1 comments/ 4339 views/ 2 favorites Hallah By: UnrequitedLove The forest was a cool green. The scent of woods and musky dirt in the air helped Caspar with the long journey from his homeland of Urtei to the neighboring country. He was the crown prince, and his duty was to be escorted through the forests between the lands. Upon his arrival, he was to make trade arrangements between the countries; they had been at war for the past fifty years. The mist slid past Caspar, and the horse below him snuffled at the cold. There was a strange feeling in the air, and he knew that his men could sense it as well. They stayed on edge- many gripped their sword handles as they trekked forward. The lively conversations had died down to whispers as the sun started to set, and soon silence and the darkness of night engulfed them as they drew closer to their old enemy's line. Caspar looked over to his good friend and brother Yersef, trying to extend a comforting smile, but even his own good spirits could not be lifted to give comfort. Yersef, however, sneezed and whimpered at the loud noise, knowing that anything could set off an antsy guard. Even though there were peace talks, the countries of Ferlet and Urtei still hated each other. This lit a thought in Caspar's mind. Why did these two countries hate each other so much? He looked to Yersef. "Brother," he started, but the Captain of the Guard, Iklo, interrupted him. "My Lords, it is far to dark to continue. Let us make camp here." Iklo snapped at a page and asked for a fire. At another few, he directed to erect tents. Yersef and Caspar, of course, got their own separate and elaborate tents, whereas the pages and knights were forced to share with at least five others. After the camp came into being, Caspar found Yersef again. "Brother, I must know. Why do our countries feel such emnity towards one another? I fear I have never learnt the true origins." Yersef gazed at Caspar down the tip of his long and elegant nose. It looked very much like Caspar's own. However, the hair that fell into Yersef's face was the oposite color of his younger brother's: Yersef had blonde hair and light blue eyes, and alternately, Caspar's features were darker and more subdued; even his skin was darker than Yersef's. "Our Father King has hid the true story from you, dear brother. But I feel at this time, it is more necessary to illuminate the truth rather than hide it any longer. So I shall tell you what truly caused the two great countries of Urtei and Ferlet to separate." He paused a moment. "It is you, brother." Caspar was taken aback. His jaw went slack, and he felt suddenly quite dizzy. "Surely you jest? Brother, do not make me seem the fool--!" "I wouldn't dare. I pledge, this is the truth. Let me go further into the tale." Yersef thought a moment. "Now, as I was saying. "Your birth was the real start of the Fifty Year War, believe it or not. It had been small tussles between our respective lands for thirty years before you were born, and twenty five before I was as born as well. But with your birth came the real war. You see, our Mother, who has now been dead since the start of the War as well, was a woman of Ferlet. And a beauty, at that. She was their King's daughter, but she ran away when she was very young. Their King, whose name was Paode, hated that she went away from him, and in his jealous rage, searched her out with his best spies. They discovered that our Father King had married her. The King Paode hated our Father and made it illegal for anyone from Ferlet to marry one from Urtei. Our King was able to hide the news of my birth, but once you were born, the Ferlet spies were able to infiltrate and found out about us. The King Paode became even more furious, and in a jealous rage, sent his armies to our gates to murder us. Paode went along himself, and found the room where we hid. I held you in my arms- I remember this day clearly- and he ran into the chamber, his eyes glowing with hatred, his sword blazing as if it were fire... but Mother ran in behind him and threw herself between her father and us. The King Paode's sword struck our Mother from her shoulder down into her heart." Here, Yersef was very quiet. He took a moment to gather his thoughts, and then continued: "She fell to the ground, dying, becoming quite pale, and her father stared down at her. I did not understand what was happening. She died quietly, looking into my eyes. A moment of silence passed, and you began to wail, breaking the silence as if it were a twig. Paode looked up from his dead daughter, the former beauty that he was willing to kill children over, and he killed himself with his own blade." He took a deep breath. "Their blood mingled on the floor as he died next to her." "Good gods. I never knew such a disturbing, ghastly tale. Yersef, how can you live with these memories?" "Let's not question my ability to cope with death, brother." Yersef spoke again after some time. "They died, and our Father came into the room, along with a knight who had once been with Paode but sought new allegiance. They both saw their dead comrades and reacted. Our Father wept and fell to his knees, cursing Paode, and the knight swore vengeance upon our House. And then started the Fifty Year War for what it really was." Caspar was silent. Then he spoke. "I should have known. My coloring denotes of one from Ferlet, but you look like one from Urtei. Gods help us." Then he realized something. "We cannot go to Ferlet, brother. It will only spark up another addition to the War!" "No, Caspar. We must go. For if we are too cowardly to go, what does that say about the rest of the Urteians? We must be the Ambassadors of Peace for our nation. Please understand." "I will not go." Caspar would not be moved. "Then leave, and go back to Urtei. I have no need of a coward in my midst." "I am no coward!! You braggart, you will get us all killed!" Yersef was silent. "Do not call me a braggart, fiend. You forget your place. I will one day be your Brother King. You are nothing. I can have you killed with the snap of my finger." "I would gladly die for my country," challenged Caspar. "Leave my sight, before you force me to do something I may regret." Yersef turned and walked into his tent, extinguishing the lamp within. Caspar stood still for a moment. He then grabbed a torch and lit it, and took a bow and quiver from a knight's grasp. He had always been in the habit of becoming peckish after arguments, and he thought some venison would do quite nicely to pierce through his hunger. The light of the camp began to dwindle as Caspar trekked further into the forest. He saw some deer tracks, but they were faint and not fresh. The ferns rustled around him and he became wary. He had forgotten to wear any armor, and suddenly became frightened of any sound he heard. Caspar glanced behind at a crack of a twig, and noticed that he could not find the light of the camp anymore. He took a few strides in the direction he thought he had come from, but could not find his way. Rustling interrupted Caspar's worry. He looked around, brandishing his torch as a weapon, whirling on the spot. But what came out of the ferns surprised him: a woman with dark hair and skin, with deep blackish eyes. She was close to Caspar's height, only a bit smaller. She was of athletic build, and she wore very little. It was the most naked Caspar had ever seen a woman. He suddenly felt very warm and flustered. He did not know where to look to be polite, but he felt his eyes wandering over the woman's curvaceous body. A smile came to her face. "I am Hallah," she said in a thick Ferletian accent. She then strode to the creek nearby and took off the little clothing she had on. Caspar became even more flustered. He felt a warmth spread below his trousers as Hallah walked to a small waterfall that was created by a formation of rocks. She stood beneath it and let the water flow over her long black hair and shoulders, down her sandalwood-brown back and over her bare buttocks. She turned slightly, allowing the water to flow over her breasts. She lifted her arms above her head as if she were embracing the water as it fell over her body. She turned to face Caspar and opened her arms to him. Caspar did not know what to do. He stood there for a moment and then shuffled toward her. He slipped off his boots and slid into the creek. He was soon calf deep in the water, standing before Hallah. She reached out and took off Caspar's flowing canvas shirt and put her hands on his abdomen. She slowly reached down to his trousers. She slipped them off easily. Caspar realized what was happening and felt his penis grow suddenly. He was ashamed and looked away. Hallah merely put her arms around Caspar's shoulders and embraced him, her breasts against his chest, his penis touching her stomach. Hallah slipped downwards slowly and gingerly took Caspar's penis in her small hands. She washed it in the cool water and put her mouth around it. Caspar felt this and his mind went into a state of seeing colors; reds and pinks and blacks surrounded his mind as his desire and pleasure heightened. The more Hallah touched and worked his penis, the more Caspar felt as if he were slipping backwards out of time itself. Hallah now had Caspar's entire penis in her mouth, and he looked down at her. She made eye contact with him, and he suddenly felt a strange and amazing contraction in his genitals- he groaned and slid his hips forward, deeper into her mouth. He groaned again as he felt something travel up his penis and out into Hallah's throat. He had never felt anything so amazing. Hallah took Caspar out of her mouth and smiled up at him. She washed his penis again and lay back in the water, revealing her vagina to him. She sighed as he swept down toward her. He put his penis onto the opening and looked once more at Hallah, who nodded encouragingly. Caspar slowly pushed forward, going deeper into Hallah with every second. Once he was totally in, he stayed still, listening to Hallah pant in what sounded like some pain. He looked at her again and she nodded once more. Caspar thrusted slowly into Hallah, and savored the feeling of his penis being engulfed by a woman's body. His rhythm became faster as he felt his desire grow again. Hallah moaned and made guttural noises with his every thrust. "Yes," she panted in Ferletian. "Yes, it feels so good!" "Hallah, you beauty..." Caspar panted back as his pace quickened even more. He began to go harder now as his penis became extremely stiff. "I give you my seed, beauty of Ferlet...!" Caspar came into Hallah, who groaned with pleasure and instructed him to keep going. The pleasure was unbearable for Caspar, but he kept going, and soon Hallah yelled out that she was experiencing climax. The water rushed about them as they held each other, naked and panting. Caspar remained in Hallah until his penis was flaccid once again. He then pulled himself out of her and took her by the hand, guiding her back to the shore, where they laid down and made love once more. This time, however, Hallah controlled the passion-play, and no words were exchanged. They focused on the task at hand. Hallah let Caspar enter her and then sat him on his back while she bobbed above him, her breasts swinging wildly, her moans piercing the night. Caspar gazed up at her in her ethereal beauty and grasped at her hips, emptying himself silently into her womb once more. He groaned afterwards, an animal-like roar in his throat. His semen leaked from her vagina as Hallah kept bouncing on his erect penis until she screamed and fell forward onto Caspar, her inner walls spasming around Caspar's penis, making him come once again. Soon, sleep took them both, the rustling of ferns in the night singing them a sweet lullaby. Hallelujah The day my parents sat me down and told me I was adopted was, admittedly, something of a bombshell. They said that they didn't love me any less because of it, and that obviously in their eyes I was as much a part of the family as if I had been conceived in their marriage. Their concern was that I wouldn't reciprocate those feelings. I assured them I did, and that, blood or no blood, they were my parents and it was my biological relations who were at a loss. My father is a Catholic priest, and as such I had always pondered my conception. I had simply assumed that I was the result of a previous relationship of my mother, or that I was conceived before my father officially became a clergyman. However, with my curiosity now satisfied, I wasn't particularly sure I liked the truth I was presented with, or that, despite my reassurances, I still respected them as parents. My mother is the head of nursing at a local Christian hospital, and as a result was consistently on call, and had minimal time for socializing and getting out and meeting people. She had met my father when she was young and about to undertake a nursing internship. Their courtship was lengthy, but they would often sickeningly reminisce about how they had known immediately how perfect they were for each other. Marriage followed, and subsequently my adoption. They were both 23 – young parents, but with a nurse and a priest as guardians, they were undoubtedly responsible enough to raise a child. They were now 42, and Dad's hair was beginning to thin, and he started to use the more generous holes in his belt. Mom on the other hand, had so far retained the looks that haunted the dreams of her high school class. She wasn't "hot", but by God she was beautiful. She had pointed features which complemented her slimming figure beautifully, big baleful green eyes and a little point on the tip of her right ear which gave her a somewhat elfish appearance. She wore her dark brown, almost black, hair cropped close to her head, and that wasn't all about her that was little. She stood a head shorter than me, with a stereotypical hourglass figure, and a strict exercise regime she adhered to meant her breasts had so far retained their youthful perkiness. There wasn't much of an ass there, but plenty to fill out a pair of jeans and look a million bucks. But I digress. Our story starts in the summer holidays the year after I finished my first year at college. I was home for the summer as a fresh-faced, idealistic 19 year old, with the world as my oyster. I had arranged to meet up with some old friends, but after 10 minutes of walking to our agreed meeting place, my phone buzzed in my pocket. A text saying that unfortunately my friend had agreed to help his father with various errands, and had absent-mindedly double-booked his afternoon and would I mind terribly meeting up another time. I set back a quick reply, saying of course not, before turning around and resuming my walk home. I took my time, gazing at how the neighborhood had changed in one short year. Before I knew it I was back outside the front door, traipsing upstairs to put my headphones on and drift into a mindless stupor. The first sign of something odd was that Mom was nowhere in sight. She told me she would be glad to get rid of me for the afternoon so I wasn't getting under her feet while she washed, dusted and performed other wifely duties in one of her rare moments away from work. I shrugged it off and continued upstairs. Then I heard noises. Coming from my parents' bedroom. It sounded like a muffled kind of cry, the kind someone would give if they were in a small amount of pain, but for some reason or other refused to cry out. Fearing the worst I grabbed the nearest "weapon", (an umbrella propped against the wall) and burst into the room, flinging the door open, umbrella swinging wildly. What I saw shocked me more than if there HAD been a stranger in the house. My mother was lying in bed, her back arched and legs spread wider than I would've thought possible. She was stark naked, save for an enticing pink lace bra which obscured my view of her breasts. The bad faced the door, so I was presented with a front-on, front-row seat to her pussy and rear-end. In her right hand she clutched a magnificent metallic blue dildo – large, glistening, with just the right amount of curve in it. Needless to say, upon my intrusion she sat bolt upright, a look of horror at being caught etched in her features, and threw the sheet she had only moments before been grasping in ecstasy, over her half-naked body. Still wearing an obvious expression of utter disbelief, I turned and fled the room, dimly aware of how tight my pants suddenly were, and just how awkward fleeing was at the time. Her excuses fell on deaf ears. I stumbled into my room and collapsed on my bed, still trying to digest what I had seen. It wasn't so much the fact that I now had concrete evidence that my mother masturbated, I suspected as much given Dad's profession, obviously obligated not to sleep with his wife, but the fact that I had caught her in the act was both shocking and somewhat disturbing. I flicked my mp3 player on and tried to burn the image out of my eyes with an assault on my eardrums. No dice. A knock at the door. I knew it was inevitable – she would just try and rationalize what I had seen and give me the talk about boys and girls and needs that was long overdue. "Come in", I said meekly, my voice cracking almost imperceptibly. She came in, wearing shorts and a singlet, obviously the first things she could lay her hands on. "John, let me start by telling you how sorry I am for what you just saw. I hope I haven't scarred you too badly. You see...grown ups have certain...desires and –" "Stop Mom...I know all about this stuff...they teach you in school and, well, you find it out eventually...I'm 19 you know?" "Okay, well let me tell you something you didn't know." She paused, as if considering whether or not to divulge any more. Finally she let out a long sigh and ventured, "I'm a virgin." I was shocked, and apparently it showed. "What...but how...I mean..." I was lost for words. "Well as you know I met your father very young. After our obvious attraction I intended on him being my first but, well, he told me of his faith and the career he wanted to pursue. I wasn't going to let him slip through my fingers over a little thing I had yet to experience. Do you blame me?" "Well, no of course I don't blame you but...wow..." I was still stunned. I had so many questions but so few seemed appropriate. My shock had made me numb to the fact that I was openly discussing my mother's sex life in very specific detail. She told me about how she had often felt the desire and how she wished she had someone she could be intimate with but quelled it, such was her devotion to Dad. My alarm heightened when I looked down and saw that somehow her hand had surreptitiously found its way halfway up my thigh while she gave this speech. As my senses returned I also noticed a small wet patch beginning to form in the crotch of her pants. She was obviously still ridiculously turned on after her masturbation frenzy. "I think it would be wrong to deny you such a vital experience Mom," I ventured, "especially since you waited to get married and everything." "Do you really think so, honey?" she replied, "I long for it so much sometimes, to feel the heat of another man pressed against me, sweating and gyrating." Her hand was now moving up and down my thigh, getting further up with every stroke. To my annoyance, I felt myself start to stiffen, and knew that if I did, I would be powerless to stop myself. Seizing the opportunity, I reached up and put my hand on her back, feeling no bra-strap, and began to return her gentle strokes. Her touch got higher as we sat in silence and it brushed my rigid cock. She knew how hard I was and suddenly got a blazing look in her eye. She angled her head in towards mine and I leant in kissing her mouth, not as a son would peck his mother, but a passionate embrace. It lengthened, and our lips parted and before I knew it our tongues were gently massaging each other. We lay back on the bed, her on top and my hands found the back of her shirt. I reached under and began running them up and down her back. As I was doing so her pelvis was grinding along my leg, and a welcome moistness indicated to me that she was soaking wet. "Oh babyyy," she crooned, "you know I love your father don't you? And I would never do anything to hurt him?" "I know Mom." I was feeling guilty, but after all, the woman had never felt the touch of a man and who better to give her the experience than her son, who technically, was not even family. "I love you so much sweetheart." With those sweet words I lifted her singlet up and over her head, her arms moving to comply with me movements. Her perfectly shaped tits before my very eyes, I pushed her up away from me and began to suck on her nipples, gently at first, then biting down on one of them. This elicited a small gasp of pleasure. I took my own shirt off and her hand reached down past our stomachs and came to rest on my throbbing cock. She felt its outline and began groping it with varying degrees of force through my pants. Reciprocating, I slid mine down there and found the waistband of her shorts. Undoing the single button and sliding the zipper down, I slid them over her compact ass and down her shapely legs. It was all I could do to not blow my load on the spot. My naked mother was now lying on top of me, with her amazingly shaped breasts, erect nipples and totally hairless pussy. I reached for it and used my fingers to pleasure her slit as she removed my own pants and let out an appreciative groan as she saw my large cock, and wrapped her hand around it. In reply I pushed two fingers into her pussy, and felt her soft, moist walls contract in pleasure. My hand was now utterly wet from her juices but this only made me want her more. I brought my hand to my mouth and licked it all of before returning to work, this time paying extra attention to her clit. Her breath was now coming short and fast as she straddled me with her eyes closed, but she continued to jerk me off. "I wanna lick your pussy Mom" I told her, and she beamed at me. "Could we try 69ing? I always thought it looked like so much fun..." "Sure." We hurried to see who could get their mouth to the other first. In the end she won, pouncing on my cock and taking it as deep as she could in the first mouthful. Then she started giving head like a true professional and I guessed all those hours with the dildo had paid off. A drop of her wetness hit my face, and I began licking her with enthusiasm. As I continued eating my Mom's virgin pussy, I noticed her head becoming more and more staggered and erratic. She kept moaning loudly and as a result of how intensely I was working her pussy, and I took the lead. Pulling her head up off my cock, I slid out from underneath her so that she was still on all fours, but I was conveniently positioned on my kneed behind her. I took hold of the tip of my cock as she hoisted her little caboose up in the air – an unmistakable invitation for me to enter her. I felt around for her pussy and, without waiting for another signal, pushed it in about halfway. The result was overwhelming. My mother cried out and dropped her head to the bed, her hands extended to the bedhead and squeezed my pillows in a gesture of immense pleasure. Not wanting to hurt her, I drew my cock out and was about to re-insert when I noticed a bloody discharge on my cock – I had just broken my mother's hymen. She was no longer a virgin. I half smiled to myself before she brought me back to reality by saying "What are you waiting for??" The words were raspy, as if she had just run a long distance, but I complied and put it back in, about three-quarters of the way this time. She let out a squeal of pain mingled with pleasure, and this time I didn't get the chance to pull it out. She rocked her hips back until her ass was planted firmly against my pelvis, engulfing my generously large cock in her pussy. I grabbed her hips and began to move them back and forward, matching the action by pumping my cock into her as deep as I could. I hoped my room was relatively soundproof, because the moans my mother was now letting escape her were deafening to me. I continued this motion, and every so often gave her ass a slap, gently at first, then leaving a handprint. From her screams I gathered that she loved this. A moment later I licked my middle finger and, spreading her cheeks as wide as I could, crammed it into her ass. Immediately I felt her pussy grip stronger on my cock and her moans shortened to winded gasps as I realized I was bringing my mother to the brink of orgasm. With one ear-splitting moan she convulsed for a moment, then I felt her stop rocking against me as she climaxed. "Oh baby...I love you so, so much. That was the best experience ever, I need more." And with those words she turned and pushed me so that I was now on my back. She straddled me and gripped my cock before lowering her pussy, which was literally dripping by this stage, onto my rod. With her legs on either side of me, she rocked back and forth. Her hands were planted on my chest and she leaned forward and kissed me fiercely. Without thinking my hands found her tits and squeezed her sensitive nipples. Leaning down on me she worked her hips up and down my shaft. I would feel her pussy around the head of my cock, almost coming loose, but at the last moment she would push down again. Man could she ride dick! Her breath was coming fast again in my ears and her short gasps indicated she was about to cum again. This only turned me on even more, and I felt the cum start to rise in my own cock. She straightened up, with my hands still stuck on her tits and lowered herself fully onto my cock and came loud and hard again. With the full length of my cock inside her, it became too much for me. I felt the strings of hot semen shoot out of my cock and I too let out a satisfied grunt as the cum dripped out of her pussy and onto the both of us. For a few brief moments, we just lay there, panting heavily, stunned by what we had just done. She didn't say anything, but I could see how much this meant to her, and after waiting over 40 years to lose her virginity, I was glad to have given her a great experience. Outside, a car door slammed. With a jolt I realized it was Sunday and Dad would be home from his sermon. The though obviously struck Mom too as she, still fully naked, ran from the room. As I stuffed her clothes under my bed the sound of the shower starting reached my ears and I knew we had escaped. That night at dinner Dad announced that attendance at his church was growing, and that he would be spending more time at the church from now on so as to better 'tend his flock'. It wasn't a bad thing, he said, it just meant that we would have to remain thankful for the precious time we had together, and that he would be bettering the lives of those to whom he preached by spending a bit more time away from home. I felt something land in my crotch under the table and looked across at Mom who shot me a coy wink. With her foot in my lap I looked Dad straight in the eye and simply said "Hallelujah." Hallelujah Ch. 01 Note: There really is a Blackbird studios in Nashville, and I used it (or my memory thereof) for much of the physical description of the studio here. However, the characters I placed within it are in no way representative of the people who actually work(ed) there, and are in fact partially inspired by individuals I met at an entirely different time and place. "I remember," says August Cooper, the weathered lines of his face framing a red-rimmed stare. His lips are pulled back a little, exposing the tips of his teeth. It's a face he often makes, grimacing out the final fragile years he has on this planet. He glances over at me, but I only nod. I'm waiting for him to continue, because I want to hear it. Because I believe him. "I remember the trains." He looks down at his hands, or at the cup of coffee he's holding in them. I can't tell which. His swollen knuckles flex softly. They look painful, but he's never mentioned any discomfort to me. He wouldn't. That's just not who he is. "They came through town, carrying soldiers east. Seemed like every day they came. Big, long trains full of men going to war. I was twelve years old. We would go down, my friends and I, and sell them newspapers." The grimace softens into a grin. I nod. I don't say anything. I've heard this all before, but I want to hear it again. I enjoy hearing this story. And this might be the last time. "They always wanted cigarettes," August sniffs. "Well, we didn't have cigarettes, we had newspapers. Usually they bought them. They came back on trains, too, later on. Going west, of course." He stops for a moment, telling a dozen other stories with his silence. Then he says, "I took a train home, you know. After Korea." I do. "Got off on the wrong stop. Not on purpose, though. We got off the train, me and...and some of the other guys." Neither of us acknowledges that he can't remember the names. "We got off the train to buy cigarettes. Well, there you go. We left our bags on the train and everything. It took off, and we," his laugh is a wheezy, breathy thing, "we didn't have but one dollar altogether. All our money was in our bags, on the damn train. Never did get mine back. Anyway, we were about a hundred miles from home, yet, so we had to hitch hike the rest of the way. That turned out alright, too. Took a day and some change, but it turned out alright." He shakes his head. "You couldn't do that, now." August Cooper smacks his lips, his story over but his mouth not yet willing to stop talking. Eventually, the lips give up and it's time for me to tell him my own story. "Grandpa," I say, "I'm going home. I'm going back to Nashville." He raises his eyebrows, but its amusement rather than surprise. "Is this for sure?" "It is." "Well," he smiles, "It's about time. You know I'll miss our visits. Not many people have the time for a man my age. Your mom used to listen." We share a moment of silence. He looks at me sideways. "You gonna be okay? You know, if you run into the people you might run into?" "Yup," I lie. "Even Jasmine?" he cuts right to the point. "It's been long enough that I can handle seeing her, if that should happen. And it's a big enough city that it might not." "You'd be surprised. It's not such a big world, not at all. Your car work alright?" "It runs fine, yeah." "Good," he nods thoughtfully. "The trains aren't what they used to be." He coughs, the way someone coughs who is well used to it. "Is there anything I can do for you, before you go?" "I'd like to hear another story, if that's okay." He smiles, and I wonder if he's as aware as I am that we may never see each other again. "Alright. What was I talking about. Korea. You know I wasn't supposed to have to go." I nod. "You were at a base in Kansas, weren't you?" "Yup. And I was due to stay there until my friend and I decided we needed a weekend off. We couldn't get passes off the base, so we took the only vehicle that would get us out guaranteed: the colonel's jeep." He goes on. I don't do anything. I just listen. Part One: The Minor Fall CHAPTER ONE She has one of the all time greatest moans. My hand slides down her stomach, and her hips lift to encourage my approaching fingertips. They pass over a cesarean scar, faded and soft like a pale smile below her navel. I slide right past it; my attention lies further south. Her head tilts back and her mouth opens, and I can see the dark hints of too much work and not enough sleep under her eyes. She's got to have at least seven years on me, and obviously there's at least one kid somewhere waiting for her to get home, but he, she, or they will just have to wait. I'm only getting started. I slide two digits down her wetness and then gently enter her. It's easy; hell, at this point her whole body is a living, breathing invitation. She makes a sound, and I won't try to define or describe it, but suffice to say the basic message is "keep going." I do. I pull back from kissing her neck and lean down to take a nipple into my mouth as my hand explores her. That's more for me than for her. She's an attractive enough woman, with an inviting smile and flirtatious eyes, but her breasts far outshine her face and I can smell a cigarette on her breath. I twist my wrist so that the base of my palm is pushing against her vulva, applying some pressure to the area surrounding her clitoris as my fingers move inside her. That's more for her than for me. It's not the most comfortable position for my arm, but she obviously approves. I imagine the moaned response as a song she is singing only for me. Her hands go to my shoulders, fingernails digging in a little bit as her lower half rolls against the movements of my hand. She hasn't exactly been the most giving lover so far, and she's only getting more selfish as we go on, but to be honest right now she's giving me exactly what I'm looking for. After a six month dry spell, I just want to know I'm still capable. I want to affect somebody, to make them react and to feel the accomplishment of their pleasure. The noises increase, and I can't help but grin when her hands start pushing down on my shoulders. Pretty demanding for someone who hasn't so much as touched me below the waist. But who am I to complain? I lower myself down between her legs for a taste and she gasps, gripping me with two hands. One goes to the back of my head and one on top of it. She doesn't want me going anywhere for a while, and that little seductively insistant movement is all the foreplay I require. Go ahead and lay there, lady. You had me at hello. Later, when I reach down and