LOOSE - a Bill Hader Novel

I

On the wall of a dressing room in 30 Rockefeller, Studio 8H, just behind the door, is a message etched in faded black ink. You'd never notice it, unless you shut the door and moved the coat rack sitting behind it.

BE LOOSE.

Emerald Rowan discovered this message in December of 2022.

Growing up in a rented apartment in west Los Angeles, drawing on the walls wasn't a part of her childhood. Emerald could remember seeing girls in movies doodle the names of their crushes on their wallpaper and feeling envy. Nothing she had, not even her bedroom, was really her own.

She couldn't really imagine having the guts to write on the wall at 30 Rock, in the Saturday Night Live studio (wasn't that, like, vandalism?), but somebody did it. Someone brave. Somebody loose. Even though she was about to step onto the stage as musical guest, live in front of thousands (maybe even millions) for the first time, Emerald didn't feel brave. And she definitely didn't feel loose.

Her makeup artist did the finishing touches, patting powder on her alabaster skin. Her heart raced in her chest, so loud she was positive the beauty team surrounding her could hear it. The sequins on the silver designer jumpsuit were scratchy, and she could hardly breathe. But this was normal. Just how she felt before performing.

There was a knock on the door, and a very sweaty production assistant swung it open, his headset nearly falling off.

"Emerald, we're ready for you." he panted.

Emerald's blue eyes flashed toward herself in the mirror. Her white-blond hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail, full lips coated in a deep plum gloss.

Stand up straight, you're slouching — That's what her mother would have said.

So Emerald rolled her shoulders back, took a big breath, and swallowed. It was showtime.

As she strutted down the narrow hallways of the studio, her personal assistant, April caught up to her. She plucked a stray hair off of Emerald's shoulder, her own short red hair as wild as ever.

"I kind of feel like I'm dying." Emerald huffed.

"Need a Xanax?" April asked.

"I'm about to go on, it's a little late for that."

"Never too late for a good old Xan."

"Ugh, no. I'm fine."

The PA held a curtain open for Emerald and she stepped onto the stage. The microphone glimmered a few feet away. She turned back to April.

"What if I fuck this up?" Emerald asked her assistant, eyebrows furrowed.

"You'll live." April shrugged nonchalantly.

"But like, really," Emerald sighed as an audio engineer fiddled with the transmitter on her back. "I've been watching this show for as long as I can remember. This is a big fucking deal."

"Stop swearing, for one. Not allowed on NBC. Second, you've done this a million times, Em. It's no different. This is a super small audience. Just play to the room and ignore the cameras. Do what you do best."

Emerald gulped and nodded, though she wasn't quite convinced she believed April. This was definitely different from any other show, and she was terrified.

Distantly, a crew member yelled "60 seconds to show!"

April patted Emerald on the shoulder, then nudged her toward her mark on the ground. As the knot grew tighter in her stomach, Emerald wondered why she couldn't have just become an accountant or something.

The red "LIVE" light turned on, glowing in the dark studio. SNL's host that week, John Mulaney, stood a few feet in front of the stage.

"Ladies and gentlemen," John began. "Emerald Rowan."

The camera panned to her, and it began.

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