Inside, the house crawls with people. How Dr. G managed to get this many attendees for a last-minute party is beyond me, unless the house doubles as a commune or you can rent people now. The party-goers wear flower crowns and body paint, hot pants and sequins. In the hallway, a man in a polyester bodysuit glides past us on roller skates. Trippy folk music full of what sounds like sitar streams from the sound system. I recognize it as a Dr. G original.
When we push our way into the surprisingly cavernous living room, we find a bouncy castle set up in one corner, and what appears to be a makeshift petting zoo, with goats and pigs and even a few squawking chickens, in the other. I know I’ve spent too much time with the Saints when my first reaction to the zoo is pure relief that at least the farm animals Hannah mentioned are now accounted for.
Hannah steps up beside me and knocks my shoulder. “Ginny calls Kenny’s friends the Trippy Hippies. Most of them are folk musicians, but you’ve got some yogis and shroom peddlers in there for good measure. Last chance to run.”
I stuff my hands in my pockets. “Hannah, I’m a music professional. I’m plenty familiar with the world of psychedelic folk.”
“Guys!” Like the Mad Hatter, a grinning Kenny rushes a tea cart over to us, the infamous Dr. G in tow. Dr. G’s hair is in a ponytail and he wears an embroidered floor-length caftan and no shoes. “Gunthy, this is Matt fromRolling Stoneand Theo from our label,” Kenny says. “Boys, meet Gunthy.”
“Thanks for having us,” I say, extending my hand.
But Dr. G only blinks at it. “A hand-squeezing contest? Oh, honey, I challenge you to let go of your patriarchal grip rituals.”
I yank my hand back, praying the band doesn’t get any new nicknames out of tonight. Unfortunately, they’re highly suggestible.
Matt makes little namaste prayer hands at Dr. G and I’m momen-tarily jealous he knows the correct greeting until he blurts, “I like your dress,” and Dr. G sniffs.
“It’s a Himalayan warrior’s robe.”
“Gunthy made tea for everyone.” Kenny pours from the silver teapot and holds out a tiny teacup to Matt with a flourish.
“Nice,” Matt says. “I’m parched.”
“No!” I lunge between them. “You know this tea contains narcotics, right?” At this point, my official job title should change fromartist relations managertoD.A.R.E. ambassador.
Matt glances at Hannah and tosses his floppy hair. “It’s not my first rodeo.”
It’s definitely his first rodeo. “I figured you were working tonight . . . ”
“I’ve decided to reinvent myself as a gonzo journalist in the vein of Hunter S. Thompson,” Matt insists. “I’m here for the full Saints experience.”
Well, that’s never something you want to hear. I try pleading silently with Ripper and Kenny, but Ripper just says, “The man has a method, Suit.” He smiles winningly at Matt, clearly angling to be described in the article as a debonair rock god with lead guitar potential.
“Here.” Kenny extends a second teacup to me. “It’ll help you relax.”
I cross my arms. “In no universe.”
“I told you, we’re initiating you tonight,” insists Ripper.
Matt looks at us and raises a brow, his reporter’s instinct kicking in. “Do I sense tension?”
“No.” I force a laugh. “Of course not. Us?”
“Here.” Hannah opens her palm, where two tiny pink pills in the shape of hearts rest. “Ginny calls these Happy pills. They’re gentle.”
I squint. “But what are they?”
“Who cares?” Ripper urges. “Take that stick out of your ass for one night.”
“I didn’t realize Manifest employees were so puritanical.” Matt looks like he’s itching for a pen to write that down.
I meet Hannah’s eyes. “I’ll take it with you,” she promises. “Wherever you go, I’ll go.”
“Do it, Theo,” Kenny says, and that triggers all of them, even Dr. G, to start chantingTheo,Theo,Theo. It’s anextraordinary amount of peer pressure—on the record, thanks toRolling Stone—and I’m trying very hard not to be touched by the stupid fact that they’re using my real name.
“Fine,” I say, swiping one of Hannah’s pills. “You win.” I stick the thing in my mouth and pretend to swallow.
She winks at me like she did onstage and swallows hers.