pull a condom out of the heap of clothes by the bed, she seems almost disappointed to see it. That's a bit of a surprise to me. I'm not sure what to make of this woman who was apparently prepared to have unprotected sex with a man she met at the gym little more than a week ago. Nothing in the eight days since I approached her in the treadmill area had suggested she was a slut or easy. If I wasn't busy trying to get laid right now I might pause and worry that she could become one of those women who you never quite get rid of, the clingy ones that fall too hard into relationships they should know better about. As it is, I do the worrying without the pausing, and simply sink myself into her body with a single thought: "what the hell is her deal?" Pretty erotic moment, I know. I get my answer twenty minutes later when, after the act is over and done, she reaches up to caress my cheek and I notice the band of pale skin on her ring finger. I double-check it as her hand falls back to her chest, but there's no need to. Definitely married. Shit. Shit, shit, shit! She sees me looking at it, and misreads my expression. She gives me a wink, like I must be proud to have bedded another man's wife. Like she approves. "He's out of town," she says with a smile. "He barely notices me anymore." And there it is. I could just kick myself. I really should have seen this coming. See, I have this theory about infidelity. I know that statistics will tell you that more men cheat than women, and the scientific theory is that men are more inclined to cheat, but I don't buy it. Most of that stuff is self-reported, right? As in anonymous questionaires, statistics pulled from divorce filings, or something like that. But I think it comes down to the way the sexes think, talk, and measur. What appears to a man to be a yes-or-no, straight forward question, will appear as something entirely different to a woman. She finds a lot more implication in the phrasing than he does. It's a language barrier. Where a guy reads that as a simple question, "have you ever cheated on a partner or spouse," which is a simple yes-or-no, a woman reads the underlying judgement ("are you a cheater?"), and that's where it all goes wrong. I suppose I could be totally off, but if I'm skewed it's down to experience. In my brief lifetime, I've personally known four people who were caught cheating. All four were women. That could very easily be coincidence, and I accept that, but if you put that anonymous questionaire in front of those women I suspect that they'd be classic cases of what you might call 'informed self-reporting.' Example one, and the one I find the most upsetting: when I was in my teens, my mother had a long term affair. Apparently it continued for more than a year before she kicked my dad out and married her boyfriend. At the time my adolescent brain processed this event as being both their faults, and I divided my anger equally. She never bothered to correct this misperception, which bothers me to this day. What my father must have gone through. If my mom was ever asked if she ever cheated, though, I am absolutely sure she checked the box for 'no.' See, my parents had gone through a couple of rough years prior to the divorce, and they were frequently fighting over anything and everything. I usually found someplace else to be when that happened. I'm sure my mother's thought process would be that she didn't cheat, "not really," because the marriage was over and dead and my dad just hadn't realized it yet. Both my parents died young. My dad passed from cancer twelve years ago, and my mom died in a car accident a little after my twenty-first birthday. By the time I was done being angry, they were both gone. Another example, though: my best friend since high school, Sam, was engaged for a while to a girl he absolutely adored. Everything was right in his little world until she sat down across from him one day and admitted that she was seeing someone else, the engagement was off, and could he please have his things out by the end of the week so Shawn could start to move in. It seemed crazy, like a switch just flipped in her head, until months later when we learned that Shawn the boyfriend got the exact same treatment. Turned out that this girl would cool on a guy, lose her interest, but not tell him until she'd found a replacement. Why? I swear to god, it was just because she needed someone to help pay the rent. I shit you not. She couldn't cover it on her own. That's literally why. But in her mind, I'm sure she's not a cheater. In high school I worked at a local Walmart-style pharmacy store. This woman worked there who somehow managed to dodge the divorce bullet after her husband found out that she'd had a brief affair...while pregnant with their child. I don't know much about it or her, but I remember her crying with her friends in the break room about how mixed up and confused she'd been lately and how the guy seduced her. How she hadn't even wanted to do it. She even put some blame on the hormone shifts from the pregnancy. Put that questionaire in front of her and take a guess what answer she puts. And then there's Jasmine Jones. Fuck. I don't even know what happened there. One minute we're in love and the next I'm replaced. I wonder what Jasmine Jones would say about cheating. I really do. And now, apparently, there's this woman. He barely notices her anymore, he doesn't make her feel sexy. It's his fault. Don't even try calling her a cheater. She won't hear it. It's a little jaded, I know, but please don't think I'm trying to paint all women as criminal. I just figure that they're probably as inclined to break their promises as men are. The needs we seek to meet by entering into a relationship, if they can be called needs, are vast. I don't doubt that they have to power to fuck all of us up in some way or another. Temptation probably strikes some at just the right time. The difference being that a man has to set out to cheat, since he usually has to be the one actively wooing and attracting his prey, where a woman's temptation often comes to her. Like I did. Fuck. She's sitting up in the bed, now. In my bed, far from where her husband thinks she's sleeping. She stretches and yawns, her arms reaching out above her head. The movement pulls her breasts upwards a little, making them appear fuller and perkier, and I'm almost turned on. No, I am turned on. My morality suffers even greater defeat when she stands and shuffles into the bathroom. It's not a model's scrawny ass...it's a woman's, and that's fantastic. The next morning we go out for breakfast. She seems like a nice person. She seemed like a nice person before. Unfortunately, that doesn't matter anymore. I'm furious with her for what she let me become. She used me to cheat on her husband, and that just breaks my heart. After breakfast I turn down a chance at more sex, and in fifteen minutes she's in her car and on her way home. I call the gym and cancel my membership. Three weeks in Nashville and I already have a place on my "must avoid" list. I sigh and check the time. Almost eleven. That gives me an hour before I need to be in the studio. - The place smells like a construction site. That's pretty typical of big studios. I'm not sure if it's the acoustic treatment, which can smell very much like fiberglass, or something to do with all the cables and cleaner. I just know that they tend to stink a little. Bennie, the station manager, is talking to me, and I so want to tell him to shut his fucking mouth. "Jake," he says as he ushers me out of the hallway and into his office, "this is going to be a great month for Blackbird." He said that last month. I'm sure he says it a lot. "Hell, just today's sessions include..." And, no, he doesn't trail off there. I just stop paying attention. I could tell you the long rambling version of how I got around to being a recording engineer, complete with lists of records that "changed my life" and famous artists I've gotten to work with, but let me just say that I fell in love with music very young and I couldn't play guitar. Or piano. Or drums. Or sing. So, deflated, I started considering the guys sitting on the other side of the glass, and that was that. It was always my intention to record in Nashville, if for no reason other than I grew up there and the city is extremely proud of its musical history. It rubbed off on me, I guess. Even now, as disappointing as my homecoming has been, the whole town retains a bit of a magical quality in my mind. This place is like Disney World for people who want to make records. I want to believe in the magic. Blackbird studios, however, is doing what it can to ruin that. I took the job there...the first time I've ever contracted exclusively with one studio...for little reason other than that nothing else was available. Want to know what it feels like to try and sneak into a country club? Try getting a job in the recording business in Nashville. Fuck, it's almost impossible. The climate at Blackbird reflects this. Elitist, without much youthful exuberance, the whole place is populated by what feels like a professional paint-by-numbers work crew. But to be honest, it has some pretty great qualities to it. Studio A, the biggest one, is just gorgeous. It's a giant, open room like the kind the luckier bands in the 60's got to use. Huge, huge, huge, with twenty-five foot ceilings. Looking down from the control room you can imagine the Beatles tearing up She Loves You while female fans storm the premises in pursuit of their idols. The whole thing gives me a hard-on to cut some records. It also has a pretty great gear list...a lot of older and vintage stuff in there with the modern digital junk...and a laudable client list. Working there gets me in the door, adds to my resume, and gets me meeting people who might eventually be able to help me land someplace even more impressive. In the meantime I have to deal with Bennie, who almost manages to make it not worth the effort. Bennie is a true southern boy, a bit of a racist, and a man with very little interest in music. He's also the guy who hired me. I've spent the last few weeks following him around, getting used to the protocol and dynamics of the studio. Not recording anything. It's been eye-opening; there's a much more regimented, business-like approach here than any other studio I've ever worked in. There are a lot of country records being churned out factory-style, and Blackbird isn't a shelter for creativity so much as it is a business with a dull-eyed middle-aged maturity to it. I am way out of place. The equipment in this place isn't quite as impecably high end as it had been when I worked at Ladyland, where only the best would do, but there is an abundance of vintage potential. Compressors and tape reels that hadn't been in heavy use since the mid 70's coat studio B, all of it clean and well cared for. Studio A, the big one, has a Neve mixing board so glorious that I can't help flexing my fingers when I look at it. I bet it has a history. It was the kind of state-of-the-art toy in 1975 that might have been used by engineers recording Springsteen's Born to Run sessions or Dylan's Blood on the Tracks. In the smaller rooms some of the other gear is more mid-range in terms of cost and quality, but I tend to think that such gear is often the best, and can be used incredibly well by someone with a clear understanding of its quirks and qualities. Some of the best sounds can come from using bad gear in a great way, and I have a feeling I could find sounds I've never managed before if I could just get Bennie to shut the fuck up and put me on a session. I've got another feeling, just from watching Bennie and the others work, that the cheaper gear is cheaper because it rarely gets used. They seemed to have a system down, with very little variation between one session and the next. A bass guitar I watched them record for a country song yesterday was recorded almost identically to a bass guitar recorded for a folky pop song a week ago. I suppose that's part of that legendary Nashville consistency, or whatever, but it isn't the way that I think or work. Make no mistake, I intend to find out the limits of this studio if I can get away with it. For now, it's Friday afternoon and I'm sitting in Bennie's office. He's still talking. I tune back in. "You're set for Monday morning," he mumbles to his computer screen. "Sorry?" I ask. "First part's nine until noon, then you'll be back to finish at one thirty. You'll wanna get in there a few hours early to start setting up and turning on the machines." Bennie taps on his mouse a few times. "It should be easy money. One track, and Walter Russell is producing. He's good, though he'll be out in the morning. He's got a more important session in Studio A running until lunch. All you'll be doing in the morning is laying a rhythm track. He's already sat down with the band and talked arrangements, so they know what to do." I blink, confused. Walter Russell isn't a name I know, but that's no big deal. Producer's names tend to float by me, never really sticking. I find it incredibly odd that Bennie would give me such a no-frills rundown of a session booked in his studio, though...and especially that he wouldn't even bother including the name of the artist! Hallelujah Ch. 01 Chapter One: In My Mind She had a tendency to sit at his feet, as she felt safe and comfortable there. Before he ever took control, she'd recline against his legs as they watched TV, or as he read aloud; the dulcet tones of his voice filling the room while she half-dozed listening. He was the perfect height, dark and handsome with an intellect that frightened and calmed her. This particular evening music filled the house. Her face was buried in his lap, her long, crimson hair spilled over his legs. His musky, sandalwood scent filled her with the longing that tugged at her hormones so frequently those days. Afraid that one day soon he'd reject her advances she made none, forcing herself to be content with the moment. He stroked her hair as though she were feline. This act always elicited a soft sigh from her, and slight undulation from her body. He sighed in return, and the smell she always associated with his pheromones lifted her senses. He grasped the back of her head by a hand full of her hair, rough and gentle all at once, and made her rise to his lips. They indulged in a passionate kiss, as he slid his fingers gently across one nipple through the silky material of her blouse. Blood flushed into the area, making her stiffen to his touch. Pushing her away slightly he lifted her shirt to reveal her pale skin, rosy from anticipation. She arched to offer her body to him. He took her erect nipple between his thumb and forefinger, rolling increasingly harder until she was in obvious but unyielding in her pain. Then he started on her right one as well. She blushed again, the rouge color deepening at the thought of how much she enjoyed this, and how much more might be to come. He continued to tease her breasts until she was sensitive enough to feel the air itself caressing her and making her aware of the little ache that was left. When he was satisfied he took her wrists into his calloused hands and pulled her over his lap. At once he slid her skirt to her waist, exposing her simple cotton underwear. He rubbed his hand between her legs, discovering the little moist spot that was a dead giveaway as to how much she really enjoyed this game. He snickered slightly and shortly and then brought his hand down across her buttocks, in several hard smacks that had her squirming right away. He continued for a moment, then abruptly pulled her panties to her knees. He ran his fingers over her reddening skin, making her tingle. Then he started again, until she was struggling not to whimper and protest. "Behave" he growled in a low voice, not missing a single stroke. He knew she would try for awhile, and he loved to watch her struggle, trying to contain a certain composure that would shortly be lost again to the blows he peppered her with. He slowed, savoring her last few whimpers. The last three were hard enough to leave his hand stinging, though not nearly as much as her. The final blow made her cry out, not as loudly as it could have, since she was still trying to be cooperative. He stood her up, and she automatically removed the remainder of her clothing. She waited to see where he wanted her. He bent her over the side of the bed, spreading her legs with his right foot. She felt exposed, arched back, all the tender parts of her body open to his vision and whim. Every nerve in her body responded in kind. He started to punish her sex, popping her hard enough to make her jump and squeak. She arched her back in turn, trying to make herself available to him. Little sharp smacks delivered to her oh so sensitive skin continued until the area was an angry red and throbbing. He stepped back to admire the contrast of red on white. He smiled down at her, though she couldn't see it. With his fingers he gingerly touched her, running them across her engorged clit and inside her in one motion. She moaned, using her body language to express how much she'd like for that to continue. It did not however. He reached for a bottle kept near the bed, and squeezed a moderate amount of the slippery substance onto his right hand. He bent and kissed her gently between her shoulder blades, then reached for his favorite part of her body. He ran a lubricated finger around the sensitive nerves of her anus, coaxing her to relax and let him play. Not her favorite but still she spread herself as far as she could manage in this position. He slipped his forefinger inside her, then the middle finger of the same hand. He twisted and forced his fingers in and out until she could take another, and then did. He continued this until she could no longer stand it. She moved away, trying to dislodge his hand from her, until he delivered a few sharp, quick blows to her already reddened buttocks. She relented, mewling and relaxed into position again. This she knew was in part so that when he entered her, with his extremely large member, it would be easier. It was time. He moved her legs so that she was kneeling on the bed, still open, ready. He lubricated his stiff penis and teased her with it before gently entering her tight anus. She protested only slightly, caught up suddenly in the feeling as he slowly filled her. They easily found what had always been their natural tempo and were soon caught up in the little death that is owning, being owned, and succumbing to the pleasure that entails. Collapsing on the bed he takes her into his arms, both falling asleep in the afterglow. Chapter 2 upcoming, where he finds what she has written. Hallelujah Ch. 01 "Uh," it's strange enough a question that I almost don't ask it, "who are we recording?" Bennie waves his hand dismissively, his face squinting up like something stinks. "It's nothing to get excited about, I'm afraid. Guy's name is Ted Fields. Goes by Teddy. He's got a good band behind him, and he turns a mean phrase, but he's nothing worth putting on your resume. He's signed to a vanity label owned by Epic, has two records out. Good luck finding them, if that's what you intend to do. My understanding is that this song is getting cut for a soundtrack to some low budget movie or other. It's a credits song, although if it's good enough it could show up on his next album. For whatever that's worth." The look on his face tells me exactly what he thinks that's worth. "Oh, you'll be in studio H," he adds as an afterthought. Great. Studio H isn't so much a studio as it is a mixing board, a set of monitor speakers, and a recording room you'd never hope to fit a band in. "I thought studio H was mostly for vocals," I try not to sound as disappointed as I am. "It is," he shrugs. "But Teddy Fields says it makes him feel trapped, he says he likes that, and his label plays along because it's so much cheaper than the other rooms." He barks a laugh, shoulders leaping up as if to touch his ears. "Rediculous, the things we put up with." I give him a fake smile, something I've been doing a lot lately, and think about Teddy Fields. He likes the way the room makes him feel trapped. That's funny to me, because trapped is exactly how this place is starting to make me feel. Later that night, I do manage to find Teddy Fields's albums...on iTunes, of all places. Nothing is out of print in a digital age. I'm sure Bennie couldn't care less. I listen to them, and for what it's worth they don't really jump out at me. I like the sound of his voice...a deep, damaged, aching sound that crumples inward on the softer songs and becomes smoke. The lyrics are indeed solid, but the music is all forgettable. I do notice that the mixing on his records is really uneven. I can hear drums, bass, acoustic guitar, lap steel slide guitar, and piano, but the acoustic was way too loud in the mix. Of all the instruments, it seems to have the least interesting parts...it just strums its way through without variation. But it's front and center with the bass and drums, and it makes the songs feel very samey. The mournful slide and the minimalist piano are relegated to the distance. I sit and listen at my computer, pulling from a bottle of Buck Nelson's homemade shiraz, and try to imagine what it might sound like with the parts all rearranged. Push the acoustic into the background, ask the drummer to play with more of a jazzy cymbal-tapping style, put an echoey delay on the slide and bring it up...I can almost imagine something beautiful in there. The aforementioned Buck is my next door neighbor, and his passion is winemaking. Apparently that's even harder to get into than music, as careers go, so he's had to keep it on the side as a hobby. He works downtown in the AT&T building, and he looks like your typical office jockey slacker guy. He spends his weekends in sandals, shorts, and Jimmy Buffett concert shirts. He's a lot of fun, and very quick to share his wine. By the time ol' Buck's shiraz is gone, I've moved on both physically and mentally. I spend the last hour before I crawl into bed sitting on my porch, basking in the Nashville humidity and watching the moon crest. I wonder idly about Jasmine...where she is, if she's still up or if it's past her bedtime. I wonder if she has kids. I am a bit drunk, and maudlin drunk at that. My big victorious return to the home that had exiled me is so far one big understated disappointment. The job, to be honest, looks to suck. While the studio itself is nice I don't care for the people at all. And, I miss the creative fire of Ladyland. The money is okay, but nothing to brag to anyone about. And now being here, in the place where we had had so many great times, has knocked me straight back to pining after my ex-almost-wife. When I finally hit the pillow, I lay there and fantasize about finding out where she lives, where she buys her groceries, and arranging to "accidentally" run into her there. It sounds stupid and obsessive even to me, but it's just a fantasy. Anyway, what would I tell her? What could I possibly say? And what exactly do I think would impress her about me, now? Sleep comes for me before I can try to answer. -- Monday morning I plant myself in the unyielding maroon office chair that mans the consol of Studio D. It's just after nine o'clock, and I've spent the last ninety minutes prepping the equipment. The board is lit up, the tubes are warm, the signal chain is good...I'm all set. I lean back and look around...and almost fall over. I'm glad no one saw that. The low-backed chair might fit the motif, but it's better suited to telemarketing or a parent-teacher conference than a recording engineer. After some experimenting, I determine that the only way to really find any comfort in it is to sit with near perfect posture and your butt pushed as far back as possible...and calling that comfort is really, really pushing it. I ponder the risk of bringing my own chair in to use...except I don't have a chair. Yet. And now, I wait. About twenty minutes after the session is supposed to start, Bennie pops in. He doesn't seem surprised to see me all alone in the soft-lit room. He just smiles and looks around like a proud papa. "I never get tired of seeing this," he says. "I bet you never worked with a setup like this up in New York, eh?" "Nope," I shrug. It's true. I never had to try and record a full band in a vocal booth in New York. New York was way better. "I just came down to warn you," he continues, "you've gotta be careful with this fella. Teddy Fields is a...well, he's a different sort." He clamps a large, sweaty hand on my shoulder. "He can be pretty frustrating to work with. He doesn't understand the science of recording, you know?" He taps the mixing console, like I couldn't have figured out what he meant otherwise. "Few musicians do," I point out. "I drove out to sit in on a mixing session for a movie soundtrack Eddie Vedder did out in Seattle a few years ago, and he didn't even know what a compressor did." The hand disappears from my shoulder. From the disapproving look, I figure ol' Bennie doesn't know who Eddie Vedder is any more than Eddie knew that a compressor helps soften the louder moments in a track so that the overall volume can be brought up. Some of Pearl Jam's later albums suffer from too much compression in my mind, pushing levels up to the point of losing a lot of the dynamics. This is something that could be prevented if they just knew a little more about the process, and I suspect that Bennie's lack of knowledge of the pop world is as detrimental to his work as their lack of technical awareness is to theirs. "Anyway," he takes on a patient tone that raises the hairs on the back of my neck, "this one, he's...different. I don' jus' mean he can't figure the gear. He's tryin' to pitch from outside the ballpark, you know? Last time he came through, he wanted to record the whole band using only room mics. Room mics! Not one microphone within two feet of anything, you understand? Not even a mic to sing into!" He rolls his eyes and gives one of his barking laughs. "He couldn't figure why we wouldn't do it. Can you imagine that? We even muted everything and put one mic out in front and let him try it, just to show him what a stupid idea it was, but the dumbass loved it! It sounded like listening to a dog take a shit through a tin can phone, and he loved it. So you may have to be a little firm with him. Don' worry about making the artist angry, now. Just give it to 'em straight. 'round here we answer to the label first, the producer second, and never the singer. It ain't our job to humor them. We ain't their managers, and we ain't their mommas...assuming those aren't two words for the same thing. We just record." "And that," a deep, sandpapered voice rolls in from the doorway, "is the problem." With no further introduction, Teddy Fields steps into the room and into my life. A short man in his early 30's with unkempt, though not especially long, hair, he has a prominent chin and a very expressive face. A crumpled suit jacket hands over a snug white shirt. His jeans are dusty...I don't know why that stands out for me, but it does. "It's why we'll never see eye to eye, Bennie," he continues. "You just record. You record instruments, and voices" he waves his hands expressively around himself, "and I want to record the air between them." I can't help but smile at that. His gaze falls on me, and the grin spreads. He has tired eyes, and they might threaten to age him prematurely if not for the fact that they are constantly sparkling, teasing the smallest hint of amusement. I immediately like this guy. It's refreshing after hanging out with Bennie nonstop for two weeks. "Well," Bennie joins us in smiling, albeit insincerely, "once we get that first million seller out of the way you can start spending label money any which way you want. We're just trying to help you get to that level of success where you can do as you please with your music. You understand." Teddy winks again. It's an affectation so fast that it almost seems like a nervous twitch. "Ain't no million people ever gonna buy my records," he takes on Bennie's drawl, teasing but not mocking. "and I don't find that near as upsetting as you do." "Well you should," Bennie sniffs and glances at his clipboard dismissively. "Now Jacob here will be lookin' after you, Teddy, so don't give him a hard time. You all just cut the rhythm track the way Walter talked about, and this afternoon he'll be back to help you finish up. And of course," he gives me a knowing look, "I'm right down the hall if you should need me." I bite the inside of my lip. I guess I'm getting to see just how much Bennie respects me as a colleague...about the same as a McDonald's manager respects the brace-faced sixteen year old he hired to work the drive-thru for the summer. I'm both embarrassed and furious, but fortunately Bennie leaves before I give in to the desire to snap at him. Teddy and I look at each other for a moment, those tired eyes of his still lit. I feel bad for him...if Bennie wants to be a douchebag to me, well, at least I can shrug and know that he is indeed my superior. I mean, it's my BOSS who is treating me like shit. Teddy Fields is a songwriter, a singer and a musician. He's the whole reason we're here, the living embodiment of our purpose, and Bennie damn near scolded him like a naughty schoolboy. Why is Bennie even in the business, if he can stand in a recording studio of all places and casually deride the curious spark of the truly creative? So what if Teddy is a little nontechnical, or a little far out in his thinking? Fuck, John Lennon was both of those things, and probably much worse about it than Teddy Fields. It was John who had asked engineer Geoff Emerick, during the Revolver sessions, if he could tie him to a rope and swing him around the microphone as he sang. Fortunately for him, Emerick had better ideas. But I have to wonder...how would Bennie have felt about John Lennon? How would anybody in this fucking place have felt about him? "Haven't I seen you before?" Teddy asks suddenly, snapping my thoughts back to the present. "I don't think so, but it's possible. I was living up in New York until a few weeks ago." "No. It was here. I'm sure of it." I look around the room, a little uncomfortable now. "Not a chance of that, I'm afraid. This is my first session in Blackbird." "I don't mean the studio. I mean Nashville." I shrug. "I grew up here." "Hm." For a moment he's watching me a bit too closely. Then he relaxes and says, "It'll come to me, eventually. For now the boys are on their way up, so we might as well get to the task at hand." He turns to go down the hall and get his gear, then pauses and looks over his shoulder at me. "And Jacob?" "Yeah?" "Pay Bennie no mind. He's past praying for. I mean that." Tell me about it. - Forty minutes later we're all introduced and set up. The band is rehearsing, and I'm playing with the levels and trying to get the right sound. I'm also going over the musician's names in my head over and over in the hopes that something might stick. Balancing precariously on his stool, swishing his brush sticks and setting the pace, is Paul Spears. About fifty pounds overweight, he takes up more room than the sparse kit he's brought with him today. Calling it a kit is overly kind; all he has is a kick, snare, and high hat. He's got a thick black goatee on his face and almost nothing on his head. He smiles whenever he plays, or at least it looks like a smile. Fingering the neck of his stand-up bass is Brooke Meadows. Tall and thin, he looks a little sickly. But then, lots of guys in bands look a little sickly. If you're not the Rolling Stones, odds are you live off of fast food and macaroni and cheese most of the time. The guy must play his instrument way too much because, even when he's away from it, he leans forward like he's supporting its weight. It's a terrible posture. Out in the control room with me, not contributing to this first run, is a guy calling himself Mickey English. No shit. I'm not sure that's a real name. It doesn't matter if it is. Mick's the piano player, and the piano will have to be cut seperately for the simple fact that I can't fit him in the room. He's sprawled out on the control room sofa, playing the air as if his, long boney fingers were dancing around a keyboard. Otherwise, he just looks bored. He wanted to be in there, so I'm sure he doesn't like me. My first act with this band had to involve putting my foot down, taking the heat for everybody else's stupid ideas...the guys wanted to cut everything together, playing the way they normally would on stage. When you have lots of room and isolation booths that's an option. As it is, the three guys who will be in the recording room today are practically elbow to elbow. Even with carefully chosen and placed mics, I'm gonna get a lot of bleed. And probably some shit from the producer, when he shows. I don't know where that acoustic player I heard on the records is. Maybe he got fired, or just isn't coming in today. It's not important...hell, that acoustic was the worst thing about the songs that I heard earlier. Getting rid of it can only be a blessing. Teddy's in the room with the drums and bass, coloring the passages with his aching pedal steel slide parts, but I'm not recording him. I figure he'll get picked up a little on the mics I have set up, but he's already agreed to overdub his part again later, by itself, so we can get a proper fix on it. The aural shadows of him