Henry Miller is waiting for his cue to go on stage. He is about to become Aiden Bennington, a condescending trust-fund brat. But before that, there is a moment in which he is neither himself, nor an ... [+]
Someone once asked me what I'd show an alien if I ever met one.
I said I'd show them my harmonica and play some real good music.
Although, maybe they already have their own version of it.
I can't imagine a planet or universe without music.
It brings color and life to everything.
I said I'd show them my harmonica and play some real good music.
Although, maybe they already have their own version of it.
I can't imagine a planet or universe without music.
It brings color and life to everything.
Matter of fact, my harmonica is blue — maybe a little turquoise — made from a rare bamboo called Himalayan Blue bamboo.
My grandpa gifted it to me. He knew his stuff.
Living in Nagaland, India, helped him get the bamboo, but he always said he chose it because I was one of a kind.
He passed away last year. Maybe he's an alien now. I don't know.
My grandpa gifted it to me. He knew his stuff.
Living in Nagaland, India, helped him get the bamboo, but he always said he chose it because I was one of a kind.
He passed away last year. Maybe he's an alien now. I don't know.
Anyway — me? I'm a Piano Man. Always in the mood for melody. Always.
I learned to play the piano when I was five. I was... what they call a prodigy.
I learned to play the piano when I was five. I was... what they call a prodigy.
"Trash boy!"
I turned to face the single most slimy creature — Jeff, the production coordinator. Slightly senior. A nepo baby. Reasons why he thinks he can boss me around and treat me like dirt.
"Trash boy!"
Okay. Break time's over.
I put my harmonica back in my pocket and head back to set to do my PA duties.
Well, I think it's a music video set. No one actually seems to know anything.
I put my harmonica back in my pocket and head back to set to do my PA duties.
Well, I think it's a music video set. No one actually seems to know anything.
Under the scorching LA heat, I gather trash.
Yep, my prodigy days are far behind me.
Yep, my prodigy days are far behind me.
Jeff calls me over.
"You're the talent PA now."
Shit. Why?
"The last one quit."
Oh no. Why?
I don't want the answer. It might make me run away too.
"You're the talent PA now."
Shit. Why?
"The last one quit."
Oh no. Why?
I don't want the answer. It might make me run away too.
I can't mess this up. I'm already on strike three. And it's only day two.
So what if it took me fifteen minutes to set up a tent again? In my defense, they didn't teach that at Thornton.
I was learning scales and beats — not survival skills.
And the third strike wasn't even my fault — Jeff gave me the wrong lunch order.
So what if it took me fifteen minutes to set up a tent again? In my defense, they didn't teach that at Thornton.
I was learning scales and beats — not survival skills.
And the third strike wasn't even my fault — Jeff gave me the wrong lunch order.
I don't care if I'm "trash boy," as long as I can leverage this to secure a full-time job and get my OPT.
As an international student, you can't stay or work in America unless you're — fun fact — American.
Yes, my American dream came with terms and conditions.
As an international student, you can't stay or work in America unless you're — fun fact — American.
Yes, my American dream came with terms and conditions.
Jeff led me to the shiniest green room and whispered like a slimy lizard,
"Hold the fan. Don't talk to her unless she talks to you."
"Hold the fan. Don't talk to her unless she talks to you."
She?
Jeff vanished, leaving me to arrange snacks in the green room.
My strongest skill: arranging.
My strongest skill: arranging.
Color-coordinate the snacks — check.
Label the drinks — check.
Label the drinks — check.
The door opened. In walked a magazine-level handsome man.
"You must be the talent PA," he said warmly.
"I'm Brian."
"I'm Walo, sir," I stammered. Sir? What am I, a marine?
"You must be the talent PA," he said warmly.
"I'm Brian."
"I'm Walo, sir," I stammered. Sir? What am I, a marine?
Then the door swung open again.
Robyné — the pop world's current obsession — walked in.
Problematic? Yes. Delusional? Yes.
Immensely talented? Absolutely.
Robyné — the pop world's current obsession — walked in.
Problematic? Yes. Delusional? Yes.
Immensely talented? Absolutely.
