The Ones Who Dream

Someone in the Crowd

Friday, 7:22pm.

Mika was late. Naturally. And it wasn't Sarah's fault either: she had been right on time, and she had gravely ironed his wrinkled suit, polished his dad's old cufflinks, styled his disheveled curls and even powdered his nose and applied a touch of concealer over his eye bags. She had wanted to pluck his eyebrows too, but he'd refused.

And yet he was late. As he always was. Sarah reminded him of this for the twentieth time as he slipped on his shoes.

'I know, I know,' he sighed, 'My destiny is to always be late and there's just nothing I can do about it.'

'Hurry up instead of complaining,' Sarah said, smoothening the back of his jacket, 'And don't forget: even if it doesn't work out with that Meyers guy, there are other impresarios in that party. This is the real audition, Mika; this is the fast lane to success. Just find someone, anyone in the crown who is willing to take you in. Charm them. Convince them you're worth it. Don't leave the party until someone is interested in you.'

'Yes,' Mika nodded confidently, grabbing his keys and checking his reflection in the mirror one last time. 'Tonight's the real audition.'

He placed a friendly kiss on Sarah's cheek, pocketed his phone and keys, and left his small south Los Angeles apartment. Destination: a huge villa in Malibu.

*

The party sucked. Not only did the villa have a swimming pool that was off-limits to non-VIP guests, but the waiter that twirled around the place also refused to serve Mika more than one drink. And boy, did he need a few drinks right now.

He was talking to an aspiring actress – holding her head close to his shoulder, actually, while she cried and whined and complained about her misspent youth and hopeless future. She was drunk and sweaty and she was smoking, but Mika couldn't leave her alone in this room full of wealthy, indifferent strangers. So he stuck around, wishing he had had a few drinks before coming.

He thought of his brief but revealing interview with Mr. Lorne Meyers, manager and adviser at Antonia Digital. Mika had looked for him for about fifteen minutes, not knowing exactly who to look for. Then Mr. Meyers had found him, and in a heavy New York Bronx accent, he had asked, 'You Mr. Mika Penniman?'

'Yes sir,' Mika had smiled politely.

'I'm Lorne Meyers,' the overweight manager had introduced himself, holding his hand out for Mika to shake it, 'Glad you made it.'

Mika had shaken the hand presented to him. 'Thank you for inviting me.'

Meyers had stuck a fat cigar between his lips and had offered Mika one. Mika had declined, 'I don't smoke.'

'Good, good,' Meyers had grinned, 'that's very good for a singer. Keep it up, son.'

There had been an awkward silence then as Meyers lit his cigar and took a long drag on it. Smoke had flown up in puffs and Mika had wanted to cough.

'So,' the manager had said, 'let's cut to the chase, you know what I mean? First of all: I loved your record.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'It's a good record. You ought to be proud of yourself,' Meyers had insisted on every word by waving his cigar. He had spoken to Mika as if he was a child. It had made him feel uneasy. 'But, but,' Meyers had continued, 'there are a few things – just tiny, minor things – that need changing, you know what I mean?'

Mika had immediately disliked the sound of that, but he had listened all the same.

'See,' the manager had said, 'you have a wonderful voice, don't get me wrong, but – but the public wants something else. Something a little less – a little more, well, a little more like Robbie Williams, you know what I mean?'

No, I do not know what you mean, Mika had wanted to hiss. But he hadn't. He had just listened while Meyers went on and on about "what the public wants" and "how things are done in the industry" and that "Craig David is really popular right now". Mika had wanted to ask why he should give a flying fuck about Craig David. But he had just remained silent and listened to the whole thing, until the manager was done talking, and Mika was done listening.

'Sorry, sir, but I'm not a copycat, and I don't write songs that sound like Robbie Williams or Craig David or anyone else for that matter,' he had said, and then he'd walked away, and now here he was with a young woman crying on his shoulder.

Yeah, the party sucked. And just when he thought that it couldn't suck any more than it already did, a camera's flash blinded him, and he had to cover his eyes with both hands. The aspiring actress who had been sobbing onto his jacket pushed herself off of him and left, screaming about how the light blinded her. When his vision cleared, Mika blinked his eyes open and saw a ginger man wearing a beige suit and holding a camera.

'I'm so sorry,' the man said in a deep velvety voice.

'You're the asshole from the other day,' Mika mumbled, recognizing the scoundrel, 'It's you. The guy with the camera. In front of "Last Party".'

'I'm really sorry, I must've blinded you there,' the man said, as if Mika hadn't spoken at all.

'Yes you did,' Mika snapped, 'why the fuck were you taking my picture anyway? What is wrong with you?'

The man froze. His face took an amused expression – the same one Mika had seen on him the other day. 'My name is Andy Dermanis, I work here. I'm the photographer.'

'Oh,' Mika grimaced, 'the photographer, right.' He felt a little sheepish for a second, then he remembered his previous indignation. 'That still doesn't explain why you were spying on me the other day in front of "Last Party".'

'I wasn't spying on you,' Andy laughed, as if the whole thing were a joke.

'So it's a hobby of yours to take pictures of unwilling strangers?'

'You could say that.'

'In that case: fuck you. That's rude and childish.'

'I'm sorry,' the redhead bit his lower lip. Mika waited a few seconds for something else to follow – a snide remark, perhaps, or a sarcastic comment. But no, the stranger seemed sincere. Mika blinked again. That was not the reaction he had been anticipating.

'I take it you will want your picture back, then?' Andy added, seriously.

'Err,' Mika hesitated, taken aback by the sudden shift in the stranger's attitude, 'no, that's alright. You can keep it, sell it to the highest bidder or do whatever the fuck you wanted to do with it in the first place.'

Andy laughed again, a deep, raucous laugh. 'Right,' he smiled, tapping his fingers against his old-fashioned camera.

'Right,' Mika echoed, pulling on the bottom of his jacket uncomfortably.

They stood there for a while, staring at each other with growing curiosity. The fellow was decidedly very weird, but at least he looked sane. Well, as sane as a man roaming around L.A taking pictures of strangers could be.

'I'm done here,' Andy said suddenly, making Mika start with surprise, 'Done with work, I mean.'

'I'd better call it a night as well,' Mika scratched the back of his neck.

'Should I walk you to your car?' Andy asked politely.

'I, err, I don't have a car, actually.'

'I'll give you a ride then,' the ginger seemed delighted by this.

'No, no it's alright, I'll just call a cab,' Mika shook his head.

'Don't be ridiculous. You know how much they charge you when it's this late and they know you're desperate?'

'You're rather persistent, aren't you?' Mika frowned, although he was honestly quite amused.

'It's one of my finer qualities,' Andy said, holding his head high in fake pride. Mika couldn't help but laugh.

'Alright then,' he shrugged, 'this party sucks anyway.'

'It does, doesn't it?'