Chapter 79: The Montage Week
Thursday, January 21 – Sunday, January 24, 2016
The days following the 'Lucid Dreams' announcement weren't passive waiting. They were a kinetic blur, a real-life montage sequence moving to an accelerated beat.
Michael had stopped being a kid making music in his bedroom. He was now a small industry in motion.
Thursday, January 21
The morning began with the sound of iron.
Michael was on the bench press at "24 Hour Fitness". His arms shook slightly, but the bar went up and down with a controlled rhythm. 45 pounds on each side. Three weeks ago, the empty bar felt heavy.
"Two more," ordered Amy, standing behind him, watching his form with hawk eyes. "Don't arch your back. Push with your chest."
Michael grunted, gritted his teeth, and pushed. The bar went up. One. Lowered slowly. Two.
The metallic sound of the rack as he put the bar away was the sound of victory.
Michael sat up, breathing heavily, sweat soaking his black t-shirt. He looked at his arms in the mirror. They were still thin, but they no longer looked fragile. There was new definition in his shoulders, a tension in his forearms that wasn't there before.
"You're improving," said Amy, passing him her water bottle. It wasn't an easy compliment; Amy didn't give away praise. "Your endurance has gone up. You don't turn purple after the first set anymore."
"Thanks, coach," said Michael, drinking water. "I have a couple of shows this weekend. I need the lungs to hold up."
Amy nodded. She still didn't know who he really was —to her, "shows" could mean playing guitar in a coffee shop— but she respected the effort. "Keep the diet. No alcohol tonight if you want to perform tomorrow."
Friday, January 22
On Friday afternoon, the gray Corolla was replaced again by the rental SUV. Karl was behind the wheel, driving south on I-5. Destination: San Diego.
"The venue is called 'Soma'," explained Karl, shouting over the music. "It's a legendary punk spot. The crowd is going to be rough. They're going to love 'Look At Me!'."
They arrived at sunset. The place smelled of old sweat and sea.
That night, Michael went on the side stage. There were five hundred people, a mix of surfers, punks, and hip-hop fans.
When T-Roc dropped the 'Look At Me!' drop, the room turned into a vortex. Michael didn't have to ask them to open the circle; they did it themselves.
He jumped, screamed, moved with a confidence he didn't have at the Observatory. He wasn't "testing" if it worked anymore. He knew it worked. He controlled his breathing, saving energy in the verses to explode in the choruses.
When the show ended, he was soaked, but not destroyed. His body, hardened by mornings with Amy, withstood the punishment.
Saturday, January 23
Back in Los Angeles. This time, the setting was completely different.
A mansion in Beverly Hills. A private birthday party for the son of a famous film producer who wanted the "viral kid" at his party.
Karl had charged triple the normal fee for being a private event.
The atmosphere was strange. Rich kids in designer clothes, Instagram influencers, champagne bottles that cost more than Michael's first car.
Here, 'Paris' and 'Look At Me!' scared some, but 'White Iverson' was a religious anthem.
Michael sang surrounded by models and kids trying to be cool. He felt like an alien, but he executed the job with surgical precision. He sang 'White Iverson' walking among the people, high-fiving, smiling for the flash photos that blinded him.
When he finished, he went into the mansion's kitchen, grabbed a bottle of water, and left. He didn't stay for the party. He had a mission.
Sunday, January 24
Sunday was recovery day. But not total rest.
Michael was in his studio, reviewing the footage Sam and Leo had recorded during the two shows.
He looked different on screen. More confident. Bigger. The exercise was changing not only his body, but his posture. He took up more space on stage.
His phone vibrated. It was an email from Harris.
The subject: "Green Light".
Michael opened the email.
"The contract with Sting is signed. Funds were transferred this morning. You have usage rights to the master and publishing. It's legal. Congratulations, it's the most expensive song in history."
A minute later, another email arrived. From Cole Bennett.
"Final edit. Rendered in 4k. Hope you like it. I think the melting face effect turned out perfect."
Michael leaned back in his Herman Miller chair. The muscle pain from the workouts and the bruises from the concerts suddenly felt irrelevant.
He had the song. He had the video. He had the attention of half the country.
The montage week was over. Preparation was complete.
It was time to unleash the beast.
Sunday, January 24, 2016 (Afternoon)
On Sunday afternoon, the canyon house didn't smell of new electronic equipment or the sweat of physical exertion. It smelled of sin. Specifically, the glorious and greasy mix of In-N-Out Burger, "Animal Style" fries, and sugary soda.
It was the day off.
