V.I.P.s
by Jay Shearer

He saw her on the broad swath of beaten grass off to the side of the stage, just then arriving to watch the band. The sight of her lifted Ian from his seat. For a split second felt like floating.

Minutes before, Rick from Crew had smoked him up and they were hovering in place through an evening break, lounging on a motionless park district golf cart. Way off west at the edge of the park, the sun sank slowly (radiant blood orange).

That’s when she landed in the corner of his eye, floating up lively quick and avid, which was her. Georgia. That’s Georgia Scaviano right there.

And this is him right here, a hundred feet away, working on a dirtbag grounds crew on a Sunday. Not attending or performing at the heralded music festival, working it, laboring for it. She with the impressive VIP lanyard pass, he with the not very important STAFF pass around the utterly average neck. She glanced over and he turned away, afraid she’d seen him. Then Ian gave in and pretty much stared.

Georgia with the billowing thigh-high summer dress, floppy hat, stirring her drink with a skinny straw. Rosy, fit, confident, abundant. He by contrast in unwashed mouse gray sweat-shorts and uncharacteristic barn red bandana, warrior-tight to his head. He touched at it, almost stripped it off, then didn’t. He stared ahead.

“What’s got you?” said Rick, suddenly next to him (there all along). “You look gone.”

“Do I?” Ian didn’t move. He stared ahead at Georgia, observing her. “Wait.” He reached over and touched Rick at the forearm. “Listen,” he said. “Listen to that.”

Rick winced. “To …?”

“That laugh.” Ian jogged his head toward the source. “You can hear it all the way over here. That’s Georgia.” Ian’s brow rose as if Rick knew who that was. “Old friend of mine,” he clarified.

“Ah. Got it.” Rick looked over, seemed to pick her out at once. “That girl right there? In the hat?”

“Woman. That woman right there.” Ian nodded to himself. “Her name’s Georgia.”

Look at her go, he’s thinking. Back here in the much-coveted VIP zone, the gently teeming fenced-in area behind both stages, a sort of temporary village for the chosen few. So who got her in? And why did it matter?

Again he heard it: that distinct peel of laugher, not as faint as you’d expect from where they sat. Infectious, knowing, her special force. A habit of conversational dominance coupled with warm intentions.

The distance between then and now is not so far, thinks Ian. Yet also—admit it—a thousand miles away. Twelve, thirteen years now. Jesus, she looks good too (he’s thinking) Meanwhile, Ian’s sure he looks awful. Like shit. Sweat-stained, laboring away. (Jesus)

“You get her into the fest?” asked Rick. “You the connect?”

“Me?” Ian frowned, half-laughed. “What power do I have?”

“What are you talking about what power? You have power. Look around you. We know nearly everyone who works this thing. At least back here. Shit. We know the people who put this thing on. We own it.”

Ian smiled, nodded but did not, could not agree. They had a few ambitious friends, sure: ballsy if quiet personalities, fellow musicians who’d risked their reputations and suddenly scored. They’d shared the bounty of the festival’s success generously (jobs, connections, contracts, etc.) but the score was still theirs, not ours, thought Ian. How could it be?

Behind them, a burst of commotion—the rustling of bodies, raising of voices. Shouting, almost panic. They turned and: two teens, girl and a guy, each in cutoffs and black Chuck Taylors, zipped through the crowd, swerving, slaloming, eyes wide with desperate glee. A beefy security guy in a padded vest followed, huff puffing halfway jogging. He shouted into the walkie-talkie hitched to his collar: “Two more have breached the fence! Behind the VIP zone! Repeat: two more got through! Assistance needed now!”

Up ahead the outlaw teens careened wildly toward the VIP exit-ways, off into the indifferent mass to safely melt away.

“More power to em,” said Rick. “I’m not chasing after that.” He shrugged, watching the semi-cop putter off. “Not in my job description.”

Only an hour or two before this, another group of fugitives had done it first: snuck in through some vulnerable point in the fencing, a never-before scandalous development that had put them all on edge. Staff, security, grounds crew, etc. But this second break implied the crack in the dam was only getting larger. Any second now, droves pour in.

“Here we go,” said Rick. “The power approacheth.”

