The Wiggles of Fate: The Observant Roadie
Part 2 of 3: As Tom follows his muse into a surreal world of privilege and parties, he learns inspiration can be as messy as life itself.
Life provides its own bit of entertainment, and I try to capture the conflict and joy that come out of what we experience every day. Some call this contemporary fiction or popular fiction. I just call it “comfort fiction.”
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Landslide… Live!
Before I get into part two of this story from the Piano Man Chronicles, much like (not really) Lin-Manuel Miranda shared an early draft of Hamilton at the White House for the President and First Lady, I am reading the first chapter of LANDSLIDE for the TiF Team Summit on Sunday, January 18 at 9 a.m. (PST) Check out the cranky columnist Alex Shelby before his life comes tumbling down. (Landslide’s expected release is in 2027). open.substack.com/live-…
And now, back to the show…
Piano Man is a two-year anthology project. Every two weeks, you’ll see a story surrounding the fictional novel PIANO MAN (You can read about PIANO MAN below the story). Some stories are small three-part serials. Others will be from guest authors.
By Vince Wetzel
Copyright Vince Wetzel and OT Press
When inspiration hits a writer, it’s hard to think of anything else. Tom forgot all about the birthday party that began the inspiration. He forgot about Aubrey, Chris, Becky, and little Steven. All he could think about was Sam, the attractive children’s musician, and how he wanted to create a fictional story about him for his next novel.
As soon as he could, Tom excused himself from Steven’s party at Golden Gate Park and walked two miles back to his mom’s apartment. He opened his laptop on his childhood desk and began typing a sketch of a story. He thought about a down-on-his-luck rock musician who had been dropped by his band and had to take a gig as a favor to his brother to perform at his nephew’s birthday party. When he’s given a favorable reception, good money, and references, he decides to work the children’s party circuit. Along the way, he meets non-Disney-sanctioned princesses, clowns, magicians, and more.
The ideas flowed out of him as easily as if he had meticulously planned them for years. Each story beat, from the inciting incident to the mid-point to the all-is-lost and all the way to the climax, poured from his mind into a story outline. One thing about his late mom’s place, a refuge for him after his breakup in Seattle, it held no distractions for him.
“Barry, I’ve got a better idea than what I gave you,” Tom said on the phone to his literary agent, Barry Donahoe. Hours ago, a desperate Tom spewed out a modern-day retelling of the New Testament as a political thriller, with Jesus portrayed as a woman. Barry was satisfied but not excited. Even Tom had his doubts. But Tom could sense Barry’s excitement growing as he went through the story’s synopsis, including character arcs, misadventures, and the climax.
“What do you think?” Tom asked when he was done.
“I love it,” Barry said. “It’s even got a movie deal built in. We can get the new young hot guy from Saturday Night Live to play your lead.”
Tom wasn’t sure of that casting, but at least Barry was as excited as he was. Tom was relieved. After months without anything solid to pitch his agent, Tom felt invigorated. That is, until Barry asked. “So when can I expect a manuscript to give to the publisher?”
Tom grimaced. The ideas for novels were always a lot easier than writing 80,000 words. “A few months? I need to do some research, pull together the first draft, revise, share with some sample readers, then I can get it back to you.”
“Three would be better,” Barry said. “We have strung the publisher along for nearly two years. They’ll want something sooner. Tell you what. Bang out a good 50 pages in the next few weeks. Then I’ll get you the extra month or two to finish it up, sound good?”
Tom agreed, and over the next three weeks, he wrote a banger of a first chapter, followed by a setup for the second act. He did his best to fill out the cast of characters on his children’s entertainment circuit, but he needed to see for himself. He asked Chris for Sam’s contact information.
“I heard he’s banging Aubrey,” Chris said on the phone. “I didn’t see that coming.”
Tom shook his head, called Sam, and set up an interview. Turns out he had a gig at a well-to-do family in Noe Valley and would need a roadie. Tom agreed. Why not? A chance to be a part of the crew, see a beautiful house, and get the essence of Sam and the existence he led.
The house was a 100-year-old refurbished classic San Francisco Victorian that sat on the hill overlooking downtown. From the porch, one could see the Golden Gate, downtown, and the Bay Bridge. The land itself cost more than $2 million, and the house, judging by its polished wood floors, modern smart appliances, and décor straight out of HGTV, was twice that. Tom was surprised that this family didn’t hire Jim Henson’s workshop put on a puppet show.
“Pretty nice, eh?” Sam asked Tom as he helped carry an amp into the backyard. Well, it was a backyard, but it was more like a park with a private garden. There was a terrace to the side where we would set up. “Dude just sold his startup for a cool billion.”