playing will show up in the background of the bass and drum, but they'll seem like reverby, almost inaudable decoration. You'll need good headphones to hear them, but they'll add texture you're not even aware you're appreciating. They've run through the song seven times as I set levels, and to be honest I'm not real impressed. I like Teddy a lot more than I like his music, I guess. I mean, melodically it's pretty great, but the performance just falls flat. I like to think I have a pretty good poker face to keep from hurting the musicians feelings, but maybe Teddy can read people or something, because he leans towards the snare mic (it's not but three feet from where he's sitting) and his sore throat voice comes out the monitor speakers, filling the control room with his presense. "I don't know. It just seems wrong, doesn't it Jake?" Yeah, it really does. It sounds like a bad cover of a good track. "No," I lie. "It's fine." He looks at me for a moment. "We're gonna do one more run-through, but this time we're gonna play it the way we play it. Not the way Russell wants it played. And this time I'm gonna sing. I know you won't be able to hear me too well, but I just want to see what you think. Is that okay?" I need a few more minutes with the levels anyway. "Sure thing, but when we record it'll have to be the way Walter asked." He doesn't respond to that. Instead, he just leans back and smiles as the three of them pick up the intro of the song. My fingers freeze on the faders. Before, it had been sounding a bit like a cross between an uninspired blues track and failed adult radio rock. It was safe music, the kind of thing old men appreciate and don't buy. Unemotional stuff, and forgettable. Now the band takes it at a more laconic pace, with all three players doing a lot less actual playing and letting their few movements speak that much more for the lack of what's being said. Teddy's voice rumbles over the empty space, no longer sounding like a part of the landscape. Played this way, with so much room for his voice to move in, it becomes a mile-deep chasm in the listener's heart. Paul Spears nods along like a silent click track, but he doesn't so much as touch the kick drum for the first two minutes. Instead, he relies mostly on barely noticable soft taps of the high hat. Brooke Meadows lets most of his bass notes sustain for so long that when he does toss in a little climb that leads into the chorus, it tickles your ear. Teddy's silvery, swaying slide playing hovers over it all like a weary ghost. And at that magical two minute mark, when the first boom of the kick drum (and it is a boom, now, not the softer beat from the earlier performances) finally appears, the impact is so dynamic that it feels like timpani. The song is suddenly spiralling up into a crescendo of emotion, with Teddy belting in a register almost out of his reach and at such great volume his face is red and he can be heard crystal clear over the monitor speakers. "...so we bring down the flag of what never could last. You can't steer a ship with your faith. And the wind still pulls me far from the mast, But if you cling to the rail now, You're safe. As long as I'm here you'll be safe." His head goes back like a man gasping for air, freshly surfaced from the sea. And, just like that, the playing softens and the song has gone. For the first time since I got to Nashville, I'm excited. My heart pounds. This four minute swirl of sound has melted every bit of cynicism in me. I hit the talkback. "That was incredible! THAT'S how you play it?" He nods. "Jesus, Teddy...Walter didn't prep the song for recording. He fucking murdered it!" "Well, I'm glad you approve," Teddy says with a sardonic smile. "But we'd better get to cutting Dad's version before he gets home." "Fuck that," I stand up, leaning over the consol. There's adrenaline in my veins. I'm ice cold, like I just bathed in near-frozen water. Teddy Fields, with a song, has reminded me why I ever cared about this stuff to begin with. He's altered my course. And isn't that exactly how it should be? Isn't that supposed to be the power of the song? Isn't that why gospel music is more universal than gospel? Why 1960's teenagers dropped jaw when they saw The Beatles hit Sullivan, or heard Jagger spit out 'Satisfaction?' Why so many people can remember the first time they heard The Ramones or The Clash? Isn't that what music is supposed to be? The power to redefine you in three minutes time? I'm converted, one of the faithful. And this job fucking sucks. I make a decision. "Forget Walter's arrangement. We're cutting your version. And we're gonna try and get the whole thing down before he shows up. If he still wants to start all over from scratch, that's his beef." Behind me, Mick pushes himself upright. He's looking at me like he only just noticed that I'm in the room with him. "Are you sure we should do that?" He asks, but he has a knowing grin. "I mean, we wouldn't want to be responsible for you getting fired, or..." Hallelujah Ch. 01 "Don't worry about it," I interject. I'll admit to being nervous. The last thing I need is to have them giving me second thoughts. This feels like a good decision. "This job has turned out to be real shit, and it's been a long time since I've had the satisfaction of getting fired." "Mick," Fields's voice booms into the room, "wouldn't you do the same thing, if the alternative was a lifetime spent working next to Bennie Rich?" "Oh," Mick gives a cough-like laugh, "yeah. Definitely would." "Alright," I say, "let's work quickly. No more wasted time." A thought strikes me, and I get curious. "Can I offer a suggestion, Teddy?" "What's that?" "Try dropping it down half a step or so. It's got a great, moody low end, and that kick drum really seals the deal, but it should make the empty space feel that much more mysterious if you drop the key. It'll also be easier for you to sing." Teddy looks around at his bandmates, and Brooke Meadows gives him a shrug. "Alright," he says, "we'll try it your way. Whaddya know, kid? You're a producer." I guess I am. We work fast. I end up overcompressing the kick mic and feeding a little reverb into it, to give the kick drum even more of a booming timpani sound. The guys seem to approve. They tear through six takes of the rhythm track, and all six are solid...the fourth one is perfect, really. We decide to record Teddy playing and singing over it at the same time, to not only keep his performance as natural as possible but also ensure that we get done before Russell shows up. On a whim, I suggest to him that with so much space for the vocal, we can give the recording a live, large feeling by doing exactly what Teddy Fields always wished he could do: we mic him from a distance. Not the guitar, mind you...I want that all shimmers and echoes floating over the rhythm...but his voice. I place a Neumann U87, a mic worth more than my car, about four feet from where he's sitting. It'll pick up some of the guitar, too, but that will just serve to enhance its otherworldly quality. Fields blows the song out of the water in just one take. He does play a slightly different bit on the bridge, but having the original part humming distant and muffled where it was picked up by the drum kit mics only serves to make the bridge feel more ghostly. The piano is missing yet, but it's already a potent track. One of the best I've ever worked on. And all of this in a few hours time. Basically, that's all there is to do. We're sitting in the control room talking shop, waiting for Dad to show, when a thought occurs to me. "Say," I ask, "both your records have acoustic guitar on them. In fact, listening to them, I assumed at first that it was you," I nod to Teddy. "Is that guy just not here today?" A shared glance amongst them and I know something's up. Paul answers me with a sneer. "That fucking guitar. There is no acoustic player in this band. Our first producer was actually the brother of the guy who owns the label our records come out on. Didn't know shit about music. He figured the acoustic would streamline our sound a bit...'easier to appreciate,' was the phrase he used. Anyway, we balked, he went to his brother, and before we knew it we had a choice to make: add the acoustic or find a new label." "We," Teddy notes drily, "wouldn't have a lot of luck with that." "So we kept it. Stupid decision, really. It ruined the record." I nod. "It doesn't help, either, that he made it the centerpiece of every song. It's the loudest thing on there." "Exactly," Mick nods. "And then Walter produced our last album, and he thought it was the only saving grace of our sound. Fuck. I can't tell you how many people have bought our record after seeing us live and then complained about that guitar." "Tell me something, Jake," Teddy leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, "are you really going to get fired over this?" "Over what?" We all turn to the new voice coming from the doorway. Walter Russell has entered the room. "Why are we talking about people getting fired?" He gives us a warm southern smile. It doesn't make me feel better. One look at the man has given me the answer to Teddy's question. Walter is a bit old for a producer...maybe in his late fifties...with a tucked in button up and a Colonel Sanders goatee. He's fat, with a swollen red face and polished cowboy boots. He has a large belt buckle. His hair is short and swirly on top of his head, and he's wearing a tie with a picture of Texas on it. Make no mistake about it: Walter Russell is old school country. "Yes," I say to Teddy, thinking of the 'angels flying over a bayou' sound we've crafted and contrasting it to the one Russell's directions would have produced. "I think I am." Hallelujah Ch. 02 Hallelujah Ch. 02 ( A special thanks to my editor, without you luv, this would only be a passing fancy!) * I read back over the chapter I had written. "Not bad," I thought to myself. That didn't stop me from staring at the screen, wondering whether or not I should click the terrifying little button that would send my words out to god knows how many viewers, open for their comments and scrutiny. "What the hell," I say aloud to myself. It's the internet, and therefore it's mostly anonymous. I sit back in the over-sized chair that is the focal point of Nick's room. I close my eyes and breathe in the scent of leather that carries with it the hint of male he inevitably leaves behind. Damn, I do love the way he smells. I smile to myself. So he wasn't dark and handsome; didn't keep me from thinking he was the most beautiful creature I had ever had the pleasure of being touched by. And he made a great muse. Not that I am exactly like the female in my story either. My hair is far more of a light topaz color than scarlet. I tried scarlet once, and like everything else I try to do to my unruly hair it rebelled. Two weeks later it was back to it's natural glory. In the wisdom of my advancing age I have finally decided to stop trying to curl, color, perm or tame it. So it sits, mostly straight and long since it seems to like it that way. Sigh. I need to get in the shower if I plan on making it on time for my sister's birthday gathering this evening. The images from my story still run rampant through my head. I can't stop thinking about what I know I want to try, how it would actually feel to be so dominated... Okay, so I got myself a little worked up writing such sordid tales. Two clicks and the site and my story were safely hidden. Well, not really hidden. I knew he never opened the program I used to write, and it wasn't likely he would find my first chapter any time soon. Time for a shower. Leaving the door open so I can hear the music I left playing constantly I make my way into the bathroom. Slipping out of my clothing felt liberating. I study myself in the mirror. "Yeah," I think. "Keep up the yoga." I was getting older, for certain. My looks were not gone yet, but I notice little signs of age starting to set in. I look at the clock, figuring he wouldn't make it home for at least another hour. Good. Plenty of time for a quick orgasm and some gratuitous singing at the top of my lungs before he arrives. For a moment I stand under the hot water, letting it fall over my hair, enjoying the way it drips down and finds all those little places like only water can. Oh yeah, time for that big O. Even though I am right handed I always masturbate with my left for some reason. Leaning back against the shower wall I open myself with my right hand, spreading my own lips open so I can stroke myself. Water is not the best lubricate but it's no matter, I am so hot from penning my own fantasy that anything would work right now. I start massaging, tugging, teasing my own clit. The walls of the shower melt away as I enter my own mind, imagining the finer details, thinking of the things I want him to do but can't seem to let him know. Closing my eyes I lean into my hand, as though I were begging a partner. That warm feeling starts to grow as I rub faster and harder. It doesn't take long, and I nearly regret that I can't hold off any longer. The ache that is an itch to be scratched overwhelms me. Arching I hear my own moans as the sudden rush of fluid from inside escapes. I insert a couple of fingers, tapping that little ever-so-popular G spot to prolong the moment. I can feel the walls contracting around my fingers, soft and wet. Sighing in contentment I remove my hands, letting the cleansing water wash away the moment. Perhaps it's just me, but a woman going through her sexual peak reminds me of a teenage boy going through his. I love to get off and get me off. I am usually irritatingly horny and sometimes long for the age where this ends. For the moment I relax and let the soap do it's thing. One thing I know is that I don't want my story to be only one little blurb. I need a chapter 2. What in the heavens am I going to do with my lucky, enamored pair? I hear the music change to his station as I step out of the shower, marking his early arrival. Okay, so I was off by half an hour. It happens. "Hi honey, how was your day?" I ask, smiling at him. "It was a day," he replies. Man of many words, that one. He sits in the aforementioned leather chair and starts to peruse the internet. The small bachelor pad he has chosen is not bad, perfect for him in fact. His huge 60" TV screen makes for a pretty computer monitor. It's why I like to write when I am here. I am not paying much attention as I slip into my robe. Eventually, I glance at the screen. "OH FUCK!" I think loudly. I left the story in the background. The icon at the bottom of the screen glares back at me like a zit on prom night. I hope he doesn't notice. He hasn't yet, perhaps that will continue. Finally! He gets up to get something cold and refreshing. Thank goodness. I hurriedly close the program, saving as I do. Whew. Dogged a bullet there. One day I want him to see it, just not today. -------------------------------------------------- "Leigh, tell me, where are we going again?" he asks in that tone which suggests he'd rather be anywhere else than in this car headed to my darling sister's house. "Some Goth slash fetish club I went to with Kat back in the day, Masque. You know, she has strange tastes." He groans deeply and dramatically. "Oh, get over it. Patrick is paying for everything anyway. And it's her 30th. He's getting a limo and hotel rooms for them and us tonight so that no-one has to be the DD. Really, I know the music won't be to your taste, but I am certain you can suck down enough alcohol for it to be tolerable for this one night." "I still don't know..." he protests. I lean toward him from the passenger seat, sliding my fingers up his thigh towards his crotch in the most seductive manor I can manage and say in my best bedroom voice "I'll make it up to you in the room." "I know you will. I had already planned on you doing just that" he says darkly. I grin and turn up the radio. Damn he looks good all dressed up. Simple dark slacks and a sateen shirt the color of blood I picked out just for the occasion go well against his pale features and dark hair. I breath in deeply, letting his delicious scent linger in my nostrils. Even if he hates it, I am determined to have fun tonight. We arrive at Kat's house around 6 pm. She is letting me borrow an outfit since I long ago grew out of my goth phase. I remember just how much I love my sister when she comes bounding out of the house towards me. Kat and I have similar features, but her hair is darker and naturally curly. Pretty curly, not that frizzy hideous variety. She's taller too, a fact which she loves to torment me with on a regular basis. "Happy Birthday, Sis" I tell her while she is attempting to squeeze the life out of me in one of her famous bear hugs. I finally get her to detach so I can breath. "I have the perfect outfit picked out for you! You are going to love it I promise it's going to look so wonderful with your hair and skin and I am just so excited I can hardly stand it!" she says about the same speed a machine gun spits out bullets. "Okay, okay" I laugh. "Let's go get ready and leave the boys to their beers. I know you got us a bottle of pre-dinner wine right? We should get into that too." "Yes! I got us a bottle of bubbly. Now let's get it and get you into something a little less comfortable" she teases. Well, it's mostly teasing I find out soon enough. I see that she has out a massive pile of clothes, a total Kat trait. If her bed had been visible I would have questioned whether or not she had been replaced by some alien doppelganger. I soon find myself admiring my squished stomach and breasts in her lengthy mirror. I have always loved her satin, emerald, whalebone corset and now it's on my body. She has a new favorite in what is best described as shocking blue. The skirt she has loaned me is long, long enough to drag the floor. It's made of satin too, but much heavier and midnight black. It's a nice contrast to her ballerina poof of a skirt and knee-high boots. We hug and laugh, looking at our reflections. "Hungry yet?" she asks. "I'm not sure I can eat in this, but I guess we should be off to dinner." I joke, hooking her arm into mine. "Let's go show the boys what we've been stuffing ourselves into." -------------------------------------------------- As per usual my stoic love gives nothing away about how he feels about the way I look. Dinner I discover is at a little hole in wall place that is quite used to the crowd of the Masque stopping in for a gourmet bite before some guilty pleasure. The food is light but perfect for lining the stomach for a night of debauchery. I notice Nick looking at my cleavage periodically, which sends little shivers down my spine. I can't help but to be anxious for our little hotel vacation. We take our time with dinner, drinks and dessert, arriving at the club around 11 pm. I had forgotten how dark and smoky and loud the place is. I smile as the ambiance washes over me. Male and female alike dressed and strutted like peacocks here. Every color of the rainbow could be seen just in the hair of the patrons, and this was no exaggeration. It was a splendid place to people watch, dance, drink, and my favorite, the shows. I hadn't set foot in the place for five years or more, but not much had changed. Kat and I took seats at the bar, the only two available, while Nick and Patrick stood near us. We ordered a round of Electric Lemonades to celebrate our passing youth. I took a long sip of mine and let the sound of dark techno flow over me, smiling. Kat and I danced while the boys watched laughing at our antics, some serious, some playful mocking of the culture, to the sound of Wolfsheim and KMFDM. Finally, the part I had been looking most forward too, the show. The stage lit up, revealing the players for this portion. A robust blonde woman in raunchy, red lingerie stood on stage with a riding crop in one hand and a leash in her other. On his knees was an innocent looking man in his boxers. The overhead announcement told us it was his birthday. He looked at the crowd as she lead him to a nondescript wooden chair, and faced him away from the crowd. He was wearing plaid boxers, and nothing else. She teased him a little, running the crop over his backside, and between his legs. The music was far too loud for the audience to hear the crack of the first blow, but I swear I could hear it. She continued to swat him, making his whole body jump. After a few minutes of this, she pulled his boxers down, revealing the welts already rising on his tender flesh, yet hiding his sex. The blonde ran her fingers over his skin, making him shiver noticeably. She walked with careful deliberation to a table filled with every implement imaginable. She chose a flogger, heavy and black from the collection. She seemed to snicker to herself as she teased the poor, lucky boy with it, caressing his skin before landing a series of criss-crossing blows across his already wounded body. I stood en-rapt, enthralled even. I had forgotten how it felt, watching this art. Yes, art. There is something amazingly beautiful about these exhibitionists, and the thrill I felt watching them. Suddenly, in my ear I hear a voice- his voice. "So which one do you want to be" Nick asks me, with a deep, knowing tone. I look at him, shocked and embarrassed that he has noticed. I was so into the display on the stage that I never noticed him watching me. My tale-tell blush gives me away, and he laughs, a great hearty laugh, then turns back to the stage. The hotel room lingers in my mind, the birthday skit forgotten. When the stage darkens I make a b-line for the bar. I need a refill, stat. The four of us continue the celebration, watching the performances come and go. The rest of the evening is a blur to me, the upcoming silence of the room making me curious and nervous. At 2 am, Kat declares she is finished, as is her birthday. We climb in the limo, popping another bottle of bubbly and sing our way to the hotel. Hallelujah Ch. 03 A gurgling sound, and then it's done. The last of the juice leaves the tube, other than a few driblets clinging here and there, and the thick, dark, mush at the bottom of the bucket is all that remains. It's thick, purple sedimentary looking, and it almost seems biological. It's pretty gross. I turn and lean in and tap the large glass carboy...big enough to hold six gallons...and frown. The directions that came with the kit say that after transferring the wine from the bucket where the first fermentation occurred to the glass carboy, I should top it up with water or wine to within a few inches of the bung. But I have six inches or more left over. That seems like an awful lot of water to add. Fuck. Did I screw this up? With a shrug, I start adding water. Maybe it IS an awful lot to add, but whatever. Buck assured me when we bought it that, so long as I follow the directions carefully, all would be okay. So I guess I'll keep to that storyline and hope for the best. I have to hurry anyway. My shift starts in forty minutes, and it's almost that long a drive to get there. My shift. Fuck. It's been six weeks since my last session as a recording engineer. Or, if you'd rather, since my brief turn as a producer. In that time I've looked for other gigs without a lot of success. It's a tough town to be an unemployed engineer in, and I'd bet your sexual organs that Bennie is giving me less than favorable recommendations to anybody who asks. I'm pretty sure about that, but not a hundred percent. You'll note that it's your balls I'm betting, not mine. Actually, I did hear from Bennie one last time. Sort of. He sent me a lengthy e-mail detailing all the ways he thought I'd fucked up what he called "the best job of your life" and, in no uncertain terms, telling me that I wasn't fit for recording or for any gainful employment as far as he could tell. It was a long missive, with very little in the way of punctuation or capitalization. At times, I had to take my best guess as to where one sentence ended and the next began. Oh, yes. I read the whole thing. I noted that it arrived very late in the overnight. I wonder if he was drunk. I hope he was, actually. The guy needs some kind of stress reducer in his life, and he doesn't seem like the hard drugs type. Not that that means anything. Still, Bennie just isn't that important. He's not an eminent threat. Going four straight weeks with no incoming money, on the other hand, was not a small problem to have. In fact, it was absolutely horrifying to me to realize just how close I generally live to the brink. Another four weeks without any money coming in on top of that, and I'd have been in real trouble. So, two weeks ago I bit the bullet and applied at an electronics store in the shinier part of town. I'm knowledgeable enough, the pay is adequate, and nothing in this big blue world sounds more boring to me. So of course I got the job. Last week I trained, today I work. The manager's friendly, if a bit odd, the people working with me are mostly five to ten years younger than I am, and the hours are good. Today is the first day of the rest of my life. Fuck. You know what kind of chafes is that I haven't seen Teddy Fields since the day he let me ramble on about Jasmine. In fact, he didn't even bother to let me hear his thoughts on the story. After being so damn insistent that I tell him everything, he let me drone on and on and, when I was done, he paid for our drinks and said he had to be on his way. Left me sitting there totally bewildered and a little embarrassed. Not even a goodbye, just a wave over his shoulder. Like he expected to see me again soon. Like we were old friends. I got some papers in the mail, to sign and return. It was all legal shit regarding payment for services as producer of the song (which now has the official title of 'As Long As I'm Here'), stuff I probably should have run down with a lawyer. But, I can't afford one, and Fields is not exactly feeding a rabid fanbase with his gruel, so I just signed and returned them. They gave me about enough money to cover groceries for a month. That was okay by me. If anybody asks, and really nobody does, I'm hoping to get out of town and start up recording again somewhere else. Probably Omaha. The music is what matters, and I can't imagine living my life in Nashville surrounded by music I'm not a part of. I certainly don't want to be hawking gear at some Radio Shack-knockoff designed to appeal to people with half-a-million dollar houses and bullshit medical problems that they get innumerable prescriptions for. I really don't want to spend my time selling fancy massage tools to people who are sixty pounds overweight and sit at a desk all day and then come in looking for help with a "back problem." So why am I doing exactly that? Why haven't I spent a single minute of my ample free time looking into job opportunities, or housing, outside of the Nashville area? Why do I keep looking up the listing in the phone book for AJ and Jasmine Knox? What the fuck is wrong with me? I called Grandpa Cooper a few days after the firing and poured my heart out to him. He was sympathetic, and encouraged me to stick it out. "Don't let the world dictate to you what you're going to be," he'd said. He was coughing a lot. I should get up there and see him as soon as I can. My wine is topped up and the airlock put on, so I dress for work and try to think up new goals for myself. It's a strange exercise, actually. On the surface, it seems like something people do all the time, but the truth is we tend to spend most of our lives in pursuit of a very small collection of goals, with small steps being shuffled along the way. Lose weight, become more financially secure, clean the garage...we don't change all that much, over time. Starting over from scratch is...well, it's liberating. It's also frustrating, and a bit depressing. I've been pretty singular since high school, and while it's lead to some pretty intense experiences and the opportunity to meet some famous people, I'm looking at my button-up shirt with my name sewn over the right pec in the mirror and realizing just how old thirty-one can sound. Not, you know, in that bullshit "oh my god I'm an adult now" kind of way. More in the fact that my career is going nowhere and I'm alone in the world. No wife, no children at my feet, no chance of either one in the nearest of futures. Maybe ever. Goddamn. Heading out the door, my life gets a little shittier: Mrs. Married is bouncing happily towards me. She's wearing a light blue shirt that has some kind of jeweled butterfly thing arcing over her fabulous breasts. Her hair is in a ponytail. She sees that I've noticed her and waves energetically, hurrying over. "Hey, baby," she smiles. "Haven't seen you at the gym in a while. I miss you, you know." I shrug. "Haven't been going." Actually, I'm not a member anymore. I'm avoiding you. "Well I've missed you." She gives me a once-over, admiring the uniform and flattening my collar like an attendant mother. "Look at you, in your new shirt. Very sexy. We should go inside." A mischievous grin spreads and she raises her eyebrows expectantly. "You can keep the shirt on," she says, and leans in for a kiss. I pull back. I suppose I make a bit of a face, too. She scowls at me, and suddenly she's a lot less playful. "What's this?" she pouts. "Don't give me a bunch of moody attitude. Use your big boy words. What's wrong? Suddenly you're not interested in spending time with me? I thought we had a good thing going, before. I thought we had fun. I mean I know did." "It was good," I admit. "But I've been thinking a lot about it, and I don't feel right about sleeping with married women." "Then we just won't fall asleep this time." "I'm serious. This...it bothers me. A lot." "Seriously." She pinches the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger, like I'm being an idiot or something. "Listen, this is a lot simpler than you want to believe it is. I like you. I like the way being with you makes me feel, and right now I need some of that in my life. My marriage is shit. That's all there is to that story. You didn't pull me out of it, or seduce me, or take me away from my husband. You didn't destroy anything at all. God, I'm the one who seduced YOU," she kind of smiles her way through that admission. "And I know that men go about these things in...simpler ways...but a woman doesn't cheat just because she's horny and a new opportunity jumps up at her. She doesn't have an affair because her husband isn't giving it up often enough, or just to fuck someone new. When a woman cheats on her marriage it's because she's already checking out. Because she's falling out of love, and it's scaring her. And she's insecure, and needy, and very aware of her own emotional needs. I don't want you to sweep me off my feet. I don't want to spend the rest of my life with you. And I don't want you to think whatever I do with my marriage is your fault. That mess is over in all but name." She gives me those goddamn 'save me' eyes, and leans in closer. "Please, Jake. I'm going to be forty in a few months. Forty, and single, and probably out of the reproduction game for good. I'm terrified. Being with you gives me courage. It makes me feel like I have something to offer, like maybe I really can say goodbye to a life that makes me unhappy and try starting over with someone else. Don't let some stupid idea about chivalry, or whatever, ruin that. I need it." The gap closes a little more, and our lips meet. It's a gentle touch, deeply intimate but not passionate. A promise in a kiss. "I have to go to work," I tell her. I've rehearsed the part where I end this sordid affair many times, but never in my mental preparation did I develop an argument for a speech like that. Another gentle, almost tickling kiss. "Be a little late. I don't need much time." I'm aware of the faint odor of mouthwash on her breath. The swell of her breasts pushing against me. "I can't," I put my hands on her shoulders, stepping back. Buy time, go away. Try again another day. Stupid lyrics for stupid boys. "It's my first shift and I, uh, I need the money pretty badly." She pouts. "What about tomorrow, then?" I should say no. I need to say no. But it's not happening, so I look down at my feet for a moment. Come on, Jacob. This is easy. Tell her you can't. Never mind the big speech, who knows what's really going on in her life. You need to be free of it. Though you are awfully lonely. I look up and open my mouth, but I don't really know what I'm about to say. I don't get a chance to find out. Over her shoulder by about thirty feet is an angry looking man with a baseball bat. He's locked in on me specifically, and he's closing the gap between us very swiftly. Receding hair, kind of short, very red faced. His tie is flapping and he doesn't have any shoes on. In less time than it takes for a celebrity's death to travel across the internet, I know that this is the husband. He's here to fight for his woman, and he took his fucking shoes off so I wouldn't hear him approach. He has big arms, and rage-wide eyes. And that fucking baseball bat! "Oh, shit!" I push Mrs. Married out of the way. I don't know why. I don't doubt for a fucking minute that this is all her fault. And, really, I don't think he intends to hit her. She yelps and falls, and he emits a stupid guttural...something. Like a cross between a cat giving birth and a rock slide. He swings the bat. Pushing her left me unprepared. My arms go down as the bat swings, but they're too slow and it slams into my left ribcage. A blink of red and I'm on the ground on my