He meant Barnus, their immediate superior and longtime friend, the faithful lieutenant with the semi-tight walk and two albums of original material. He was stomping towards them with a stiff look of irritation. “I’m going to need one of you soon,” he said, darting a glance at Ian. “This is out of control.”

Barnus walked off with direct purpose but seconds later was forced to stop and shake the hand of the festival’s reigning alderman—fit, firm black man in his early forties, a lawyer with intimidating poise. He’d just then dropped by in his biking gear. Helmet, gloves, spandex, etc. Arrived on his Bad Boy hybrid ride to check things out at the “rock n roll party” (as he’d put it). Ian watched them, listened to them, plus the great swirling stream of it. Vaguely familiar faces hovered about, free drinks in hand, their lanyards letting you know who belonged.

The notion of the Very Important Person had made Ian bristle at first, though he’d since reconsidered. His scorn had been kneejerk, too easy. Most here didn’t actually consider themselves “very important.” A few asshole artists did but whatever. Most here had simply lucked out. They knew someone. Or knew someone who knew someone. Or worked for a publicity or ad firm, or record label, website, even the city. Something or someone connected to the money had granted them access to this exclusive free booze party where you could watch the bands up pretty close and bask in the warmth of privilege. Wasn’t something you complained about.

“Your girl’s gone,” said Rick, and Ian looked over to confirm it. Georgia and her laugh had evaporated. “Maybe she snuck in too. That’s it, right? She’s a gate crasher laying low?”

Ian laughed without much feeling. “Who knows how she got in.”

Their boss Barnus (also a friend) approached again with tension in his step. He pointed to Ian. “Me?” said Ian, part smile, part scowl, then jogged a thumb at Rick. “Why not him?”

“Because I love you more, okay?” he said. “You’re special.”

Ian smiled at the affectionate razzing, which cushioned the pain of whatever was coming.

Barnus left him in a hard plastic chair, his new post: in front of the row of artist trailers near where the fence was vulnerable. Wasn’t exactly clear what they expected him to do if some fugitive teen came zooming past. He only knew they’d placed him there to assure no one entered who shouldn’t, a second tier of defense after the Security guys on the perimeter.

Ian adjusted his battered chair, then opened the book he’d brought along in case he had time to kill. The Assessment by Hans Marka. He was rereading a passage from the night before to get back into the groove of it.

Our protagonist the Special Assessor represents a life insurance company for mostly poor people and must assess the worth of their lives. Their bodies, their bank accounts, their minds, their mettle. But when the Special Assessor is summoned to a village he has never heard of, he enters the town square and finds that the village needs no assessment but has instead invited him to be assessed. He’d heard of this. A kind of sabotage. Special Assessors being Assessed. You just didn’t think it could happen to you.

Ian’s head shot up from the book. He’d heard it again, her familiar laughter, this time much closer. And then (again) he saw her, Georgia S. leaning out on the railing of the porch of the given artist’s trailer. She was talking, maybe flirting, with a medium famous rock star Ian knew from an album he’d bought years before. Hearse of Humility. That’s Caleb Decree right there, lead singer for The Angry Geese: unshaven plus mussed-up hair, chunky and blasé, his award-winning confidence touched, it seemed, by the basic bruise of a hangover. Weary eyes, splotchy skin, wild hair, wounded spirit.

The medium famous rock star nodded, listened to Georgia, took long patient draws from his cigarette. Ian buried himself in The Assessment, pretending to read, when again it came: her twirling ribbon of laughter. Ian resisted, held back close to a minute, and when he finally looked up, they were gone. Now … how on earth did she end up in this particular trailer at this particular festival? What cruel god planned that?

“Oh my god. It is you.” He looked up, expecting (somehow) to see her, but instead found a short taut woman with amazed eyes. Fit blonde in a black sleeveless haltertop, totally struck. “Ian, right?” He confirmed it, confused. She pressed her palm to her chest. “It’s Marina!” Ian winced. “Marina Kepner? I represented you.”

Ian stripped off his bandana, as if to give his brain some breathing room. “Oh my god.” He just then remembered. “You were my public defender. Of course I remember you. You … you saved my life.”

“I helped you dodge a bullet. That’s all.”

“It would have destroyed me.” He stared at the ground, astonished to recall it. “I mean, it did destroy me. For a little while there? Oh my god.”

She lowered her voice just short of whispering. “What was it? Possession, right?”

