Billy wrapped up New Year's having done a decent job, though he felt caught in the intensity of everything around him, somewhat lost in the awkward chaos of a family gathering that finally ended. Now, they were headed to an afterparty. Scarlett, it seemed, was drawn to forgotten worlds. She was active in the theater scene, and that world had many people immersed in its energy—people who gave her answers.
–I just think you're a loser, – Scarlett said.
–Hey. –
–It's true. Everything kind of spiraled when my parents started thinking you're just some artist boxed in by the media. My brother didn't believe a word you said, – the blonde added, fully aware that now her brother had a girlfriend and no longer hung out with them, choosing instead to spend time with her family—if you could even call it that.
–I'm just tired. I spent the whole day writing songs. I'm obsessed with finding the right rhythm. Besides, it's probably better that your parents didn't meet the wild rock star version of me. I mean, I like to have fun, but people make up the craziest stories—they say I have three kids, that I throw parties every day, and that I'm trying to make harems legal in the West, – Billy said, recounting some of the rumors that clearly weren't true.
–Maybe they were a little mad. But still, you're a loser who speaks beautifully about music, – Scarlett said with a dreamy look, slipping into what could only be described as a trance. Their next stop would require that same kind of willingness—New York's cultural elites needed their space and their grace.
–You'll like my friends, – she replied.
Her friends were the kind you make when you're in that phase of life where everything feels like it matters. They were part of that forgotten world, which is how she came to know people in the theater scene. A young Zooey Deschanel was among the crowd—they were theater friends. It was a space where people worked on independent projects, often the kind that made it into Sundance or Toronto festivals.
–So I guess it's hard for anyone to understand that you might actually be the best young rock artist out there, – said a dark-skinned guy named Graham, whom Scarlett introduced as someone who could teach Billy the finer points of acting. Apparently, he specialized in performance theory, but his passion was mentoring new talent and letting the rest be shaped by art—some forward, some behind.
–You're right, I am the best young rocker. No one can touch me. But that doesn't matter when we're talking about music. The only thing that really counts is when you make people feel something, – said Billy. –In fact, Scar told me you're an incredible teacher. That you help people channel their emotions, and that's what makes them actors — because you help them tap into their dreams. Not for fame, but for love. –
–Well, you've got a point there… I give up. Maybe people do need a little of that secret ingredient. I heard you were involved in some big production recently, – Graham commented.
–Yeah, I was. Got lucky. My fame gave me the chance to work on some projects. Maybe it's not "art" in your eyes, but I agree—acting is pretty fascinating, – Billy answered.
–You should drop by the theater sometime. We do group sessions for established actors, – said Graham. A sort of round table of well-known faces—some from TV, some from film. Though it was a competitive industry, many didn't share more than they had to. Most of them weren't yet old enough to fully understand the grind.
–I'll show up one day when no one's expecting me. Got some stuff to take care of this month, – said Billy, fully aware that the coming year would be packed. A club didn't sound like a bad idea—maybe thirty days from now.
–Billy sent over a new song and his best wishes, – said Spencer to Connor, who was eating a turkey roasted by his grandmother. It was juicy, glazed in plum sauce, and soft ballads played in the background—classical music drifting through the room.
–So, is it any good? – asked Connor.
–It's more than good—it's great, – Spencer replied. –It reminds me of those old-school ballads. It stirs something up. Honestly, I have no idea where he pulls these dark ideas from. What can anyone really say? –
–Sweetheart, but who exactly is this Billy kid? – asked Spencer's grandmother.
–He's the lead singer of the band. We play him sometimes—he's that little rockstar that reminds you of Ray Davies, Spencer replied. His grandma had been a casual fan of The Kinks back in the day, in the '60s. Even though she'd already been a young mother then, it was her daughter who really adored that kind of music. Billy had that whispering, confident, borderline-arrogant tone that still felt natural, and he could really draw people in.
–Ahhhh, the boy with the girl's hair, – the grandmother answered, secretly fond of him. That crooked, charming smile of his had won her over—it was filled with warmth and grace, something that made her believe he was truly special in his own odd way.
–So, this Billy boy—what's he got in store for us now? – The grandmother asked.
–More money, Grandma. He's working on another album, and we'll get a cut, which we'll use for the shelter and the jazz café, – said Spencer, who wasn't greedy by nature. The label paid them as guest musicians, and Billy gave each band member 1% of his earnings, not out of obligation, but as a gift. There were four of them, and that share came from his personal 22%. Warner paid each member $100,000 per tour and album, which wasn't much, but the 1% was held in a trust and distributed as weekly payments—$2,000 a week, every week of the year, until it ran out. That was Jerry's rule—if you're going to give, it better be worth it.
Band members could only withdraw the full amount under three conditions: bankruptcy, after 25 years, or if the band officially disbanded and was dissolved.
–Oh, that's wonderful. I've got to make my donations to the church, sweet boy, – said the grandmother, who now gives her pension to the church to support kids from low-income neighborhoods and community services. Who could say no to something like that?
–We've got the money, Grandma. How much do you need? – Connor asked.
–So sweet… but young folks should learn to save, – she replied, pinching his cheeks. On the other hand, Spencer was always being squeezed for house expenses, donations, or random whims—but since he earned from multiple sources—private music lessons, group classes, gigs, consulting, and contracts—he was doing very well financially.
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