Michael was lying on his living room sofa, feet on the coffee table (a wooden crate they had never replaced), holding a Double-Double burger with both hands as if it were a sacred treasure.
Amy would kill him if she saw him. His chicken and rice diet had been strict all week. But today, Michael had decided his mental health required saturated fat.
"If you eat that last fry, I'll cut off your hand," he warned Jake, who was stalking the shared tray.
"Relax, star," said Jake, stealing the fry anyway and popping it into his mouth with a defiant smile. "I need energy. I'm carrying the team."
On the old tube TV screen, Sam's PS4 was running Rocket League.
Jake and Nate were in the middle of an intense match against a team of strangers online. Nate, as always, played with zen calm, calculating angles and aerial trajectories with robotic precision. Jake, on the other hand, played with his whole body, leaning sideways as if that helped the digital car turn, screaming every time he touched the ball.
"CENTER! CENTER! NATE, HIT IT!" shouted Jake.
Nate made a perfect aerial jump, hit the ball, and scored a goal.
"BOOM!" shouted Jake, jumping off the floor. "That's the dynamic duo! Michael, learn! That's how you dominate a stage!"
Michael laughed, wiping sauce from the corner of his lips. "I dominate real stages, Jake. You dominate toy cars."
"Details," dismissed Jake, sitting back down.
In the corner, Sam was lying face down on the rug, scrolling through his phone, while Leo drew in his sketchbook, using an empty pizza box as a table.
The scene was so normal, so stupidly adolescent, that Michael felt a tension he didn't know he had dissolving in his chest.
During the week, he had been "Michael Demiurge". He had been the artist negotiating with New York lawyers, the performer controlling crowds in San Diego, the businessman lying to his legal guardian about Treasury bonds. He had to be on guard all the time.
But here, with them, there was no "Demiurge". There was only Mike. The kid who was bad at video games and stingy with his fries.
"Guys," said Sam suddenly, letting out a malicious giggle. "You have to see this. Twitter is... creative today."
"What's up?" asked Leo, without stopping drawing.
"The memes, dude. The tour memes are coming."
Sam got up and connected his phone to the TV, pausing Jake's game (who protested loudly).
On the grainy TV screen appeared an image from Twitter.
It was an "Expectation vs. Reality" format meme.
On the left, a photo of Michael on the Observatory stage, bathed in red light, screaming shirtless, looking like a god of chaos. Text: "What she sees".
On the right, a blurry photo someone had taken at school months ago. Michael sleeping at his desk, mouth slightly open and a visible string of drool, totally unconscious. Text: "What he actually is".
The room erupted in laughter.
"Fuck!" laughed Jake, almost choking. "It's brutal! That photo is from Mr. Harrison's class!"
"I took it," admitted Leo proudly. "I uploaded it to my story months ago. Someone must have saved it."
"It's the duality of man," said Sam, reading the comments. "Look at this one: 'Michael Demiurge: Demon in the streets, Snorlax in the sheets'."
Michael covered his face with his hands, but he was laughing so hard his ribs hurt. "You guys are idiots. All of you."
"There's more," said Sam, swiping the screen.
The next one was a short video. Someone had taken the audio from 'Look At Me!' and put it over a SpongeBob video where SpongeBob and Patrick are running and destroying the city in panic. The synchronization of the screams with the cartoon explosions was perfect.
"Okay, that's art," admitted Michael.
They spent the next hour watching the internet dissect, celebrate, and make fun of Michael.
For anyone else, it might have been offensive. But for Michael, it was incredibly healing.
Seeing his friends laughing at him, not with him, reminded him that he wasn't untouchable. He wasn't a golden idol. He was their friend.
Nate nudged his shoulder gently with his foot. "You okay, Mike? You look... I don't know. Less tense."
Michael looked at the giant. Nate always noticed everything.
"Yeah," said Michael. "I'm good. I needed this. I needed... not to be serious for a while."
"Well," said Jake, taking the phone from Sam and unpausing the game. "Seriousness is over. Because I'm going to destroy you in Mortal Kombat right now. And I don't care how many millions of plays you have, you're still trash with Sub-Zero."
"We'll see," said Michael, grabbing a controller. "I bet twenty dollars."
"Done," said Jake.
They spent the rest of the afternoon screaming at the screen, eating cold leftovers, and completely forgetting that, in less than 48 hours, Michael was going to release the biggest song of his career.
In that moment, in that messy room, Michael wasn't a star. He was just a kid playing with his friends. And that was exactly what he needed to survive the storm that was coming.
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