“Is that like…a roadie?” I open the chicken rings.
“That’s not the preferred term for the job, but basically, yeah. A member of the crew who travels with the tour and gets everything set up and plugged in and taken down.”
“So you’re like…not a member of the band but you’re band-adjacent? The fifth Beatle?”
“I probably would’ve been the eighty-seventh Beatle. It sounds cool to be on tour, but the reality is that I spent the first couple gigs asking giant guys named Bob a lot of stupid questions about wrenches and tape and clamps. There’s a steep learning curve, especially when you’re a twenty-five-year-old idiot who doesn’t know anything—”
My face must do something involuntary, because he catches himself.
“I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry—”
“It’s fine,” I say. “I’m twenty-six. It’s totally different.”
“Anyway, it taught me how to solve problems, say yes to every demand, and then figure out how to make it happen. How to properly coil cables. How to Tetris cases of gear into a truck. I learned to be on time, always. And keep my hangability factor medium high.”
“What’s ‘hangability’?”
“On the road, you need to be someone people like hanging out with. You’re crammed into these buses with six or eight tiny bunks, dealing with the same guys and their bullshit 24/7. They don’t need to be your best friends—they probably shouldn’t be—but you have to be…easy.The living arrangements will file down your rough edges real quick.”
“Living with eight men in a bus sounds like a nightmare.”
“Not for someone who loves music. I got paid to travel the world to help put on a show every night. My parents hated it, every girlfriend I’ve ever had begged me to quit. But I wouldn’t trade that gig for anything.” He pauses as if he’s accidentally revealed another layer to his feelings than he’d let on a few minutes ago. “Well, obviously, eventually I did. And it was the best thing I’ve ever done.”
“Don’t you miss that lifestyle, though?”
He opens another tiny slider box, contemplating the question.
“I loved being part of a crew. Knowing I could rely on other people to work miracles in impossible situations. And some days, I was the one with a magic solution, and it felt fucking great.” He grins. “I was helping to put on a show that people might remember for the rest of their lives. But I don’t get that feeling anymore, even though my entire day is solving problems. Of course, it doesn’t help that the problems involve leaky dishwashers or not selling enough of some seasonal drink special.”
“You don’t think Chili’s changes lives?”
He takes a bite of the slider. “I think these are growing on me.”
“See?”
“I guess the thing is, I’m okay knowing that I’m making one little girl’s life as great as it can be every day. Yeah, it’s not like I get a rush from pulling off an epic stage show every night. But I feel this completely different sense of purpose now.”
I narrow my eyes.
“Parents always say stuff like that,” I say. “Like it’s this mysterious, unknowable thing that immediately gives your life a meaning it didn’t have before.”
“Well, it kind of is. We’re hardwired to feel those instincts.”
“Okay, but then why are there so many deadbeat dads?”
“Some people are also hardwired to be selfish assholes?” he suggests.
“I’m just saying, it’s okay to admit that you miss your old life. Just a little bit. I won’t tell anybody.”
Nick chuckles lightly. “Okay, yes, sometimes I miss it. There are times when Kira’s with her mom and I’m alone in the apartment and I realize how much…smaller my life is now. But I’d pick Kira every time. I don’t have any regrets.”
I seriously can’t imagine choosing a kid over my dream job.
After a few beats of silence, I tilt the cardboard sleeve of chicken rings toward him. “Don’t ask how they make these. Just try one.”
He makes a face but gamely reaches for one of the perfectly circular rings.
“What about you? Is that how you feel about…was it art history?” He examines the improbable shape of a chicken ring. “Does it give your life meaning?”
