You’ve Reached Sam: A Novel

I’m holding back tears when I leave the house. It’ll ruin the makeup Mika did for me. And I can’t walk into the festival with mascara running down my face, bringing attention to myself. Thank god I decided against heels, because I have to run to get to the university in time. Beams from searchlights cross and uncross in the sky. I follow them until I hear the sound of a crowd, along with live music playing. It doesn’t take long to find the festival. You can’t miss it. Dozens of white tents rise from the quad, connected by strings of light. A velvet rope blocks me from getting inside. At the entrance, a man in a gold vest asks for my ticket. I hand it to him, and gather myself as I step beyond the ropes and into a sea of brightly lit tuxedos and cocktail dresses.

I’m glad Mika made me dress up tonight. It’s like I stepped through a television screen into an award show. Red carpets run between the tents, covering the grass. Someone behind a silk-lined table smiles and hands me a schedule. I skim through it. Main films are showcased in the auditorium, but smaller student-made ones are being shown outside in some of the larger tents. I hurry down the carpet, looking left and right, until I find it—tent number 23. Based on the schedule, Tristan’s film should already be twenty minutes in. But when I enter through the slit of the canvas, the screen is off and everyone’s sitting around, chatting. When a couple guys in black shirts and headsets brush past me and I find no sign of Tristan, I figure they’re having technical difficulties. Thank goodness. I wipe my forehead and look around for a seat. The first two rows are pretty much filled up, but the rest are starkly empty. Doesn’t seem to be a large turnout. I’m glad I came to support him then. There are maybe fifteen people in the audience. The schedule shows another film playing at the same time in the main theater. I’m guessing everyone’s there instead.

There are a few empty rows in the back. But I don’t want to appear as though I came alone. In the second to last row, there’s an older gentleman with wispy gray hair and a dark leather jacket, sitting in the middle by himself. He’s wearing tinted glasses. I find a spot near him, leaving an empty seat between us.

Five minutes go by but no film. The audience is growing restless. A few people get up and leave. I turn to the man and ask, “Excuse me, sir, did they mention when the film is supposed to start?”

“Soon,” he says. “But that was a half hour ago.”

“I see.” I frown and check the schedule again.

“Don’t worry. It’s normal in the industry. Everything runs late. So you could say we’re right on schedule.”

“Do you work in film?”

The man smirks. “No, I stay far away from that. I’m only here for the musical aspect.”

“Musical?”

“The documentary,” he says to clue me in. “You know this film is about the Screaming Trees, don’t you? The rock band.”

“I know who they are,” I say, maybe too defensively.

He smiles. “Thought you might have walked into the wrong screening. From my experience, most people your age have never heard of them.”

I can’t tell if he’s being condescending. “I’ll have you know, I came tonight just to see this film,” I say.

“Really?” He scratches his cheek, looking genuinely surprised. “You must be a real fan.”

“Of course I am.”

“Where did you learn about them, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“My boyfriend. He introduced me to them. He knows all their music.”

“Is that so? And where is he?”

“He—” I go quiet, unsure of what to say. “Couldn’t make it.”

“Well, that’s too bad.”

I want to say more about Sam. But there’s no time because the lights dim, and everyone rustles around in their seats, facing forward. The tent goes quiet, and I hold my breath as the film begins.

The sound of an engine rumbles over a black screen as the film fades in to an old town street view through the windshield of someone’s car. A denim-sleeved hand hits the dial of the car stereo, turning on the music. The second I recognize the guitar playing, a static shock moves across my skin, sending goose bumps up my arms. It’s the song “Dollar Bill,” a track from Sam’s favorite album, the one we waited in the rain for him to get signed. As the film changes to the next scene, I’m hit with another song that makes Sam swim in my mind again. And then another one. I knew I was here for a documentary on the Screaming Trees, but I wasn’t prepared to listen to a curated playlist of the last three years of our lives.

But there’s something different about the songs. They seem to have been slowed down, distorted, and rearranged with electric instruments or something. Like brand-new versions I’ve never heard before. Accompanying the music is a supercut of concert clips, home videos of the band, and television interviews of the members that flash across the screen, all of this overlaid with videos of rippling water and blinking traffic. Almost like two movies are being projected at once. At moments throughout, the lighting changes dramatically, intensifying to create gauzy dreamlike effects that make me squint a little. Twenty minutes in and I still don’t know what the film is about. The scenes seem random and out of order, connected only through songs. There’s something hypnotic about how everything’s been pieced together, and I nearly doze off at one point. When the music fades, and the screen goes black, I wait for more. But then I hear clapping and realize it’s over.