“Wow,” Tom said, looking around. This was the closest he would ever get to a billion at any temperature. “And no offense, but two weeks ago, you were playing in Golden Gate Park. How did you get this?”
Sam laughed, and Tom realized he was younger, maybe in his mid-20s. His brown curly hair flopped over his face, and he wore a pooka shell necklace. Were those in again? He might look as at home on the beach near a surfboard as with a guitar.
“I get referrals, man. It’s crazy,” Sam said, and Tom imagined the reviews. Great with kids, sings Oasis. Great abs. “These moms tell each other. And somehow it, like, jumped income levels about a month ago. Like, that was the last park gig I have for a while. I’m booking back yards, and I’ve even got an agent looking for a record deal. It’s crazy.”
“And did you play regular rock shows?” Tom asked. “I mean at clubs and stuff.”
“Yeah, but I am making more now and not having to split it with the band. So that makes some of the kids with impulse control worth it.”
“And some of the moms have impulse control, too, right?” Tom asked with a wink. Sam looked confused for a second before Tom added. “I know about Aubrey from the party. That you’re seeing her.”
Recognition crossed Sam’s eyes. “Right. Though I’m not seeing her. She just came over and fucked me once. Some of these moms are crazy—especially the richer ones. You watch. I may get a couple of pairs of panties today, no joke.”
On cue, a woman in her mid-30s approached. She filled the tight Lycra outfit as though she were teaching a yoga class or a Lululemon fitness model. It turns out she was Ellie Klein, the host of this event. Tom noticed the rock on her hand, so big that he thought she was carrying a disco ball.
“Mind if I steal Sam for a moment while you set up?” Ellie Klein asked. “Just need to go over a few things before the guests arrive.”
As they left, Sam looked back with a sly smile. Tom shook his head. Would this story be fictional or a ghost-written memoir? The chapters were writing themselves.
“So, you’re the musician?” another female approached Tom. If they are flirting with me, no wonder Sam is shooting fish in a barrel, Tom thought.
“No, I’m just writing a story about him, and I’m helping him out so I can get a flavor,” Tom said. Momentarily, he thought about lying and saying he was in the band, but his lie would be revealed soon enough when Sam got on stage, and Tom was in the audience. “Sam let me tag along. He’ll be back in a little bit.”
“So, you’re a reporter?” she asked. Unlike Ellie, who looked like she spent most of her time doing charity work from the country club dining room, this woman was all business. She had dark hair and bright blue eyes. She wasn’t in yoga attire. Instead, she wore jeans and a white button-down. She could have been his boss back when he was writing copy for an ad agency in Seattle. He could tell the truth about his novel, but he didn’t want to get into it. “Yeah. It’s good to get first-hand knowledge of what he does and how he does it.”
“I hear he’s good,” the woman said. “He comes highly recommended.”
“I know. I attended a gig at Golden Gate Park last week. He blew the roof off.”
The woman laughed. She was beautiful, but even more attractive when she smiled.
“I’m Tom,” he said. “The Roadie.”
“I’m Trina. My daughter and Ellie’s daughter are best friends. We’re here early so that Mason and Derry can get ready, like they’re going to prom. Or something.”
Trina looked around.
“Ellie had to go over details with Sam,” Tom said, trying to keep a straight face. He didn’t know the relationship between Trina and Ellie.
“Ah,” Trina said, raising her eyebrows. She understood. “So, they should be back in about 5 minutes?”
“No, she’s not talking to me. She’s talking to Sam,” Tom said, hoping the joke would land. It was a little dicey, but it worked. Trina laughed again.
“You’re funny,” Trina said. “You should do some kid-appropriate standup.”
“I’m not into poop humor,” I said. “Nor do I know anything about Bluey or Paw Patrol. I thought they were bouncers in the Tenderloin until a couple of weeks ago.”
Ellie and Sam came through the door again, mainly looking like they had when they left, though Sam’s shirt was now missing a button, and Ellie’s hair was slightly frazzled coming out of her ponytail holder.
“Well, I’ll let you finish setting up. I need to talk to see what our little monsters are up to anyway.”
Trina and Ellie left, leaving Tom and Sam to finish setting up. Guests, most of them under eight, began showing up, and they sped directly to the village of bounce houses set up in the middle of the yard.
“See, what did I tell you?” Sam asked. “These moms leave groupies in the dust. Ellie’s yoga skills are unreal. She just…”
“I don’t want to know,” Tom said, reminded of how his ex-wife took yoga and ran off with her yoga instructor. “Besides, women don’t drop their underwear at writers.”
