Coming of Age
By: Brock Archer
(© 2020 by the author)

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

barcher@tickiestories.us

Chapter 27 

Just as Troy and I were getting ready to leave our room Sunday morning, Troy recalled that he had messages at the front desk, so he called down and asked the desk clerk to send them up to Mike’s suite. We arrived at Mike’s door at 8:54 and paced the hallway waiting for the minute hand to reach 8:59. I knocked on the door with six seconds to spare.

Mike answered the door in his underwear, suggesting that he had only just woken up. Though I had seen him in nothing but underwear countless times, I never ceased to be impressed with how hot he looked, especially when he was just being natural, not posed.

“Have a seat, guys,” he said, indicating the two sofas facing each other across a coffee table. “Be right back.” When he returned a few minutes later dressed in comfortable slacks and T-shirt, Maria followed him to the sofa across from us.

“I’m so sorry,” I started to say. “I never meant to….”

“What are you talking about, Rick? Have you done something wrong?”

“Well….”

“Squelch it. You haven’t done anything wrong…not as far as I know anyway.”

“So, I’m the one who’s in trouble?” asked Troy.

“What the fuck, guys? Nobody’s in trouble here. We’ve just got some unexpected business that we have to take care of. We’ve got to deal with these videos.”

“Videos?” I asked.

“Videos?” Troy asked.

“Oh, my god. You haven’t seen them?”

“What videos? What are you talking about?”

Mike didn’t speak. He just punched a few keys on his laptop sitting on the coffee table and flipped it around for us to watch. It was a video of Troy singing at the dance club on Monday night. “Remember? ‘Rhinestone Cowboy,’ ‘The Prayer,’ and ‘My Guy.’ This was posted Friday night.” That explains all the autograph-seekers.

“And then this morning,” continued Mike, “we saw these.” They were videos from Troy’s cameo appearances on the bandstands at Milan Pride.

“I’m so sorry, Mike. I didn’t mean….”

“Dammit, guys. I wish you would just quit apologizing. You’re starting to make me think that you’ve really got something to apologize for. How many times do I have to tell you? There’s nothing wrong. All I see on these videos are a bunch of people having a good time, and it’s obvious that the crowds are absolutely eating it up.”

Troy and I breathed deep sighs of relief, and then I said, “I don’t understand, Mike. If you don’t see anything wrong, what are we talking about here?”

Mike punched in a few more keys, turned the laptop toward us again, and asked, “What do you see?” The video wasn’t running, so I was at a loss again.

“Look here,” said Mike, pointing to a box in the corner of the screen. “Three million hits and counting.”

“Holy shit!” exclaimed Troy. “That’s gotta be a mistake.”

“It’s no mistake,” said Mike. “The other videos don’t have as many hits, but they were only posted this morning. My guess is that they are going viral so fast because this is Pride Week in cities and countries all over the world, so LGBT people are seeing them and sharing them with their friends, who are sharing them with their friends, and so on.”

“And some of the comments from associated chat rooms,” chimed in Maria, “have indicated that people are seeing them on TV screens in gay bars from Toronto to Tokyo and from Johannesburg to Helsinki. You may not be a star yet, Troy, but you are quickly becoming an international phenomenon.”

Troy fell back in his seat to collect his thoughts, Mike got up and walked over to the breakfast cart he had ordered from room service. In addition to pots of hot coffee and tea, the cart contained not only an assortment of breads, butter, and jams typical of the Italian breakfast, but also eggs, sausages, bacon, ham, yogurt, granola, and other items that might appeal to international travelers, especially Americans. After the workout we had had last night, I was famished. “So what are the rest of you going to eat?” I joked.

Mike sneered but then realizing that I was only half joking, quipped, “We can order more if we need to.”

“So,” Troy finally spoke again. “I’m still confused. What’s this business we have to take care of?”

Maria leaned forward and spoke in that heavenly voice of hers. “Mike, his agent, Armando, and I have been working on a plan to help you launch your music career and maybe a modeling career—if that’s what you decide that you really want, but we were going to pace it. We wanted to let you finish high school, maybe do a little modeling and make a few small appearances, let you ease into things gradually, but these videos have changed everything. What we had planned to do over 12 months we now have to do in 12 days.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Troy. “You’ve done so much for me, and now I’ve just created more work for you.”

“Goddammit, Troy, if you say ‘I’m sorry’ one more time,” snapped Mike, “I’m going to come over there, grab you by your balls, and throw you off this balcony.” (We were on the top floor of a multi-story building.)

Maria threw Mike a look that said, “Let me take care of this.” She rose up from the sofa she was sitting on, walked around the coffee table, and sat right next to Troy. “Troy,” she said, “This is not a problem for me. I’ve been in this helter-skelter business for a while now. I can handle the pressure. We’re just worried about you. Only a year ago you were adjusting to a new home, a new school, new friends, and so much more. You’ve adapted remarkably well, and we didn’t want to see you lose any of that. We aren’t concerned about ourselves, sweetheart. She never called me ‘sweetheart.’  We’re concerned about you.”