A weighty silence followed. Ian made eye contact but couldn’t seem to speak. “Yeah,” he said. “And disorderly.” He shook his head. “But both charges were dismissed. I mean, as you know.” He stared ahead into the memory. “That’s a few years back now. Woo.”

“I know, right?”

Look at her there. Marina Kepner, public defender, excited to see the fool she set free. An icewater chill shot through him. “That’s really not the kind of person I am,” he said. “I probably said this back then too, but it’s only because it’s true. I’m not a criminal. Or drug dealer or junkie or violent aggressive person or anything like that. I’m clean. Sincerel—”

“It’s okay”—she touched at his forearm, nearly a grip but not. “I can see you’ve got yourself together now, Ian. Don’t sweat it.”

“Okay. Yes. Right. That’s right.” He nodded to himself, some embarrassment rising. “I’ll stop.” He stared into the thickening air, pinched The Assessment, the wad of its pages. “So who’s your connect here? How’d you get into VIP?”

She swiveled a little and pointed to the trailer he appeared to be guarding. “Those guys.”

“Your friends with the band? These guys here?”

She nodded a yes. “The bassist is my cousin.”

“Ah. Nice.” He nodded decisively. “Cool band. I’m not a superfan but …”

He dropped off mid-sentence and stared ahead like a dazed cornball in a movie. Because that’s Georgia right there, Georgia Scaviano coming straight at them, not yet seeing him. She’s talking on her phone, gazing off into space as she strolls along. In seconds, she is there, still not seeing him, addressing Marina Kepner like she knows her: “You ready?” she asks, then turns, gasps, and steps back. “Oh my god!” (damn near goes white having seen this ghost) “Ian? Are you… you’re playing here?”

“No no.” Ian cleared his throat. “Working. Just some …. little side hustle.”

“Ah. Okay.” She smiled, wide-eyed, amazed. “I just can’t believe it’s you.”

“How do you guys even know each other?” said Marina Kepner, also amazed (in part confused).

“Wait,” said Georgia. “Do you guys know each other?”

It was one of these once-in-a-lifetime coincidences sent by Satan himself. The devil having some afternoon fun. Ian stood there, startled rigid. He asked, “Do you guys, like, work together or …?”

“Sort of,” said Georgia. “But only recently.”

“Though we’ve known each other a while,” said Marina K.

They met, she explains, the do-good lawyer and the dedicated activist, at a Wrongful Convictions conference in Madison, Wisconsin three years before. Hit it off, did shots, roamed the city like famous friends.

A roar went up from the West stage (a/k/a the ‘Blue’ stage), and Marina and Georgia went silent, their mouths Os. “They’re going on,” said Georgia.

“They must be,” said Marina K.

Ian sensed things closing out. “Well we should … should we exchange numbers?” He looked over at Marina to include her too. “We all should.”

Opening notes came blasting from the Blue stage. Guitars, keys, bass, drums. An opening salvo of anthemic massiveness.

“Oh my god,” said Georgia. “I love this song.”

“It’s such a good song,” said Marina.

“You know these guys, Ian?” asked Georgia. “The Polar Apes?”

“I uh – I think I’ve heard the name,” he said, though he wasn’t sure he had. “They’re good?”

“They’re amazing,” said Marina K.

Georgia S. with the apologetic wince. “We’ll see you back here later? Sorry Ian.”

“Go. Go see your band.”

As Georgia waved goodbye, Marina Kepner turned to catch his eye, a hot second wherein she communicates both disbelief and the intent to do mischief (and/or justice). For she’s about to tell Georgia that she once served as the public defender for her troubled ex, this bandana-man fuck-up working on the grounds crew on a Sunday. She’s about to give all the details, spill the beans in full, then laugh in collegial amazement at the chance of it. They’d talk exclusively about it for days. When they pass by again or talk to him again, would they pretend they hadn’t? And how?

He watched them scurry off, onward home toward the Polar Apes.

“You lose something?” said someone near. “You look lost, bro.”

Ian turned to see, standing before him, the medium famous rock star Caleb Decree, lead singer for The Angry Geese, fiddling with the ARTIST pass on his lanyard, the highest, most revered designation (beyond mere Importance). He was out for a stroll in the common area just west of his ARTIST trailer. He had a drink going, curing the hangover with something golden and syrupy over crushed ice in a plastic cup. His cool-eyed composure, what he communicated in photographs, felt at once to Ian a kind of natural arrogance, just part of who he was. A force savvy about advancing itself.

