Page 98 of So Not My Thing
When he was gone, I turned to Jordan. “How bad are ticket sales?”
“Not good,” he admitted. “It’ll pick up as we get closer, but I’d hoped we’d be sold out right now. We haven’t even gotten RSVPs from some of our VIP invites. The mayor, a couple of the social club presidents. Stuff like that.”
“Would it help if Miles used his name? If they knew he was backing it?”
He gave a slow nod. “Yes, but I understand why he won’t. He thinks his reputation as an artist is so different from what we’re spotlighting here that it’ll only confuse people about our brand. If they come here expecting one thing and get another, then we risk bad Yelp reviews. Stuff like that.”
“What can I do to help?”
He gave me a small twist of his lips, like he wasn’t sure whether to smile or frown. “Tell your friends.”
“I will,” I said. “I don’t have a huge social network, but I can start putting out the word in my professional ones.”
“Everything helps,” he said. “Then tell your friends to tell their friends.”
“You got it.”
I went to work, but I worried about it the rest of the day. The worry didn’t ease over the next two weeks either. Everything was on schedule with the club. Tanya had the wait staff hired, Chef Le Anh had put together a killer menu, and we all got to sample her dishes every day for dinner as she trained her line cooks.
Intense energy crackled through the staff and crew, but every few days, I quietly checked in with Jordan on ticket sales, and the news didn’t get better. New sales were coming in at a trickle, and it lent all the pre-opening energy an edge of desperation, like we were collectively holding our breath and leaning forward, hard, as if we could psychically tip the balance toward more ticket sales.
Miles and I spent most of our time at the club. I came home from work, changed, and met him downstairs to eat whatever Anh was working on, then we’d each work on our separate stuff at a table in the center of the floor. Emails, vendor orders, other paperwork. But when the kitchen staff cleared out and it was only us left, sometimes I’d sit at the piano or Miles would pull out his guitar, and we’d take turns playing. He was always working out new music, rarely working on the same song two nights in a row.
I’d finished “Let Me Love You” and lately had been noodling around on a new one. I had a melody but it hadn’t found words yet. That was fine. I liked just being on the piano. I was getting better at it by the day, my muscle memory coming back.
Tonight, when Anh popped her head into the dining room to tell us she was leaving, Miles thanked her and went to get his guitar. Instead of joining him on the stage, I waited for him, my hands in my pockets to keep them from fidgeting while I worked out what I wanted to say.
“Hey,” he said, giving me a curious half-smile when he walked back out to find me standing instead of already claiming the piano bench. “What are you doing?”
“I want to talk?” I hadn’t meant for it to come out like a question, but that had been happening more and more lately. Maybe it was because I was still never exactly certain where I stood with him, but I hated it every time my voice went up at the end of a statement, like I couldn’t speak a straightforward sentence.
“Sure, babe. What’s up?”
“It’s about the opening.” His smile faded, a wariness creeping in instead. “It’s in a week and Jordan says you still haven’t sold all the tickets.”
He shrugged. “It’ll be fine. We’ll give comp tickets to the artists for their friends and family and they’ll fill the place.” He settled onto his stool and strummed an E chord.
“It’s not enough to fill it. You need influencers, people who love music, who are going to come and tell their friends, then those friends will listen and come too. If you’re filling it with friends and family, then they’re only going to come when it’s their person up there.” I took the guitar from his hands, gently lifting the strap off his neck, and set it on its stand. He turned on the stool to watch me. “I know marketing isn’t my specialty, but Aaron is right. You need to trade on your name.”
He was shaking his head before I could even finish the sentence. “Nobody is coming to see a washed-up talent show winner. This might be a slow start, but we’ve got the fundamentals right. Great ambiance, good food, and cool artists coming in.”
“Yeah, but you booked all locals.Lesser-knownlocals.”
“Because that’s our aesthetic.” He jammed his hand through his hair. “I don’t know why I keep having to explain that to everyone.”
I tried not to bristle at the trace of condescension in the words. He was on edge with the opening so close. “You don’t. But you should listen when people are telling you to reconsider. If you want to do the best possible thing for the Turnaround, you need to start using your name, and quick.”
His jaw worked back and forth, like he had to grind his words down before he could spit them out. “It won’t work like you think it will.”
“Why not?”
“I told you, I’m not that much of a draw.”
“You’re more of a draw than you think. Putting your name out there, offering the artists as ‘Presented by Miles Crowe,’ is going to generate some interest even if it’s only people who are curious but skeptical about what a lineup curated by you would look like.”
“I don’t know.” His shoulders slumped slightly.
I hated seeing him like this. “Think about it, Miles. I know you want to save the spotlight for new faces, but right now, no one is going to see them. If you want to give them the best possible shot at exposure,use your name. Even if you back away from it later, at least it gets the faucet running, you know?”