 I leaned across the breakfast cart and whispered to Mike, “I hope you realize what a one-in-a-million woman you’ve got there.”

Mike smiled and said, “I think I do.”

“You’d better,” I said, “Because if you don’t hurry up and ask her to marry you, I will.”

Mike raised his eyebrows and nodded to the balcony, suggesting that I might be the one he’d throw over.

Then came a knock on the door. Mike set down his cup of coffee and went to answer it. It was a bellboy saying, “Messages for Mr. Mazure.”

“Oh, I asked them to send those up here,” said Troy. “I hope you don’t mind.”

As Troy turned his back to walk over to the breakfast tray (he had to be even more famished than I was), Mike tipped the bellboy and walked back to the coffee table with a medium-sized shopping bag. Troy turned back around and gasped as Mike dumped the pile of messages, dozens of them, on the coffee table.

“May I?” Maria asked Troy as she gestured toward the pile of notes.

“Uh…yeah…please,” Troy stammered.

Maria quickly flipped through the papers like a shipping clerk sorting bills of lading for shipments destined for widely dispersed ports.

“Some of these are repeat calls from the same callers,” she said. “They’re persistent, if not desperate.”

“But what do they want?” asked Troy.

“Some are talent agents eager to represent you. We’ll get to those in due time. “Some,” she continued, “are TV producers who want you to appear on their shows IMMEDIATELY! We’ll prioritize those.”

“What kind of shows?” Troy asked.

“Mostly talk shows…like Good Morning, America and the Tonight Show, shows not only in the States, but also here in Italy, Great Britain, Australia, and Greece, where they say they ‘just missed you.’ Actually, we already have an appearance lined up for….” She stopped, dropped the papers into her lap, and walked over to Troy by the breakfast cart. “Sweetheart…" Damn! She said it again! "Eat some breakfast. We still have a lot to cover, but let’s not do it on an empty stomach.”

Over breakfast, Maria asked us about how we had been enjoying our time in Milan. Of course, we couldn’t tell her about our experiences in the gay bars or at Michele’s shop, and I suppose she was mostly asking about Troy’s lessons, but instead he launched into a detailed account of his musical performances on the bandstands. He sounded like a six-year-old describing all the fantastic presents that Santa Claus had brought him. He lit up like a Christmas tree.

During the rare moments when he stopped to catch his breath, he scarfed down his breakfast and went back for seconds. Every once in a while, Maria or Mike turned to me to ask about experiences, but I think they only did that to give Troy time to eat.

When we had finished clearing off the entire breakfast cart, Maria picked up where she had left off.

“I need to ask you a very serious question, Troy. Is this whole music thing just a hobby for you, or is it a career goal? Is it something that you really want to pursue and are willing to make sacrifices for?” I already knew the answer to that question. When Troy was performing on those bandstands, he was in his element. He was in heaven.

“I love music,” said Troy. “I can’t imagine my life without it. But I don’t just enjoy listening to it. I enjoy sharing it with people. At the risk of sounding mushy or crazy, it feels like a calling to me.”

“If that’s crazy, Troy, they’re going to have to lock us both up,” said Maria.

And then Mike stepped in. “And what about the modeling? How do you feel about that?”

“I enjoy it,” said Troy. “It’s fun. I would like to keep doing it if I can, but I would never let it get in the way of my music.”

“I know what you mean,” said Mike. “Football has been my life, and modeling has been a very enjoyable—and lucrative—sideline. I know that someday they will both come to an end, but I’m grateful for the opportunities they have both given me.”

Troy smiled at Mike like he had discovered a kindred soul.

“And what about you, Rick?” Oh, so I am a part of this conversation after all? “What are your goals for the short term and the long term?”

“Hmm. I’m looking forward to going back to school this fall and playing football again. If I have the chance, I may continue to play in college, or I may not. I like it, but it’s not the center of my life. As for the long term, I intend to be the best damn Irish-American writer since Eugene O’Neill.” Mike laughed at the reference, but I’m sure he got the point.

“All right then,” said Maria. “Now that that’s settled, let’s get to work.” After reaching down next to the sofa and retrieving a notebook, she continued. “Before we stopped for breakfast, I started to tell you about something I’ve already done. Does either of you know what Rai is?”

“Is that the Italian TV network?” I asked. While Troy was in his classes, I occasionally had time to turn on the TV, and I thought I had seen that name.