“I’m good,” replied Ian, “just dreaming.”

“It’s cause you’re a reader, right? I saw you reading down here. What you got?” he said and reached over to lift the book Ian held. He turned his head to one side to read the cover. “The uh Assessment? By Hans Marka. Hunh. Sounds deep.”

“Yeah, well. I don’t know if it’s quote unquote ‘deep.’ It’s definitely interesting.”

“I’m just fucking with you,” he said. “I know about Hans Marka. Not my favorite but …” He took a long drag on his Marlboro, exhaled, then pointed to the book. “Tell it to me.”

Ian waited, winced. “Tell it to you?”

“Yeah.”

“You mean like … what?” Ian tried not to scowl. “Sum it up? The entire story?”

The medium famous rock star (maybe high?) smiled mysteriously. Ian couldn’t quite get a read. “You know,” said the medium famous rock star. “I read another author once, and I liked him a whole lot. If you don’t know him, you really should read him. What was his name? Um … Hem something? Hemingway, I think. You heard of that guy? Hemingway?”

Ian laughed lightly, involuntarily. “Ernest Hemingway?”

“You know him?” said the medium famous rock star.

Ian stared back with an open mouth smile. A long moment later, the rock star broke from it, grinning. “I’m just fucking with you,” he said.

“Aah.” Ian nodded, smiling. “I see that you like to do that. You’re so good at it.”

“Don’t take it personally. And thank you. I’m Caleb.”

“I know who you are. I’m Ian.” They shook hands.

“Are you, like, security for our trailer?”

“Not exactly. …” Ian looked past and behind him. “I’m back-up in case we get more intruders.”

“Oh right. Those kids who snuck in!” The medium famous rock star shook his head, grinning his day-drinking grin. “That’s so fucking punk rock.”

“Yeah?” said Ian, suddenly tight around the neck. “You think?”

“I mean it. Good for them. Fuck this overpriced corporate carnival.”

“Corporate carnival?” said Ian. “It’s not that. And … definitely not overpriced! Definitely not.”

Ian was adamant, quite defensive. He surprised himself how much so. His friends had committed from the start to making it affordable, to not succumbing to corporate rule. While also making some money of course. Scoring a nice little chunk of cake for those who dared to produce it.

The medium famous rock star shrugged. “I guess this one’s a little different,” he said. “But I don’t know. Is it that different? Like on some basic level it’s not taking advantage of people for profit?”

“Um … no,” said Ian, tight now at the shoulders. He shrugged back. “I mean, define ‘taking advantage.’”

“Why should I have to define it? You don’t know it when you see it? Or feel it?”

“Oh my god.”

“I know it’s your job, man. I don’t want to make you feel bad about your job. No more than I should feel bad about mine.”

“Why should you feel bad about yours?” Ian smiled in mock amazement. “I bet you’re making an obscene sum for a mere hour of your time today. Gorgeous Sunday evening playing your tunes for an easy audience, a good portion of them high. What do you make for that? Forty grand? Fifty?”

The medium famous rock star took a drag and exhaled. “We make what everyone else makes,” he said. “Whatever.” He shook his head, laughed with faint derision. “Forget all that noise, bro. Put it aside and …”—he gestured toward it—”Tell me your book.”

Ian resisted, annoyed. Was he “just fucking with” him once again? Ian hated “telling” a book, Or movie or play or comedy sketch. Always seemed forced. Often unsuccessful. But part of Caleb Decree’s appeal—this arrogant front that charmed you—was to ask for something in a way that left you no choice but to deliver. He made you happy to serve him somehow. Ian began to tell it.

How the Special Assessor came to assess a quiet village, only to find that the village itself had decided instead to assess him. The Special Assessor pleads with the Village reps to look at his evaluations, his year-end reports. He’s a portrait of productive efficiency! Come on.

The Village reps reply that this is in fact the heart of the problem. They want to pursue a measure beyond bureaucratic grading systems, beyond expertly written weekly reports of soul-crushing consistency. Those are all fine and good, sure, but reveal, on balance, an ineptitude in the person as a whole. And they don’t think someone so depleted as the Special Assessor should assess their village—or any village, really. They wonder in fact if he still has a soul (that is, a soul to crush).

