It had been a long time since he’d done this. Years ago, he would slip away from the band, the hangers on, the security, pull his hat low over his eyes and have a night out. Alone and as anonymous as a high profile big-time, former teen idol now serious artiste could be. He would sprint a block or two away from the five star hotel that had become home for that brief moment in time and wave down a cab, just like in the movies. It was cool. It was real. It was...freedom.
The driver would give him a tired stare in the rearview, waiting for an address, a destination.
“Where do you go drinking?” he’d ask the cabbie, whose cheeks were stubbled, hair greasy and uncombed. The type who knew dives where the scotch wasn’t watered down and the women were hot on Univision telenovellas.
They’d end up at a place that would give his security guys agita for a year. There he’d drink enough to get a buzz. Well aware of his limits, he’d imbibe just the right amount of JD to make him teeter at the edge but not push him over. There would be conversation, dirty jokes and smoky laughter, a bit of innocent fondling before he’d call a cab and return to the trappings of his life.
He thought about the cool, sweet jazz crackling through the ancient speakers, the scarlet smile of the woman pouring him another shot. The memory was as bright as the flashbulbs that made his pupils contract, as sharp as his temper when journalists asked the same boring questions.
Tonight he was again alone, but there were no hangers-on, no band, no press trawling the lobby for a word or a look. This time he was in downtown Boston, ensconced in a luxurious but staid apartment at The Poinciana, a habitat for those who could afford the thousand dollar a night price tag. For this he was promised anonymity, privacy, a top flight staff of security personnel, and 24 hour service of any kind.
Boring.
Business brought him here. His people thought he should consider opening a third Southern Hospitality restaurant. The two in New York had been in the black from the time it opened, and Boston was a town known for its top-notch eateries. It stood to reason that Southern Hospitality's, reasonable prices, good food and the Timberlake name would bring the masses to his door once again.
Would he take a trip, check out the location, see if it suited him? Usually Trace traveled with him, but his business partner and best friend was deeply involved in his new world of fatherhood and domesticity. Samantha, his ‘better half’ hadn’t wanted him to leave just now. So he didn’t.
Whipped, is what he’s becoming, Justin thought bitterly. He gazed out the sixth floor window, down at the streets that were slick with a late December sleet. He pressed his palm against the glass and sensed the cold that couldn’t touch him in this suite filled with gilt edged mirrors and plush carpeting. Without giving himself a chance to reconsider, he pressed a button on the phone and murmured his command. In the elevator he zipped his North Face jacket and pulled the hood over his head. When he breezed out of the building’s front door, a doorman scurried to open the rear door of the cab idling at the curb. Inside the warmth of the car, Justin cocked a grin at the driver in the rearview. The man’s hair was thickly curled in the back, rolling in greasy waves against the nape of his neck. He raised a brow in question.
“Where do you go drinking?” Justin asked.
The bar was saddled with the unfortunate name of Tinky’s. The red letters above its tattered awning flickered intermittently, like they couldn’t decide which of them deserved illuminating more. INK ‘S...T N Y...NKY... He might have stared at it for hours had the icy rain not been pummeling him.
Shivering, he pulled the door open and was greeted with a combined stench of beer, smoke and fried food. Three men sat at the bar to his left, their heads bowed over their half filled glasses, like they were deep in prayer. The bartender, a skinny Asian guy, who might have been all of twenty, wiped around the glasses with a bar rag, while talking on his cellphone.
In the half-light Justin spied a couple of booths against the wall, their inhabitants were nestled too deeply in the shadows to be seen, which is probably how they wanted it. Occasionally a cigarette ash glowed and died there. An ancient disco tune was playing low. It was one he was sure he knew but couldn’t quite place. Humming along, he seated himself at the bar and with some hesitation, pushed back his hood.
The guy two seats away lifted his gaze from his brew and threw Justin a boozy grin, augmented by a long belch.
“Hey.” The bartender’s voice startled Justin badly, and he had to grip the edge of the bar to stop himself from toppling off the stool.
“Huh?”
“I said, what are you drinking?” The guy’s smile was just shy of friendly, and his gaze flitted here and there before landing on Justin again. If barman recognized him, he wasn’t showing it. Good.
“Scotch and water.”
The knot in his stomach eased slightly but it wasn’t long before it began to tighten again. It was her fault. He sensed her before he saw her. He was good at knowing when eyes were on him. It came with the job. A moment later she straddled the stool next to him. Her jeans were too tight; her blouse hitching up over her navel to reveal an ample gut. At first glance she looked about 25 but the creases around her eyes and mouth told him she was older, much older. Mom-age older.
“My, my, to what do we owe this honor?” Her voice was like satin on sandpaper, with an odd, not unpleasant smoky edge.
He glared into the drink that had magically appeared before him. “Lady, am I bothering you?”
“That’s no way to treat a gal who’s just trying to be friendly.” She shifted on her seat and folded her hands primly on the bar. “Besides I have an unfair advantage.” I know your name but you don’t know mine.”
He grumbled, shaking his head. “I get this all the time.”
“My name’s Felicia”. She held out her hand and his gaze fell on the array of rings on her fingers: a skull, a cross, a blood red stone. “Come on, Mr. Talent Show. I don’t bite.”
He raised his head and gifted her with a steady, even look. “I’m not that Timberlake guy you think I am.”
With a hoot, she slapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t you worry, hon. If I gave up something I was real good at, I wouldn’t want no one looking at me either. Nobody likes a quitter.”
“I’m not a quitter.”
“A-HA!” She folded her arms over her ample chest. “Gotcha.”
They glared at each other for one long moment before he dug his wallet from his back pocket, plucked out a ten dollar bill and slapped the money on the counter. “Bye.”
