Billy's song moved many people in different ways, in ways that made everything else fade. The image of an impulsive artist was set aside because it was the attitude with which he sang. The recording that landed on the desk felt like a fresh way for music to connect without preaching to reality; for those reasons, Billy became what remained of a boy who was simply meant to sing. For other reasons, the simplicity of a guitar. Anyone who wants to sing, or roll up their sleeves behind the hidden veil of art, is a man worthy of admiration—even when he falls to the floor. Even when his problems are exposed in black and white, where the drink or the alcohol sits in the middle, captured in the poor image of a young man who doesn't control his nature. It seems like the smallest change in a political life, forgiven because of his charm and his talent, which stand out; his abilities twist across several realms, generating nothing but allure and desire for the man.
—So you want me to record a damn song over the next few hours, in a way that gives a particular life to a man who never stops working. Man, all I want is to sleep as much as I like, eat that juicy meat that melts in your mouth and brings you back to life. I want a big piece of meat with lots of chili, a bit of fries, and a dog that doesn't bother life. A charming woman who can put me back together—Billy replied.
—Sing today and live tomorrow, Billy. The rest doesn't matter to you or to me.—Jerry commented, already seeing everything that moved around them. A faint shot. It was the order to do and keep doing.
—Then I'll do it—Billy replied, knowing the difficulty of the job, one he chose not to give importance to.
—Don't take long, I need the production ready by Tuesday morning.—Jerry said, answering a call in midair that felt like a slight movement, a simple omen of a man dominated by what stood before him. A businessman anchored in profit. Now with Billy—, man of great work, who never fit the first image. A man who only wanted to be himself.
Jerry listened to the song, pushed him to record it, and it became a hit the next day. Summer and beach season came alive.
Jerry left him in a car as it pulled away toward the label; it was a quick shot that lasted a second—nothing more than a second of bias and schooling, tested from the least fragile angles.
—This can be hard.—Billy whispered. He hated the bulk of corporations, the soul of it all, buried underground; what he did for money that so many others desired, because it was all that remained in it. Billy took a sip of water. His life was a rapid downturn in a time when everything stayed buried.
The heat that pressed down on life was resolved by the smallest positions. Nothing remained for people but to wait in the shade. Billy finished his bottle of water and wanted to sleep a little more. The trip was short, and he arrived at a studio he despised simply for having to spend a moment or an afternoon in a place that inspired little trust.
He ordered chicken in sauce without peppers—nothing that would disturb his soul, because it caused him discomfort in subtle ways. Grilled vegetables and more strips of roasted chicken.
—I think you're a complete idiot—Billy replied, trying to rhyme, to find a proper stretch where nothing was impossible.
…
The entire recording process lasted less than ten hours. He used the time to spin around the piano and the guitar that were within arm's reach, singing as much as he could. It was a job that wasn't auspicious, a work of frenetic control.
His throat hurt in a certain way from finding the right notes in the least time left—a momentary life that didn't last as long as he expected. A soft sigh. There was no step left in space, no deal left to strike. His voice managed to seal a good deal, where everything happened fast, like a star of dust passing quickly and aloof, yet making everything possible.
….
What was missing? Not much. Just one quick step remained.
Billy arrived at a large restaurant amid it all; three or four people were there, working quickly.
Nightclubs in Los Angeles were calm—not the way he expected. In the middle were many people around, among them someone who wanted to behave in their own way. Tanned women, others simply slender; the events were striking. For his luck—or perhaps the jobs he sighed through—nothing felt special.
Clubs for the rich. A nightclub with long lines, prices above the norm, and a hundred people working hard to serve fame. Some girls were part of television programs, and there was only one VIP side, demanding great effort—and all of it was just a dance step.
He ordered a bottle of whiskey and took a glass as the room surrounded him. Security watched him, and all that remained at his side were passing faces. He observed a few women; their eyes lingered on him, not as quickly as expected.
—I can put it simply—Billy said, looking at two blondes who suited his needs. Two girls with darker skin, everything else fading to the side. A strong, developed man; a brief instant where both decided to play along. He danced briefly.
—You're…—
—If you're going to stay, stay; if you're not, then don't. What else can you do?—he replied without losing his composure. What was in his blood?
The woman confirmed what he already knew.
They took a seat, appearing almost hypnotized.
—Are you sisters?—Billy asked.
—We actually are.—She whispered without flinching. She had long turned her life into a kind of magic. A girl named Jennifer, two years older than her sister Helen, is nineteen. Both were women who would go their own way, a matter of course.
They took their chance. Each had a youthful charm unmatched at that age; each girl looked on with that simple, replaceable gaze. Billy paid for another bottle just for them, as the night went on with two beauties drawing close—two girls willing to do anything for a small touch of life, a moment that would give them meaning.
—Just kiss each other.—Billy said.
...