The phone rang. My machine picked up. I made a bet with myself that it was MCI, calling to collect. It seems unfair to be able to harass with unlimited free phone calls. Harassment should at least cost both sides.
A woman’s voice began leaving a message. “Um, hi, is this Mike Errico? The musician? I hope so. Anyway, if it is, my name is Olga Terlman, and I’d like to talk to you about hiring you for a private party…”
I fumbled with my guitar and picked up, speaking as the receiver approached my face.
“…llo? Hey, this is Mike… sorry, I was just…in… the shower…” As I reached to place my guitar back on its stand, my finger caught under the B-string, emitting a wild PING like a cartoon bedspring firing from a mattress.
“Are you OK?” Olga said, suddenly concerned.
“Ha, oh yes. Fine. Just… in the shower,” I repeated, realizing that this would mean I was naked. And wet. Business acumen is not where I shine, generally.
“So,” Olga continued, “I got your number from a friend of your cousin’s who has seen you a bunch of times. Just so you know I’m not a stalker.”
“Oh, that’d be fine.” See? Acumen.
“Ha! That’s funny,” she said, somehow relating it to a time on stage when I must have made her laugh.
“Yeah, ha…”
“So, here’s the deal. My friend Jessica is, like, a humongous fan of yours and is having a 29th birthday party at her apartment this Friday. There will be like 30 to 40 people, I think. Anyway, instead of just getting a gift, I was thinking I could, like, hire you for a surprise set at the party. Just like, sitting on her couch. She’d totally freak. I don’t know – do you do that kind of thing?”
“Um, wow… well, I’ve never done it before…”
“…we’d totally pay you, of course…”
“…but I’m certainly always down for new things…”
“Really? That’s awesome!” she exploded. “We’d have to keep it a complete secret, though.”
“Easy enough.”
“Oh, man. This is going to be so cool!”
“Awesome. I’m so glad.” I really was. Flattered, grateful, impacting lives I didn’t even know.
“Would you play some covers, too?”
Fuck.
* * * * * *
I walked into the steel and glass lobby of a luxury apartment building in TriBeca, and called Olga’s cell.
“You here?” she whispered. “Awesome. OK. Our friends have her out on the patio, so just come up. #7D. I’ll be in the hallway.” The brushed steel elevator doors opened. A squat, dark-skinned woman in a light blue house dress stood motionless, holding a basket of laundry. I leaned my guitar case against my hip. We rode in silence.
Olga was standing by the elevator as it opened, with thick glasses, dark hair in a tight ponytail, pressed blue jeans and a crisp white blouse that tried to underplay gigantic breasts. She held a clear plastic party cup half-full of blue liquid, and smiled warmly, revealing a row of blue teeth.
“Hi, I’m Olga! Thanks sooooo much for doing this. This is going to be awesome. OK. So, she is on the patio. Come on in. This is going to be great.”
The apartment existed in the netherworld between college and grown-up life: a cheap Miro poster hung on the wall, rows of paperback classics with USED stickers on the spines lined mismatched shelves, but the area itself was vast and fully renovated, as if someone had scored a junior position at an investment bank. Neat, clean young professionals milled around a large brown sectional sofa and on the other side of a large sliding door where the patio framed a section of the Hudson River. Walking in with my guitar, it was as if I had startled the J. Crew catalog, models all turning at once for a group shot. The Fall Casual line.
“Awesome. OK. So she’s on the patio, but I’m nervous she’s going to have to go to the bathroom. So we should get started. Right?”
I arranged myself on the sofa and tuned the guitar as quietly as possible while people began drifting in from the patio and congregating around me. I heard Olga from the other side of the sliding door.
“OK, everybody, make way… birthday girl coming through…”
Olga escorted her friend Jessica, a thin blonde in a festive red dress with yellow party streamers draped over her shoulders. Both sets of hands covered her eyes and they stumbled into the living room. Jessica’s voice was high and nasal.
“Olga, you are just the craziest thing… what are you… God, crazy!” I stood up. Olga took over.
“OK, so we pitched in and got you something for your birthday.” She winked at me. I blushed, unnerved by the proximity.
“You’re not peeking, right?!”
“I’m not!”
“You sure? OK, then. Ready? One, two… open your eyes!”
Jessica opened her eyes, blinking, blue teeth exposed, hands outstretched. She paused.
“Wait…what…”
“Hi, Jessica,” I said, warmly, but kind of freaked out. “Olga and your friends invited me over to wish you a Happy Birthday.”
Jessica’s smile became confused.
“Oh… wow. Mike Errico. Right. Wow. I used to really like him. Uh…you.”
Olga’s face dissembled. The J. Crew models fake-stifled laughter. “Awwwkward…” one fake-whispered.
“I mean, no. Not like that. I really like you. We used to go see you a lot. Right?”
Olga’s voice cracked. “Right. I thought you’d love it if Mike played some songs, just for you. For your birthday.”
“Where?”
“Here. On the couch.”
“Now?”
“Well… yes, now.”
I held my guitar by my side. “I can come back…”
“No, no!” they yelled in unison.
“This is awesome,” offered Jessica, now beginning to recover. “Thank you so much.” She hugged Olga clumsily. Olga’s eyes darted around the room. I sat back down on the edge of the couch, rang out a few chords on my guitar and cleared my throat. The party goers stared at each other.
I used to think a bad gift is hard on the giver, but it’s a lot harder on the present
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