side, mouth open and kicking my legs out uselessly. I can't breathe. I hear him yell something, a whoosh of air, and blinding pain concusses on my right arm near the shoulder. It feels more like a stab than a strike, and it carries me over onto my stomach. Oh, shit. Oh, shit. I'm going to die right here. I just know I am. Now she's yelling, too. Begging him to stop. I'm trying to get up. This isn't my fault, goddamn it. I tried... His boot swings up into my guts. At least he's not using the bat. Whatever air I had left is gone and I'm back on my side. I fold up, unable to think or make a noise, and out of my periphery I see a fist come sailing in. It connects with my cheekbone, my head bounces off the concrete. I don't even realize immediately, but the impact makes me nauseous. The fist drills me down into the pavement a second time. A third. A fourth. I can't think. Everything's blurry. My mind is reduced to a primordial desperate plea for survival. I hear voices, but nothing makes sense. Somebody's crying. Her. She's crying, braying like a goddamn donkey. I try to focus on her voice, to make sense of the world around me. "Harold! You have to stop! You'll kill him!" she's sobbing. "Goddamn right I will." He says, calmly and almost cheerfully. "Goddamn right. He kicks me in the back, hard, between the shoulder blades. It burns, in a way the other injuries don't. I'm aware that my mouth is open, and that I'm drooling on the ground. Muscles all over my body are spasming at random. I never was much of a fighter. "No!" she shouts. "Please! Please!" Lady, for the love of god try to be a little more convincing than that. The punching stops. I raise my head a little. I can make him out, now, standing over me with the baseball bat in both hands. He sees me move and raises the bat. His face is without compassion. What a jackass way to die. I'm a rat and he's going to do away with me because that's what you do to rats when they invade your house. I'm really about to die. But I don't. Instead, Buck Nelson comes sailing through the air from behind Harold the Cuckold like a banshee from the depths of hell, and drops the guy with the only weapon he knows how to yield. If I had to guess, I'd say Buck isn't much of a fighter either, but he apparently has this one thing that he can handle like a fucking ninja: a wine bottle. It shatters over the fucker's head, spilling dark red juice all over him and making it look for all the world like Buck Nelson just murdered him in a single blow. A short stumble, a moan, and he's down. His hair is so matted with malbec, or whatever, that I can't even tell if he's bleeding. He must be, though. Shit, a wine bottle? I can't help but pray that Buck didn't kill the guy. A hit like that to the head could very well do it. Mrs. Married rushes over to the now-prostrated form. She doesn't even look at me. Buck leans over me. "Are you okay?" I nod. Jesus, how should I know? I'm having a hard time not crying. Now Married is sobbing over Harold the Cuck, and Buck is calling 911 on his cell phone, and the only person who isn't either injured, probably going to jail, or both of these things is the woman who started it all. I can recognize that there's some humor in that, but I don't think I'll be laughing at it any time soon. I lay on my back and close my eyes, wiping tears off my cheeks and trying to breathe evenly. Somewhere out there Jasmine is a Knox, and she is living a good and joyous life with another man. And she will never have to see me bleeding and crying in the parking lot of a low rent apartment complex in my button up shirt with my name sown on it and my ribs broken in the hot and humid Nashville sun, while another man's wife cradles his lifeless body and begs it for forgiveness and forgets that I exist at all. I think of her face at the restaurant, of the way she jumped out of her chair when she saw me, and I smile. And then I close my eyes. Hallelujah Ch. 04 Part Two: The Major Lift CHAPTER 4 One. Okay, Two. Three... The phone quits on the fourth ring. Again. Whoever's been trying so hard to get ahold of me these last two weeks (and I'm pretty sure that it is the repeated attempts of just one person) has long since ascertained just when the machine is going to pick up. Since they aren't inclined to leave messages, at least not with me, they've begun circumventing the device. Instead they simply hang up one ring early, pause, and dial again. So as the last high-pitched tone drops out, making the apartment seem emptily quiet with its absence, I start counting down from ten. Sure enough, before I hit three, it's ringing again. He'll try three more times before giving up to try again later. Yeah, he. I'm putting my money on the idea that the caller is a man by the name of Eric Greenwood. He's not calling because he's a huge fan of my work, believe me. You would think pounding the living shit out of me would be considered a sufficient communication of his feelings towards me, but the twin phone calls that I stupidly answered a few weeks back assured me that he still has a little bile left in him. He's lucky he's not in jail. Shit. I roll over to check the alarm clock, knowing full well from the amount of sunlight battling its way past the flimsy defensive line of my curtains and spilling into the room that I should have been out of bed hours ago. Sigh. I throw the covers off and roll over into a sitting position on the side of the bed. I wince as my right side slides over the mattress, but it's just habit. After six weeks, my ribs are pretty much healed. Two cracks, no breaks, not even enough damage to get the doctor to prescribe anything stronger than your run-of-the-mill ibuprofen. Here I thought I was dying or something. The phone cuts out on the fourth ring again, then starts over. The fucker is getting more and more persistent. I wonder how long it'll be before he shows up at my door. I stumble to the bathroom and piss in the sink, looking at myself in the mirror as I do so. My face still sort of looks like my face. The only change is the beard I've been farming, initially because I was too much of a pussy to run the razor over my bruised and cut right cheek but now simply because I like the way it looks. The longer it gets, the less I'm me. A hot shower, some clothes, and a bowl of cereal later, I notice the phone isn't ringing. I couldn't tell you when it stopped. The sound of it is becoming such a part of my life that I don't always even really hear it. Huh. Take that, Eric Greenwood. I don't even fucking hear you. I step outside onto the shared patio, and there waiting for me is Buck Nelson. He looks up at me as I come out, then turns back to staring at the parking lot. He's already drinking. Look, I feel terrible how it turned out for the guy, but you've got to know he's my hero. If he hadn't swooped in like some sort of avenging vino angel, I probably would have ended up in far worse condition than I did. He really may have saved my life, who knows. So while I'm packed full of guilt for how it all played out, I can't say I would take his game-changing sudden appearance back for anything. I can't afford to. Buck spent two nights in jail for his part in our little party, which he claims was not a big deal. He hasn't told me much about it, but what he has said makes it sound like it was just boring. What was a big deal to him...to all of us...was that we ended up getting plastered all over the local news channels. Apparently, Nashville didn't have enough going on that week to keep a love-triangle parking lot brawl with two hospitalized combatants off the telly. Things got a little chilly around the office for Buck after that. Two weeks later, his position was downsized. Blame it on the economy, they said. Right. My manager, on the other hand, was nothing but excited. I guess, unlike Buck's coworkers, he didn't know me well enough to be disappointed. Or it could just be his disposition. He made me retell the story almost every day for a week when I came back to work. And I can't emphasize this enough: he looooved it. The fat man's eyes lit up like Christmas every time. Once, he even punched the air menacingly several times as I talked. In front of a customer. Who was there with her toddler. And who immediately left the store. Yeah, I know. But the guy loves pro wrestling, too, so what can you do? Mostly, he's a good guy. And, when he heard that the hero of my story was now unemployed, he offered him a job post haste. Yeah, it's a pretty big drop in pay, but Buck doesn't seem to mind most of the time. He can still afford his apartment, his car, food and all that. He just can't buy grapes anymore. That's right. I have single-handedly taken Buck Nelson out of the wine making game. Oh, he could afford the kits like I'm using, or the concentrated juice. But buying grapes by the crateful from California? Not anymore. His friend the dentist can't make up the difference either...it'd put him in too much trouble with the wife. So the batches they're currently aging are likely to be the end of their journey. Just like I lost the music, Buck is losing the bottle. And the way we're working through the remnants his collection, he's going to have to find a plan B pretty quick. I run in and grab a red plastic cup, and he pours me a glass without speaking. I sit down, and we stare at nothing for a while. It's been...awkward...lately. There's a sort of male bonding thing of having gone through this together, but we've both lost some of the skip in our respective steps. I'm trying to think of something lighthearted to say, but coming up painfully short, when a voice calls to us from the parking lot. "Hey! Are either of you Jacob Wright?" I look down at the figure, squinting in the hot daylight. The voice is familiar, and not in an 'oh, shit' sort of way. It belongs to a fairly heavyset man who looks to be in his late twenties. Buck turns to me, face stone-cold serious, and says, "If you're fucking his girl, too, please leave me out of it." I return the stoney look, and he cracks a smile. "Well?" calls the man. And then it hits me. "Paul?" I call back. "Paul Spears?" I can see him smile, as he starts making his way up the steps towards us. "You're a hard man to reach, Jake," he says. "They finally had to send me out like a fucking errand boy to find you." I shake my head. "They never respect the drummers." By now he's at the top of the steps. He turns to Buck. "Hi," he says. "I'm Paul." "Buck." "Paul is the drummer for the group that got my ass fired," I explain. Buck's uncertainty melts into amusement. "Well, hell," he says, shaking Paul's hand. "It couldn't have happened to a better guy." "Yeah," Paul says, "I don't watch the news, but sometimes the better stories get round to me anyway." He and Buck share a grin, but I'm not amused. "So what brings you around?" I ask. "Are you kidding? We've been on the road, but our manager has been trying to call you for weeks now. He wanted to give up, but Teddy wouldn't have none of it. Finally, we had a few weeks in town and we drew straws on who would go and see if you hadn't killed yerself or what." "Still living and breathing. What's up." He raises an eyebrow. "You really don't know, do you?" "Know what?" "I would have thought you would at least..." he trails off. Buck and I share a look. "What's wrong?" "Nothing's wrong. We're on the radio! As Long as I'm Here is getting played!" I blink. "Shut up." "Yeah! I mean, not a lot or anything. I don't really know much about that stuff. But it's getting played here and there, which is a lot more than we've ever had before. And it's selling, too...online, mostly. Long story short, Teddy wants you to produce his next record. If you're willing." I don't know what to say to all of this, so I take a sip of my wine. After everything, it seems a little too good to be true. After evaluating the circumstances and collecting my thoughts, I smile up at the big man. "I don't believe you," I tell him. So Buck gets his laptop and we go online. Sure enough, As Long as I'm Here is number seventeen on the Triple A charts. Triple A is a relatively small format. It has nothing to do with the people who help you out when your car dies; it stands for Adult Alternative...something or other. I forget. Mostly, it serves as a home to acts that are too adult to be rock and too artsy or have too much vitality to fit on adult radio. It also tends to have a spattering of the more universal hits from both those other two formats. And, like I said, it's a pretty small part of the pie. Being number seventeen means that our song is getting on the order of about 250 plays a week, total. Not a lot, especially considering that a nationwide number one hit single might receive in excess of 20,000 plays in a single week, but it means we're on the map. This gets me thinking. I've watched these things happen from the outside often enough to know what happens when an eccentric underground artist has a minor pop breakthrough. It's usually music geek utopia. "Google Teddy Fields for me," I tell Buck. Sure enough, our little search reveals that a lot of the internet's critical hot spots are falling over themselves to praise the song. Pitchfork is swooning, All Music Guide calls it a masterpiece on an otherwise forgettable soundtrack album. NPR and Rolling Stone talk it up. Jesus Christ. My mouth is dry. "So is the soundtrack out? Commercially?" "Yeah. We were actually something of a last-minute addition, so it was mostly ready by the time our song was requested. Lucky us, though, eh?" "Do you know how well it's selling?" I ask. "I guess physical copies, almost nothing. The soundtrack isn't selling hardly at all. But a guy from the label told us that we had six thousand purchased downloads on iTunes just last week. I don't know any more than that." I look up at him. Six thousand in a week. Radio adds at Triple A radio. Mass critical drum beating. I wonder if Paul Spears realizes that his song is almost certainly going to top seventy thousand in sales, and could potentially double that if the movie it was recorded for is successful, too. "Well?" he asks. "Come on, Jake. Help us make a record! I know you've got to be looking for a way back in, and how much better could it be than this?" "Help you make a record?" "It's you or it's nobody." He sounds dead serious, and that's sweet of him. I don't buy for a minute that this band would risk losing their one big break for me, but I appreciate the sentiment. How much better could it be than this? That's a good question, Paul. Still, I bite my tongue for a minute. Produce a record. Follow-up a successful single. Step up to the big plate. In almost every way, this is exactly the forward career momentum that I've been lacking. But I guess I've spent the last few months sitting on the edge of the decision to give this dream up. I was just getting to where I could accept that. Now we're talking about recommitting to it in a big way. It's big, too. Like giving someone you love a second chance after they purposefully threw you away. Painful, scary stuff. Am I going to do it? Oh, fuck yes. But I keep seeing that number seventeen at Triple A, and I can't help but think that I've got a little bargaining power here. If I'm going to do this, what do I want to ask for? "Paul," I say, "do me a favor. Don't tell your manager about this conversation until tomorrow. But when you do, tell him that he can call me and I will absolutely be picking up the phone. Okay?" He wrinkles his brow. "So...you're doing it?" "Just have him call me. Okay?" "Uh, yeah. If that's what you want." "Thanks. You want to share a little celebratory wine before you go?" I ask. He does. So we do. -- The moon has a lot more patience than I do. Swollen and yellow, it takes a lazy, arcing route over the city of Nashville. It doesn't much enjoy my suspense as sneer at it. It knows what it will be doing tomorrow. It couldn't care less. Neither of us are getting any sleep. I can't be mad. For me, tomorrow will mean the beginning of the biggest adventure of my life. For my lunar friend, it will just mean more of the same. Oh, I imagine there will be tiny changes. Shifts in speed, or arc, that are so unbelievably tiny as to be unimportant to the likes of me. But when I look up at the moon I am impressed; I don't think the feeling is returned. I spend half the night pacing, listening to my headphones. Seeking out ideas. If I help make a Teddy Fields record, what do I think I can bring to the table? What ideas, what suggestions, what experiments will I carry with me? I look to the Rolling Stones, and get I Just Want to See His Face. More than the churchy mess of it, or even the great keyboard sound, the rhythm on that track is something I think might be interesting under Fields's broken-hearted yelp. The shuffling gospel feel mixed with a hypnotic, grooving-yet understated bassline.The messiness of the recording...the background singers and some hand claps are about the only thing that sound professionally mic'd and mixed here...is also of interest. Some of the legends that came out of the Exile sessions claim that this song was an almost complete accident, a stuttering jam that happened to get recorded. I'm pretty sure that at least some of the instrumentation was overdubbed later on, but that spontaneity is something that I think would work well for Fields. It certainly did for the Stones. I seek out Roy Orbison, and get Running Scared. They way it builds up, layering tensions before offering a final, almost silent form of release makes me think of the similar, more subtle build we put into As Long As I'm Here. I wonder if we can't do something a little more pronounced. I figure I'll keep it in mind as a possibility when I hear the other songs he's got written. I remember that guy on the corner playing Sam Cooke's Summertime, and I play that. I find myself focusing on the haunting, dreamscapey backing vocals that color the song and redefine it. I wonder about whether Fields's lap steel playing could be used to evoke the same silvered effect. I also realize that this song is a fine example of how restrained, open-spaced playing can lead to a very fleshed-out sounding track. There's not a lot of playing going on, but you wouldn't know it unless you listened carefully. I decide to keep that in mind. I read a book on Sam once. When he recorded Summertime he changed the chord progression to the song around, effectively making the Gershwin standard his own. When he corrected his guitar player on what order to play the chords in, the guy shot back with "I don't PLAY no wrong chords," but eventually he came around to what Sam was doing. I'll remember that, I think. If a song isn't working, it could be innovative to reverse the structure. Sometime after midnight as my ears begin to tire from listening, Califone's Michigan Girls convinces me that we ought to cut the whole thing as live as possible and avoid overdubs if we can. I don't know shit about how Califone recorded that song, but it sure sounds like a band sitting together in a room playing their track, making mistakes, sterilizing nothing, creating something beautiful. Even Neil Young would be jealous of how jaggedly gorgeous it is. Later, as the sun finally starts to reclaim lost territory and the moon grudgingly lets me have my little victory, I'm pacing on the deck with pen and paper strategizing how to get what I want out of this contract...or the closest thing to it. I can't afford to fuck this thing up. Fuck, though, I really should have given Paul a time for his manager to call. As it is, I'm showered and ready by four in the morning, but by eleven nothing has happened. I can't very well leave, but spending seven hours hovering over the phone waiting for your life to begin is a surprisingly unpleasant experience. Funny, to think that just recently the sound of that phone was a thorn in my side. I've got my speech all mapped out. I know what I want, I know what I'll say, and I even know what extras I'll put in so that they can 'talk me down' to just the bits that really matter. My metabolism is spiked with anticipation; I don't need any coffee today. I'm already wired. So I make myself a pot of coffee. Look, I don't know how you deal with your bad habits, but my nerves are getting tickled raw and I'm either going to start drinking wine or coffee while I wait. It's just going to happen. A full pot of dark roast will at least save me from negotiating drunk. Half the pot later, the phone is still silent. I'm too tired to keep pacing, I'm too wired to sit down. I notice that I'm picking at my fingernails, scratching my beard, and clicking my tongue. What an idiot. And speaking of, anybody with half a brain would not be striking any sort of deal without an appropriately-skilled lawyer to help them out. I probably got boned on the contract for the song. No. I did get boned. I got almost nothing aside from a producer's credit to put on my resume. But nobody figured on the song making any money, did they? I sure didn't. There will be a lot more weight resting on this next deal, and one thing is for sure: Teddy Fields, his manager, and his record label will not be looking out for ol' Jake. Nor should they. They have their own concerns. And all my planning and strategizing is one thing, but the sound of that phone will mean that the battle is joined by big and clever people. Once that happens, I'm outnumbered and outgunned. The anticipation is killing me; I wonder if they're counting on that and waiting on purpose. It's one-thirty. I'm pouring the last cup of coffee, and realizing I haven't eaten since supper. In fact, I am suddenly aware that I'm fucking starving. And that's when the phone rings. I jump to answer it and spill hot dark liquid all over my hand. For a second I try to cure the burn by waving my hand in the air and yelling "fuck," which doesn't work real well, and then I take a breath and pick up the receiver. "Hello?" I try to sound casual. I'm not sure how well 'over caffeinated, exhausted burn victim' translates into casual, but I try. "H...hello?" a female voice responds. "Is this Jake Currie?" I know that voice. My mouth goes dry and my heart gets loud. It can't be. "Jasmine?" A pause. "Jake. Hi. I...I just wanted to say...hi, I guess." Another pause. "I saw you on the news." I flinch. Shit. Even though our little battle royal had made local news, I had really counted on the idea that Jasmine would probably never know what a sorry low I'd reached. "Uh, yeah," I offer lamely. "That wasn't really my finest hour." "Are you...okay?" "I'm just about all healed up." "Oh. That's good." More silence. "Listen, Jake. I...I need to ask you something. It's ridiculous, but I just need to be sure." "Okay." "Were you...I mean...God, this sounds ridiculous, but you weren't spying on me, were you?" I can't help it. I laugh. She thought I was stalking her? When she saw me that night at the restaurant, THAT was her first reaction? "Are you kidding me?" I chuckle. "I was out for a walk. That's all. Believe me, when I moved back you were the last person I hoped to run into." "Oh." She sounds hurt, and gives me more silence. I guess that was kind of a dick thing to say. "Jasmine?" "Yes." "I didn't mean that I wouldn't want to see you. I just meant...." "I know. How are you, Jake? Besides the thing on the news, I mean." Well, that sure is a loaded question, with an answer that is best left to a professional shrink to untangle. "I don't know," I answer honestly. "I hope to be real good, I just need to get there. What about you?" Hallelujah Ch. 04 "Good. I'm good." Still more silence, and now I'm getting annoyed. What the fuck is she doing, calling me up out of nowhere and then acting like I'm supposed to be carrying the conversation? Like she's waiting for me to ask her something? I remember how she did that on our first date, too...called me up and then waited for me to figure out what she wanted to hear. Save that shit for your husband. "So why did you call?" I ask. "Were you going to order a pizza and just figured I could use the work?" "That's funny." I can tell she means it, but she doesn't laugh. "I guess I don't know why I wanted to call you. I just...did. Listen, maybe we could...I don't know, have lunch together sometime. I'd really like it if we could...be friends. I know I could use one." Be friends. With Jasmine Knox. Huh. "I'm real sorry, Jasmine. I don't think I can. Being friends with you would be tough enough, but it would be way outside my comfort zone to see you and A.J. playing the loving couple together." "What about just us?" "I doubt he'd be too thrilled about you spending time with me alone." "He wouldn't care." She said it too quickly. "Jake, it's been years. My husband and I have been together long enough that we trust one another." She leans her weight on the word 'husband,' like I couldn't have guessed. "He's not the kind of insecure man who has to hover over his wife and control everything. He knows I love him, and he understands that I can be friends with a man and not have it be romantic in any way." I don't know what to say. I know I should point out that most men she might befriend haven't just been on television for fucking another man's wife, or that other male friends haven't brought her to their bed hundreds of times in a past life. Or that other male friends don't love her like I still do. I don't say any of these things. So she continues. "Please, Jake? I'd really like to see you, just for lunch. I kind of lost our friends in the divorce, as it were, so I haven't had anyone to remember all those New York stories with. And I know I really wasn't, uh, fair to you with what I did, but I meant it when I said I could use a friend right now. I thought that maybe you could, too." Remember that part where I'm an idiot? "Sure," I say. "Sure, why not. Is tomorrow good for you?" "Tomorrow? Um...yeah." I wonder about the hesitation there. Maybe she's just thinking about her schedule. "Where at?" "El Puente," I say without thinking. "I'm not sure that's appropriate." She's probably right...history gives the place extra meaning...but damn it, who the fuck does she think she is? This was her idea. "You're the one talking like this is no big deal," I point out. "I haven't eaten there since I got back into town, and I used to like the food. That's all." "Well. Okay. What time?" "You tell me." "One-thirty." "Fair enough." It seems strange that she picked such a late hour. Jasmine was always talking about lunch by eleven, and could even get cranky if she had to wait too long past noon. But, whatever. People change. "See you then." "It's nice talking to you again, Jake. Really nice," she says, and hangs up. I look at the phone, then hang it up. What a surreal conversation. Did I seriously just agree to meet her for lunch? What possessed me to do that? I blame the coffee. And the moon. Can I back out now? Or just not show? Maybe that's the best plan. Yeah, I might have to suffer one or two pissed off calls from her, but that would drive the point home hard enough that she wouldn't come calling again, talking some bullshit about being friends and remembering New York together. Jesus. The phone rings. I pick I up and say, "What?" with all my irritation thrown in. Before the reply even comes down, I realize that this is probably my big call and that, in all probability, that was an awesome way to start. Thanks, Jasmine. I guess I owe you. "Can I speak with Mr. Currie, please?" The voice is thick, like it belongs to a very large man. Not deep, really, but just...like his tongue is too big for his mouth. I associate the sound with obesity. Maybe I'm wrong. "That's me." "My name is John Kennedy. I represent Teddy Fields." I roll my eyes, which I'm sure does not communicate well over the phone. "You've got to be shitting me." Hesitation. "I'm afraid I don't follow." "Your name is John Kennedy. Seriously." "Oh. Yessir. Middle name's Allen, though. I'm known to answer to John Allen, especially when my wife is angry, so if you'd rather use that I understand. I'm calling you regarding a chance to produce a record. Our mutual friend Paul Spears has told me that you are interested." "Our friend Paul Spears is correct." "I also understand that you are without representation. Teddy was...concerned...about whether or not you'd be getting a fair deal, so I thought that, if it's okay with you, I would serve as a sort of messenger between you and the record label." "I am." And I highly doubt my interests are of much concern to you. But getting things moving along quickly and smoothly is. "Then, if you would indulge me, I would like to go over with you the details of what you might expect from the record label's first offer on your contract. Just some fundamentals, the usual figures, that sort of thing. Then, we can discuss any counter-offers you might wish to make. I'll let you know what you might hope to get, within reason, and then I'll communicate your expectations with the label's legal representatives. In a few days, I can see to it that a copy of the label's offer is mailed to your address, and we can get everything signed and ready. Does that sound favorable to you?" "Actually, no it doesn't." "I see." His voice takes on that monotoned irritation that one usually expects from telemarketers when they are getting frustrated with the fact that you don't want to hear about their fucking offer. Which is maybe exactly what this is. "Was I misinformed as to your intentions?" "No. It's just I already know what I want." "I see. Can I ask to hear some of the terms you're, ahh, hoping to have met?" "First, tell me why I ought to be trusting you. By all standards, I should not be one of the people you feel the need to look out for. I don't care what Fields asks you to do, until this contract is signed and a date is set I'm kind of the enemy. We both know that." "That's absolutely true. Normally I wouldn't bother. I certainly don't give two shits about you, Mr. Currie." "But." "But Teddy Fields is in love, and hell is spending an afternoon with a songwriter in love." "Right." And I'm sure the money about to come in from that song we cut doesn't hurt, either. "So," he says, "are you going to share your dreams with me?" "Sure, chief." Coffee, insomnia, fanatical thinking, and Jasmine have prepped me for this. I'm so ready. "I'm going to want three thousand dollars up front and a half point on every song on the album save two. On those two songs, which will be chosen by me upon completion of the album, I'll be wanting a full point." A deep breath. "Interesting." He sounded amused. "You'll probably have to drop the three grand, but you can probably get them to sign off on the points as part of that compromise. Can I ask why you want to be able to select two songs for additional royalties?" "Downloading may be hurting the majors, but it's been a boon to the indie artist. Spending six million dollars on a Jennifer Lopez record with two good songs and a bunch of filler ought to spell disaster to anybody with a brain, but they never seem to catch on to that. Meanwhile you have bands like Arcade Fire, the Decemberists, the Flaming Lips, and the National...all sitting just below the radar and selling numbers that indie artists in the 80's or early 90's never dreamed of. Most of the people who buy that music are hip, young, college educated, and they have a very heavy online footprint. They don't get their music off the radio, or from Rolling Stone's reviews column, and they don't buy it at Best Buy. If you can get them to pay for it at all, you're pretty lucky. I'm willing to bet that the album will sell like the single is...online. Online sales, online buzz, a little in the way of radio play...I'm further willing to bet that one or two standout tracks will get the most attention. It usually goes that way. People will buy one or two tracks on iTunes, decide they like it, and steal the rest. I intend to hedge my bets on guessing what those two tracks will be. If I'm right, it'll be a nice bonus. If I'm wrong, I suppose the label will get that money." "Why not just ask for a full point on the album proper?" "You and I both know I wouldn't get it. Besides, I want the contract to explicitly state payment by song." "Hmm." I could hear him writing. "Anything else you want to include?" "I want to make the record at Blackbird studios. I'm hoping that we'll be making the record fast and lean, so I'd like seven days booked in Studio A and seven days in Studio H. I also want the label to commit to billing as many as ten additional days in a studio of my choice if I deem it necessary." A grunt. "That hardly sounds fast and lean, son. Twenty-four days of studio time is far too much for an artist of Teddy's size and following. You ought to know that." "I do know that. I don't actually want to book any time in Studio H. It's too small, it won't sound right. But I know Fields likes smaller studios, and I want to be able to tell him that it's the label's fault we're recording in a big room. The truth is the room sound, the open space feel that he likes so much is better achieved in a big room, and I don't want to start this project by arguing with the artist. It also gives me something sizable I can drop when they refuse my first offer." "I see. That commitment to book additional days is still going to be a problem, though. You'd be better of just including them on the total. Seventeen days is a bit large, and they'll probably come back with an offer of twelve, but these are businessmen and using the phrase 'commit to' when talking about spending money is going to tighten up