Page 29 of Sing Your Secrets
eight
Miles
Acomplete gut job of two public bathrooms, a full kitchen, and a bar area would’ve taken me at least two months on my own. Between Dad, my brothers, and a crew of four extra hands, we got it all done in ten hours. We pushed ourselves past our limits and it was a grueling day, but now we can return the dumpsters and equipment a whole day early, cutting our rental costs in half.
I’ve never had to worry about the cost side of construction. When I worked for my dad in high school, I showed up, clocked my hours, then got a paycheck every two weeks. Worrying about budgets, unexpected expenses, and timelines is far more stressful. I feel like a kid playing dress up, pretending like I’m qualified to oversee the restoration of The Garage.
“Miles, come here,” Dad says, his voice echoing through the empty main floor. He beckons me onto the stage where he’s standing near the back curtain. Hopping up, I follow the tip of his finger and see a bunch of names carved into the wooden boards where he’s standing. “Would you look at this? The Revolutionaries. Marooney. Bethell. I didn’t know they all performed here.”
“All types. The Garage used to host rock, rap, R&B, metal, country—all of it. The only common denominator was good music and great shows.”
The Garage held a tradition for their performers. If you sold out a show, you got to carve your name on the stage. Walking the back perimeter of the stage, I see so many of my idols. I thought for sure I’d get a chance to carve MiLo into the wood one day. But then, The Garage shut down, and of course, there was the small matter of my music career going nowhere.
“This place was something special. I always wanted to sing here,” I say.
Dad looks at me as his lips twitch. “You still can.”
I laugh. “Nice. It’ll be the first stop of my big debut tour. I think I’ll call it Pity Party. Thoughts?”
Dad’s not amused. “Can’t you just sing for fun? Do you honestly need millions of dollars to enjoy it?”
“I guess I never thought of it like that.”
Dad bends his knees, forcing his weight on the squeaky floorboard. Taking a few steps to the left, he bounces in place again, trying to test the integrity of the weakened stage structure. “You’ve always been all or nothing. You know that?”
“What do you mean?” I ask still scouring the signatures. Some of the tiny ones are worn, but I find Petey’s. It’s easily discernible with the all-cap letters. He’s a total fucking boss. What I wouldn’t do to trade places with him. We grew up in the same city. We’re about the same age. Our music genres basically blend. What the hell did he do differently? From what I understand, Petey went East Coast, I went West. Maybe I should’ve tried labels in New York or Atlanta and I’d be building my music empire too.
“Your drive sets you apart, Miles. But it holds you back too. Do you remember when you quit soccer in seventh grade?”
“Seventh grade? Seriously, Dad?” I grumble as I join him in his plight to find the ricketiest floorboards. It looks like most of the damage is in the back left corner. It’s where I remember the drum sets would usually be positioned when live bands performed here. “And I hated soccer.”
“No. You loved soccer. Do you remember how much I spent on that Beckham jersey? Jesus. We didn’t have grocery money that week because you wanted that damn jersey so bad.”
I cringe. I hate hearing stories like that from my childhood. I was blissfully unaware of how broke my parents were at times. They could barely afford our needs. Every time my brothers and I wanted something, they suffered. I can empathize, I’m just damn lucky I don’t have kids to feed right now.
“It was a phase.”
“You had two bad games, back-to-back. Two out of probably a hundred. But that’s all it took for you to quit because you thought you weren’t any good and were letting down the team. Two bad games don’t make you a bad soccer player.”
“I realize.”
He smooths his thick mustache, still dusted with debris from the demolition, with his thumb and forefinger. “Do you? You’re a hard worker, Miles. But if you can’t be the best, you think you’re the worst. Sometimes you have to ride out the journey—ups and downs. Maybe that’s why things aren’t panning out for you. If you stayed in Denver you’d have more sup—”
“Dad,” I interrupt. Pressing my palm to my forehead, I groan as I shut my eyes. “I’m not saying I love being away from you guys. I miss you all. But L.A. is in the middle of the action. If I have any chance of being seen, it’s there.” I say the words, but I’m not sure if I believe them. It’s a speech I’ve rehearsed for years in an attempt to justify why I stayed in L.A. trying to shove a square peg into a round hole.
He pauses. “Seen by who?”
Fair point.“Entity and Rain Records are both headquartered there. All their subsidiaries and agents are there. Most of this game is luck and presence.” I pause and prepare to taste the bitter words. “It’s not where I want to be. It’s where I have to be.”
Eyeing my dad up and down, I see he looks worn. His denim jeans are faded. His thick work boots are scuffed on the toes. His white undershirt is speckled with tiny holes from where construction debris nipped and snagged his clothing. He looks like everything I was running from when I left home at twenty.
“Agree to disagree,” he says. “But what do I know about what’s best for you? I’m just the guy who ate ramen noodles for an entire goddamn week, after working twenty hours of overtime, just to see the smile on my kid’s face when I got him that overpriced Beckham jersey he wanted for a whole year.”
“Geez. Guilt trip. Nice.”
Crossing the stage, he clasps his hand on my shoulder with a smirk. “Just let me know when that Pity Party tour kicks off. I’ll be happy to buy the first ticket.”
I open my mouth to respond but clamp it shut when I suddenly feel the bend in the board I’m standing on. Dad’s wide eyes meet mine as he realizes we’re fucked. It’s our combined weight on the same strip of wood, but before either of us can move—