the computer glowing bright,
opening its eyes,
and sit there,
staring blanketly at the screen,
not knowing what the fuck to do.
This was Dad’s gig. Not mine.
It takes thirty minutes to find payroll in the finance logs. I scroll through rows of numbers that all start to blur together.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Until it hits:
Trash Romance: $75,000—PENDING
My stomach turns over.
There're no notes or dates or explanation.
No reason why musicians scraping by
have to wait months for more scraps.
Eli doesn’t deserve this.
None of them do.
Not after three years of cigarette lungs
and blistered hands,
of turning trauma into tracks,
of clawing their way up from dive bars,
sleeping in vans, bleeding into mics,
touring half-dead
just to stay alive in this game,
and now they’re supposed towait?
I toss my phone onto the desk,
rub the spot between my eyes that always pounds when I smell bullshit,
knowing how this ends:
I’ll go digging,