“Well that was … interesting,” the man beside me says as the lights come on. He stands, and zips up his jacket. “Glad I made the drive.” I wonder if he’s being sarcastic.

I look around for Tristan. There are too many people standing and walking around, so I get up. As I scoot into the aisle to find him, I bump into someone else I don’t expect.

“Mr. Lee? You’re here.”

“And so are you—” He holds a glass of wine, and is wearing his usual brown suede jacket, except with a purple flower in the front pocket. Exactly like the ones from the bouquets that decorate the tent.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” I say.

“I’m always there to support my employees.” He nods, and toasts the air. “We’re family, after all.”

I smile at this. “That’s true. We are like a family.”

“Tristan will be glad to see you. Have you had a chance to talk to him?”

“I’m trying to find him now.”

“Ah, he’s been running all over the place, trying to get things in order,” Mr. Lee explains, looking around, too. “He might be networking in the next tent.”

“Maybe I should check there,” I say. “Will I see you at the after party?”

Mr. Lee narrows his eyes. “After party? Tristan never mentioned that.”

I press my lips together. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to mention it, either. “I think it’s only for the filmmaker and invited guests,” I say.

“Really. And will there be food?”

“I think so.”

Mr. Lee sniffs the air. “Seared duck…” he says to himself. “I think I shall go to this … after party.”

“Oh—I think you need a ticket.”

Mr. Lee gives me a mischievous look.

I smile and whisper, “I’ll see you there.”

I let Mr. Lee go refill his glass of wine as I keep looking for Tristan. But it isn’t for long, because he finds me.

My eyes widen. “Tristan … Look at you!”

Tristan straightens up, allowing me to take him in—he’s wearing this tailored dark blue suit with satin lapels and a white silk shirt with two buttons intentionally left undone. His hair has been brushed back and styled in a way I’ve never seen him do before, and he smells pleasant with cologne.

“You look incredible!”

“Oh my gosh, stop,” he says, turning as red as the rose he holds in his right hand. “My mom made me wear this.”

“She has impeccable taste. Tell her I said so.”

Tristan smiles. “So, what did you think of the film?”

“Oh—I’m still taking it in. I thought you said it was a documentary?”

“It is.”

“But it was all music and nobody spoke in it.”

“Yeah, it’s an experimental documentary,” he explains.

“I see. In that case, I loved it.”

“I’m so glad! It’s supposed to be one of those things you have to watch more than once to get,” Tristan says. “Experimental films are like that.” He checks his watch. “Oh—we should go.”

“To the after party?”

“No. There’s another film I wanted you to see.” Tristan takes my hand, and leads me out of the tent. “You’re gonna love it.”

“Space Ninjas?”

“I wish.”

“What’s the rose for?”

“Oh—it’s for you,” he says, blushing again. “It was my mom’s idea. But you don’t have to take it, if you don’t want to.”

I smile and take the rose.

An usher recognizes Tristan and moves us to the front of the line. We take seats in the “reserved” row of the auditorium. I can’t help feeling a little special. Tristan didn’t tell me anything about the film, so I’m thrown off guard when the actors speak a foreign language, reminding me how terrible my French is. The story begins with a delivery truck on its way to a bakery, when a bump along the road sends a single baguette out the window without the driver noticing. The rest of the film follows the lost baguette and its journey through the streets of Paris. While the other baguettes are being stacked on wood shelves and taken home by loving families, the lone baguette is run over, picked up, dropped again, mauled by birds, kicked, tangled in a scarf and dragged by a lime-green Vespa across town, before miraculously landing on the front steps of the bakery. But before the baker can come outside to find it, it begins to rain, soaking the baguette, and dissolving it into wet crumbs that wash down the street and into the drain.

When the screen goes black, Tristan hands me his handkerchief to wipe away tears. “I can’t believe I’m crying!” As silly as it sounds, I saw myself in that baguette, wanting nothing more than its safe return home. Is that why I’m hanging on to Sam? I want us to go back to the way things used to be. I glance around, and see the entire audience is sobbing as well. I turn to Tristan. “Why did you pick this to show me?”

“I read about this film online and thought of you,” he says. “Did you like it?”

“I mean, I did. But it’s so heartbreaking.”

“Exactly. I knew it would make you sad. Just like you said you want from a film.”

“When did I say that?”

