Simon Rich - Spoiled Brats - Stories

“I’ve been watching you for some time,” the man said between puffs. “I think that’s the best you’ve ever played.”

Tim smirked at Pete. He’d always been the naysayer in the group, the one who threatened to pursue other projects. Now he was smiling like a five-year-old at Christmas.

“Do you know who I work for?” asked the man.

The bandmates looked at each other.

“Capitol?” Sanjay ventured.

“No.”

“Atlantic?”

“No.”

“Are you from an indie?” Tim asked, trying to mask his disappointment.

The thin man laughed.

“You kids are way off.”

He picked up a crystal decanter and poured out a round of scotches.

“I’m sorry, I’m confused,” Tim said. “Ralph said you were an agent.”

“That guy is hard of hearing,” he said, handing Tim a giant tumbler. “Hasn’t got long to live, you know. Two years, five weeks, and a day.”

The boys stared at the man in silence.

“I’m not an agent,” he said. “I’m an angel. Can you guess which kind?”

He pointed a spindly finger at Tim’s heart.

“Here’s a hint.”

Sanjay gasped as the daffodil in Tim’s lapel began to wilt. The petals browned and crumpled into dust.

Tim glanced at Pete. He wasn’t much of a drinker, but he’d already finished his scotch.

“Please,” he whispered. “I don’t want to die. Please, please…”

The angel held up a pale palm.

“Relax,” he said. “I’m not here to kill you.”

“Then why are you here?” Tim asked, a slight edge in his voice.

“To kill your dreams.”

He topped off Pete’s scotch.

“It’s a new thing I’m doing,” he explained. “Claiming lives is depressing. I mean, it can be fun, in a ‘gotcha’ sort of way. But it doesn’t do the person any good. By the time I show up at a guy’s doorstep, it’s too late for him to change his ways. That’s why I’ve decided, pro bono, to tell people when their dreams have definitively died. So they can move on with their lives.”

“We’re not quitting,” Tim said through gritted teeth. “Music is our life.”

Death smiled sympathetically.

“Did you know Sanjay’s applying to law school?”

Tim glared at his drummer. “Is that true?”

“I was going to tell you,” Sanjay said.

“And he’s definitely getting in,” the angel continued. “He spanked the LSATs Saturday.”

“What did I get?” Sanjay asked.

“One seventy-six.”

“Holy shit!” Sanjay shouted, bursting into laughter. “Holy crap!”

“You can still stay in the band,” Tim pleaded. “You can go to Columbia and we’ll work around your schedule.”

“He’s going to Yale,” Death said.

Sanjay began to dance.

“You can’t do this,” Tim begged his drummer. “What about our fans?”

“You have no fans,” Death informed him.

“Oh yeah?” Tim said. “Then how did we raise five thousand dollars on Kickstarter?”

“All the money came from Pete’s mom’s bridge club.”

Tim winced. He’d always wondered why they had such a large Boca Raton fan base.

“Pete’s going into finance,” Death told Tim. “He’s already been through four rounds of interviews.”

“I was going to tell you,” Pete said.

Tim’s eyes filled with bitter tears.

“What am I going to do?” he asked, his voice as small as a child’s.

“You’ll work at an SAT-test-prep company,” Death said. “The one Sanjay’s sister runs.”

“Oh my God!”

“It’s not so bad,” Death said. “It’s where you’ll meet Rachel.”

“Who’s Rachel?”

“Your wife.”

Tim’s sobbing slowed to a stop. He’d never had a serious girlfriend before. He’d always been too focused on his music.

“What’s she like?” he asked.

“She’s cool,” Death said. “You’ll like her.”

“Will I still play music?”

“Not for a while,” Death said. “You’ll be so busy with work, you won’t really have time for any hobbies. But in your forties, you’ll form a cover band with your brother-in-law and do some free shows at local bars. Your daughter will be embarrassed by it, but then later, at her wedding, she’ll ask you to play ‘Forever Young.’ Everyone will cry. It’ll be a nice moment for you.”

Tim nodded slowly. It did sound like a pretty nice moment.

“What’s my cover band called?” he asked.

“The Fuzz!” Death said. “It’s a great name. The name was never the problem.”

Tim smiled with pride.

“Wish I could stay and chat,” Death said. “But I’m running late. Gotta hit up some open-mic poetry shows in Tribeca.”

The boys respectfully exited the limo.

“See you when I see you!” Death called out.

Tim sighed with relief as the black car sped away. He checked his watch. It was still early.

I want to thank my incredibly patient agent, Daniel Greenberg, for reading all my work these past ten years. I don’t know where I’d be without him.

I also want to thank Laura Tisdel and all the other wonderful editors who took the time to help me with these stories. They are: Susan Morrison, Lizzie Widdicombe, Emma Allen, Michael Agger, Rebecca Gray, Dan Abramson, Daniel Wenger, and Gail Winston (who doubles as both an editor and my mother).

I’m also extremely grateful to Reagan Arthur, Elizabeth Fisher, Tim Wojcik, Lee Eastman, Gregory McKnight, Ruth Petrie, Amanda Lang, Hannah Westland, Karen Landry, Jake Luce, Flora Willis, Anna-Marie Fitzgerald, and Brent Katz.

Most of all, I want to thank my brilliant, supportive, and supercool wife, Kathleen Hale. Meeting her remains by far the luckiest break of my life.

SIMON RICH is the author of The Last Girlfriend on Earth, What in God’s Name, Ant Farm, Free-Range Chickens, and Elliot Allagash. His work appears frequently in The New Yorker. He lives in Brooklyn, New York.