This deeply offends the Special Assessor, who insists that he still has a soul. He’ll agree there’s some truth in their appraisal, but it’s not as bad as they say. He would subject himself, if necessary, to the most intimate levels of evaluation. A brain scan, bacterial inventory, even a scent assessment.

Ian stops himself. “It gets weird here,” he tells the medium famous rock star, who is placidly staring off into space. And right then Caleb Decree’s eyes pop. He suddenly stiffens, as does Ian, who sees what the rock star sees: a squat little redhead with a fiery goatee in an exhausted t-shirt and dirty green Bermudas, sneaking through the narrow space between Artist trailers. He scans the landscape for witnesses. Seeing them see him, he zooms off. Ian drops his book and darts after. “Hey!”

The beefy security guy appears at the far end of the trailers, cuts the kid off, so to speak, at the pass. The fugitive redhead runs back the other way, dodge steps at the sight of Ian and splits the difference between the two. Ian huff-puffs and motors, amazed at his speed and dedication. Soon he is directly on the kid’s tail, feet away from him. On an uncharacteristically urgent impulse, Ian lunges to tackle and they both go down grunting. A thud.

Heat, sweat, exertion, nausea. Rapid breathing, sharp streaks of pain. The security guard is soon there to help him pin the kid down; the fugitive redhead cursing to himself, intermittently laughing.

“Nice job,” the security guard tells Ian. “That was beautiful.” He speaks into the walkie-talkie clipped to his shoulder. “We got him!” he announces, smiling, then goes sober and corrects his tone. “Repeat: we have apprehended the intruder.”

Steady slow footsteps approached behind. The medium famous Caleb Decree had sauntered over, drink in hand. He gestured with it down toward the kid. “Hold on, fellas,” he said. “This guy is with us.”

Ian and the hefty security guard looked up in blank confusion. “He’s with you?” asked the security guard, who released his half of the applied pressure.

“Get the fuck off him. That’s my friend.”

“Oh.” Embarrassed, Ian let him go. “Is it?” he asked, though anyone could see it’s not really his friend. It’s not anyone the medium famous rock star knows or has ever met.

“Thank you, man,” said the fugitive redhead. “Thank you. I just wanted to see you guys play!”

“Come on back here and meet the band. Leave these fascists behind. They’ve got fences to guard,” said Caleb D. “Let’s party.”

And they stepped off toward the trailer, the star’s arm around his friend’s shoulders.

Not long after, Barnus approached. Ian was alone now, the security guard having returned to his post. “Where’s the intruder? The kid?” he asked. Ian explained what had happened as best he could, which irritated Barnus more than expected. “Jesus, what’s the point then?” said Barnus and stared off with a wistful, lost look at the backporch area of the given trailer, where the fugitive kid was laughing it up with Caleb Decree and various members of The Angry Geese. Barnus shook his head and sighed. “Come on. I’ve got another job for you.” He patted Ian’s back. “Even more fun than this.”

Rick was there already, in a paper facemask and plastic gloves. He nodded and smiled under his mask at Barnus and Ian as they approached. He stood before a line of malfunctioning porta potties near the Green stage. They were hard plastic, shrimp boat blue, sanitized and soothing to the eye, but this shine and polish was undermined by the rank stink in the air, a potent wave that threatened to spread. This sanitation squad needed assistance. The giant plastic vacuum hose that suctioned up the refuse of thousands had busted open at a worn link and was now stuck. There was some highly unfortunate residue to clear, mostly with shovels, into another hose for another truck. Ian suited up, gloves and mask and shovel and went to work without complaint. It really looked like they needed help. They were woefully understaffed, just two other suited-up guys shoveling along with Ian and Rick, plus one mostly silent guy holding a clipboard and listlessly directing them, while two other guys operated the trucks and hoses. Rick and Ian grunted and tried not to gag, sometimes catching the other’s eye, cursing, groaning, joking, laughing.