“The week we first met,” he says, “I asked you what kind of movies you liked and you said the ones that make you cry. You said, you want to cry in a way you’ve never cried before. Don’t you remember?”

I think about it. It does sound like something I’d say.

“I thought about that a lot,” Tristan says. “I wondered why someone would want to intentionally experience that. I think I figured it out. You want to feel something. Something meaningful, and intense. You want to feel that thing in your heart and stomach. You want to be moved. To care about something, or fall in love, you know? And you want it to feel real. And different. And exciting.” Tristan glances at the black screen. “And I think this film does that, in its own way. It makes you cry, over bread. You’ve never felt that before. It’s original. It makes you feel … alive.” An usher comes in to clean and arrange the seats for the next screening. Tristan checks his watch again. “Let’s get going. There’s more I want you to see.”

We squeeze two short films in before the after party. One is a romantic comedy, and the other is more action-packed. Around ten o’clock, we follow a crowd toward the main tent where the band’s playing. Tristan ties a special wristband on me before we head inside. A champagne fountain bubbles besides silver trays of hors d’oeuvres, as a hundred people or so stand around, socializing. I see Mr. Lee found his way in. I spot him at a table with champagne and roast duck. He smiles at me. I wink at him knowingly.

The crowd is a bit overwhelming, but Tristan never leaves my side. I hold on to his rose as he walks me around the tent, introducing me to other filmmakers, writers, and college students from all over Washington.

“Somebody wants to meet you,” he says, pulling me toward the other side of the tent.

I narrow my eyes. “Who on earth wants to meet me?”

There’s a man with a paisley tie standing near the corner of the tent, holding a glass of white wine.

“This is Professor Guilford,” Tristan introduces us. “He’s one of the board members who chose my film. He’s also a professor here.”

“Great to finally meet you, Julie.” He offers me his hand.

“And you as well,” I say politely. “But how do you know who I am?”

He laughs. “You’re Professor Clarke’s daughter, aren’t you?” he asks. “She talks a great deal about you. Tells me you’re a talented writer.”

“She’s the best!” Tristan chimes in.

“I’m alright,” I say, somewhat embarrassed.

“You know, modesty is the sign of a true writer,” says Professor Guilford.

“Oh, she’s the most modest person I know,” Tristan adds.

I nudge his arm. “Tristan.”

“Tristan says you’re a senior. Do you know where you’re heading to college yet?”

I’m reminded of my rejection letter, and suddenly wish I could disappear from the conversation. “Oh, I haven’t decided yet,” I manage to say casually. “But Central Washington is still an option for me.” I don’t tell him it’s my only option at the moment.

“Oh really?”

“Really?” Tristan repeats.

“It’s affordable. And my mom’s here.” That’s really all I can think of.

“Fantastic.” Professor Guilford beams. “So I might have you as a student. I understand you like creative writing. Have you thought about writing for film and television?”

“No, I haven’t. But that does sound really interesting,” I say.

“I offer a screenwriting course every few years. It just so happens the next one will be in the fall.”

“Oh?”

“It’s typically reserved for upperclassmen,” he says with a smirk. “But I’ve made exceptions before.”

“Oh my god—that would be incredible,” I say, almost with a gasp. “I never knew classes like that existed. What else do you teach?”

Tristan leaves us to chat for a bit. We have an incredible conversation about some of the projects his students are working on. Apparently, many of them intern in writers’ rooms at major television studios over the summers, through his connections with industry members. I always thought opportunities like that were reserved for the sons and daughters of famous producers. It makes me feel hopeful about school. Maybe I could do it, too. Maybe I don’t need Reed after all. At the end of the conversation, Professor Guilford invites me to lunch with my mom in the next few weeks to talk about other creative opportunities. After we exchange emails, I go find Tristan to tell him everything.

“Tristan—I’m so glad you introduced us!” I say, still smiling.

“Yeah, isn’t he the best?” Tristan says, handing me a glass of sparkling cider. “I’m so happy you might go to school here. We could still hang out. That is, if you’re not too cool to hang around, you know, high schoolers. Maybe we can work on a project together.”

“That’s such a great idea. We should!”

“I bet you’d be an amazing writer for films,” he says.

“I hope you’re right,” I say.

The rest of the night is wonderful. I meet Tristan’s other friends who worked on the documentary with him, and impress them with my knowledge of Mark Lanegan and the Screaming Trees. We eat chocolate-covered strawberries, and put our names into the raffle. Tristan wins six tickets to the local cinema. One of his friends wins a fancy camera. They all crowd around him enviously, taking turns admiring it. Then one of them whispers something.

