No More No More

Makeshift Maracas (Oh, and my Birthday)

It seemed as though we were the only people actually prepared.  The producers were rushing around, trying to get everything ready for the rockstars.  It's like the minute you have a third album you're a big deal.  To me they're all just the same old Brad, Tom, Joey, Joe and Steven––well, almost the same Steven.

        Anyway, the percussion kit Steven apparently ordered did not show up.  Instead, a sweaty, nervous looking man rushed through the door carrying a box, apologizing multiple times to the silently fuming Steven.

        When he wasn't talking to or giving a death stare to one of the employees, he was staring intently at Joe and me.  I was merely trying to tune the instruments while Steven yelled at the managers.

         The sweaty, nervous man approached Steven like a scared puppy.  He was about three times at wide as Steven, and an inch or two shorter.  It was kind of comical to see this large man so afraid of the stick-thin high-out-of-his-mind rocker who could barely stand on his own to feet.

        "Um, Steven, sir," the man said, "we found the kit."

        The band (and I) gather around the box he was holding.  He opened the lid.  Steven's face fell.  "Shit," he muttered under his breath.

        In the kit was most of the parts he ordered.  There were no maracas, however, and they seemed to be a necessity.

        Okay, he must really be out of his mind.  Steven eyed the lunch tray in the man's hand.  There were a few sugar packets on it.  Steven snatched the sugar off of it, as well as some fries.  The man started to protest.

        Steven pats his shoulder with a sarcastic sympathetic smile.  "You could go without a few fries, buddy," he said, still clearly pissed beyond thinking straight.  "Let's roll tape!" he shouted.

        I sat behind the booth with the producers.  Why did I come again?  I hate it back here!

        The boys redo a few songs, Steven still having no use for the sugar packet, for it was shoved in his pants so that he wouldn't loose it.  But when they finish a song (which was perfect), Tom starts playing the thing that he was playing before, at home.  Steven whips the sugar packet out of his pants and starts to shake it in front of the microphone and oddly enough, it sounded like a maraca.

        Joe had this weird tube thing in his mouth that was connected to his guitar and he stated playing too.  It sounded weird... Like he was singing through the guitar.  Weird, but cool.  Steven and Joe started to sing: "Sweeeeeeeeeeeet Emoooooooootion," over and over again until they reached the verse.  Then Joe played normally and Steven started to sing.  His head was tilted down, probably staring at a spot on the carpet because it was swirling or something trippy like that.

        Slowly his eyes drifted up so that he was staring into the booth through his eyelashes.  His eyes seemed to burn holes through the glass.  His stare was so intent, so full of all the emotion he put into the song (which was a lot, by the way).  Though he wasn't singing to the glass; he was singing to me.  His gaze because more confident when our eyes were locked.  I couldn't look away.  I wanted to look away so badly I but my eyes seemed frozen in place.  He looked up so that he was staring at me dead-on.

        Sweet Emotion was about me.

        Joe noticed what was going on and tried to distract Steven but to no avail.  He went so far as to walk up to Steven and stare directly at his face during the chorus.  But Steven didn't break our eye contact.