“Yes,” confirmed Maria. “It’s the government-run network, kind of like your PBS, and they have five channels, each one devoted to a different specialty. Channel 5 focuses exclusively on culture and the arts. They have a weekly program on Saturday nights that deals with current events in the arts. The format is a bit like The Tonight Show and similar programs in the U.S. The host, Silvana Serafini, has made it her mission to bridge the gap between ‘high culture’ and ‘popular culture,’ kind of like what the Boston Pops tries to do with music.”

“And she and Maria were classmates at the Academy,” interjected Mike, as if he were revealing some top-secret information.

“Yes,” said Maria, “so as soon as I saw the first video yesterday, I called Silvana and asked her if she had seen it. She said, ‘Seen it? It’s all that anyone at the studio is talking about.’ When I told her that I knew the young man in the video, she got so excited and insisted that I bring you to her show this Saturday. She even offered to cancel other scheduled guests to make room for you.”

Troy fell back against the sofa as if someone had gassed him with euphoria. To use a technical term, he was blown away.

“Isn’t that show broadcast from Rome?” I asked.

“Usually, yes,” replied Maria, “but sometimes they take the show on the road, and it just so happens that Silvana had already planned to broadcast this week from Milan, from La Scala, in fact.”

Troy was still too stunned to talk.

“So,” continued Maria, “this afternoon, you and I have to get together to decide on which songs you should perform on the show, and all of your lessons at the Academy this week will focus on rehearsing those songs for the show. I’ll talk to your instructors, and if they give us any flack, I’ll just take over as your instructor.”

Troy didn’t speak, but I know he felt reassured that Maria had his back.

“Your language lessons,” Mike announced, “will take you out into the community in ways designed to promote your image with an eye toward courting potential sponsors.” Seeing the confused look on Troy’s face, Mike said, “I’ll explain more later. But right now, we need you guys to go back to your room and pack. We’re moving over to the Marriott Hotel.”

“Moving?” I asked. “Why?”

Mike explained that while the STRAF was very nice and conveniently located between the academy and the theatre, it did not have some of the amenities we would need: a conference room where we could work out our strategy and tactics as well as access to a business center, to name just two.

“Do we know that they have vacant rooms right now?” I asked.

“I called Rob Palmer yesterday,” said Mike, “and explained to him what was happening and what we would need, and he said he would take care of it. We’ll meet in the lobby in one hour. You can leave your bags in your room; the staff will collect them and take them over to the Marriott.”

How did Mike know that we would need those facilities when he hadn’t even confirmed that Troy would want to proceed with the plans? Either he was just trying to prepare for possibilities, or he knew Troy and me better than we had thought.

Troy and I headed for the door, and Maria walked to their bedroom to pack. As she passed Mike, I heard her say under her breath, “Your brother is even more charming than you are.”

When Mike turned to see if I had overheard the compliment, I just gestured toward Maria and then myself and then to my wedding finger. Mike dashed to the sofa, grabbed a pillow, and threw it at me, but it only hit the door as I was closing it behind me. Before we reached the elevator, I heard Mike calling my name. He indicated that he wanted to talk to me alone, so Troy went on ahead to our room, and I went back to Mike’s room.

Mike didn’t invite me to sit down. He just placed one hand on my shoulder and gazed into my eyes in his “big-brother-talk” posture. “Rick, you know I love you, don’t you?” I didn’t want to get all mushy, so I just nodded in the affirmative.  “I’m not overlooking you,” he continued, “and neither is Maria. And we never will. But right now, Troy is the one who needs our help. Whether you realize it or not, you are much more self-sufficient than he is. Even so, Maria and I have discussed ways we might be able to help you achieve your goals, and we will be working with you on those plans. I just wanted to make sure you knew that, OK?”

I gave him a great big bear hug and just said, “I love you too.”

When I finally broke my grip, I walked back to the door, but before I could leave, he spoke again, “Rick?”

“Yeah?”

He walked toward me, closed the door, and said, “All these apologies this morning…is there anything I should know about?”

“Not really,” I replied.

“So you haven’t done anything illegal?”

“No…well…mmmm…”

“Have you killed anybody?”

“No,” I chuckled.

“Robbed a bank?”

“No.”

“OK, so you used a fake ID to get into a bar?”

“How did you know?” I asked, shocked.

“Lucky guess. That’s all.”

“Am I in trouble?”

“That depends,” said Mike. “Did you get hurt in the process?”

“No.”

“Did you hurt anybody else?”

“Of course not.”

“Did you learn anything in the process?”

“Quite a bit, actually.”

“Hmm. Did you have a good time?”

“Yeah, I did,” I said, with perhaps a little more enthusiasm than I should have expressed.

“OK, then. Bless you, my child. Go forth and sin no more.”

Gawd, I loved my brother. I gave him another great big bear hug and squeezed until he finally said, “This isn’t getting your bags packed.”

To be continued...

Posted: 05/07/2021