“Did you see him? I can’t believe he’s here, man.”

Heads dart back and forth. But I can’t tell who they’re looking at. Then Tristan whispers, “He nodded at me after the film. Think he knew I was the director.”

“What! And you didn’t go up and say anything?”

“I heard he hates being approached,” says Tristan.

I stick my head into their secret huddle. “Who are you guys talking about?”

Everyone looks at me. Tristan points his chin to my right. “Over there. The one with the glasses.”

I turn around, looking. “The tinted ones?” It’s the man I sat beside during Tristan’s film. “Oh, I talked to him earlier. He was really nice.”

Tristan’s eyes widen. “What do you mean you talked to him?”

“I sat next to him at your screening,” I say. “We chatted before it started. It wasn’t a big deal or anything. I mostly ignored him.”

“Julie … tell me you know who that is?”

“Clearly I don’t, Tristan.”

“That’s Marcus Graham,” Tristan whispers tensely. “He’s one of the former managers of the band. He’s old friends with Mark Lanegan and the Connor brothers. He’s a big part of their success. He’s sort of famous.”

“And he’s leaving!” his friend shouts.

I turn to see his arm disappear through a slit in the back of the tent. How did I not realize who he was? No wonder he was so curious about my interest in the band. As I watch him leave, a sudden thought occurs to me. I need to talk to him again. This is my only chance.

I leave Tristan with his friends and rush out of the tent to find him. It’s incredible how much sound the canvas can block from the outside. The cold shift from the night air sends a shiver through me, making my ears pop.

“Wait!” I shout from behind him.

The man stops walking. He turns around, looking for the voice. It’s only the two of us out here. He adjusts his glasses. “Something the matter?” he asks.

It takes me a second to think of what to say. “I’m sorry! For not recognizing you earlier.”

“No worries,” he says with a chuckle. “You won’t be the last.”

“My boyfriend. He would have loved to have met you. He’s a really big fan,” I say. “His name is Sam.”

“You mentioned him. Too bad he couldn’t make it,” he says, turning to leave.

I step forward. “He’s a musician, too,” I go on. “He plays the guitar, and even writes his own music. You guys really inspired him.”

“That’s nice, kid.”

I reach into my bag. “I have one of his CDs,” I say. “It would mean a lot if you listened to it.” Once I find the CD, I hold it out to him. “Some of the songs aren’t finished. But he’s really talented.”

The man puts his hands up. “Sorry, kid. But I make it a rule not to take unsolicited music. Industry policy.”

I step forward, holding the CD out closer. “Please, just listen to it. It would mean so much to him.”

He waves a hand in the air. “I said I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Please—”

“Have a good rest of your night,” he says firmly, and walks off.

I stand there with my arm hanging in the air, as a cold night chill sends a shiver through me, and I feel my entire body begin to shake.

I can’t let this chance slip away. I have to stop him. I have to do this for Sam. But the man is about to walk off forever.

“He’s dead!” I gasp. The words rip through my throat. “He’s dead!” When I realize what I’m actually saying, I can’t contain myself. “That’s why he couldn’t make it. That’s why he isn’t here. Because he died. He died few weeks ago—”

Tears form behind my eyes as my throat swells up. It’s been a long time since I heard myself say anything like this. Maybe because I stopped believing it.

The man stops walking. He turns around and looks at me. There’s a silence before he says something. “His name was Sam, you said?”

I nod silently as I wipe my cheeks with my hands, trying to stop myself from crying.

“And he played the guitar?”

“Yes,” I say through a cracked voice.

He steps toward me, holding out a hand. “Alright then. I’ll take a listen.”

“Thank you so much.”

I hand him the CD. But he can’t even take it from me. My grip is too strong.

He looks at me. “Is something wrong?”

“I … I just realized this is the only copy I have,” I say. “I don’t have a lot of his things left.”

He lets go of the CD. “Tell you what, why don’t you email it to me,” he suggests. “That way, I won’t lose it and I can respond to you.” He takes out his wallet and hands me his card. “Take care now.”

I watch him disappear into the parking lot. I don’t head back inside. The CD is clenched tightly in my hands. I couldn’t even let it go. A stupid CD. Just like the lantern. I wanted to let go of everything but I can’t even let go of this. How am I supposed to let go of Sam?

There’s something on the ground. I glance down. It’s Tristan’s rose. I didn’t even notice I dropped it.