“Hold it. Just hold on a minute.”
He bit his lip and winced. Against his better judgement, he stayed put.
“You must have come here for a reason. Someone with your money, phew!” She waved a hand in the air like she was batting away flies. “You can go anywhere you damn please.”
“I came here to get away from people like you.”
She leaned in close and he grit his teeth against the stench of bourbon and tobacco. “I’m not one of them,” she cooed in his ear.
“Oh, no?”
“I got a kid. She’s got a friend in one of those sick kid hospitals you talk about on TV.” She twitched a smile. “I give you credit for that. Tax write off or not.”
Shit. “What is it with you?”
“They watch those terrible movies of yours. I tell them you sing better than you act.”
“Do you now?” He sipped his drink and glowered at the array of gold and green bottles behind the bar.
“Most celebrities are jerks with more luck than talent. I care more about Frankie over there than the likes of you.” She hitched a thumb at the boozy belcher three barstools away, who threw a two-fingered wave in reply. “And I wouldn’t bother giving you grief if I didn’t think you were wasting your time.”
This was getting interesting. Her honesty was a rare diamond sparkling in a bed of coals. “So what is the gospel according to Felicia?”
“Sing. Do the thing you do best or people or gonna get sick of waiting and forget you.”
He shook his head and fingered the lip of his glass. “Don’t think that’ll happen.”
When she slammed the flat of her palm against the bar, Justin reared back, his scotch sloshing onto his hand. Immediately barman offered him a couple of napkins, never removing the cellphone from his ear.
Justin wiped his hands and tossed the napkins on the bar. “What the hell is it with you?”
“Don’t give me any of your attitude.” She threw her head back and scoffed and for one small moment looked almost sexy. “You think you’re so much better than us all, slumming it for a night by coming here to set a spell with the common folk.”
“It’s Christmas time, Felicia.” He threw her one of those soft, little boy smiles that had the power to charm anyone. “Be of good cheer.”
The smile seemed to defuse the situation. At least for the moment. “Yeah.” Her gaze held him and he could see the sadness of all the wasted years and bad breaks in that single look. “You couldn’t tell it’s Christmas from this place. Sammy there doesn’t believe in decorating.” She hitched her chin at the bartender. “He’ll take your money quick enough, though.”
Justin glanced at the door as he reached for the cellphone in his coat pocket. His ride could be here in five minutes, ten at the most.
“Sing for us before you leave,” Felicia’s voice was gentle almost shy: a plea rather than a command.
He considered ignoring her, just walking out the door without looking back. He’d done it before. What was different about tonight? “Alright.” He tucked his phone back into his pocket. Before he could give himself a chance to back out, he was singing. Eyes closed, he let a song he hadn’t thought about since his NSYNC days escape him. It was a holiday tune he wrote, one that didn’t make the group’s Christmas album despite it being one of his best. They voted it down, his bandmates and the producer. Got in a huddle in the control room and gave it a unanimous thumbs down.
The last note shimmered in the air before fading. Eyes closed, he nodded, savoring the stunned silence.
“What was that?”
“Huh?” He opened his eyes. A few snickers assaulted him from the shadows.
“That was terrible.” Felicia was shaking her head in disbelief. “You’re not joking? That wasn’t a joke?”
“No.”
“If you really didn’t want to sing you should have just not sung.”
“You wouldn’t leave it alone.” He folded his arms across his chest and scoffed. “People would have paid to hear me do what I just gave you for nothing.”
“Then they would have been ripped off.” She signaled to the barman with a tic of her finger. “Another round for my friends. They’ll need it after sitting through that awful excuse for a-”
“Hold it.” He raised his palm, attempting to quiet her but she would not stop the barrage of merry insults. “I’ve got something else.”
The room fell silent. Sam the barman even ceased his constant chatter to his pal miles away. A trickle of sweat made an uneven path from Justin’s temple to his cheek. Maybe this is what the crafty Felicia had in mind all along.
“Yeah?” Felicia pushed herself off the stool and approached him. “Something new, I’ll bet. Something you couldn’t help writing for that record you so desperately want to make. You keep putting it off because you think you’re going to wow ‘em on the screen like you do over the airwaves.” Her dark eyes glimmered in the soft light of the entranceway. “No fuckin’ way, fella.”
Her honesty held him. He didn’t know how long their psychic Mexican stand-off lasted, but when he finally broke away, his mind was made up. He wanted to impress this woman, more than almost anyone else he’d ever met. This slovenly big mouth had gotten to him with honesty. Not sex, power, or money. It amazed him. It impressed the hell out of him.
So it was that Justin Timberlake debuted a song from an as yet to be recorded album in Tinky’s bar in lower Manhattan, three days before Christmas, 2011.
They loved it. Felicia had tears in her eyes when she hugged him and, yeah, Sam the barman had captured the whole thing on his cellphone video camera. The lawyers would have a field day and eventually slap a cease and desist on the guy but once it was out there, it was out there.
“You miss that, don’t you?” Felicia said.
“Yeah, I guess I do.”
“Like I tell my kid, do what you’re good at and you’ll be a success.”
For a fleeting moment he wondered what happened to put her here, giving advice to someone who made more money in a week than she’d see in a lifetime.
“Take care of yourself, Felicia.” He raised a hand in farewell but her back was toward him as she made her way back to the security of the bar and her beer. Sam returned to wiping down the bar and chattering on his phone. Cigarette ash winked and died in the shadows. It was as if Justin Timberlake never graced their presence at all.
"Merry Christmas to all", Justin whispered, pulling open the door to the street. "And to all a good night."
Story Notes:
This is a story I wrote for my daughter, Courtney (ialwayzbesingin). She suggested I post it here. Hope you will all enjoy it. Merry Christmas.
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