Page 79 of Grumpy Bear

“Oh, I always take an extra day off work after I get back to recuperate. I need a vacation from my vacation. Especially that one.” Brad stopped flipping through the shirts in his dressing room, suddenly remembering a sexcapade story he’d forgotten to tell me. He had told me, actually, but there was no polite way to interrupt, so I smiled vapidly and settled back in the Chesterfield armchair.

His dressing room had a pair of armchairs, a coffee table, a flat screen TV tuned to a morning news show, and a chandelier, in addition to a large folding island with drawers, recessed wardrobes for hanging clothes, flat shelves, slanted shoe-shelves, a stackable washer and dryer, and an artfully hidden wall safe. I only knew about the safe because he’d pointed at a Rothko-esque painting on the wall and whispered that the safe was behind it. Situated between the master bedroom and bath, the closet, as he referred to it, had to be about four-hundred square feet.

Definitely larger than Coleman’s cabin. Where I’d gladly rather be. If only one of those wardrobes had TARDIS capabilities...

Brad mistook my massive sigh for some kind of dissatisfaction with the clothing options he’d shown me so far. He’d insisted on lending me something for the audition. “We’ll find you something perfect. Do not stress.”

I really wasn’t stressing about what to wear. Weirdly, I wasn’t that anxious about the audition either. To tell the truth, I wished I could borrow a little bit of Brad’s excitement about it.

Gary, the producer, had texted the location and had told Brad to have me there by ten. The timestamp on the TV program said it was 9:05.

“Should we get going? I appreciate the offer, but I’m fine with wearing my Dolly Parton T-shirt. Really.”

Brad froze, studying me with narrowed eyes. “You know what?” He pointed at me, making an up-down gesture. “I’m thinking this is a brilliant choice after all. It’s kind of as close as you can get to screaming gay pride without literally wearing a rainbow flag. Unless you opted for a Golden Girls T-shirt. With the jeans, and the Chucks, and the man bun… It’s totally on-brand for you.”

I smiled self-consciously. “Everybody loves Dolly.”

He placed a hand over his heart. “Hashtag truth.”

Brad’s phone rang. After a bubbly “Oh, hey there,” he glanced at me with an odd expression and excused himself. I heard him pad downstairs to the kitchen, speaking in hushed tones. It must have been something super personal, considering I’d already overheard a half dozen of his work calls yesterday and two more this morning.

He returned looking a little flushed and announced we should skedaddle.

I grabbed my stuff. Even though Brad had generously offered, I hopefully would not be coming back here. If the taping went well today, they’d put me up in a hotel. At this point, my guitar wasn’t much more than a safety blanket. It wasn’t like I could play it. Even if it had magically dried out by now, my last new set of strings were on the Hummingbird back at the campground.

Brad must have read my mind. He squeezed my arm, a big mysterious shit-eating grin on his face. “It’s all going to work out. Trust me.”

The hotel in Buckhead was a mob scene. I immediately thought of the Hollywood Week episodes from American Idol, not the full-blown open cattle call auditions at the beginning of the season but the ones that happened once the contestant pool was culled to the top one-hundred. Still a mob scene.

I was grateful to Brad for playing Sherpa. “Are you kidding me? I am here for this!” He made a joke about telling people he was my agent if they asked. I dreaded finding out if he was serious, but Brad had the perfect energy for navigating this world. Social anxiety was kicking in hard along with Nashville and LA flashbacks. How the fuck had I allowed myself to return to all this without thinking it through?

At the check-in table, an ingratiating worker bee in an oversized show logo T-shirt handed me a clipboard with a shit ton of paperwork, and Brad told me he’d go look for Gary while I filled everything out. It was hard to concentrate on the tax forms and releases with this much spectacle all around me. The people-watching opportunity was next level—the sequins, the fringe, the leather… the hair. Maybe I should have taken Brad up on borrowing something with a little sparkle. I looked like a fucking homeless college student compared to these people.

A young woman with a gorgeous riot of red-orange curls sat next to me, flashing a nervous smile. Other than the God-given statement made by her hair, she was plainly dressed in a denim vest and a flower print sundress with cowboy boots. I heard the smoky quality of her voice in her shy hello and reminded myself true talent didn’t necessarily require flash.

I rushed through all the forms, leaving the address section for last. What the hell was I supposed to put—Street Corner in Edgewood? Brad’s address? I bet he wouldn’t mind if I asked. But then I thought of Jim, kindly suggesting I use the Bear Mountain Lodge address on my employment paperwork. I knew he wouldn’t mind if I used it again, not for this—and it was easy to remember: The Lodge, Bear Mountain Road, Edgewood, GA.

“Honey, they cut the road just for us,” Jim had told me. “We’re the only thing on it.”

Was it guilt I felt about lying and claiming it as my home? Or could you be homesick for a place where you’d only lived for three days?

Brad returned with Gary, who was weirdly Brad’s clone. From their haircuts to their voices to their shoes, they were practically twins.

Gary grabbed both my hands and beamed at me. “Luke Cody.” He looked me up and down, eyes twinkling. “You are my winner. Is this not my winner?” he repeated to Brad for confirmation.

“This is your winner,” he replied, right on cue.

“Full package. Real deal, right here.”

Brad nodded emphatically. “Totally the full package. I knew it the moment I saw it.”

I blushed at the excruciating over-the-top compliments. I was also a little uncomfortable that my pronoun had become it, and they were talking about me like I wasn’t there.

“Finally!” Gary made praying hands, shook them at the ceiling, and then took me by the elbow, pulling me in close. “Okay. This is how it works.”

As he dragged me down the hall, he explained everything to me in mixed metaphors—some of them pretty fucking jarring—the producers, like himself, were puppet masters; contestants were pets and chess pieces. He was my supervisor, cheerleader, coach, mentor. He was the off-camera presence I’d be speaking to during interview segments. We were a team, he kept telling me. And in addition to us winning the competition, he was positively gleeful about sticking it to a dozen frenemies. The way he clenched his jaw when he spoke about it was truly disturbing.

I kept repeating “Okay” because he ended every sentence with okay-as-a-question, and because it was the only word I could get in edgewise. I honestly wasn’t sure what else to say.