The South Side

Chapter 7

Ryder picked the phone up. It felt weird and almost foreign to him. When was the last time he had used a landline? Ever since the flip phone came out a few years ago, he had no use for landlines; however, the rest of the world still did. 

Ryder had forgotten how expensive and uncommon flip phones were. To him, it was an everyday item, no different from his wallet, but to the world, his flip phone was an expensive luxury item. Upon signing a contract with the record label, he had been gifted a flip phone, and after using it for so long, Ryder completely forgot. 

Since when had he been so out of touch with reality? No, that was not it. That was not what he should have been asking himself. 

Since when had he forgotten what life was like beyond his career?

Ryder shook off his train of thoughts. He needed to call someone, not reminisce. The only question was who to call. His parents? Definitely not. He had not talked to them since he started to persue music and he was not going to start now. The label? Oh, that is a brilliant idea. Call the people who leak information to the press for publicity. They would have a field day with this. His friends? Does he really have any? Once he got rich and famous,  people flocked to him but that does not make them friends, more like acquaintences, and no acquaintences would ever risk driving into the South Side.

Ryder just stood there, staring at the phone, and everything dawned on him. Is this really what his life has come to? No friends. No family. Hell, even music was slowly going beyond his reach. The label made sure of that. 

Ryder racked his brain one last time for anyone he could reach out to. He could not just stay stranded here. No one knew his whereabouts, and Ryder barely knew them himself.

Sam! Ryder remembered. Sam might work for the label, but he is a good guy, the closest thing he has to a friend. Ryder knew he would not rat him out to the label.

Ryder quickly dialed up Sam's number.

One ring.

Two rings.

Three rings. 

"Sorry, cannot leave a message now because this user's mailbox is full."

Static. That was all Ryder heard, and his mind was no different. It was on the fritz, going a mile a minute in every which way. What now? What was the point of doing all that he had done? Fame? Money? What the hell was any of it even worth now? He had thrown everything away to persue a career in music. Everything.

Look at where it got him. He was completely alone with nothing of value, and regardless of if he were back at his fancy penthouse, performing on a stage, or stranded here in the South Side like he was now, that statement would still hold true. 

Money was worthless to him. What was he going to do? Get more designer clothes? Spend it on custom cars? Buy a bigger house? Then what? Sit there alone? End up being some washed out celebrity who wastes his money on parties full of strangers and bottles full of booze? The world has enough of those. 

As for his fame? It made him no different from a item. A toy. A product the music industry is trying to sell. If a person was not a seller, they were a buyer. 

Ryder felt miserable. He hated what his life had become. He wished his parents were able to stop him that day. He wish he never estranged himself from them.

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Ryder slammed his hands down on the dinner table and shot up, knocking his chair over in the process.