She strutted in wearing an alien-bug costume, like Vogue sent her from another planet.
I gripped the fan. Breathe, Walo.
I gripped the fan. Breathe, Walo.
She sat down like royalty and glanced at me.
"You look like a wet cat. What's your name?"
"...Walo."
"That sounds like a cat's name."
"Thanks."
"That wasn't a compliment."
Got it. I'll just change my legal name.
"You look like a wet cat. What's your name?"
"...Walo."
"That sounds like a cat's name."
"Thanks."
"That wasn't a compliment."
Got it. I'll just change my legal name.
Then she turned to Brian.
"How many times did I mention that the princess from the moon would wear rare blue bamboo earrings gifted by her human lover?"
"How many times did I mention that the princess from the moon would wear rare blue bamboo earrings gifted by her human lover?"
Brian, calm as ever: "Rob, you can't have a meltdown over a pair of earrings. We can ask the stylists to make a different one."
Robyné: "I thought they'd at least replicate the bamboo well."
Brian: "Can it be something else?"
Robyné: "No. It has to be Himalayan Blue bamboo."
Brian: "Can it be something else?"
Robyné: "No. It has to be Himalayan Blue bamboo."
Wait — did she just say Himalayan Blue bamboo?
That's some sick joke, Grandpa.
Maybe it's a sign. Maybe it's time to go back home...
That's some sick joke, Grandpa.
Maybe it's a sign. Maybe it's time to go back home...
Brian sighed. "That's a rare bamboo. We can't just make it."
He's damn right.
He's damn right.
She popped open a drink, took a sip, and grimaced. "Faster."
I fanned faster.
I fanned faster.
"How dare you tell me to calm down? This is my music. My art! I don't make stuff just for the sake of it!"
She took another sip and cringed again.
"The energies are off. My guru was right. Maybe we shouldn't continue."
She took another sip and cringed again.
"The energies are off. My guru was right. Maybe we shouldn't continue."
Brian groaned. "We can't scrap it, Robyné. We've already shot half of it and spent so much money. We don't have the budget."
"That's bullshit!" she snapped. "I'm the biggest artist on the label, yet they keep cutting my budgets — while some mediocre white guy with a guitar gets drone shots and pyrotechnics for a song about toast!"
She spat out her drink. "Is it me, or does this taste awful?"
Brian frowned. "What do you mean? That's your favorite."
"No, it's stale."
He checked the can. "It's not expired."
Brian frowned. "What do you mean? That's your favorite."
"No, it's stale."
He checked the can. "It's not expired."
Shit. He looked at me.
I stammered, "It must've gone bad when the power went out."
Robyné: "Well, you should've checked."
I stammered, "It must've gone bad when the power went out."
Robyné: "Well, you should've checked."
That's it. I'm done. Fired. Over. Pack the truck up.
What's the point?
What's the point?
Wait — no. I can't give up. All those years have to mean something.
What would Grandpa say?
What would Grandpa say?
"Wait," I said. "I... I have something that might help."
I took out my blue harmonica and handed it to her.
Her eyes widened. "Is that—?"
"Yes. It's Himalayan Blue bamboo."
Her eyes widened. "Is that—?"
"Yes. It's Himalayan Blue bamboo."
She grabbed the harmonica and examined it. "This is perfect!"
She turned to me. "Where did you come from?"
Then, softer: "Can we break this?"
She turned to me. "Where did you come from?"
Then, softer: "Can we break this?"
My stomach dropped. You're gonna hate me, Grandpa.
This is for your good, Walo. Swallow the guilt.
This is for your good, Walo. Swallow the guilt.
"Yes," I said quietly. "You can."
She and her stylists broke it — piece by piece — turning it into an exquisite earring.
A piece of my dream, now in her ear.
A piece of my dream, now in her ear.
"Okay, I'm ready," she said, heading back to set.
I stayed behind, sweeping the floor, gathering the leftover shards.
"Trash boy," I thought to myself.
The tears threatened to spill.
"Trash boy," I thought to myself.
The tears threatened to spill.
Knock.
I looked back — and there was Brian.
"Robyné wants your number."
What?