Or they felt they could laugh for a little while there. Until they saw the given ARTIST zipping toward them on a park district golf cart, giving a lift to Georgia and her good friend Maria Kepner, who both rode in back. Riding in front was the lucky kid with the fiery goatee who Ian had earlier chased and tackled. The medium intoxicated rock star (C. Decree, as some call him) manned the wheel with one hand, his other holding a fresh drink. Artists weren’t supposed to drive the carts on their own for liability reasons. Sort of shocking to see this ARTIST piloting what Ian considered STAFF property. And how with all these passengers from Ian’s past?

“Fellas,” said the medium famous Caleb Decree, greeting them. He scrunched up his face. “Woo. That’s nasty.” Marina Kepner giggled, guiltily, it seemed. Georgia held it in, but this holding-it-in was, it turns out, as hurtful a gesture as outright laughing. Caleb D reached down, then held up Ian’s book. “You dropped your Hans Marka, dude. That’s not cool.” He tossed The Assessment toward Ian. It landed on a stretch of plastic canvas, just missing a swath of mud and sewage. “Don’t you want to see how it ends?” Then he (C. Decree) cackled and said, “Well I think we know how this ends.” He cackled again, then turned the wheel tightly and spun the cart around, back toward the Green stage, where he would soon perform for tens of thousands.

As they swung around, the redhead goatee kid casually gave Ian the finger, a gesture he’d maybe earned. Just as Ian had earned these two, eyeing him as they go (back of the cart): Marina Kepner, his public defender, and Georgia S, his ex, who unleashed a gentle peel of laughter, then bit her lip, staring at Ian. Concern, even pity in her eyes. Maybe judgment. She knew it all now. She saw it all and who cared?

As The Angry Geese prepared to take the stage, Ian and Rick puttered around the festival grounds in their own cart. Neither spoke; Rick drove. Ian thought of that long-forgotten night, his possession charge as well as disorderly, almost assault, a rare moment fueled by drugs, booze, a bruised ego. It could have crushed his life to dust. But it hadn’t, had it? That’s not how it ended.

They drove down the food vendor lane, past the beer tents, the merch tables, waving and nodding at people they knew. Ian marveled at the great teeming orchestration of it, the people referred to as ‘behind the scenes’ who asked for almost nothing and cared little for lip service gratitude, way far flung from the stars on stage everyone dreamt of becoming.

Rick drove them back to the V.I.P. zone and parked the cart behind the Green stage. Their friend Eric the Stagehand led them up to the stage left wing, but when Eric passed them going back the other way, he winced and sniffed (“Jesus - what is that?”) Ian realized then that the aura of their work, that mud sweat and sewage, had clung to them like smoke to a firefighter, a kind of coating. A few others near cleared away as well. He and Rick, who’d just then realized why, laughed out loud. Ian looked down at his beaten-up copy of The Assessment.

Midway through, where Ian had left off telling the book, the Special Assessor requests a more rigorous evaluation from the Village as proof that he possesses a soul. And one test that reveals and confirms it, they say, is the scent assessment. Everyone has a unique scent, he’s told, regardless how often you scrub yourself clean. In fact, overbathing renders the nature of your scent more transparent, might even distort the state of your soul (if in fact you have one).

Ian laughed at his own scent, his plus Rick’s. They were radiating it, broadcasting it. If scent was soul, they had it for days. And it was repelling less potent souls away. Reeking, they stood in the wings and watched The Angry Geese, a band Ian never much cared for yet had to admit here sounded glorious. The medium famous rock star really put on a show, hunched over, strumming his heart out, crooning. The crowd just ate it up.

And the enormity of the crowd is breathtaking. A great heaving sea of them (thinks Ian, leaning over and a little out to see). Eighteen, nineteen thousand, they say. Damn. Look at that.

“We’re better than these guys,” said Rick, watching The Angry Geese absolutely killing.

“Right, right,” said Ian. He and Rick had collaborated on a few tunes (Rick, bass. Ian, guitar). They’d played three maybe four times together. Sounded good, sure, but … how to possibly compare?

“We’d blow them away,” said Rick.

Ian looked out at the many thousands, swaying, singing along. What could being “better” even mean at this point? An absurd thing to say, a petty thing, maybe even the perfect thing.

Ian laughed out loud, radiating the stink of earth and sewage.

“What’s funny?” asked Rick.

“You are, man. You,” said Ian, and pulled him in close, arm wrapped around the back of his taut neck.

Ian let him go then and they watched together in the wings, a generous space having cleared around them as The Angry Geese continued to slay.