their assholes a bit." "Oh, I'll be dropping that, too. It's just a ploy. By the time those two budget-killers are off the table, I figure they'll be glad to give me my three grand. And I need it." "So you're going to contract to cut a record in just seven days? That's dangerous territory. This is your first time up to bat, kid. If you promise a record in seven days, you'd better be prepared to deliver it. Otherwise, you will have single-handedly ended your career before it even got started." "I know that." He laughs through his nose. "I should have known you would be trouble when I found out that Teddy Fields took a liking to you. That sonofabitch never seems to get along with reasonable people. Son, if it's okay with you I will call the label right now and present your offer. They'll refuse and counter, but I guess you already know that." "Yes I do. Give me a time when I can expect to hear back from you." "Well, it's hard to say. You know record labels don't exactly move at my beck and call." "Then say a week from tomorrow at noon, if that gives you enough room. But I prefer to know when you're calling rather than wait around for the phone to ring like some schoolgirl." I hear more writing. "It won't be quite that long, son. I'll certainly know by noon tomorrow, so I can call you then." "I'm busy. Make it five." "Oh," he sounds surprised. "Okay." Two goodbyes later, we're done and I'm back to pacing the room. That went incredibly well...I think. It felt right, anyway. Now my hearts pounding all over again, though. Maybe I'm foolish, but I almost believe Teddy won't let me get fucked over. Hell, this whole thing started with him insisting that I produce. I smile to myself. And I think of Jasmine. The smile fades. What is she up to? What game is she playing? She seems different, somehow. Less brazen, more bashful. More like the girl who used to need love and reassurance in order to relax and enjoy sex, and less like the confident woman who could so casually put people at ease. And she's lying to me. You see, one thing I'm pretty sure of is that AJ Knox would not be cool with the idea of his wife having dinner with her ex-almost-fiance, alone, at the restaurant that first began their little romance. Even if I didn't know as much about AJ as I do, I'd be pretty doubtful. But I do know a little about him, and I just don't buy it. So what's the deal? Jasmine does want to see me. I'm pretty sure that's why she called, not to make sure I was okay. I flinch as I imagine her flipping through the channels and coming across my mug on the nine o'clock news. But I just don't understand why she wants to. She walked out on me, she got married, she moved on. One thing I definitely didn't hear in her voice was longing, so that's off the table. If not for romance, then why is she willing to put her presumably happy marriage in danger in order to see me? One thing's for sure: friends though I may need, Jasmine Knox is not going to be one of them. Hallelujah Ch. 05 El Puente hasn't aged a day. It still looks exactly like it did more than a decade ago. It's a mystery to me how some restaurants manage to look brand new no matter how old they are. It just seems like it would be expensive to maintain that. But the white exterior is spotless, the windows are all translucently clean, and even the fucking entryway rugs are without marks. So there it is. I've arrive late on purpose, parking along the street about a block down so she will be less likely to see my car. I don't have any intention of lying to her about my shitty financial situation. I just don't want it evidenced so...blatantly. Yeah, I'd pretty much convinced myself that I wouldn't be going at all. Why should I? Jasmine Knox doesn't have anything to offer me anymore. I was real locked in on that idea until about two hours ago. And then, I just wasn't. I suppose it's like an alcoholic trying to avoid drinking for a couple of days...instead of dismissing the whole thing and going about my business, I found myself constantly running over scenarios in my mind. What would she say to me? How would I react? What mysterious reason for the whole thing might pop up? I guess by losing the battle with my imagination, I pretty much lost the fight. I had my IPod on shuffle on the way over, but I had to turn it off a few blocks back when it came to John Lennon's How Do You Sleep?. Given recent events, it's just not the song I want to hear when I'm driving to meet another man's wife for lunch. And for more reasons than the title alone might reveal. Supposedly, the song was written as an attack on Paul McCartney...in response to some songs on his second solo album that John felt were digs at HIM. However, at least a few of the lines seem to apply to John more than Paul. "So Sergeant Pepper took you by surprise." Well, John was the one who hated Pepper and was taken "by surprise" when it got as big as it did. "Jump when your mother tell you anything." John was far more obsessed with the loss of his mother than Paul and, in point of fact, Mother was his pet name for Yoko. So if the song is a biting attack that ultimately asks "How do you sleep at night," but some of the lines sound like the singer is referring to himself, what the fuck does that mean? It makes it too close to the way I feel right now. I'm mad at other people...the gymrat, the gymrat's husband, Bennie, Jasmine, even John Kennedy. But in each case, far too much of the anger ultimately stems from problems I have with myself. For example, I'm mad at Jasmine for forcing herself back into my life, but I can't help turning the spotlight on myself because I'm here. Hell, I'm even letting this meeting become important to me in some strange way. Which, by the way, is not going well, either. Me dressing for this occasion was a sight that would probably make any person over the age of seventeen laugh their ass off. There I am, in front of a wardrobe that was clearly purchased by someone who has never had to dress up for work, never intends to, and couldn't afford to anyway, attempting to accomplish a look that is slightly dressy in a nonchalant "This? Oh, it's nothing, really," kind of way. I didn't accomplish that. But I do look like someone who might say "Right this way," and lead you to a table. Or who might ask you if you need any help at a fucking electronics store. Or who is desperately hiding the fact that they're broke and lonely while meeting with their ex. Basically, I feel like an idiot. More importantly, I feel like an idiot who stood in front of his sorry closet and attempted a look. I find myself tugging at the foreskin-like wrinkles of my polo shirt as I'm led to the table where Jasmine sits waiting. Someday, I'm going to have supper here with a girl and not look like a total asshole. This to the uncaring universe I do vow. Jasmine and I, in comparison to the restaurant, both show signs of the twelve years that have passed. We're more mature and a little more tired than the teenagers who first sat down across from each other more than a decade past. I know that I've started to show the first signs of smile lines, and my face is rounder than it used to be. For her part, Jasmine is a little heavier and a lot less confident, even in her body language. Heavier, I assure you, is in this case a good thing. When you're eighteen, thin seems so sexy and slick. When you look back at thirty-plus, it just looks skinny. The fifteen pounds of so that she's put on has been good for her face and arms; it's a healthy-looking addition. It's also increased her bust size a bit, which in spite of the order I'm telling you about all this in is, I promise, the very first thing I noticed. She says "Hi," as I sit down. Her look is a less disastrous match to my own: hair not done up quite so fancy as when I saw her downtown, but carefully styled into gentle waves that cascade down her shoulders and frame her face. Top shoving her breasts together but not revealing enough to be flirty. Light make-up. Very light. I know her well enough to be able to read what all that means: she is carefully trying to avoid giving me the impression that she's interested, but she also wants to show enough of her femininity to make sure she stays on my mind. Interesting. What I still don't get is her motivation. What is she up to? Who is she trying to impress? Why does she want to make sure I'll be thinking about her later? Is it some stupid self-esteem thing? Is she having second thoughts about AJ? Isn't it way late for that? It just doesn't strike me as the approach a happily married woman just wanting to be friends would take, to this little luncheon. Of course, the luncheon itself still seems questionable as well. I toss her "Hi," back to her. "You know, if we were four booths down I'd be getting some real déjà vu right now." "Yeah." She takes a sip of water, then looks around the room. "It's hard to believe it's been so long. It feels like it was just yesterday." "Really? If anything, I think it feels like longer than it actually has been. A lifetime." She sighs. "In some ways, I guess." She seems about to say something more, but just takes another sip. What's she so nervous about? "So," I try starting again, "tell me about your big fancy life. Where do you work, where do you live?" I lean forward on my elbows. "Inquiring minds want to know." She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Life is good. I work out at the hospital as a medical technologist. We have a pretty big lab there, and I'm hoping to be lab manager in the next couple of years when the current guy retires." "Wait. What? You didn't go on to nursing?" I'm genuinely surprised. "No," she waves her hand, shooing the idea like some pesky insect. "When I moved back, I guess I was just eager to start making money. Then I discovered I really loved the work. I know that if I'd gone on to nursing I would make more, but the more nurses I meet the less interested I am in becoming one." "Uh-oh. Are they mean to you?" I tease. "No, they're just so...stupid." "Woah. Time out. Look, I'm a layman...and I'm young, yet, but I'm sure I have my share of hospital experiences in my future. If you're going to start telling stories about all the horrible ways doctors and nurses fuck up, I'm gonna get moody." She smiles. "No, I don't mean that. Nurses just don't get to do very much. They don't make many decisions, they don't do the legwork. They just...save the doctor some time, I guess. They draw your blood, or have you pee in a cup, or ask you a few basic questions, and not a ton more than that. We in the lab are the ones who get all the data out of the specimens, and the doctors are the ones who evaluate you based on all of this. People who leave the lab and become nurses, when I run into them a year later, they've forgotten half of what they learned. They don't get to use it." "Weird. But they get paid more?" "Yeah." "Huh. Still...I never saw you as the type to give up on a dream." "It wasn't that," she says defensively. "I didn't do that." I just shrug, rather than ask her why she looked so sad when she said it. "And AJ? What's AJ doing these days?" "AJ runs his dad's car lot, now. He's doing really well." Don't you mean 'we?' WE'RE doing really well? "Didn't he work there in high school?" "Off and on. He went full-time after graduation, and his dad finally retired three years ago, so..." "Huh." "Yeah." After a short, awkward silence, wherein Jasmine takes yet another nervous sip from her water glass, the waiter arrives and we order. I'm actually starting to relax and enjoy this a bit in spite of her discomfort. Or maybe I'm enjoying myself because of it. Either way, it's not nearly as hard as I had thought it was going to be. I just have to not care about her strange behaviors, is all. And why should I? Whatever's going on in her life is her business. Remember, Jake, she's not your problem. Say it with me. "So, tell me about your life," she says. "I want to hear everything." "I wouldn't know where to even begin." "Well, how about Grandpa Cooper? How is he doing?" "Okay. Not great. He's been getting weaker." I shake my head. "The last time I saw him was when I told him I was coming back down here. That was...almost four months ago, now. I've talked to him a few times, but he didn't have much to say." And neither did I...I couldn't bring myself to tell him anything, other than a cleaned up version of how I became a producer in a Nashville studio. "What about music?" She squints and clicks her tongue. "Let's see...the last I knew, you were getting ready to spend some time at that mixing place." I nod. "The Cutting Room. Yeah, I remember." "So? What's happened since then?" "You want all of it?" For the first time, she seems genuinely comfortable. "I do." So I tell her everything. I tell stories about working with musicians in New York after she left, about visits to other studios around the country, about meeting Eddie Vedder and cutting demos with Steve Earle, about watching Maynard James Keenan do a line of coke as long as my arm, and all of it. I tell her about coming to Nashville and accidentally becoming a producer. I tell her about Teddy Fields and Bennie Rich, about Buck Nelson and the gymrat, everything. I make her laugh a few times, she asks questions, we eat, and everything is going great. "So you're really a producer now? In Nashville? That's incredible!" She smiles, looking almost...proud. "It may yet fall out from under me, but yeah...I guess I produced a track in Nashville, and it's on the radio and everything." "Wow. That's incredible. I'm so happy for you." "Thanks." The bill arrives and we split it. As soon as I quit dominating the conversation the silence returns, and I don't really have anything else to throw out there, so we just walk out in silence. She stops just before reaching the parking lot, so I stop with her. I guess this will be goodbye. Strange: in it's way, this night was really good for me. I feel like, somehow, this has really helped me put Jasmine in my past. Maybe seeing her as a real, aging person, who has gone through changes and is no longer the girl I knew, is helping me finally stop loving her. Maybe I'm learning that I was loving a shadow, and that there's nothing left there to hold on to after all. I look up at the midday sky and smile. "Jake," she says, "I had a really nice time." "Me too," I tell her, and I mean it. "Can we...can we get together again? Maybe soon?" I glance over. "How soon is soon?" "I can make almost any time work, if you'll meet me." I run my tongue over my teeth. "I guess so, yeah. But only if you'll tell me what's wrong." She takes a small step back, her face falling a bit. "Wrong? What do you mean? Why would something be wrong?" The guards have all come up again. I turn and face her head-on. "I mean that you're acting weird as all hell. I don't believe that any amount of time could make the Jasmine I knew act so ...afraid. Something is going on, and I think it's part of why you called me. I want to know what it is." Suddenly, she's crying. I mean, like sobbing and making a lot of noise. She turns away, one hand over her mouth, shoulders quaking. At this point I become immediately aware of three things: I was more right than I could have guessed, I'm a complete asshole, and there are other people coming out of the restaurant. They're looking at me because I made a beautiful woman cry, and I'm only making it worse by wearing a guilty look on my face, and I don't understand what is even going on, and son of a BITCH! I reach out to put a hand on her upper arm, to tell her I'm sorry, and she rushes into me like a scared child. It's a little jarring, to suddenly have such unexpected and intimate physical contact. I look over at an elderly couple walking into the entryway. The woman is pretending not to notice, but the old man smiles at me and winks. Don't worry, kid. It'll be okay. He thinks he's been there. He has no idea. I look up again. The moon's still out there, somewhere...probably looking forward to a long night of hanging overhead, laughing at me. What to do, now? I'm standing in the parking lot of El Puente holding Jasmine Knox as she cries her eyes out, and there are at least ten reasons I shouldn't be here. "Hey," I say quietly as she starts to calm down. "Do we need to go somewhere? Do you need to talk?" She shakes her head, pulling away from me and sniffling. "I'm sorry about that. I...I need to get home. It's almost three." "You're just going to cry all over my shirt and then leave? Jasmine, I..." But she's gone, scurrying to her car and yelling "I'm sorry," over her shoulder as she goes. I suppose I should go after her, try and find out what's going on that has her so upset. But my car's in the other direction, and I'm expecting a call. And remember, Jake, she's not your problem. Say it with me. I watch her fumble with her keys, climb in the car, and put her head to the stirring wheel. She doesn't go anywhere, just sits there. It's maybe forty feet from where I stand. It would be so easy... Remember, Jake, she's not your problem. Say it with me. I go home. There's an hour to kill, so I have a drink with Buck before going inside. He's in a good mood, telling me animatedly about how his dentist friend might be able to bring a third person into their little basement winery club. "Does that mean you'll be back to buying grapes?" I ask, happy not to be talking about my day. "Hell yes. In fact, we may be buying more than we used to. This guy's a novice, but he's a dentist and he's single. Imagine! A single dentist! He probably wipes his ass with twenties." I snort. "Keep dreaming." He laughs and toasts me, taking a sip. He's red-eyed drunk. Good for him. "You wait and see. Won't be long before we'll need the Cricova cellars to hold the stuff." "Cricova?" He leans in, face drawn tight and making intense eye contact. Then he burps. "It's big." "Gotchya. How'd you find another dentist." "I didn't. Darren did. Maybe dentists all get together at bars and talk about teeth or something. Who knows how he found him. He's not even the same brand. He's...whatever they call the guy who only works with kids' teeth." "I believe they call them martyrs." "No doubt." We drink to that. It isn't long after I go inside that the phone rings. Good. The waiting, so it's said, is the hardest part. I answer it. "Mr. Currie," John Kennedy's thick-tongued voice greets me. "How are you?" "That question seems to get harder to answer every day," I admit. "I know how you feel. I've got a contract faxed to me this morning that's thicker and uglier than a horse's daddy parts, and it's loaded over with bad news for the two of us." "Uh-oh. What's the word?" "The word is have a seat, if you haven't already. You're not going to like this. They will pay the up-front amount as requested, and they'll give you half a point on the album proper. They will commit to five days at Sundown Studios, a nice place, with the remaining five being at Firefly." "Firefly? Never heard of them." "That's because it's a shithole. But you see where all of this is going." "They're not negotiating my terms. They're ignoring them." "That's correct." "Shit." I hadn't planned for this at all. "You want my advice?" he asks. And for the first time, I really do. "Resubmit your terms. Don't change a thing. Let them know that this deal isn't moving forward until they start talking about your terms." "You think that will work?" "Maybe. Maybe not. I think the terms they just offered you are pretty reasonable, to be honest. But I know that you don't, so that's what I think you should do about it." "Hmm." "And listen, Jake. Whatever dreams you've been cooking up, you need to know that after a few more go-rounds they'll just give up on you. One minor success does not make Teddy Fields such a heavy hitter that he can just demand your involvement. They can always get Walter Russell." "Walter Russell won't work with Fields anymore." "Don't be so sure. Time heals all wounds. Or money does. Both are factors here." "You really think they'd go with him, though?!" "I know they would." I'm getting mad now. I can feel the warmth in my cheeks. Part of me wonders if Kennedy is just bullshitting me, trying to scare me into not rocking the boat too hard. He has a vested interest in my participation, after all. But it's entirely possible that he's telling the truth, and that bothers the hell out of me."Walter Russell is the fucking reason Teddy Fields's records have all flopped. He's the one who keeps killing those songs! You can't possibly expect me to believe that they'd bring him in again. Especially not after As Long As I'm Here did so well!" "Record companies are like movie studios: they're in the game, but only for the cash. These are not audiophiles, son. They don't understand the creative side very well at all, truth be told. They're a bunch of blind quarterbacks...they fumble the ball all the damn time trying to run plays that you just can't run. They throw the ball without aim and hope for the best. You can find a dozen movies made every year that show you just how thoroughly Hollywood bases it's assumptions about success on the names of the people involved, nothing else. Record companies aren't any different." "I know that. But it was MY involvement that made the song a success." "And that's why they're willing to bother with you at all. But they don't know that it was necessarily you that turned their boy around. Maybe Fields just got it right for a change. Maybe he's had a creative breakthrough, and his new songs are just better than the old ones. Maybe, they can talk a Walter Russell into copycatting your production style. I mean, this is NASHVILLE we're talking about. Recreating successful formulas is what we do. You're their first pick, so hang onto that, but you're not their only pick. Be careful how far you take this, kid. Let me submit your terms again, and then if that doesn't help we'll start negotiating the terms they give you. You don't want to throw your big shot away by being stubborn." I grumble an okay and we hang up. Kennedy's words are exactly not what I wanted to hear right now. Goddamn it, I made that song a success. Yeah, it was a fantastic bit of songwriting, and the band can play, but do you think it would be on the radio right now if Walter Russell had gotten his way? Not a chance. I brought the atmospherics and mood out and exposed the melody for what it was. The song is on the radio, and I did that. Me. Right?! I also wonder about Kennedy's honesty. Right now, my contract negotiations are holding up his artist's new record, and ultimately his own payday. Is he just trying to get me to give in so that the waiting can end? It's his job to look out for Fields, and ultimately himself. Is he really helping me, or just humoring me? Hallelujah Ch. 05 Fuck. Sundown and Firefly. No Blackbird studios. No full point on anything. Fuck. And as if that wasn't enough to ruin my day, there's Jasmine Knox and her little breakdown. Crying on me like I'm supposed to be the one to hold her. Like I'm supposed to care. What is going on with that woman? She keeps reaching out to me, telling me she needs a friend, but every time I get a little comfortable with it she starts fucking with my brain. Is something wrong between her and AJ? Is it something else? And what does any of it have to do with me? Jesus. For some reason, I think of the gymrat. Samantha, the cuckolding cougar. I wonder what happened to her and her husband, Eric. What becomes of a couple of people like them? Are they patching things up? Are they getting divorced? Is she at it again? Why do I care? I go back out to drink with Buck, but he's gone inside for the day. He won't be back. So instead, I go for a walk. It's late enough in the year now that the evenings are pleasantly cool. I try to keep my attention on the world around me, but all I can think about are these people who are screwing with my brain. Really, the problems are very base. Most male problems are. Jasmine and Samantha would never have been my problem if it weren't for pussy. Bennie Rich, Teddy Fields, John Kennedy, and a half-dozen label executives wouldn't matter if it weren't for money. And there it is. Money and pussy. So many blues songs about those two things, so many rock and roll songs inspired by them, and pretty much every country song known to man. Maybe I need to start listening to more rap. At least when they write songs about that stuff, it's all celebratory. Maybe those guys are the only ones who really understand. So why is it Big Bill Broonzy's 'I Can't Be Satisfied' that I find myself singing as I head for home? The sun's gone by the time I get back to my apartment. My friend the moon is having his laugh. I put on Phil Ochs In Concert on a whim. I don't know why I'm drawn to Phil all of the sudden, but he's got an interesting story. It's the kind of Shakespearean tragedy you just can't make up. Phil Ochs came out of the same 60's folk scene as Bob Dylan, even hung out with the man on occasion, and made some beautiful and increasingly strange records that never sold. He had a few small novelty hits, 'Draft Dodger Rag' and 'Outside of a Small Circle of Friends,' and fell into obscurity. Whether it was the way sixties idealism collapsed into excess and indifference, or whether it was his own subsequent slide into irrelevance, Ochs just never recovered from the loss of hope for his career and country. The last song on his last album is called 'No More Songs,' and it will break your heart in two. He hung himself, and died young. Still in his youth and not yet immersed in alcohol, Ochs offers his finest vocal performances on the live album. They're strong, emotive, nuanced, smart-assed, and indignant. If the stories are true, then that's partially because he replaced his vocals on the recordings in the studio a few weeks later. It doesn't matter to me...it's a fabulous sounding live record for 1965, and 'There But For Fortune' is an especially powerful moment on it. There's a poet's sick romanticism to Phil's story, so maybe that's why I'm suddenly eager to hear his voice. It's a great thing, recorded sound. Phil Ochs is long dead, but his music keeps him in this world anyway. Hell, I wasn't born until after he passed on. I discovered him through a cover Ani Difranco did before her own inevitable slide into obscurity. It was an EP of covers, if I remember right. Or maybe just a lengthy single. I bought it for Jasmine, once upon a time. It was a surprise. Remember, Jake. She's not your problem. Say it with me. Around the time Phil is wrapping up his performance, I fall asleep on the couch. -- The phone rings, making me suddenly very, very awake. I jump up and answer it, checking the oven clock on my way by. Eleven. Fuck. How did I sleep for, like, thirteen hours? "Hello?" I say, hoping it's John Kennedy. "Jake. What's up?" It's Buck. Why would he be calling from next door? Oh. Shit. He's not. "I'm supposed to be at work." I say it as I realize it. "You are. You should have been here three hours ago. I tried calling at nine, but you didn't answer. Want me to tell them you're sick?" "No. I need the money. Just tell them the truth: I overslept. I'm on my way." "Got it. But hurry...you know they're looking to cut a shift, and they don't need a lot of reason." "I know. Thanks." I turn on the kitchen sink and dip my head under it. Then I grab a washcloth and wet it, running it under my pits. That'll have to do. I grab the jar of peanut butter and take it with me into the bedroom, unscrewing the cap and dipping my finger into it as I walk. Two scoops later, breakfast is done. I leave the jar sitting on the nightstand. I'm dressed and almost to the door when the phone rings again. Shit. I can't not answer it. If it's about the contract... "Hello?" "Jake!" This time it is John Kennedy. "How are you this morning?" "Not great. I'm leaving for work right now." "Do you have a minute? The label faxed over a new proposal." No. Not really. "Sure. How does it look?" "A little better. They'll give you two grand up front, half a point on the album proper, and ten days at Sundown. I'm not supposed to know this, but Bennie Rich has told them that under no circumstances are you or Fields welcome back at Blackbird. The label just can't give you that one, even if they want to." "Shit. Bennie sure knows how to hold a grudge." "Why is it so important to record there, anyway?" "There isn't one big reason so much as a million small ones. It's a great studio, with fantastic rooms and equipment, and really that's probably reason number one. It was the place we first found our groove, and I'd like to try and keep things consistent. I grew up in Nashville, dreaming of making records here, and Blackbird is like all of my childhood fantasies come to life. And, last of all, Bennie kicked me out for making a good record, and now it's successful, and I want that rubbed in his face. I know how to hold a grudge too." John Kennedy grunts. "Well, none of those are terrible reasons, but none of them are great. It's not worth losing the ship over." "Look, just hold off responding to them for one day. Maybe if I can get Bennie to listen to reason..." "Not gonna happen. That man is unmovable." I swear in frustration. "I've got to try. Maybe if I eat crow..." "Then all you'll do is shit crow. Bennie will not listen." "Give me one day. Alright? One day." An annoyed breathy sound is all the response I get. Then the phone beeps. "Listen, I have to go. Call me tomorrow at about five. I'll know by then, okay?" "Okay, kid. It's your show." He hangs up and I click over. "Hello?" "Hi," Jasmine's voice is quiet, almost to the point of making me strain to hear her. I fight the urge to hang up. Now what the fuck does she want? "Oh. Hi." I need to get going. "Listen, I was just leaving for work. I'm already late. Are you doing any better than last night?" A sob. Fuck me, I don't have time for this right now. Why am I even involved? I can say the words over and over again, but it doesn't change the fact that Jasmine Knox is inexplicably becoming my problem. "Jasmine? Whats-" "He hit me, Jake." She's crying now. "AJ hit me. My face...I...I can't go home." I'm suddenly very cold. "Where are you?" "At the restaurant. I didn't...I don't know where to go." "Come here. Come to my place. You can..." I trail off. What? Stay here? Hide for a while? AJ Knox is a lot bigger than Eric Greenwood was, and I kind of feel like I've met my quota for angry husband beatings this year. Fuck, what am I doing? Jasmine Knox just became your problem, Jake. Say it with me. She is your problem. "You can come stay here for...for as long as you'd like. I'll be at work when you arrive, but I'll leave the key under the mat." "I don't think I can drive anymore. My eye...Jacob, please, help me." The last two words devolve into incoherent sobbing. What else can I do? "I'm on my way." I hang up, pick up, and dial. Come on, Buck, answer your cell. "I could really use a friend," she'd said. Huh. Hallelujah Ch. 06 She's running to the car before I even come to a stop. Hell, she's flaying across the lot as soon as she sees me turn in. Her long, loose brown peasant skirt matches her hair in the way it flaps in the soft breeze. Even from afar, and with her naturally tanned skin, I can see that a welting bruise is hugging to her left cheek. Shrinking distance between reveals a cut on her lower lip, and an almost imperceptibly faint discoloration around her right eye. For the first time since I ran for my car, it occurs to me to wonder what precipitated this argument with her husband. Especially coming so soon after our little get-together, which she assured me he was fine with. Somehow, I doubt that was the case. And now I'm taking her back to my apartment. I'd better not tell Buck about this. He'll never forgive me. As she opens the door, I grab a few stray fast food wrappers from off the passenger seat and throw them in back. One of the wrappers, upon lifting up, exposes the small cigarette burn on the seat cushion. No hope for hiding my shame now, is there? Not that I mind; I doubt if she even notices or cares. Jasmine all but falls into the seat, and although she clearly controlled her crying while she awaited my heroic return, tears are now washing her face for her as she leans awkwardly over to bury her face in my neck. I wonder if they sting. I'm not entirely sure what I should say, but I do know that I should offer some kind of encouragement. So I say: "It'll be alright." If you can think of a sorrier thing to say to a battered half-stranger who you used to love and still have a lingering testicular tingle for, let me know. She's sniffling as she pulls back, and leaving mystery moisture on my collar. She looks at me, a silently pleading expression on her face. I know I have a second chance, here to sound like a hero. But what kind of words might a hero use? Think, Jake! Ask yourself: what would Harrison Ford say? I reach out and curl my forefinger under her jaw, rubbing my thumb over the front of her chin, and say, "I didn't kill my wife." She scrunches up her face. "What?" "Never mind. Where are your things?" "I didn't...oh, Jake. I didn't bring anything with me! I'm such a mess, I didn't even think." "That sounds like my whole life." "I'm really sorry about this. I didn't know...who else I could call." "Your family still live in the area?" She shakes her head. "Friends?" Another shake. "We...we got into that married couple thing where our friends were just that: our friends. Not mine, not his. Other couples, mostly. And they..." her brow furrows, and she looks away, "...I