“You’re musician adjacent. That’s all that matters,” Sam said, and they finished the setup. About an hour into the party, the children were summoned to sit in front of Sam as he sang both standards and originals. But unlike the party for Steven, the cake was only the intermission. Sam had another set.
Tom hung around in the back. Whether he was Sam-adjacent or not, he stood out at this party of elementary high society. The parents in attendance looked like they had stopped by on the way to a polo match, while the children wore luxury brands. Regardless of any best sellers, he wouldn’t come this close to Louis Vuitton unless it fell off a TJ Maxx truck.
“Get any cake?” Trina asked, as she stood next to Tom. “It’s from Zibatreats Cakes.”
That cake probably cost more than my mom’s mortgage, Tom thought. He saw a spread in a magazine while waiting for a coffee. The cakes were more like art displayed in a gallery. They were so expensive that the bakery offered a payment plan.
“Nothing but the best for little Derry,” Tom said. “I’d hate to impose. I’m only the roadie.”
“Don’t worry,” Trina said. “There’s plenty, and it goes to the trash afterward.”
Like a spy on a mission, Tom slipped by Trina and went behind a pillar of the patio. He shifted his eyes back and forth, then locked in with her before making his next move. Trina laughed, encouraging him, and Tom tiptoed to the cake. The jig was nearly up when Tom ran into a grandmother, but he quickly spun out of the way and to the table. This earned an audible laugh from Trina, almost cueing everyone to Tom’s attempt at cake thievery. When Tom reached the table, he gave one quick shift of the eye, before swiping the cake and slipping it behind his back. Slowly, he backed all the way to his original spot.
“You made it,” Trina said, amused. “I wasn’t sure when Grandma Wilcox stepped in front, but you spun like a 49er and avoided it. Good work.”
“NFL running back is my next career,” Tom said.
“After journalist and roady,” Trina replied.
“You got it,” Tom said, looking at the lovely chocolate cake before realizing. “I don’t have a fork.”
Trina shook her head. “What are you going to do with you, Tom?”
“Eat like animals.” And Tom put his fingers around the gooey dessert and brought a piece to his mouth. Wow, it was so good, he moaned.
“Easy tiger or else people will think you’re helping Ellie,” Trina said with a wink. Tom gave her a look. “Let’s just say it’s no secret, except to her husband, why she goes to yoga and has male help for everything at this house.”
So, Sam shouldn’t feel too special, Tom thought. From the stage, Sam nodded over to Tom, who needed help before the next set. “Looks like my cake break is cut short. If I don’t see you before we leave, it was a pleasure to meet you, Trina.”
“Good to meet you, Tom,” Trina said, pulling out a piece of paper and writing her number on it. “But maybe we can talk about your budding standup career over coffee sometime.”
“Sure,” Tom said, accepting the phone number. Maybe there was something to being Sam adjacent.
Read the Conclusion January 30…
About Piano Man
The Birthday Party Underground
When washed-up rocker Cole takes a pity gig at his nephew’s birthday party, he expects juice boxes, tantrums, and the slow death of his dignity. What he doesn’t expect is applause, cash, and a new career path—one paved with glitter, chaos, and the occasional piñata-related injury.
Welcome to the children’s party circuit, where the princesses aren’t Disney-approved, the clowns have criminal records, and the magicians might be dabbling in more than sleight of hand. As Cole dives deeper into this surreal subculture, he finds himself entangled in illicit rendezvous with moms (divorced, married, and morally flexible), navigating the drug-laced underbelly of suburban affluence, and dodging emotional landmines disguised as balloon animals.
But beneath the costumes and confetti lies a question Sam can’t escape: Is this his second act or just another detour on the road to self-destruction?
Eberle’s Piano Man is a tragicomic romp through the absurdity of reinvention, where the music never stops, but the consequences keep piling up. Sharp, irreverent, and unexpectedly tender, it’s a backstage pass to the party you never knew you wanted to crash.
“A rock ballad wrapped in confetti and regret. Eberle’s prose is as sharp as a broken guitar string.”
— Javier Stone, author of The Last Encore
“Thomas Eberle has written the most unwholesome children’s party novel imaginable—and I mean that as high praise.”
— Mira Caldwell, author of Suburban Gothic
“A hilarious, heartbreaking descent into the party circuit’s glittery underworld. Think Almost Famous meets Bad Moms with a dash of Hunter S. Thompson.”
— The Sacramento Tribune