?”

Issei sighed, feeling his heart drop. “Just five.”

He held up a hand. “That’s okay! You’re almost there, and I’m sure they’ll cut you some slack if you’re picked. Just spend some time–OH CRAP!”

Mr. Matsuda scooted up to his monitor. Dozens of customers were shouting while technicians threw puzzled looks at each other.

“I forgot to call the next band! Talk to you later Issei. Think about what I said.”

Issei bowed, and he left the office as he heard Mr. Matsuda announce on his microphone. “Sorry about that, everyone. Are you ready. FOR. THE. NEXT. ACT?”

A whole album, huh? Issei felt pride rise within him and he smiled: Secret Prose’s first full tracklist, the second step to being real rock stars.