didn't want to put them in the middle. I needed someone neutral." That gets me thinking. "This isn't the first time, is it?" "Yes it is," her voice is small. "It's the first." "Jasmine." "It is, Jake! He..." she swallows hard, "...he's a good man." I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Good men don't beat their wives. "Then I have to ask: does it have something to do with us? With lunch?" She shakes her head. "You're sure?" A nod. "So. If it's not common practice, and it's not because of some misunderstanding about us," I draw that part out, indicating my doubt, "then what's the story?" "Jake," she says, looking at an elderly couple coming out of the restaurant and touching the swelling around her eye, "can we just get out of here? Please?" "You're not going to tell me?" "Jake. Please. Drive." "Yeah. Sure." I put the car into drive and pull out of the parking lot. We ride for a time in silence. I'm boiling over with questions, but it doesn't seem right to keep pushing them at her. I have to hope that she'll tell me everything when she's ready to. Instead, I decide to focus on the future. "Are we going to need to go clothes shopping?" I ask the windshield. "I don't know," she responds, also choosing to talk to the glass in front of her rather than look in my direction. Ok. Attempt number two: "What should we do about your car?" "It doesn't matter." I sigh deeply through my nose, and this seems to knock her out of her little trance. She turns quickly in my direction, and puts a hand on my shoulder. "I'm sorry. Really, Jake. I'm just...it's hard to think clearly right now." She waves her hand over herself. "I'm kind of a mess." "I can't blame you. I only ask because I don't know if these things would cross my mind, were I in your shoes." "You mean if your husband beat you up?" "Well, I mean, other peoples' husbands usually beat me up, so I don't really need one of my own." She giggles the kind of manic giggle that women sometimes get after a good cry. "We are a pair, aren't we?" she says. Something in her tone makes it sound like she's asking me for something. I don't respond. She touches her eye again. I can see already that the swelling is going to get worse. "You'll be better off if you leave it alone," I tell her. "I know that. It's just...I've never had one before." "Really?" "Really." She sighs. "I'm sure glad you came, Jake. I hope I'm not imposing." Are you fucking kidding me? She doesn't want to impose? But now seems like the wrong time to point out that I'm supposed to be at work, that I haven't been able to reach my friend to run interference for me, and that the rumor is they're going to have to let somebody go sometime soon. So I just say, "It's alright." Jasmine stares out the window in silence for a few minutes. Every third breath or so is a deep one. I'm just about to put my player on shuffle to cover up the discomfort when she suddenly takes one last deep breath and says, "I shouldn't have called you. I should have just checked into a motel. Or...or something." "I don't mind," I assure her. "Really." "That's sweet, Jake. But I still shouldn't have called you. What will he think when he finds out?" She sniffles, and the waterworks threaten us again. "It looks so bad." I'm stunned. "What!" I cry. "How does this look bad? Because we dated, once upon a time? How does that compare to that black eye he gave you? How does it compare to hitting a woman?" I shake my head. "You've got nothing to feel guilty about." She bites her lower lip. "It looks so bad," she says again. "What will everyone think? God." She puts her hands over her eyes like she has a headache, or is shading herself from the sun. "What will I tell my mother?" "Well, if I were you I'd start with 'Hey, Mom, while I have you on the phone, just wanted to let you know that AJ punched me in the face!'" I'm toeing the line, but I'm getting pissed off. Damn it, she's the one who asked me for help, and he's the one who caused all this mess. Why do I feel like I'm a part of the problem? Like coming to get her made me the bad guy of the story? And why is she talking like she should care what AJ thinks? Shouldn't he be the one freaking out and feeling guilty? "You know," I snap, "the Jasmine I remember wouldn't give two shits what everybody thought. Especially when somebody else was the problem." She gives me a pitying look that drives me nuts. "Oh, Jake. You don't understand." I notice that I'm speeding. "I sure don't. Jesus." I ease off the pedal. "Maybe I'm out of line here, but it seems to me like everybody else should be worried about how you feel, not the other way around." "But it's my fault. Jake, I know that sounds crazy, but it really is." "What the fuck-" "Can we not talk about it?" I don't answer, and neither of us has anything else to say for the rest of the drive. My apartment's a mess, but I really don't care anymore. I'm not out to impress. Hell, I halfway wish I'd left her at the restaurant. Jasmine sits down heavily on the couch and lays her head back on the cushion. "It's not a hideaway," I tell her, grabbing the phone. "I'll have to get an inflatable, or something, if you decide to stay." "I shouldn't," she says. "God, I shouldn't. But I really don't want to...be alone." She laughs a humorless laugh. "I'm such a mess right now." "If you're worried that AJ is going to think that something improper is going on, then this probably isn't the place for you to be," I admit. " Do you...I mean, do you know what you're going to do?" I'd almost asked her about divorce. Tasteless question. "He's going to leave me. God," she moans. "Jasmine, he hit you!" She wipes away a tear. "Jake, this is my mess. But I hope you know that, even if coming to you was a mistake, I appreciate...everything." I shrug, and I'm starting to dial Bud's cell when I notice that the machine is blinking. Oh, shit. I press play. "Jake," the fuzzy speaker calls out to me, "this is Neil down at Anderson's Electronics. Listen, uh, I'm sure you had a good reason for not coming in today, and this call isn't about that. I'm sorry to say this, but...well, business is slow. You know that." I already get where this is going, and I just want to scream at the answering machine. Neil Posnick is always soft, always kind, but especially so when he's firing somebody. "Anyway," he continues, "we need to cut a position and I'm afraid yours is the easiest one to cut. It's all about those early afternoon hours. Again, real sorry. Your hours just happen to be the ones that we can cut with the least resistance or shuffling." He pauses a moment. "Uh, if you can finish out the week, let me know. But if you don't care to, I understand. Bud and the guys can pick up the slack." A pause. "I'm terribly sor-" the machine hangs up on him, promptly gaining my respect. A soft voice from behind me asks, "Is this my fault?" Like I'm going to say yes. "It's nobody's fault. I knew it was coming, I guess. I'm just glad it wasn't Buck. After what he did for me, I'd feel awful if they cut him and kept me." "Buck?" "My neighbor. A real good guy." "Oh! The guy from the fight! The one who saved you!" I wince. "Yeah. That one." I'm suddenly aware that I'm embarrassed. Of my behaviors, of my apartment and car, of losing my job, of my life. Of letting Jasmine back in. I wonder who I'm directing this embarrassment towards, though. Not her. "What will you do now?" she asks. "I don't know." It's mostly true. "I can appreciate that," she smiles. "Aren't you producing now, though? I thought you had a song on the radio." "I do, but my share in that one will be small. What's worse, royalty payments are on a fixed cycle, so I won't be getting a dime of it until December." "Oh. But you're going to produce more songs, right?" "Yeah. Eventually. And in the meantime, I'm flat broke." "I could help. Give you a loan or something. I feel like I owe you that much." I open my mouth to respond, but I'm interrupted by a song that comes out of nowhere. I'm at a loss for a split second, but it's only her phone. "Shit," she mutters, fishing it out of her pocket. "It's him. Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Don't say anything, okay?" She presses a button, and says, "Hello?" I can barely make out a male voice at the other end of the call, but I can't hear it well enough to even tell if it's an angry voice or a shameful one. She listens. "No, I didn't," she says, her voice coming out small and guilt-ridden. "What does it matter, AJ? I'm someplace safe." More talking. "Because I don't know if I want you to find me. I don't know what to do. I'm scared-" something quieter stops her. "I know. And I'm so, so sorry. I didn't-" another interruption. "Don't say that. You know that's not true." Neither of them speak for a moment. "AJ?" she asks. "Can we talk about this? Someplace...someplace neutral, like a restaurant?" He responds. "I don't think I want to do that." Words. "You know why not." More. "Yes. That would be fine." A question. "No. Tomorrow. I'm tired, and...my face hurts." He says something longer then hangs up, apparently without goodbye. Jasmine takes a deep breath, holds it, and wipes at her eyes with her fingers. "That went a lot better than I'd hoped," she admits. "He didn't even yell." "You're going to meet him?" I ask, absolutely floored. "For what?!" "Jake," she says, "I know I'm imposing on you, and you're being very sweet to help me, but I'd prefer it if I could just not talk about it right now." "I'd prefer that you did. It's frustrating, being pulled into this and not knowing." "I promise you," she looks at me, "it's a lot more frustrating from where I'm sitting. I know this isn't your fight, and I know you want to help, but just...just don't, okay?" She sniffs. "I can find someplace else to stay." "No," I wave my hand. "No, this is fine. But when this is all behind us," I wave a pointed finger in her direction, "you're going to have to either open up and give an explanation or buy me more than a few bottles of quality tequila to help me forget it happened at all." She giggles. "Deal." She looks around the room, really inspecting it for the first time. "Men. You really would live like dogs if not for us, wouldn't you?" "We don't eat our own poop." "I'm not convinced." Another giggle. I look at her, this woman who affects me so much, who I would love to just forget about forever. "Yeah. Me neither." "You're all so scruffy when we don't watch out for you." She eyes me. "I like the beard, though. I didn't tell you that before, at the restaurant. But I do. It makes you look older." Okay. I'll admit it. I feel a little pleasure at that. But it pisses me off to do so. "Listen, I need to make a call," I tell her. "Okay." "It's kind of private." "Oh." She stands up. "I...uh...where should I go?" "I have half a bottle of wine in the fridge and a nice deck chair out front." She nods, coming over and opening the fridge. She makes a face when she sees the condition it's in. "Glasses are above the sink on the left." She pulls the bottle out, a cheap Cabernet that Buck would roll his eyes at if he saw it. "I won't need one," she says, pulling the cork out and heading for the door. I watch her go, just another bug on the windshield, and pick up the phone. A woman answers on the second ring. "Blackbird studios," she says, "how may I help you?" "Jennifer, it's Jacob Currie. Is Bennie in today?" A pause. "He is." "I need to talk to him." "Jacob, he isn't going to talk to you. You know that." "Not even for a two minute phone conversation?" "No. To be honest, I won't even ask him. I don't need the stress." I sigh. "Then I won't make you. I'm on my way there, right now. I'm asking for fifteen minutes, and then I'll leave him alone forever. You can either tell him that...or not." "Jake-" "To be honest, I'm hoping you'll tell him, Jenn." "Okay. I'll tell him." "Thanks. I appreciate it." Jasmine has managed to make most of the wine disappear in the four minutes it takes for me to make the phone call and shove some more peanut butter in my face. "Where are you off to?" she asks. "To go eat crow," I tell her, "and then probably shit it all out." "Then I won't ask to come with," she makes a face. She is slouched down in the chair, feet up on the deck rail, looking miserable, and something about the way she looks hits me as incredible sexy. It could be the way the peasant skirt sinks down between her legs, offering the tiniest hint of the structure of the body underneath. It's less revealing than any pair of jeans, but it gives the impression that one is stealing a glimpse at secrets one is not supposed to see. It could be the way her hair is slightly disheveled and yet still seductively perfect. Or maybe it's simpler than that: the way her small hand is wrapped around the wine bottle at just the point where it starts to dip inward, becoming narrower, so that she's grabbing it at the spot where it is closest in girth to a... I need to get out of here. "Do you want me to pick anything up while I'm gone?" I ask her. She shakes her head. "I saw a grocery store down the road when we came in. I think I'll just walk down there." "You sure?" "Yeah. People will stare, but who cares." "That's the girl I used to know." She doesn't say anything to that, so I keep going. "I should be gone about two hours. I'll give you the key, so you can lock it when you go." She nods, contemplating the skyline. I get the feeling I'm interrupting something. "Okay, then," I offer lamely, "I should go." And I do. -=- Jennifer gives me a look as she waves me by. "He hasn't locked the door," she says, "but he's definitely not happy." I toss her a guilty smile, but I don't break stride. Squaring my shoulders as best I can, I open the door and stride forcefully into his office. Bennie is there, talking on the phone. He doesn't look at me as I walk up to his desk. Instead, he swivels his chair around so I'm looking at its back, and continues his conversation. I take it for what it is; he's expressing his opinion of me, and our meeting will go all the better if I allow him that. "What's the price?" he asks the phone. Whatever it says in response is obviously not the correct answer, because he takes a brisk tone and gets louder. "That's strange to me, because I would swear that you just told me that it had a little over one hundred hours of use. Is that incorrect? Okay, but then that sounds like about the price I could get it for new." A pause. "Then sell it to him. What do I care?" He listens, then snorts. "Yes, I suppose you should. Goodbye." He swivels just enough to reach out and hang up the phone, but stays facing the opposite wall. His chair back is a little higher than usual, so I really only see the top four inches or so of his scalp. I feel like I'm getting ready to talk to a James Bond villain. He sits quietly for a moment. I could offer the first word, but I know what my goal is here and part of it is letting him fuck with me a bit. Finally, he says, "I fired you for a reason, Jacob. You're not welcome here." Time to kiss some ass. "I know that what I did was inappropriate for an engineer," I say, "and I will add as many adjectives on to my apology as you want me to. I will. But if you'll agree to book the Teddy Fields project then I won't be here as an engineer and I won't be working for you. Hell, in a way you'll be getting paid to put up with me...I thought you'd enjoy that." He grunts. "That's all well and good. But I have to stand by the work that comes out of my establishment, and I don't think much of your work." "I know that. But I think quite a lot of your studio, and right now you're letting your anger at me burn bridges between you and a label that has brought you a lot of good business over the years." "They'll get over it," he itches his nose, "and they'll do it quickly. Money has a way of greasing the machine." "You're doing a shitty job of proving that right now." He spins the chair around at that. Now I can see, for the first time, that in spite of his calmly condescending voice he's plenty pissed. His cheeks are blotching red, and his eyes are lit up. "Fuck you, Currie!" he snaps. "You think this is a business problem? Is that all you see, when you look at your monumental fuck up? Business?!" What else would it be? I try to see some other way it could be taken. I get nothing. "Yes. I guess I do," I admit. He leans forward, elbows on the desk. "Then you're an idiot. A wet-behind-the-ears jackoff idiot. Why do you think Walter Russell was so upset about you circumventing his wishes? Why do you think he got as mad as he did, over some Teddy fucking Fields track? Jesus, Currie...why do you think I fired you rather than give you a second chance to prove yourself? Don't you know that I realize how good your fucking song was?! Don't you know even that?!!" That last one catches me off guard, and I stare at him. "I honestly don't know what you're implying," I admit. He stares at me a moment, and takes a deep breath. "Jacob, how old do you think Walter Russell is?" Hallelujah Ch. 06 I blink. "Uh," I try to picture him in my mind, but it's been a while. "I'm not sure?" "He turned sixty last month." "Oh." "'Oh' is right. Now here's the thing: a guy like Walter is steeped in music history. He's a living, breathing connection to our roots. When he was coming up he engineered sessions for Mac Davis, Charley Pride, and Jeannie Riley. His first big assist was for Area Code 615. He's been working in this industry since before you were born, he's been a part of some of the finest albums ever made. And financially, he doesn't have a thing to show for it. Why is that? You'll start to find out soon enough. Every new year brings more new talent, and every new year you get older. Hell, what are you now? Thirty? In the music industry?" He scoffs. "Eventually, you will get to where Walter is. You're well on your way already. And this is where that is: he's produced a lot of below-ground classics...some of them, you'd probably like...and he's worked with a few major names when their careers were dipping low. But he's like the majority of people in this industry: he hasn't got any gold records on his wall. He hasn't got a huge bank account to fall back on. There is no giant hit in his future. Christ, the man doesn't have health insurance, Jacob. Do you even get what that means, at his age? When you young guys, you and Teddy, take a piss on Walter Russell, you're pissing on your own cultural history. You're pissing on the guy who got you here. He's going to leave this business with nothing and you'll still be laughing." He looks at me sadly. I suddenly realize my mouth is hanging open. "I had no idea." "You never thought twice about him." "I didn't." He leans back. "Tell me, Jacob, how do you think I got started in recording?" I shrug. "I guess I assumed it was be selling gear or promoting. That's how a lot of studio guys start off." He shakes his head. "I was a recording engineer. I wasn't good enough at it, not at all." He smiles and shakes his head. "I had to find some other way to be a part of the magic, or else I had to walk away." He looks around the room as if it were lined with his dreams. "How could I do something like that?" I am fully aware, now, that I've totally fucked up. I misread the whole thing. I never saw Bennie Rich or Walter Russell as people, just as living, breathing caricatures. They didn't have a history, they were just ideas...the idea of the guy who 'doesn't get it.' Who doesn't have a clue. Turns out that was me. "Do you know," he asks me, "how old I am?" I look at him closely, and I start to get nervous. "Are you..." He nods. "Sixty. The same age as Walter. Now, I am a relatively rich man, Jacob. My name suits me, as it happens. And I have health insurance. These things make me the exception in this business. But I first met Walter Russell when we were both brand new engineers fighting to get into the business. That was 1969, if you're keeping score. He had the ears and vision, and I didn't. He could do it...I mean, just DO it. You understand me? Walter Russell achieved my dream. And I...couldn't. He had the talent I lacked. And what does he get for it? He'll die poor, his achievements forgotten and his records out of print. The last thing he'll have done in this business is be a whipping post for Jacob Currie, Teddy Fields, and all of their jackoff friends." He shakes his head. "When you look at him and me, you see two old men who don't understand anymore. We're cut off from the modern era. I know that. But when I look at you, I see someone who doesn't care to know anything else. Oh, I'm sure you listen to old records. You probably rank many of them among your favorites. But it's not the same, and it's not really what we're talking about here, is it?" I open my mouth. Nothing. I think I might just deflate right here in front of him. He's watching me intensely. "Go ahead, Jake. It's your show now. Tell me why I'm wrong. Tell me why I should look at how you cuckolded Walter Russell in his own home and be okay with it. I'm listening." He's right. I did it again. Didn't even need a gymrat accomplice this time. I can't think of a thing. "I think you're right," I tell him. "I think you did the right thing. And I'm sorry. I should go." He doesn't say a word as I walk out the door. I sit in my car for a long time, sweating in the stagnant air and staring out at traffic. I think back to the work I was doing in New York, to the life I had there, and I almost wish I hadn't come to Nashville. But I also know that it was easier there because I was surrounded by like-minded people. Everybody agreed about everything, and that made us really certain of our righteous perfection. I think of Jasmine, sitting on my porch with a wine bottle in her hand and her skirt dipping between her legs, and I know that my insulation reached further than I am comfortable admitting. I never invested myself emotionally in any other relationship, because I was certain of what I needed, and I became part of a social circle where that was just expected. There had never been another Jasmine because I had never allowed for one. I had put up defenses for the sake of preventing anybody else ever getting that far in. And I had felt bad for myself, because I was so alone. In a way, this was all easier to take than the lesson I'd just learned, because at least this was something I was telling myself. Schooling yourself is, ultimately, a bit euphoric and therefore much less devastating than being schooled by others. Even if you fucked it up before, you can comfort yourself with the knowledge that you've just figured out the answer, and you did it all by yourself. Having someone you looked down on pull back the curtains and show you that you were only able to look down on them because you were totally upside down was...well, it was heartbreaking. Not only had I been wrong, but I'd been cruel and stupid about it. And I had been clueless enough that I never even considered any version of the story other than the one I'd created. The heat in the car is oppressive, but I don't want to go home. I don't want to face Jasmine and her problems any more today; I'm knee deep in the swamp of my own self-loathing, and I didn't bring any hip waders. So I start the engine and start driving. I'm not headed anywhere in particular, but I guess I know what I'm looking for because I head almost directly for Shelby Park. I'd like to say that the three hours I spend walking alone help me reach an understanding with myself, but that would be too easy. I eventually go home, but I'm lost. -=- "You were gone a long time," she says. I'm standing in the doorway, deciding how to feel about what I'm seeing. As if coming home to Jasmine, and having her greet me so casually, wasn't a surreal enough twist on my life, then the state of my apartment certainly amplifies it. She's gone and cleaned the whole thing. Even the kitchen area is bright as the day it was shown to me. Wrappers and dust mites, molds and stains, they all must have died together. A non-recyclable genocide. It must have been horrific. What little remains of my CD collection is in a large carrying case that I've never seen before. I suppose she bought it as a 'thank you' present. It rests on the kitchen countertop where a stack of pizza boxes once congregated. Vinyl, previously stacked into teetering piles that would have offended any self-respecting audiophile, is organized into three plastic bins that she must have purchased. She's labeled them "50's-60's," "70's-80's," and "90's onward." "Just like home," I mutter to myself, but more than loud enough for her to hear it. "I wasn't sure if you still organized that way. I hope it's okay." "It is," I lie. Up until she left me, I always organized music by era rather than artist. In the years since, though, I've learned to keep my personal life as messy and disorganized as my love life. There is an order, it must be adhered to, and it's guiding principal is that there is no order. Looking into the bins feels like looking at an old photograph of the two of us together, happy and innocent in our once-upon-a-time. It makes me sick. "I bought a few things," she says. "I hope you don't mind, I...I'd like to spend the night on the couch. The idea of being alone in a hotel room right now is still too much." "What will your husband say to that?" She looks away. "I don't think there's much hope that he'll take me back anyway. But if he does ask, then I won't lie." "That sounds like you're playing with fire." "It feels that way, too." She starts. "Oh! I almost forgot! A man came to the door a little bit ago. Said his name was Buck, and to tell you he'd stopped by. I assume it was your friend? He seemed upset about something." "Fuck!" I blurt out. "You answered my door?" She winces. "I didn't think-" "No shit!" Damn it. "Did you have your wedding ring on when you answered the door?" A frown. "Why wouldn't I? Jake, I never take it off." She sort of trails off on the last part, like she's remembering something. "Great," I groan. "You probably just cost me the last friend I had." "I did? How? Oh!" she jolts, as if realizing for the first time what it must look like from Buck's perspective. "But...I mean, he saw my face. I'm all bruised and swollen. If you can tell him the whole story, he'll understand. Won't he?" "That's debatable. And anyway, after what we went through, a violent husband will only strike him as more reason to stay out of the whole mess." I take a deep breath and rub my temples with my fingers. "Maybe I can talk to him later, after you've gone. He's a fairly understanding guy." "I'm sorry, Jake. I seem to be radiating disaster." "More than you know." I hold my hands up. "I didn't mean that. I'm sorry. I'm putting my fuckups on you. And my fuckups are bigger than yours. Yours is mostly somebody else's doing." She bites her lip. "Jake, I should tell you-" The phone rings, interrupting her. I grab it. "Hello?" "I don't know what you did, son," the thick voice comes down the line dripping with honey, "but don't tell me. I want to let my imagination run wild on this one." "Oh, hey," I say, my heart sinking. I know what this is. The label is tired of waiting on the would-be producer, and they're moving on. I put my mouth over the receiver and whisper to Jasmine, "Give me one second. It's John Kennedy." She rolls her eyes at me like I'm kidding. Whatever. "I assume this call is to tell me I'm out?" "Are you kidding me?" He laughs. "I just got off the phone with a mister Bennie Rich, who called to assure me that he would be contacting the label tomorrow morning and telling them he is prepared to green light a Teddy Fields production with you at the helm." I open my mouth to start several sentences before settling with: "Huh?" "That's right, boy. Now, Bennie Rich is not what you'd call a forgiving or pliant man, so I have to assume that you had a hand in this turn of events. Spill the beans. No. Don't spill the beans." He laughs, and it's a big thing. "Don't even tell anybody. Let them guess. I think maybe you're gonna become an urban legend in this town, Jake." "I didn't...I...it wasn't anything. Don't be impressed. I went down there, ready to offer a few apologies, but really I wanted to make him realize that he was being childish. As it turns out, he made it very clear to me just how big of a bastard I am and I apologized and left. Basically, it comes down to Teddy and I don't have any respect for anybody who looks older than us, and I'm a super big asshole." Kennedy hums as he reflects on my story. "And you agreed with him? That you're an asshole, and so is Teddy?" "I guess I did. I do." "Well, do me a favor and tell Teddy. He won't believe it if I tell him." We share a laugh. "I'll have to get back to you when I know for sure," he continues, "but I'll wager this clears the last major hurtle for getting things rolling." "Thank god for that. I lost my job today." "Sorry. Are you going to find another one, or try and survive off the advance and some loans until the record comes out?" "That's a long time. We may start recording real soon here, but it'll still be six months or longer without income. I don't know for sure. Getting a job will damage my ability to commit time and energy to the album." "Agreed." "I'll think about it. Maybe I can live in a cardboard box." "If you need one let me know. I just bought a refrigerator." He promises to call when he hears back from the label, and we hang up. I can't help it: I do a little jump and dance right there in the living room, as Jasmine watches with that "oh, man, are you embarrassing yourself right now" look on her face. Well, fuck her. "What's that all about?" she asks. "Music," I tell her. "It was about music." "No wonder you're so happy then," she says, but her eyes look sad. "Listen, Jake. I've been thinking, and there's something you need to know about what happened with me and AJ." "Go on," I say, only half listening. I open the fridge, hoping that she replaced my wine when she went to the store. Sure enough, there's a bottle there. Two points for the little lady. I grab the corkscrew off the counter and start opening it. "Well," she kind of wrings her hands together, "I know how all of this has looked. And I know you aren't the biggest fan of AJ in the world." "How it all looked. Jesus, Jasmine, he hit you." "I know, but-" "Jasmine, he HIT YOU!" "I know! But, Jake...oh, this is harder than I thought. Listen," she sits down heavily on the couch, "I really need you to be my friend, okay? I know this is going to sound...er...just, please, try to be understanding, okay?" I get the wine bottle open, and pour two glasses. "That just happens to be my new personal goal in life, actually." "Good. The thing is, before I...before you and I reconnected, things were going kind of poorly for AJ and I. He was getting more and more angry about work stuff, and he was tired all of the time. He was so quiet and withdrawn. I felt like we were slipping away from each other, and when I tried to talk to him about it, he just got angry." "Angry, yeah. I can see that." "No, Jake," her chin wrinkles up and she sniffs back a sob, "you don't understand." And just like that, I know what's coming. I open my mouth to stop her, to keep her from saying it. To keep it from being true. But I'm too slow. "I cheated on him," she says, and breaks down. Tears start pouring down her cheeks. "I cheated on my husband." Son of a bitch. Hallelujah Ch. 07 Part III: The Baffled King CHAPTER SEVEN The gurgling of a coffee pot ripples across my dream, pulling me awake. I allow myself a groan as I lift my head off the pillow to look at the clock on the wall. Just after seven-thirty. Yeah. Alright. I push myself up into a sitting position, dropping my feet to the ground, and scratch at my shoulders. Now, I'm not really interested in waking up yet...another two or three hours sounds heavenly...but needs must when the devil drives. If I stay in bed any longer I'll be in trouble. She must have known that. That's why she's making coffee. Anyway, rested or not, the truth is I want to be up. The last thing I would want to do is miss my first day of recording with Teddy Fields. My knees pop as I stand, effectively announcing my conscious state, and I hear the sound of a cup being set down. I look over my shoulder at the kitchenette. Jasmine gives me a timid smile and waves. She's got a pair of loose and casual pajamas on, with her hair mussed from sleeping, and it turns me on enough to make me look away. She doesn't say anything, just pours each of us a cup of coffee. I shuffle into the bathroom and yawn. She makes a point of studying some imperfection on the table as I pass by in my boxer shorts. We've made a lot of progress on our little arrangement, but it's still a little bit on the awkward side. It's been six weeks now, since I learned that the reason for her crumbling marriage was an affair between herself and a man from work. When she'd said those words, admitting to that terrible act, it was like a torch was being lit for me...like I'd been in a cave, living blind. Suddenly I realized that I was standing in my apartment with a woman who was married. A woman who had betrayed the man who loved her. And while I wasn't directly involved, this time, I was certainly making myself a part of her sorry little storyline. She'd cheated...JASMINE had cheated. Over and over, for nearly two months. She had thrown AJ's love away and ruined his life. Just like she'd done to me. I wasn't hot about it. I was direct. There wasn't any question about what needed to happen. I simply shook my head and asked her to leave. She