As an A&R manager signing artists to the new Fun Drugs Records in LA, Xavier Newsome was destined for greatness - and he even got there. Hit singles. National tours. The love of a girl. The only problem? He may have sold his soul to get there. It's...
My Uber driver missed the turnout to my Airbnb, so now we're about to make a U-turn, and it's the longest red light I've ever sat at. I've already thumbed through all of my go-to phone apps for escaping backseat boredom and the light hasn't budged.
I look over at my driver just to make sure he hasn't fallen asleep. He's awake, and completely unperturbed by the wait, embodying a calm that only the most seasoned Uber drivers do. He's seen it all and none of it fazes him anymore: all forms of ugly human behavior and unsolicited advice and dubious opinions spewed out with unimpeachable conviction. We get the light, and in a minute we're at the door to the Airbnb.
My host's name is Brittanie. She's away in New York for the week on business of some sort, but the front door is accessible via code lock, and the password consists of the last four digits of my booking phone number.
The place is a spiritual bungalow. Walls are draped with teal and pink and purple cloth. Miniature buddhas deep in meditation are strewn across the flat, like a zen edition of Where's Waldo?
Brittanie isn't here, but I can tell exactly what she looks like from the photos in frames along the partition that borders the kitchen counter. In every one, she's taking a selfie, her face a sunflower of tanning booth brightness. There aren't any photos on the fridge, but there are magnets with various empowering mantras like "Now Is a Gift, That's Why They Call It the Present," and "Nothing Is More Dangerous Than an Educated Woman" in cursive script.
I make my way down the hall on the other side of the dining area that leads to the shared bathroom and my own designated sleeping quarters. There's a mahogany bookcase with titles such as The Idiot's Guide to Tantric Sex and The Art of Holistic Healing, and myriad others focused on confronting past traumas, facing inconvenient truths, transcribing third eye visions, chasing big dreams, and greeting death unburdened. I hope I stay long enough for some of the hard work to rub off on me. If only it worked that way. The work is here, on me. In me.
It's way past 6 p.m. and my phone is at 1%. I plug it into the outlet on the wall beside my mile-high bed, place it on the nightstand, call up Ariel, and set it to speaker so I can throw my weary body down onto the bed unencumbered.
"Hi babe! Just got back from my walk with Otis," she says.
"I just made it here. Sorry I'm late. Traffic was awful."
"I know, sorry. What's it like there?"
"It's great. But you'd hate it."
"Why would I hate it?"
"The fridge has three magnets. One says, 'You are Powerful,' one says, 'You are Purposeful,' and the other says, 'You are Peaceful.'"
"I am nauseous."
I rolled over on the bed.
"You mean you're nauseated. You have nausea," I corrected.
"What's the difference?"
"One means that you cause others to feel sick to their stomachs, and the other means you feel sick to your own stomach."
"Xavier," she sighs. "I'm not in the mood for a grammar lesson."
"I'm just trying to communicate."
"If you're going to be snarky, I'm hanging up."
"Oh come on, I'm just messing with you," I say, attempting to save what little face I have left.
"You didn't ask me how my day went."
"How did your day go?" I'm lying on my back now, looking up at the popcorn ceiling.
"Pretty good," she says, "thanks for asking."
"That's it?" No longer trying to hide irritation.
"Yep. Nothing really happened. Just walked Otis and ran some errands and went to spin class and I bumped into Stephanie and got caught in a twenty-minute conversation about how good her new European boyfriend is at sex."
"Why'd you ask me to ask you how your day went if nothing really happened?" My voice is the kind reserved for a barroom fight after the sixth or seventh tequila.
"Xavier, did something get into you on that flight?" Ariel's voice drifts from playful cattiness into concern.
I prop myself up on my elbow. "I don't know, babe. Ever since I got here, something's been tugging at me."
"Sleep on it. Let's talk tomorrow, okay? Love you."
I wince. I've only told Ariel so much about my past so far. It's not the kind of thing I can sleep on to remedy.
"Okay," I mumble. "Love you." I hang up and toss the phone somewhere on the wasteland of the mattress. My eyes are lead right now. I close them for a bit and drift off into a nice nap.
I'm interrupted forty-five minutes later with a buzz and a ping on my phone. I roll over instinctively to the nightstand.
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I don't know Chase Graham super well. In fact, I only found out his real last name a few weeks ago when he found me on Facebook and messaged me when he figured out I was going to be in LA for the wedding.
Before that I knew him as Chase Money. It didn't take me long to guess why.
He's a friend of Donovan's, and like Donovan, he's a salesguy through and through. And he's also one of only a handful of wedding guests outside of the Fun Drugs Records circle that I've had any sort of social interaction with. He's a family guy. Two young daughters and a wife of seven years. He keeps it in check, but he still knows how to have a good time when the occasion warrants it. It will be good to catch up.
I stink with airplane stink, so I decide to take a shower. It's always an experience using a stranger's shower. Shower paraphernalia: the shampoos and conditioners and herbal remedies and deep scrubs and body lotions say a lot about a person. The paraphernalia in this particular shower screams mid-thirties female with a divided conscience on the merits of the Olay and Pantene corporate gorillas of personal care versus more experimental hair products from cash-strapped bohemian companies on the fringes of mainstream awareness. Plus, being naked in a stranger's home is always an oddly sensual trigger. At any moment, they may just walk in on you in your most vulnerable state. At least that's where my mind goes at times.
My hair is gelled, I'm clean-shaven, I smell like Teen Spirit, and I look satisfactory enough in the low glow of the bathroom mirror lights. "You will have a good time. You are a fun person and people like you. Anxiety and depression are just labels we slap onto feelings and sensations that are natural parts of the human condition and experience," I say as I stare into the oval mirror above the washbasin. "And benevolent and well-meaning doctors have figured out ways to help us manage those sensations, and that's okay." I pop open the orange plastic capsule in my toiletries bag and slide a couple Klonopins into my mouth and wash them down with tap water, then I book an Uber.
