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“They… grab you?”
“No, Val. They give you a balloon. Sometimes a balloon animal, but most aren’t that skilled.”
Hang on. Is he suggesting what I think he’s suggesting?
“So, you’re saying Jarvis?—”
“Shh! Never use names. Rule number one. Autumn Blaze. It’s Autumn Blaze.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“Apology accepted. Larinda is Hummingbird in case you didn’t know.”
“I didn’t. Thanks. Do I have a code name?”
“Of course.”
“What is it?”
“Labor Day.”
I think he’s joking? He doesn’t look like he’s joking. He’s not joking.
“Huh. Okay. Good to know. So Autumn Blaze gives you a balloon animal, but really he wants to kill you?”
“It’s looking like we’re on the same page, my friend.”
He winks, thus ending the conversation.
Are we? Maybe. At the very least he’s validated my stance on accepting balloon animals from strangers.
“Do you want to run the skit or should I?” Chad asks as we approach the massive line of fans.
“I don’t understand what the skit is,” I reply.
Not that I’d be able to do it even if I did. I can’t seem to concentrate on anything other than the giant red backdrop in the distance. Behind it is a photographer, security detail, and two country stars posing with people who paid a fortune for a signed tour poster and grainy snapshot with their idols.
On this side of the curtain are scores of impatient fans waiting for their turn, several irritated employees managing them, and an overzealous talent liaison posing as a spy. (Or is it the other way around? Still haven’t figured that out.)
And this is the side I’d rather be on. I have no interest in watching Larinda play engaged couple for an endless string of photos that will get plastered all over social media and embedded in people’s “Best Of” life moments. I saw the “garish” ring on her hand when security escorted her past a few minutes ago. She saw me too, but pretended not to. Guess she’s still pissed. And engaged.
“Excuse me! May I have your attention, please!” Chad shouts. When that doesn’t work, he waves his arms above his head. When that doesn’t work, he starts jumping. When that doesn’t work, he does both until the loud chatter fades into quiet bewilderment.
Say what you want about the guy, but his methods are remarkably effective (with the exception of selling concert merch).
“Before we begin, I have to make an apology,” he says in a grave tone. “Unfortunately, I was unable to secure an octopus for this event, so we’ll have to proceed sans octopi. Unless… Does anyone happen to have a spare?”
“A spare octopus?” I mumble. “You think one of these people brought an octopus with them?”
He returns an annoyed look. “It’s worth asking, right? Little Rock is known for…” He scrunches his brow as he realizes he doesn’t know what Little Rock is known for. I don’t either, but I know it’s not octopuses.
“Okay. Well, we can still make this work. May I have a few volunteers?”
Inexplicably, several people raise their hands. Then I remember:
They don’t know Chad.