cried, but she didn't try and defend herself. She just took her things and was gone. I don't know how she got back to her car. At the time, I didn't much care. To be honest, I was back to hoping that I never heard from the fucking woman again in my life. Two weeks later I asked her to move in with me. Funny, I know. Or stupid, depending on how you feel about it. But, see, with all the drama unfolding around me I had managed to protect myself from doing much thinking on a few key points: 1. I didn't have a job, any savings, or much in the way of credit. I had two grand from the label. That's it. 2. The economy was taking a nose-dive, and I'm not qualified to do very much. I also couldn't afford to not be as available as possible when recording time came. 3. Jasmine Knox had a job. A good job, that paid well. AJ doesn't want her coming back home, so she needed someplace to stay. 4. My rent was past due. Needless to say, these unpleasant little realities did a pretty good job of dictating my life to me in the short term. Now maybe you'd think that a recording contract with a vanity label owned by a major, with plenty of capital and clout, ought to be enough to secure a loan. Maybe you'd figure that contracted work of that nature is relevant to banks...especially in a music hub like Nashville, Tennessee. But you'd be wrong. In truth, the business is fluid and unpredictable enough that most banks want nothing to do with it. There's just no way to know how a project will sell, so there's no way to know if a contract is really going to produce any kind of substantial income. Even after the fact, if you turn up successful, everybody knows that it's probably fleeting so they're often wary. Today's wealthy guitarist is tomorrow's Burger King night manager, and there are always stories bouncing around the industry about some musician with a gold record being turned down for a loan. Some of them are gross exaggerations. Many are not. Believe me, though, moving Jasmine in here wasn't my first choice even then. My first thought was to consider relocating (not that I could afford anyplace, anywhere) or to advertise for a roomie. Never mind how short on time I was...inviting a married woman into my apartment was not going to be a recurring trick. I was determined to the point of being stubborn. It was Buck Nelson, winemaker extraordinaire, who ultimately pointed out to me that I knew someone who needed a place to stay. And they had the money to pay the rent, so why didn't I just bite the goddamn bullet and get it over with? I reminded him of my history with Jasmine and the potential for another angry husband, and he made a joke about wine bottle weapons. I asked him if he was trying to get me killed, he asked me where the best place to put a door between our two apartments would be when I was gone and he expanded. Basically, the smartass was avoiding arguing because he understood, in a way I didn't, that there wasn't a lot in the way of alternatives. Needless to say, his certainty caused me to reevaluate. Buck had every reason to try to talk me OUT of inviting some guy's estranged wife to my pad. My problems seem to become his problems, and this particular one seems like it has the potential to be disastrous. So when he argued in favor of moving her in, I took notice. I did insist on a little reflection time, first, to make absolutely sure that I was no longer interested in her. And you know what? I really feel like finding out what she did has evaporated any remaining emotions I had for her. In retrospect, I sure am glad I didn't freak out when she admitted to the affair. If I had screamed at her, or called her names, I doubt she would have come back. As it is, it only took a little convincing, and I think she held back more out of concern for me than for herself. You know what's stupid, though? What's just unbelievably ridiculous? As mad as I was to find out that Jasmine was a cheater...that when she abandoned my love she had done so for a man who wasn't even special enough to bother staying faithful to...as angry as that made me, I also had a little sense of hurt that she hadn't chosen me. I mean, I wouldn't WANT to be a part of another marriage going up in flames. Really, I wouldn't. And I'd like to believe that I would have told her no. But part of me couldn't help but ask that...I mean, what? I'm not good enough? I noticed, when we talked about her moving in here, that she never worried about how it might affect her chances of saving her marriage. Or, if she did, it never showed. I haven't asked any questions about any of that, yet. I don't imagine I probably ever will. It's simply not my business, and it feels particularly important that I keep it that way. Still, you do find yourself picking up details and trying to use them to build an understanding. For example, I know she dresses up real professionally every evening and disappears, for hours. When she gets back, she's usually quiet, but it's not like she's weepy or anything. She doesn't volunteer where she goes, and I don't ask. Maybe she's meeting AJ, hoping to work things out. Maybe she's trying to win over the few friends who haven't picked sides yet. Maybe she's continuing her affair. No. I doubt that. I also doubt that she has any hope of salvaging her marriage, just based on the fact that she's willing to stay here. Even the way she shuffles around most of the time, or sits staring at the television no matter what I decide to watch. These are all signs of a depressed Jasmine. I did ask, before she brought all her stuff, if I should be worried about AJ. She promised me that I shouldn't, that he knew the whole truth about what she'd done and was finished with her. "And he knows," she promised, "that is wasn't you." "But does he know where you're living?" I asked her, and she just shrugged. "It doesn't matter, Jake," she muttered. "I'm the one he hates." And then she walked away. There's still no question in my mind that it's stupid of me to have her here, but until I'm getting paid or can find a place to stay for free, I don't know what to do. Maybe I should just call AJ and talk to him, let him know where I stand on all of this. Let him know how disgusted I am by Jasmine's actions. That might help. Anyway, those are questions for later. After four weeks of sleeping on a hideaway mattress and moping around the apartment, I am ready to make a record. Also, my back is killing me. Yeah. I gave her the bedroom. She's paying the fucking rent, isn't she? Plus, she had a lot more stuff to bring in the second time around, so she needed a defined space for storing it all. I guess she must have gone back to the house and grabbed her more treasured belongings. Seems like a lot of them were clothes. I don't know. Boredom has really stretched this whole thing out, too. You wouldn't figure that anything about my little unfolding drama would be classified as boring, but it sure feels that way to me. We sit around, we don't talk very much, we watch a lot of TV. Jasmine makes sure the place is cleaner than I ever would. We live on small talk, evaluating food and disagreeing about sitcoms. More and more often, I find myself double-checking the calender in case another day has slipped passed in the last few hours and I just didn't notice it. I should have gotten myself an advent calender...at least then I would get a piece of chocolate for every damn day I had to count down to green light. Too late, now. The counting's done, the light's green, and today's the day. Oh, there was one bit of excitement I should mention. I'm pretty proud of this one, in the same way a boy might be proud of pulling a girl's hair. One day, about two weeks ago, Samantha the Gymrat called. I guess she wanted to apologize for everything while at the same time letting me know that the whole mess was all my fault. Seriously. She and her husband were trying to work through this, though, she said in a condescendingly sweet voice, and she hoped that I would understand. Maybe someday I could find someone who made me happy, too. Ha ha. She sounded drunk. And, I mean, hadn't it been something like three months since our little battle royale? I guess I was feeling a little rebellious, or irritated with all these crazy fucking women, or just drunk myself, but I cut her off and said, "Oh, don't worry about me, babe. I've got another married woman already lined up. She's here right now. She's a lot younger than you, and she's spending the night." Holding up the phone to Jasmine, who was looking at me with horrified eyes and her mouth hanging open, I loudly said, "Say hi, honey!" She stared at me for a second like I'd just shot her dog, and then got up and ran to the bedroom. I returned the cradle to my ear, but Gymrat'd hung up. I could hear Jasmine crying. She wouldn't talk to me for two days after that. Whatever. Neither one is on Santa's "good" list, I'm sure. It's not my problem if they don't have a sense of humor about it all. Time right now to put them away. Where the sun currently stands, I'm less interested in reading the latest blog entry from the wide world of adulterous women and more concerned in the events that are about to unfold at Blackbird Studios. Events which depend heavily upon myself. I take a quick rinse off, throw on khakis and a button up, and take my cup of coffee. It's perfect. I like my coffee black, with none of that caloric bullshit added in, but I am kind of a pussy about the temperature. Lukewarm is fine, scalding is not. "Getting excited?" Jasmine asks me. She's sitting at the table, looking up from the book she was reading, smiling. "Hard not to be," I admit. "You gonna be around tonight?" I don't mean anything by it, I'm just making small talk. Still, she gives me this funny inquisitive look that has me reading extra meaning into my own question. "Yeah," she says, "I think I will." "Okay," I make a point of expressing my indifference with my tone. "It doesn't matter, either way. But I guess maybe we can see if that wine is done and have a couple of glasses, if you're around. Otherwise I'll probably just watch some TV. Doesn't matter." "I'd like to have a drink," her smile grows. "I could use to release a little stress." "Yeah...well..." I grab my keys and wave, "bye." "Bye." Once I'm outside and the door is closed, I let out a breath. That was as close as we ever get to a normal, comfortable conversation. Some of that is me. Anything that feels too domestic has me scrambling for the door. It makes me uncomfortable. So maybe the wine is a good idea. We've both been stressed out. A few glasses of wine could make it easier to talk. Oh. The wine. Buck's way of helping me celebrate my success was to buy me a new kit and help me start it. He's even walked me through the process so I don't have to pour this batch down the shower drain like I did the last one. Technically, I think I'm supposed to age it for another three or four days minimum, but...you know, fuck it. Traffic is light, today, and so is my heart. I've been at the studio for a little over an hour when the band shows up. They're twenty minutes late, which seems a little less rockstar and a little more frustrating now that I'm the one whose ass is on the line. If I can't pull a record out of these guys, and in fairly short order, trouble ensues. It doesn't help that Teddy has refused to play any of the new songs for me. No demos, no sitting down ahead of time to plan for arrangements, nothing. He left it to John Kennedy to explain his feelings on that, so I will, too: "That first song was so in the pocket that it couldn't be stopped, and it all came about spontaneously. Teddy feels that that kind of combustion is better suited to his artistic nature than normal studio work." Right. My engineer, a man in his late 30's named Brian Mueller, has the equipment ready and warmed up. He's got long, shaggy hair and a tendency to smile out one side of his mouth as he talks. He seems like a nice guy. I wonder what his story is. Bennie stopped by to say good luck when we first came in, and he was cordial if not warm. I hadn't even counted on that much. We're in Studio A, the big one, and I can't stop walking around marveling at it. Am I really here? Am I seriously being handed this incredible space, on someone else's dime, to make a record? It seems so impossibly ludicrous now that it's happening. All I know for sure is that Studio A is a monster. Bigger than you would ever imagine. It has three bathrooms and a kitchen. Seriously. That's how awesomely huge this place is. The control room looks like a cross between a very expensive home movie theater designed to seat ten and the bridge of the starship Enterprise. Amazing. The main tracking area, where the band will play, is a large, open space modeled after Abbey Road. Other than being heavy on wood and maroons instead of bleached-white, it for all intensive purposes looks just like the room where the Beatles wanted to hold your hand and look at all the lonely people. You could fit a symphony in there. You could play basketball, with spectators. I've never seen its like. But even so, it's only the beginning. There are no fewer than six isolation booths branching off of it as part of a never-ending row of doors, the others being walk-in closets for gear. Each iso booth is a small room designed for isolating an instrument during recording. Usually a little larger than your average master bath, some of them here are almost living room sized. When you record bands using the booths, they play in tandem while wearing headphones so that they can hear each other. I won't be doing that. Track bleed is a wonderful thing. Between hard disk recorders, digital track editors, and bands that record their records locked away in separate rooms, most of what's on the radio today sounds so lifeless and exact that it puts me to sleep. All that soulless perfection...yuck. I'm just glad it wasn't done that way when records like Tea for the Tillerman or Songs in the Key of Life were being cut. The tour I got on my first day here, yonks ago, offered a little surprise that still kills me. One of the isolation booths in Studio A has a door on the opposite wall that leads into yet another large tracking room. This one's even bigger than the first, with an adjustable ceiling so you can control the amount of natural reverb. I'm serious. They gave me a ceiling remote control. I wanted to ask for sharks with lasers, but I was afraid they might actually have it. This big room would be great for orchestras, but for my small band it would be too big. You wouldn't get enough room sound. The whole place is a maze of doors, booths, massive closets, and the occasional huge open space. It feels labyrinthine...like if you could just tear down the interior walls you might be able to play a game of college football. It's so big that there's a big screen TV above the window in the control room where you can flip through a series of cameras and be able to look at whoever you're talking to, no matter what room they're in. I have such a music boner right now. Ironically, given all of this space, I'll probably be sticking just to the main tracking room. That's the room I wanted. It's the whole reason I demanded this studio. Fields's whole band can play in there together and, while there'll be some bleed, it won't be any more than on all those great 60's or 70's records. It'll feel alive. Plus, the sound will be incredible. The control room is a flight up from the studio floor, with a large plexiglass window overlooking the main tracking room. Looking out, you see down into the recording area. I fog it up with my breath and draw a smiley face on it. I know, real mature. Let me have my fun. In fact, that's what I'm doing when the door opens and Fields and crew fumble in. Paul Spears catches me before I can move to stand in front of it, and rolls his eyes. But he's smiling. "Hey hey," I wave. "Welcome home. How was the tour?" "Oh, you know." Mickey English shrugs, his bony shoulders looking unnatural even on his stretched-out frame. "Typical Midwestern thing. Lots of beautiful sky and flat land, but more cows than people. It gets old pretty quick." "Any highlights?" "Not really. Hard to have highlights when you're playing Brookings, South Dakota." "That's not true," Teddy reprimands him. "Lots of good things up in South Dakota. Lots of good people." "Is there?" I ask. "The only things I know of from there are faces made of rock and that crazy religious cult. Doesn't seem like the place to be." "Both of those are further west than Brookings," Fields says matter-of-factly. "Woulda been fun to play for a cult, though." "Some other cult, maybe," the piano player frowns. "But that one seems to have a special dose of crazy in it. That senator from Virginia-" "You go listening to Republican senators," Fields smiles, "and you'll start thinking the whole world is full of crazy. Those people, whatever they're up to, haven't done nuthin' to nobody." Mickey shrugs again and turns away. I fake a yawn. "So Brookings." "Brookings. We play there every couple of years. It's a college town, and we set up in this great little place...Skinner's Pub. We get there every two years or so, so a few people remember us. This year was a bit of a downer, but that's a matter of chance I suppose." "Why's that?" "Roger Clyne and the Peacemakers are regulars, too. You know Roger?" "I've got a few of his records. He's from Arizona, isn't he?" "Sure is." "Yeah. Has a lot of Steve Earle in his songwriting. He's good." Hallelujah Ch. 07 Teddy nods. "He is. One of the best live acts out there, and he played Skinner's just three nights before we did. They love him there. He burns the place down wherever he plays. Nobody has anything left to give afterward. Fuck me if there were fifty people in the whole place for our show. He must have just destroyed them." He sighs. "Good for Roger, anyway." He coughs. "Say, how have you been? Any word from...what's her name?" "Jasmine." "Yeah. Jasmine. The fiery ex." "Well, she cheated on her husband and now she's living with me." He stares at me for a minute. "Huh. Did not see that coming." The others are looking at us with curiosity on their faces, so I clap my hands together. "Let's make a record." That gets them back on track. There's a lot of nodding, and grinning, and looking around the room and out the window. Then we're all just standing there again. Suddenly I realize that everyone's looking at me, waiting for me to say something, and I feel stupid. It's your show, Jake. Remember that. "What I was thinking," I tell them, "was that you could just set yourselves up in the big room down below," I point my thumb over my shoulder at the plexiglass. "We'll run through the songs, and just...see what happens." The band seems happy enough with this, and in a few seconds they're hauling their gear down into the studio. "Is that...uh...really it?" Brian asks. "Yeah. Why?" "It's just...different." "For Nashville, maybe. But up in New York you see a lot more projects run that way. A little looser, a little less professional. It fits the musicians better, I find." He doesn't seem convinced. "But isn't it risky?" he asked. It's a funny effect; with that little half-smile he has whenever he talks, he looks like he's making fun of me. "Yeah, well, here's the way I see it: Phil Spector gets credited for producing John Lennon's first solo album, right?" He shrugs. "So?" "So Phil didn't show up but once or twice for the whole damn thing. In fact, he was so thoroughly missing in action that Lennon took a full page ad out in Billboard magazine just to ask him to come visit. Some of the people who played on the record never even met him." Brian seems surprised. "Is that true?" I laugh. "Yeah. So, hey, I'm actually here, aren't I? And I haven't pulled a gun on anybody, either, so I'm already a better producer than Phil Spector." He chuckles a bit and we drop it. The truth is, I'm terrified that he might be right. This is a hugely dangerous way to record, and if it blows up in my face I'll have a lifetime to feel bad about it. A lifetime of not making records. The first song the band runs through is a shuffle with a beat that reminds me of 50's rock and roll, but with that reverberating slide over it the feel is more like walking nervously across a frozen pond than hip-shaking to an Elvis track. It's got a decent mood, but it feels incomplete and sort of vacant. Fields's voice almost carries the song. Almost. He's halfway barking the lines, his tone full of amusement, the emotion in his delivery changing by the line. One second he sounds melancholy, the next he's sharing an inside joke with a friend. A second after that, he's snapping at a woman who pissed him off. Then he's talking like he's in love. It's engaging, if exhausting, to listen to. "Balancing on a hawker's glove," he sings halfway through the first verse, "you and me and the moon, my love, talons in the leather, eyes on the dove." The slide slips upward, and for a moment the song sounds like its lifting off, but nothing much changes. It goes on like before. A few lines later Fields picks up steam again: "Don't ever learn to tell me 'no,'" he snaps. "A bench racer's got no soul." Then his voice turns softer, sad. "And if you ever somehow catch me...just let me go." This continues for a few verses, most appearing to be about a woman. It subtly shifts from "you" and "me" to "we" in the second half, which I think is mildly clever. It seems to grow less stand-offish and more caring as it goes. Then the band disappears, and I'm left with just Fields's deep voice, hushed and soothing, and his moaning guitar up above it. "We're tired and bent," he croons, "magnificent, and as driven by the return as by the ascent." The band bursts back in without warning and they jam on the melody, filling it in with passion and gusto. And then...it's over. As the last note fades away the band looks up at the window, looking for feedback. I rub my chin and glance at Brian. He shrugs. You know that feeling you get right before the roller coaster drops? Well, there I am. The song is a skeleton of something great, but it just didn't go anywhere. And the truth is, I'm not sure what the fuck it needs to make it work. I've literally got nothing, and I'm so nervous about that fact that I can't even fake it. All this waiting, and just one song in I'm already fucking lost. I click the talkback. "Sounds good," I say. "Let's hear another one." Then I turn it off. The band look at each other, and not in a 'hooray, guys, he likes it,' kind of way. They're uncertain. Teddy shrugs and says, "Yeah. Sure." He turns to the others, and after a second they start a different track. I could describe to you every one of the twelve songs they play for me before we call it a day, but the truth is that it all ends up in the same place. None of them are complete thoughts. All of them have good qualities that pull you in, but they don't really seem to come together in any way. Nothing manages to put the song over. Soon as they're over, you've forgotten them. And I can't see what will make any of them stand out on their own. When they first played 'As Long As I'm Here' way back when, it spoke directly to me. I immediately knew what it needed. These songs are all similar to that one, in their way. They share the same musical roots, have the same history, and feel like they come from a similar geographical place. They all have lyrics that are a little on the abstract side, but full of little lines and phrases that seem to communicate exactly what you're feeling. Oh, there are slower mood pieces, mid-tempo shuffles, and quick-paced bluesy stomps, but at the end of the day they all have common ground...and they all need something more. I don't have any fucking clue what it is. I guess I do know that it isn't an acoustic guitar. But my insight stops there. Everybody seems more than a little concerned when I call it a day without recording anything. But the truth is there's nothing to record. If we did spend what time we have left cutting background tracks, we'd probably have to redo them anyway dependent upon how we adjust the arrangement later. Right now, I just need to get away. I need to step back and have the time to think about what I've heard, because any decision I make right now is going to be the wrong one. I'm practically in the grips of a panic attack, because I'm freaking out about the fact that I'm freaking out. I feign cool assuredness, trying to act casual about it, as the band comes up. I sweat profusely. From the look Brian gives me, I'm sure Bennie Rich will be hearing about this total waste of time. I bet he'll think it's funny. I sure am fucking glad that I've got six gallons of wine waiting for me at home. I'm gonna need every last drop. - Jasmine isn't home from work, yet, when I arrive. But Buck Nelson is. He's not sitting outside, but I can see the glow from his television as I walk to my front door. The sun is only beginning to show the first tiny signs of setting, still far from starting that remarkable display of color on the horizon, but you can already tell it's going to be a little chilly tonight. Well, it is that time of year. The little hand is approaching the four, and Jasmine is due home at five, so I have plenty of time to think about my problems while I silently go about the process of cleaning the wine bottles Buck gave me and transferring the wine into them. I don't reach a lot of conclusions, except that somewhere around the twenty-third bottle I tell myself that tomorrow I'm going to record something no matter what happens. No more of this inactive insecurity. It's dangerous. I've been putting a lot of weight on this moment, and when it didn't flow the way I expected it to I guess I froze up. That's not any kind of way to go out. Fuck it all up, but don't sit on your ass while you do it. Maybe we won't get what I imagined us getting, and maybe it won't end up being so great after all, but goddamn it...this record is going to get made. I think about the songs I heard today, trying to figure out what I could put to them in order to bring them alive. I try to run through every trick I've ever been exposed to, but simply can't make myself hear how those techniques play out in conjunction with those songs. I don't mean to say that they wouldn't work...I mean that, no matter what I try to imagine, I only hear the same take running over and over in my head. It's almost like I lack the ability to re-imagine. Maybe 'As Long As I'm Here' was a fluke. Maybe it just came out right because it WAS right. Maybe it had nothing to do with me. Shit, Jake, not every good engineer is a good producer. You knew that. It's not a very heartening thought. It's also bullshit. I know exactly what I did on 'As Long,' and it was crucial. That same performance of that same song, with more Nashville-friendly hands at the console, would simply not have produced such a solid track. And I may yet ruin this record, but I won't let that take away from me the one accomplishment I do have. I'm finished corking the bottles and I've tucked all but three of them away when Jasmine gets home. "How did your first day go?" she asks with a proud smile. "Not great. I don't want to talk about it." "Oh," she looks surprised. "I...I'm going to go change. Are we still drinking tonight?" "I'm on my way to get Buck right now. I aim to be completely trashed by the time you get outside." I don't turn around. She hesitates. "Okay, Jake. I...I'm sorry things didn't work out today. Tomorrow will be better, right?" I shrug, knowing full well that it makes me look like a sulky child. Fuck it. I'm not out to impress this one. I grab the three bottles and make for the door. Buck answers quickly, beady-eyed and thin-lipped. "Let's do this," he says with gruff intensity, like we're mountain biking or climbing a mountain. He curls his lip like Billy Idol...or maybe Sylvester Stallone. Man, I love this guy. "How did you know what I had in mind?" I ask, glancing down at the red cup in his hand. "It's not even supposed to be ready yet." "My vino senses were tingling," he winks. "They never lie." I make a show of looking serious. "Und vat do zees senses feel like to you?" "Well," he looks up, deep in thought, "at first I thought I was just horny. But then I realized that my liver was crying, and I knew it could only mean one thing. Did the transfer go okay?" "No trouble at all...aside from hoisting the fucking carboy up onto the table. How much does six gallons weigh, anyway?" "About six gallons, dude." "That's a measure of volume, asshole." He toasts his empty glass to that. "But it's better than a measure of asshole volume, I suppose." We're in the lawn chairs, Buck savoring his glass while I'm guzzling straight out of the bottle, when Jasmine finally comes out. She's got shorts and a tank top on, revealing wonderfully bronzed skin, but she's also brought an afghan out to cover herself with. And well she should. She folds her legs under herself as she sits, making for a not totally unseductive look. I glance at Buck, and I can see he notices. Come to think of it, Buck never talks about dating or recent conquests. I have no idea what his love life is like, or if he even has one. Yet another person in my life where I have managed to make myself the entire story. I'll ask him sometime when there aren't intruders present. Jasmine takes her first sip. She hums noncommittally. "What kind is it, again? It's very dry." "Dry is good," Buck insists. "Is that a problem?" She shrugs. "It's okay, I guess." "Well, it's a Barolo. They tend to be tannic and strong when young, with a lot more going for them as they age. I think we can both see that our friend Jake is not planning on aging this one, though, so drink while you can." She nods and studies the liquid, but doesn't respond. Buck turns to me. "So how did it go, today?" "I don't want to talk about it." I take another big pull from the bottle. "Yes you do," he sniffs. "Otherwise you'd just lie and say it went fine." I give him a look. Touche, sir. "I sucked. Okay? I really, really sucked." He gives me a pitying look and shakes his head solemnly. "It's so sad, that you sound so surprised," he says. I can't help it. I laugh. It's a snorting, surprised laugh that has me spilling wine down my shirt. "Motherfucker!" I blurt out, but I'm still laughing. Jasmine is, too, her hand over her mouth in shocked amusement. She's pretty much like every other woman in history that found herself hanging out with two boys: she's more than happy to find her amusement in our stupidity. And we are pretty much like every other boy in history: we're pleased to provide it. Things get relaxed after that. I may have a permanent purple stain on what was one of my last two nice shirts, and it's definitely chilly out, but we're all getting very, very drunk. It's fun. Actually, I'm getting beyond hammered. I'm getting stupid drunk...the kind where your only care is to dominate the conversation, impart your great wisdom, and then deny everything in the morning. They humor me well. The wine is disappearing, the conversation is flowing, and the laughter is infectious. It gets late quickly. The moon is up and keeping a close eye on me from behind two wispy clouds when Buck decides it's time to head off to bed. "Hey, buddy," he mumbles as he stumbles over his own chair, "you'll do better tomorrow." 