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The air was that crisp coolness, the kind that often made Hermann's leg ache at night, but he loved on a sunny day. His cheeks were pink with the chill, but he was sweating in just his button-up and sweater-vest as he set up his tiny booth.
Carefully he pinned up his banner (homemade on paper), then hung up the various signs on the front of the booth and the back wall. His merchandise filled all the extra space in the booth, but even then it was a ridiculously tiny amount compared to some of the other booths that were still skeletons around him.
The big vendors could afford to show up later, and always had a van or truck full of merch if their booth ever ran out. They usually had tickets, or sometimes even VIP passes to give out as prizes, and didn't hesitate to give away the promotional posters for free to pretty girls when they bought something.
Hermann had none of that. He didn't have passes or tickets to give away to lure people to his booth (sometimes he didn't have a ticket of his own). He paid for every bit of merchandise out of his own pocket, even the promo posters, and had nothing to give as freebies. He'd had to resort to designing his own simple shirts when the official ones became too expensive for him (upon the rising popularity of the band). Luckily, though there was official merchandise, bootleg merch was allowed; the fans supported the best of it.
The rest of it ended up in a trash heap.
But Hermann's didn't, even the stuff he hadn't been able to sell after months of setting up his little booth and putting them out for sale. That was waste he couldn't afford, and he was sure there was someone out there that would find there way to each souvenir, every shirt, no matter how long it took.
The wind picked up, almost pulling his banner down before Hermann could apply more pins. Even still, one corner ripped, and there was little to be done except tape it up when he got home.
He was putting the last touches on his setup, organizing all the shirts by design and size, stacking the mugs as neatly as he could, arranging the posters so he could see their labels without having to dig, and hanging up his selection of masks so everyone could see he had them (and had the best price on them), when the others started to arrive.
It took him in the neighborhood of an hour to set everything up. He was only one man after all. The sun was beginning to drop rapidly as well, and Hermann considered putting on his coat as the wind picked up once more. While he waited for the first fans to show up, he sat on the little three-legged stool to save his leg and sipped from his Thermos.
Lemon and honey tea, something he saved for these kinds of evenings. The cheese sandwich he'd save until later, maybe not eat it at all if he thought he could hold out until the next day.
It was hard work, being a student, taking odd jobs, dealing with his medical issues, and being a "superfan" all at the same time. It also left him incredibly poor, still unwilling to abandon his singular passion: the Black Velvet Rabbits.
***
Newt still had a couple hours to kill, and waiting in the trailer and even backstage just made him restless and a little nauseated. He smiled and nodded at the security outside the secluded side door to the small arena (a local university basketball arena most of the time), and tentatively walked out from between all the official tour vehicles.
Unlike most clubs, there was a wide open concourse in front of the main doors, and there were a ton of people milling around before the doors opened, browsing the various merchandise booths. It was strange, and he kept expecting someone to grab his arm and scream in his face, but even with his guitar on his back, nobody gave him a second look.
A man with a lesser ego would probably be hurt by the lack of recognition.
The rest of the band made fun of him for what they called his "mom outfit", but it was comfortable and couldn't be more different from the tight tight kit he wore on stage. His battered red Chucks were quite possibly the only subtle and nearly impossible clue to interpret about his stage persona (haha, he almost considered it his true identity). Certainly the faded jeans that were comically loose in the thighs and the puffy sweatshirt that wandered more into the lavender range of the color wheel and his thick-rimmed glasses didn't give anything away. He didn't even wear any of his own merchandise.
He'd studied up on his rockstar heroes, the lifestyle, and the entire band had decided they liked their personal lives to be just that: their own. Anonymity was king, and they'd all stuck with it. And the masks were cool, and distinct, and great for merchandising (of course they'd never considered that).
Passing by the booth the local rock station was sponsoring with hardly a glance (vultures, the band hardly saw a cut from these guys), Newt smiled at the local fan club's efforts. More enthusiastic than talented, they had all their stuff on display and were blaring music from an underpowered speaker and iPod. Newt would try to remember to send them some signed gear for their support.
There were a total of a dozen or so merchandise vendor booths, with a trio of snack and refreshment booths mixed in. Newt looked down the row until he saw the one at the very end, hidden in the deepening shadow of the arena. Though more precisely, he noticed who was manning it, and couldn't look away.
Suddenly feeling shy and very awkward, like he was just a normal kid again, Newt approached the booth slowly, meandering along, pretending to look at each of the booths in line until he finally hit the end. It was hard to fake this one; it really only took him a minute to see every bit of merchandise on offer.
Just one minute to try and remember what his name was and how to talk. Newt glanced up at the man's badge. Vendor badge, not a pass, with his name and ID number.
H. Gottlieb #47918
"Cool shirt," Newt said, and immediately felt like an idiot. They were mass prints, nothing unusual about them.
"I don't do giveaways of tickets," H Gottlieb said immediately.
With a nervous laugh, Newt shook his head. "Don't need a ticket. I, uh…" His tongue felt like a sock in his mouth. and he had nothing compelling or interesting to say. "Those… posters your own design?" There, that was vaguely relevant to the circumstances.
The pinched and annoyed look on H Gottlieb's face faded. "Yes. I graphed my favorite song off their first album."
Newt's eyes lit up. "Dude! That is so cool! How much?" The nerves were gone in that instant, finally encountering something truly unique and amazing, and cerebral.
H Gottlieb glanced at the poster on display behind him, a surprised look in his eyes, like he couldn't believe someone wanted to actually buy his poster. "Ten dollars?"
Newt's hands were shaking as he fumbled with his wallet (thank goodness it's on a chain or he'd have dropped it immediately) and pulled out a ten dollar bill. Handing the money over, it's embarrassing seeing that shaking, and he smiled a little shyly.
But thankfully H Gottlieb remained silent on the matter as he handed over the poster and took the bill.
"Hey, I'm Newt!" With the poster now clutched in his left hand, he held out his right. If he can get any positive reaction…
"Hermann." Their hands grasped one another, not too strongly, but pleasantly firm.
Newt allowed his fingers to stroke the soft flesh of Hermann's inner wrist, provoking that surprised look again, and an adorable pinkening of Hermann's cheeks.
That was not a rejection.
Though the grasp lingered longer than necessary for a proper handshake, neither of them were eager to break it up. When they did, Newt was quick to pull out his pen and little notepad, flipping past the pages he'd hastily scrawled potential lyrics on, and wrote down his phone number. "I kinda follow the band, but…" He slid the paper over. "Maybe call me? Coffee and cake or something?"
Hermann's reply was delightfully fast. "After the concert?"
"Where's your seat?"
But at that Hermann just shrugged, looking at the tiny space around him. "I don't have one. Have to watch the booth." He managed a smile, but it was obviously forced, while his eyes were practically lasering Newt's soul with longing.
"Can I meet you here after?"
Hermann tore the slip of paper Newt had passed him in half before writing his own number down and handing it back. "Yes."
It was breathy and a little sibilant, and Newt was going to fucking frame that little scrap of paper.
~