Believers Never Die Pt. 1

Los Angeles was not something I was sure of right away. I was content enough to take my mother's hand and trust that what she was doing was good for me, but the city terrified me. It was nothing like I had ever seen before. I had never left my property before. I didn't need to meet other children; I had my brother. Seeing this many people packed into one little city was a shock to me. Nobody looked particularly happy to be here. I didn't see too many smiling faces, just a lot of girls in short skirts and high heels, or men in blazers with briefcases, talking on cell phones and hiding behind their sunglasses. If I had known I would become just that, I never would have agreed to go to Los Angeles. Everything was intimidating about this city, even the building my mother was taking me to.

I stood there, between my mother and father (Evander had been left home with Ingrid). The building I saw towered over me, first of all. It even towered over my parents, which at four years old, well, I had never seen anything taller than my home, and this exceeded my house by at least ten feet. There were a ton of windows, and people were rushing in and out of the revolving door. Above the door was a large sign. It read "Welcome to Hot Fuss Records."

"Mama, what's Hot Fuss?" I asked her, looking up.

She looked down at me, smiling faintly. "That's our meal-ticket, sweetie."

I furrowed my brows. I didn't understand how Hot Fuss would give us food. Wasn't it for music? Was it music about food? That didn't make any good sense. I liked food, but I didn't want to sing about it.

When I heard my father's voice, I looked up to him. My father was visibly more worn-out than my mother. His face was slightly wrinkled, eyes hidden behind his own sunglasses. His black hair was slightly teased at the top, chopped into layers and just about shoulder length. He wasn't skinny, but he wasn't fat. He was right in the middle, an average weight and an average build. He looked like a rock star. Well, he was a rock star. He had a band. I had never heard his music. Ingrid said it wasn't good music for somebody my age. She said I could listen to it when I was older. My father was even less present in my life than my mother, but I liked him more. I never understood why, but he seemed better to me, even though I rarely saw him.

"Rebel, you take him," my mother commanded as she let go of my hand. My father took mine. It didn't feel like a choke-hold, not like my mother's grip. He held my hand tightly, but he didn't hurt me. My mother walked ahead of us, strutting her way through the doors as my father told me various jokes about people he'd met here.

"You'll like Charlie," he told me. I didn't know who Charlie was, but I hoped my dad was right.

When we got in, my mother was standing at the secretary's desk. Her arms were folded, and all of her weight was shifted onto her left hip. "Excuse me? I shouldn't have to tell you what my name is."

The woman desperately tried to explain. "Miss, I take a lot of calls, I don't--"

My mother scoffed and turned her nose up. "Rebel," she called, waving her hand for him come over. "Rebel, you deal with her, she's testing my nerves."

My father let out a quiet sigh and led me to the desk. He gave the girl an apologetic smile. "We're the Chastains." It only took a few minutes for the girl to realize that we were Mr. Richards' four o'clock. She called someone down for us, and we were led upstairs by a woman named Claire. She was about as thin as my mother, with long, straight brown hair, big hoop earrings and black stiletto heels.

She took us into an elevator and said she was taking us up to the twelfth floor, where Charlie's office was. I liked the elevator. It was clean in there. Everything was shiny. The walls were shiny, the ceiling was shiny, even the doors were shiny. The buttons lit up, and it smelled nice. It was so pristine. I wished everything was as clean as the elevator. I could live in the elevator, I thought. I could have somebody bring me food. I just needed a blanket and pillows and maybe a tv, and I would be fine. Unfortunately, we hit floor twelve, and I was dragged out of the elevator I liked so much.

The doors slid open like I was suddenly entering another world. It was calmer up here. Sort of. There were less people, but the room was riddled with cubicles. There wasn't as much hustle and bustle. All I could hear was the chatter of various people on their phones.

"Ma'am, there is clearly an explicit content sticker..."

"...Laurie, this poster looks like shit...."

"Nick, why are the album sales dropping?"

"Hello, Hot Fuss Records, how can I help you...?"

And then, there was this:

"GODDAMMIT, DOUG. WHAT THE FUCK? WHO THE FUCK SLASHED THE FUCKING TIRES ON MY FUCKING GRAN TORINO?"

My eyes fell upon the door this screaming radiated from.

"FUCK."

Suddenly, a very friendly-looking woman with straight brown hair and a clipboard approached us. "Hello, welcome to Hot Fuss Records. Can I help you?"

My father immediately spoke. "We have an appointment with Charlie Richards."

"Very good, Mr. Chastain. Please follow me." She turned around and led us. We followed. I could still hear the screaming.

"FUCKING SHIT FUCKS."

Please, God, don't let that be our door, I thought to myself.

"DAMMIT, DOUG. WHY?"

She turned right and took us to the very door I hadn't wanted to go to. She knocked.

"WHAT?"

"Mr. Richards, your four o'clock is here."

There was an awkward silence and some shuffling from behind the door. "Send them in, Claire."

She opened the door and held it for us. My mother nearly had to drag me in. My feet had turned into lead. This man was going to kill me. I was sure he had a knife his back pocket. I saw the man standing in the corner, absolutely still and eerily quiet. He looked shocked. That must have been Doug.

And then, there was Charlie.

He was about forty years old, I thought. His face was already kind of wrinkly. He had these dark brown eyes and a huge smile. He wore an all-white suit with the jacket unbuttoned and a multi-colored scarf hanging from his neck. He was wearing a pair of boots and a white fedora on his head, covering the tangled mop of wavy, light brown hair that fell to his shoulders. "Good to see ya, guys," he said. His voice was raspy, almost worn. He had a cool demeanor. He was relaxed and casual about everything. He exchanged a hello with my father and mother, and then looked to me.

"You must be Max," he said. He walked over and crouched down to my level, smiling. I leaned backwards, my chin sinking to my chest like turtle withdrawing into it's shell. "Why so scared?" He must have been able to smell my fear. I was sure of it. When I saw him get up and reach into his desk drawer, I retreated behind my mother's leg, hiding. Charlie merely followed and got down to eye level with me and handed me a lollipop. "Here, kid. For you."

Cautiously, I took it and popped it in my mouth. For the rest of the meeting, I sat there with the lollipop in my mouth, stuck in my own world, watching my feet dangle off the chair in front of Charlie's desk. My mother nudged my shoulder. "Maxim, why don't you sing for Charlie?" she asked sweetly. "Be a dear. Sing for Mr. Charlie, Maxim." Reluctantly, I stopped sucking on my lollipop and opened my mouth. My mother quickly stopped me. "Young man. You know better. Stand up and do it right."

So I did. I stood there, shoulders back, chin up. Perfect posture, just the way that mother taught me, and I sang. I saw Charlie's eyes grow wider, lips parted in a tiny smirk. His eyes seemed to sparkle. He liked me. He really liked me. For the first time in my life, I felt gratification, and from the point on, I would spend the rest of my life trying to find it again.

Charlie threw his pen in the air. "Kid, you got it! Ya fucking got it!"

I furrowed my brows. "It?"

Charlie remained excited. "I don't know what the fuck it is, but who cares!" he shouted. He threw his hands on the desk and leaned forward, shaking a finger in my face. "Kid, you are gonna be a big star. A big star."

Big star. The words echoed in my head.

"So, where are we signing?" my mother asked.

The old man behind the desk pushed the paper forward and handed me the pen. I sloppily signed my name on the dotted line like mommy had me practicing, but at four years old, I had no idea what a contract was, let alone what I was signing myself up for.