“‘Easton Crowne and his band, REVERB, are leaving their fans stunned and mystified with every performance, and for good reason. Young Crowne seems to be making a statement by way of a nod to his predecessors. His nightly encore is a purposefully intended tribute to a diverse list of influences. Last night, he finished his set with Porno for Pyros’ “Pets,” the context clear—we’re all missing the unattainable point of a pointless world.’”
“Mom—”
“Do you know who fucking said that about my son?”
“Don’t tell me. I told you I don’t read the reviews.”
“Then don’t. I’ll read them all to you.”
“Don’t you have an interview with Chris today?”
“He’s here, on speaker.”
“Hey, man,” he chimes in, “I’m so happy you finally did it, though I kind of hate you right now. But everyone else does too, so take it as a compliment.”
I can’t help the zing that runs through me. “Take some credit. You’re the one who taught me to play the piano.”
“I wish I fucking could,” he says, “but sadly, I won’t. We both know this is all you.”
“Thanks, man. Means a lot. Don’t let Mom talk your ear off.”
“Too late,” Mom chimes in. “Chris is going to sneak into one of your shows.”
“No shit?” Anxiety spikes as I shake my head, imagining one of my heroes watching me perform. Though a family friend he may be, he’s one of my favorite songwriters.
“I would love to catch up, but I have to jump off.”
“The hell you do,” Mom protests, “I want my five minutes.”
“Can’t. We have sound check in twenty, and I’m driving today.”
“Fine. But I’m saving all of these, and we will be reading them together when you get back.”
“Maybe.”
“Oh, by the way, your father is still sick, so I don’t know when he’ll be able to join you.”
“Bad?”
“No, just a really nasty head cold and ear infection, so he shouldn’t fly.”
I bite my lip. “Mom, can I ask a favor?”
I hear it the second she takes me off speaker and tells Chris she’ll be right back before she speaks up. “You know you can ask me anything.”
“Can you hold him back for the next few shows? I do want him here, but I want a little time alone with the band. If it comes from me, he might think—”
“Say no more.” She convincingly fakes a cough. “I’m sick.”
“Really?”
“My sweet boy, I’m a fucking scholar on the subject of Reid Crowne. I’ve so got this.”
I can’t help my chuckle. “Thanks.”
Stopping at the crosswalk with the rest of the pedestrian traffic, I glance over to see a blue-eyed baby girl staring up at me from her stroller as Mom ticks off her regular list of orders. “Remember, no drugs, girls, or bar fights.”
“Gee, thanks. But you do realize you’re about a decade late with this lecture?”
“What!?”
“Kidding.” Partially.
“Easton, you better damn well be wearing your—”
“Gotta run. I’ll call you later. Love you, Mom.”
Mom barks my name, and I hang up, feeling a pride from the call I wasn’t expecting. Especially with a huge nod from two of the people I respect most in the industry.
Tack texts me for my location. Just as I go to pin it, I glance up at the street sign as those around me begin to walk forward. The walk sign blinks in haste for me to obey just under the glaring street name—BUTLER.
Unable to dismiss the irony, I take a page from my mother’s book and dial her number, knowing she’s probably watching her phone ring. Not once in the two months since she left has she declined a call, but she hasn’t answered a single one, either.
Knowing it’s a lost cause as her voicemail prompts me to leave a message, I consider telling her why I continue to call, but at the last second decide to hang up because she must know.
She knows, and she’s willing to let go of it, so it’s past time I give up.
Tack texts me back, and I shake my head in exasperation as I glance at the time. A time stamp I’ve been encouraged to wish upon my entire existence thanks to my mother’s superstitious rituals and the part she believes it’s played in her life.
11:11 AM.
Come Find Me
Emile Haynie, Lykke Li, Romy