'Tomorrow' comes out slurred, so that it almost sounds like a one syllable word. I want to say 'thanks,' but I've moved on to melancholy drunk in the last few minutes. I just toast him and take another drink. By now, five empty bottles are laying on the ground around us. Quite the accomplishment. "It's a beautiful night." Jasmine is leaning on the railing, looking out at the parking lot as if she could see over the adjacent apartment building and gaze out on the whole city. I push myself up and wobble over to where she's standing. I have a hard time walking straight. "Yeah," I sigh, "but I don't trust the moon." She sighs back. "Do you remember how cold it was in New York, this time of year?" "Of course I do. I stayed, remember? This will be my first winter home." A sense of sadness washes over me. "I should call Grandpa Cooper." "You say that a lot." "Do I?" "Yeah. It's okay." She turns and looks east. "I wonder where AJ is right now." I look at her, beautiful and sad, and I wonder. "Do you want to talk about it?" She shrugs. "What could I say?" "You could tell me why," I shift my weight. "But that would mean that I know why." "You know why." She laughs humorlessly. "I suppose I do. It's just...it's not very flattering, you know?" She turns to me. "It would be so much easier if I could have some reason to give myself that would make it easier to sleep at night. The truth...just makes it harder." "Is that where you've been going, all these evenings? To figure out the truth?" "I think I knew the truth. I just..." she hangs her head, like she's staring straight down at the parking spaces beneath us, "I just wanted to believe there was more to it. So, yeah. I've been seeing someone. A counselor." "But not AJ?" "I did see him. I met him twice for lunch...once while I was staying at the hotel, and then again the day that Samantha woman called you on the phone." I wince. I remember how callous I was about that. I'd had no idea what kind of day she'd had going into it. "They weren't good meetings?" I ask. "No. It's over between us. There's no chance for...it's just over. I'm surprised I haven't gotten the divorce papers yet." "Maybe he's not as certain as you are." She shakes her head. "It's over." "So why did you do it?" "Jake." "Hey," I scoot closer, "I'm a friend. I'm not here to judge you." She looks at me. Her expression is one of exhaustion. "I can tell you, if you really want, but you aren't going to like it." That throws me off guard. "Why not?" "You're part of it." "Me?! Hang on...I didn't do anything. I...Listen, lady, I didn't even SHOW UP until this dynamite had already been lit." "Not like that. Jake...I..." a tear drops from her eye, and she quickly wipes it away. "Maybe I just shouldn't," she says. "Well, you can't leave me hanging now." A deep breath. "You know, when we were together in New York, we were so happy." "But." "But we'd worked so hard for our dreams, for so long, without payoff. I was going to school, you were trying to get into the music business; we both pushed ourselves too hard. And yet we never seemed to get any closer to where we fantasized about being. After a couple of years of that, instead of seeming like we were making progress, it seemed like we were further away than ever. Instead of having some kind of dreamed payoff, we were just getting to where we had less and less time for each other. We were losing the only thing we actually had to lose." "I guess I didn't notice." "I know you didn't. I realize that now. Unlike me, you felt close to obtaining your goal, and it was pushing you to work harder and harder. You were making it happen, and I'm sure you thought we were sharing in that together. And I..." she shakes her head. "I was young. I was scared. And I felt...I guess I felt alone. So I decided to go home, to take a break from it all." "You needed a break from me." "All I was getting was breaks from you. I needed to not be reminded of that for a while." "So what happened when you went home? I've always wondered." "Nothing at first. But I ran into AJ through a mutual friend, and I guess it just reminded me of how...simple...my relationship with him had been. That kind of teenage nonsense state where nothing really matters. I mistook fond memories and the lack of pressures for romanticism. And he looked so successful on the surface, like he had achieved his dream. He had money, a nice house, a lot of toys and a big smile. It never even occurred to me that he didn't even have a dream. It never occurred to me that I didn't love him." She pauses, but I don't know what to say. She and the moon both wait for me. "I didn't...sleep with him that summer, Jake. I know that my track record lately is pretty bad. But I didn't." I'm still speechless. Jasmine bites her lip and gives me a searching look. "Jake...you...you do know that..." She's getting quieter as she stumbles for the words, and I lean in to hear. Suddenly, she's up against me, her lips on mine. Her hand is on my neck. I'm stunned into passive response for about two full seconds. And for those two full seconds, we kiss. It's not a wild tongue-dancing moment of passion, but neither is it a closed-mouth touch of affection. It reminds me of the way she kissed me goodbye when she got on that plane. Then I pull away, just a little, and she seems to retreat in shock. We stare at each other for a moment, wide-eyed. Both our mouths are hanging open. Neither of us knows what to say. And then, just a little, she giggles. I stare uncomprehendingly as her giggle becomes a full-on laugh. She puts her hand to her stomach and doubles over. It's catching. I find myself chuckling, then laughing harder and harder as she stumbles and falls to the ground. Within a few seconds we're both on the floor, crying and clutching at our stomachs. Finally, after a few false endings, we manage to get control over ourselves. My side hurts and I feel like I've run a mile. Hallelujah Ch. 07 "What was that all about?" I ask. "I don't know," she says, "but I think I needed it." "Yeah, well, next time...can we skip the kiss and go straight to the laughing?" "I promise." "Good." We lay there, on the disgusting patio floor, for over a minute before she says, "I had fun tonight, Jake. Thank you." She sounds genuinely appreciative. "I did, too," I admit. "But getting up for work in the morning is gonna be hell." Hallelujah Ch. 08 Morning intrudes once more, this time via the sunlight streaming through my curtains. That seems to be enough. Laying around is just weak-willed defiance, now; I'm awake. I groan my way to the bathroom. I piss in the toilet like a big boy, now, because I have a roomie. It's early. Has to be. But then, I often wake with the sun after a night of hard drinking. Maybe it's my body's way of returning the harassment I heaped upon it the night before. Or maybe part of me is just happy to still be alive, and eager to take advantage of that while it still can. Whatever part that may be, it's not the one that matters, though. The world is moving a little bit even though I'm standing still, and that's not cool. The wine has stained my lips. It makes them look wounded or bruised. I examine them for a moment while I try to file through blotchy memories. Embarrassment is always probable when you get that wasted, but I don't think I did anything too stupid... Oh. Except. I kissed Jasmine Knox. Jesus Christ, I fucking kissed her. I drop to my knees before the toilet and throw up. It has nothing to do with the revelation, or with my feelings about it...it's just a well-timed reminder of my rolling hangover. It's a good one, too, not stopping until I'm well into dry heave status. Afterward, I blow my nose and move to the kitchen. Water and crackers is a good, safe starting point. I find that, once the first barf is out of the way, I tend to recuperate quickly. Maybe, if I'm real lucky, I'll even be capable of driving into work today. Work. Shit. It's 5:15, so I have hours left before I have to go in. Those are hours I could use to come up with a plan for today's session. I decide to put last night out of mind and focus on the task at hand. After all, it's not that big a deal, right? We kissed, we laughed it off, and she... ...told me that it had been a mistake to leave me. Yikes. Granted, we were both trashed and stupid, but she seemed to genuinely regret the memory of it. And I think that was a revelation to her as much as to me...not last night, but recently. Born of her need to reevaluate her choices, and probably worked out with a counselor's help, her new understanding of how she managed to become an adulteress was teaching us both a few things. What I heard last night was a grown woman lamenting a young girl's choices. And it sounded so simple. She left me, and it was a mistake. The worst moment of my life: a mistake. Some people would panic in this situation. Not me. I don't think I need to read too much into that kiss. It was an impulsive action, taken by a woman who is feeling confused and scared and lonely. It didn't really have any passion or lust behind it, and it didn't have any sort of follow-up. The fact that we were both able to laugh it off immediately afterward makes it seem unimportant. And, to be honest, I just don't want her. Even if she didn't sleep with AJ that summer...it was still cheating. And then she burned him, too. So in my mind her track record is not particularly endearing or appealing. But, you know, the memory of that kiss has my hormones raging. Water and crackers go down okay, and I even risk a bit of instant macaroni and cheese before showering and heading to the car. A few hours of ruminating on Teddy's new songs hasn't taught me anything, so I grab my IPod on the way out. Listening to other people's music for a while might make it easier to take a fresh start. I hope so. Jasmine is still passed out when I quietly slip out the door. I seem to remember that she doesn't work today. I hope she recovers as easily as she used to. I get in about fifteen minutes before launch, which is way early when you are dealing with musicians who are apt to be as much as a half hour late. Brian is already there and warming up the tubes, hunched over the console checking the signal chain. He nods at me as I come in. "Ready for another big day?" he asks, that silly half-smile played out on his face. I groan and fall into the chair at the control desk. "God, I hope so. Another one like yesterday and I'm gonna start to get scared." He glances over at me. "You didn't think it went very well?" He's being very diplomatic, here, and I appreciate that. We both know that yesterday fucking sucked. "We got nothing done. I have seven more days here, and then two days in a tracking room, and that's it. Another disaster like yesterday and I might as well go home." He makes a point of turning back and acting busy at the console. "Do you have any kind of a game plan? In case it does go bad?" I lean back and look up at the ceiling. "No," I admit. "I haven't even really thought about it. I was hoping that if I put it out of mind for the night and then came back fresh today, I could bypass the blockage." He doesn't respond. Okay, whatever. After a while, he turns back to me and asks, "Are we going to use the same setup today? I didn't prep the iso booths, but I still have time." "No, that's fine. We'll still go full band in the main tracking room. Whatever else we do we are not splitting them up." "Alright," he sounds disappointed. Maybe he was hoping that I'd come in today and be a real producer, with real producer ideas, instead of this maverick jackass who doesn't get a single song recorded. But I'm still me, and I'm still hoping to make the record I want to make, even if that puts me in greater danger for failure. "What did you think of the songs?" I mull over my answer, trying to remember just what I felt about the stuff they played yesterday, but before I can formulate a response the door opens and the band comes filing into the room. They look as rough as I do. Great. A hungover band playing incomplete songs for a hungover producer...great use of the finest recording room I've ever seen. But then, maybe it's good that we all blew off some steam last night. "Hey, Jake," Teddy smiles that tired-eyed smile. "How was your night?" "Well, I kissed Jasmine Knox. Then I rolled on the floor with her, slept a while, and puked." His smile grows. "That's a good order to do those in, I imagine." "Well, there is that. How was yours?" Mickey English grunts. "We survived it." Teddy nods. "And we'll survive it again the next time." He glances at Brooke Meadows, who is laying on the couch at the back of the room with his arm draped over his eyes. "Probably." Brooke moans. "Survival," he rasps, "is the worst of all human qualities." Teddy gives him a reproachful look. "You don't mean that." "Just wait," he says. "It'll come back to haunt you, too." "Not so long as I stay away from that cheap-ass whiskey you pour down your throat. You remember us all buying shots just so you could line them up and do 'em all?" "That never happened." "Oh," Mickey rolls his eyes, "that most certainly did. That happened." "Fuck you guys." Paul Spears gives a big barreling laugh. "You would have tried, if you'd had another drink. You're lucky we managed to get you away from that hippo before she took you away for feeding time." "Fuck you. She was pretty." "Pretty fucking fat." They all have a laugh at his expense. I cough. "Well, we probably better get started. Are you guys sure you're up to playing, in the condition you're in?" I glance at Brian, who gives me a skeptical look. "Friend," Teddy winks at me, "hungover is the third best state for us to be in, if you want us to play." "What are the first two?" "Drunk and sober." "Jesus Christ," I roll my eyes. "Just get into the fucking studio and let's make some music." After some discussion, we decide to try working on a song called 'Hazy Witness.' It's the closest in sound to 'As Long As I'm Here,' of all the new tracks. I'm hoping that maybe we can use that previous success as a springboard. The band attempts the same kind of slow build on this one, and although it has a lot of similarities to 'As Long' it's got a very nuanced difference. It's almost...druggy...in its muted twisting and turning. It starts out with a relatively harmless "I want to fly, lucid and watching," which leads in to a list of wants that all appear to be about escape or frustration. As the song builds, though, Fields's gospel throatiness comes through and gives a building, ominous tension. "I want to stab at the heart of this, screaming," he growls forty seconds in, really tearing into the last word. "Look out, now! The inmate's retrieving freedoms he should have never had." Brooke swells up the cymbals, and Mickey's piano playing becomes almost pounding. "I believe I am," Teddy cries euphorically, "a hazy witness to new worlds. And all possibilities prepare to unfurl." The cymbal swirl becomes almost overwhelming, and then suddenly vanishes. Teddy leans back as the band withdraws back into another tension-filled verse. His slide playing conveys almost manic distraction, which suits the song well. The next verse behaves much the same as the first, and then a third verse/chorus comes and goes. It's a neat track, relatively gentle but thick with dissatisfaction. "Let's try and put a take down," I tell the band via talkback once they're done. "Only this time, do you think you can speed it up just a tiny bit?" "Kinda like the tempo where it is," Fields responds. "But we can try it." "Okay. And Brooke, do you think you can give me a little more dynamite in the chorus? Not a backbeat, so much, but just...put the drums in there. Do some fills." "What about the cymbals? I can't fill and ride them at the same time." "Uh...I don't know. I liked the way those created an almost white-noise element and filled up the chorus section, but I guess it's too much to ask for both. Try the one, and we'll go back to doing it your way if we don't like the results." I flip the talkback off and turn to Brian. "Can you give me a really punchy sound to those drums? Compress 'em down with a slow attack and get all the mud out of 'em?" "Sure thing," he seems relieved to actually be getting asked to do something. "I'll make 'em punchy as a boxer, if that's what you want." "Try it. Let's see what happens." I feel good. I'm really just working a variation of what helped me make 'As Long As I'm Here' successful, but at least I'm doing something. The second take sounds a little better than the first, but the tempo change was a mistake. Not only has it evaporated all the tension from the song, but it's made it nearly impossible for Brooke to keep up with his fills. He's not a rock drummer, and he can't pretend to be. On the third and fourth takes, we slow it back down and the band jams on the ending so we can have a fade out. That helps a lot, but it's still not quite sounding right. Finally, we decide to go back to using the cymbal effect on the first chorus. We'll pulverize the last one with the Keith Moon fills, and use the middle chorus as a teaser for that. It comes out mostly cymbal with a little teaser fill towards the end, as if the song were struggling not to burst wide open. It's a great effect. And that's that. It takes a while to get it just right, but by take seven we have a keeper. It's not on a level with 'As Long As I'm Here,' but it's a good sounding track. Too good to be a b-side, or left on the floor, but it probably won't be your favorite song on the record either. After all the negotiating ended, I only got the right to full-point status on one song...this one won't be it. After a break and some glad-handing, we overdub a shaker onto the second verse, mixed low, to accentuate the growing tension. Then we attempt a retake on Fields's vocals, but he can't match the life performance when he's standing by himself with headphones on, so we scratch it. Finally, after take fifteen minutes in the basement game room before going to work on a song called 'Open it Up.' It's hilarious...it sounds like Howlin' Wolf covering The Beatles, except that the lyrics are some of the more amusing "you broke my heart so fuck you" lines I've heard in a while. "You say I never bring you," Fields yelps, sarcastic amusement dripping off his tongue, "Anything that I made you. You say it like there's something wrong. So now I've brought this for you, Wrapped up and bowed it for you, Just like you hoped for all along." The song bursts into playful, pretty, McCartney melodies as he gravel-voices the chorus. "Open it up, now, baby, 'cause I'm tired of you. I'm tired of you. I'm tired of you." He repeats the chorus, every 'tired' and 'you' drawn out for emphasis. It's a fun song...I thought so when they played it yesterday, too...but the earnest bluesy style of the band and Teddy's own slide playing are poor fits for a high energy song that sounds like it could be a cover off of Hard Day's Night. I need to find some way to bring out the playfulness and the meanness, but it's so far outside the band's sound that I just can't get there. We try a few ideas...tempo and key changes, different approaches to the playing...but get nowhere. By the time we're shaking hands at the end of the session I still have no ideas on how to fix it and the band is growing moody. So for two day's worth of work, I've managed to get just one finished track. I try to convince myself that I'm happy to have at least that much, but I'm getting pretty nervous. I'd be stupid not to. Six days left, with only two songs that can be applied to the album. Bare minimum, I need to finish two songs a day from here on out in order to get the job done...and I don't know if I can do that. Heading down the hallway, I'm halfway to the front door when Bennie Rich comes shuffling out of his office. Seeing him gives me an idea. This is a man who's been in this business for decades. Even if he wasn't always involved directly, he was a music fan who was constantly aware of all of the ins and outs of the different sessions taking place. For a brief moment, as he turns and starts walking in my direction, I even see a little bit of August Cooper in him. Maybe he has some advice to offer. His head is down and he's picking at his lip with his thumb and forefinger...it's something he does when he's deep in thought...so he doesn't notice me until I'm almost right in front of him. "Hey, uh, Bennie," I say, "I was wondering if you had a moment." He looks up at me without raising his head. "How did the Teddy Fields session go today?" he asks. The real message: talk business or don't talk to me at all. "That's kind of what I wanted to discuss with you." He grunts. "Another rough one?" "Yeah. Yeah, I guess it was." He shakes his head. "You don't need my help with that problem, Jake, and I wouldn't give it to you anyway. Don't you remember what I said?" I look away. "Yeah, I've been thinking about it a lot. That's what made me hope that...maybe you could help. Maybe you would have an idea that I wouldn't have." He shakes his head. "No, Jake. You misunderstand the question. I'm a terrible person to ask for help when it comes to recording. I flushed out of the recording game, remember? And I did so many years before you were even born. You don't need my help. You don't. I couldn't do what you do. So find someone who can." With that, he waves his hand dismissively and goes back to waddling down the hall. "Until tomorrow, Jake." I wave to his back and sigh. Find someone who can? Like what? Another producer? I try to think about who is recording in the building besides myself right now. There's a country duo I'm only lightly familiar with in Studio B, but I don't really know the producer and they generally get in after we do and leave before us. There's a crooner who wants to be Michael Buble down the hall, but those jazz albums aren't recorded the same way ours are. They don't always have a producer...there's so much to be cut and so many instruments involved that the work is often spread throughout several studios and managed by a "Production Coordinator." From what I've seen, it's more like managing a film project than music. Other than that, the only other project I know about right now is a Christian singer-songwriter with a country bent in Studio D being produced by Walter Russell. Surely Bennie didn't mean for me to go ask Walter. Did he? I can still see the blotches on his face the last time we were in the same room together. Ask Walter Russell to help me record? Shit, I might as well go ask Eric Greenwood to lend me a few bucks so I can buy condoms. I certainly can't imagine that my getting Studio A and a producer's credit is going to have tempered his feelings for me. Besides, wasn't Walter's work exactly what prevented Teddy's records from being great before? Wasn't he a part of the damn problem? Well, at least he MADE a damn record. When I get out to my car, I start it up and just sit there for a while. I'm facing the studio's front door, and I just stare at it thoughtlessly. A few people come wandering out while I sit there, mostly engineers. Some bearded guy with an acoustic guitar comes hopping down the front steps, and I'm wondering if it's Ray LaMontagne. It could be...I've heard he was in town. I was in Allaire Studios in New York briefly while we was recording there four years back, and ended up going out to the bar with him, Ethan Johns, and a few other guys. Both nice guys, and they seemed to have a very clear idea of what they were working on. Ethan had all kinds of stories about working with Ryan Adams. I sigh. Guys like that always made it look so easy. I wonder, what would Bennie say about that? What would August? I take out my cell phone and dial. "Hello?" a warm, elderly female voice answers. "August Cooper, please." The voice immediately grows even warmer. "Well, now, you must be Jake." She sounds like the way I imagine Santa Clause's wife sounding. "I am." I try not to make it sound like a question. "Well, honey, I can tell you that you're grandfather will be so glad to hear from you. He is just as proud as can be of you. He's been telling anyone and everyone all about his grandson. You know I've had to chase him away from the desk three times, just so I can get some work done?" I blush, alone in my car. "I didn't know that." "Oh, yeah. He's always been proud of you, but lately we can't seem to get him to talk about much else." "How has he been?" She breathes into the phone, sounding less jovial. "He's been sick. That's not uncommon, 'round here you know, but...he'd probably like a visit. If you can get one in. He's been missing you." Weary sadness pulls me down in my chair. "Is it that bad?" There's a pause. "Why don't I let him know you're on the line, hon. Okay?" "Okay." It clicks over to music. They're playing Frank. Well, okay. Who could complain about that? I get through a song and a half before it clicks back on. "Jake?" August's voice comes out a little raspy. "Hi, Grandpa. How are you holding up?" He coughs. "Oh, I get by. How about you? Still taking on all comers?" "In more ways than you know. It's been a while since I called, hasn't it?" "Four weeks, I think. That's alright, though...I know you get busy. Truth is, if you started calling me more often than that I'd start to worry. It's a young man's job to be setting out on his own, staking a claim. And it's part of getting old to be extremely proud and grateful when your children are too busy to call." He chuckles. "Grandchildren. Sorry." I smile to myself. He does that a lot...accidentally refers to me as his son. It's not a senility thing, just a measure of how close we are. And probably, of how hard it was for him to outlive his child. "Yeah, well, things haven't really been so great lately. I was wondering...I guess I'd like to talk to you about some things. I'm kind of worried that I'm making some mistakes, personally and professionally, and you know your opinions are important to me." Hallelujah Ch. 08 He fights another coughing fit. "You know I'd love to help you, Jake, but truth is I don't know much about much. Certainly, I never had the gift for music that you have. Anyway, I'm pretty tired just now. Been trying to get over this cough, you know." "I know." "You think you might..." he pulls the phone away and hacks away for a moment, "...you think you might be coming up to visit sometime soon? Your birthday's coming up. I'd sure like to spend it with you." "I'll see what I can do," I say. "I'd really like to see you, too." There's a pause while we both wait for the other to say something more. "I think I need to go lay down, Jake. Is there anything I can do for you?" "I don't suppose you've got it in you to tell me a story?" He laughs, but it turns into a cough. "Not today. Sorry. Maybe when you come up?" "Definitely." I feel like there's a lot of important things I should be saying right now, but I can't make any of them stand out on the page enough for me to read. "I...uh...I'm gonna try and get up there real soon, Grandpa." "Good. That's good." He sounds exhausted. "Jake?" "Yeah?" "I'm sorry I couldn't help you. I'm just so tired." "I understand. You've helped me plenty, over the years. I love you, Grandpa." "I love you, too, son. Call me again soon, okay? Just to tell me when you're coming." "I promise. Goodbye." He hangs up. Something about it all was so...unsaid...that I want to cry. August Cooper is the only family I have left. Six more days of recording and two days of mixing, and then...no matter what happens...I'm going up there. I swear it. I wipe my eyes, start the car, and head for home. - Jasmine is sitting on the couch when I get there, wearing sweats and a t-shirt. Her hair is messy, like she hasn't showered all day, but it's a good look on her. She's got the remote on her thigh, and she's watching some discussion panel on CNN. Good as I know her, I think that means she's just bored. "Hey," she smiles weakly, "I hope you felt better today than I did." "Well, I probably did. At first anyway," I shrug, moving into the kitchen to scrounge for food. "And then what happened?" "We had another slow day in the studio. I totally fucked it up again." "Oh," her smile fades, "I'm sorry." "Nobody to blame but myself. We got one song done, so at least there's that. But at the pace we're going, I'd need about twenty-four more days of recording time to finish the record, and that's an unrealistic scenario." "Would the label extend your time if you needed it? I mean, rather than just scrap it all?" "Yeah, they would," I say, giving up on the food search and just pulling a slice of white bread out. "But going over budget on your first project is a bad move...especially when you've been so high maintenance to start with." I shove the unadorned bread in my face. "We'd have to sell a million just for it not to be the end of my career." "Maybe you will." I chuckle. "No chance. Anymore, if fifteen records in a twelve month period top a million copies then everybody calls it an up year. Teddy Fields has a shot right now at breaking through, and I really believe he could be a great artist, but 'breaking through' for his type means selling three or four hundred thousand records. Not enough to save my ass." "Oh." She turns off the TV. "What will you do?" "I guess just keep trying. I might try and find someone to talk to about it, down at the studio." "That's a good idea," she nods. "Or, you could call Grandpa Cooper. He's always got good ideas about what to do." "Tried that," I admit. "He was...tired." "Oh." "Yeah." There's an awkward pause, and I kind of wish she hadn't turned off the TV. "Listen, Jake," she says, studying the floor, "about last night...I'm really sorry about that. I was just drunk...and probably a little scared. I didn't want you to think that I..." "Stop," I wave my hand. "Don't bother. I feel the same way. It was dumb, but it was nothing." "Good." She seems genuinely relieved. She leans back into the couch a little more, her features relaxing. "So did you find anything good on?" I ask, plopping down into the recliner. "Not really. Reality TV night." Her stomach gurgles noisily, and she blushes. "I guess I'm hungry, though." "What have you eaten today?" "Not much. I was scared to. But I'll risk it now, if you're still hungry." I don't even ask her. I remember just what Jasmine used to like when recovering from a hangover, and even if age has changed her mind I don't give a shit. I want some fucking pizza. Her eyes light up as I order, so I guess she's still into it. She turns the tube back on, flipping distractedly across the channels and finally stopping at HGTV. It's one of those shows where couples are buying condos in Japan, or someplace like that. We sit and talk about the show, making fun of the people and arguing about their decisions, until the pizza comes. It's easily the most relaxed, pleasant part of my day. Nothing about last night is clouding any of our interactions...there's no tension or fear there, just two friends watching television together. We eat too much pizza in silence and watch a little of Forrest Gump on The History Channel, even though neither of us cares for it. After the movie ends, we say our goodnights and head off to bed. As I drift off to sleep, I can see the moon peaking in from behind the curtains, but I don't have any idea what he's thinking. And maybe I don't care. - An hour into the next day's session, Teddy asks to take a break. I knew this was coming. There've been a lot of shared looks and muted whispers amongst the band, and so far we're on track for another complete failure of a day. Still, I'm a little pissed off. The band hasn't even been close to playing at their best, and I think they came in here having already decided that fucking Jake was the fucking problem, and that they were better off rid of him. Brian must have seen it too, because he announces a smoke break and vanishes before they've even come up the stairs to the control room. Part of the problem is that they're right. We're further away today from getting 'Open it Up' right than we were yesterday...I was even considering moving on to the next song just to try and fake some forward momentum...and it's my show to run. I haven't a clue about how to fix this thing. I swallowed my pride and tried to find Walter Russell this morning, but he wasn't around. And the more I hear the band play, the harder it is for me to figure out what I need to do with this song. "So what the fuck, Jake?" Mickey snaps as the band assembles around the control room. Teddy throws him a warning look, but he's got his arms folded and his brow knit just the same. "Cut it out, Mick." He turns to me. "We all know something's up," he observes, "so let's just have out with it and make it something we can talk about." He blinks, slowly, and his face relaxes a bit. "What's going on? Is it us or is it something else?" "It's me," I admit. "'As Long As I'm Here' came out so easy, I never even had to think about it. These songs, I listen and I listen but nothing happens...and I don't know what to do about that." Brooke Meadows, the usually-quiet bassist, snorts. "So what's the fucking problem? Just hit record and we play the song. Like before." I don't understand what he means. "What do you think I'm doing?" He leans forward. "Throwing up roadblocks. That's what I think you're doing. Doing exactly what you didn't do before: trying to change us. Why are you suddenly getting in our way, Jake?" Mickey English nods, and even Paul Spears inclines his head a bit. Teddy just watches me. And suddenly I realize: these guys don't think I did a fucking thing. They think they just sat down, played 'As Long As I'm Here,' and I stayed out of the way. I pushed record, nothing more. In their mind, my leg up on people like Walter Russell is that, like him, I have nothing to offer, but unlike him I know it. Their understanding of that day in the studio when we cut the single is simple: they found some kid who was willing to let them do as they pleased, and it worked out great. They didn't want me to come back and work with them because they understood what I had accomplished, or because they felt like we were a good team. They wanted me back because they thought it was all them. And they thought I would let it be all them. No wonder they're frustrated with me now. They think all I have to do is hit record, and they'll make the magic happen, but instead I'm fucking it up by having opinions and trying to change things. They have no idea how incomplete these songs sound. They have no idea what it takes to make a good album. They don't have a clue. I don't know what to say. I stare blankly at them. "You're fucking kidding me," I half mutter to myself. "Excuse me?" Brooke thinks I'm insulting them. "Fucking kidding you about what?" I feel the heat in my face. Fuck these guys. "About everything!" I yell. "You've got to be kidding me about all of it! It has to be a fucking joke! But it isn't, is it? So fuck you, Brooke! And you, Mickey! Fuck all of you! Teddy clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Jake," he says, "you need to cool down. Let's just all of us take a little smoke break and then we'll come back. We'll play the song, you can cut it, problem solved." I want to laugh. Problem solved? Is he fucking kidding me? "I can't believe this," I spit. "Just play the song and record it, eh? You really don't get it, do you?" "Enlighten us," Mickey English looks amused, which I'm sure is the way he always looks when he's angry. "You think I'm not worth a thing. You really don't think I had anything to do with 'As Long As I'm Here.' That's how clueless you are." "And did you?" Mickey asks lightly, antagonizing me. But I'm too mad to care. "Fucking right I did!" I'm so pissed I don't know what to do with my hands, so I clasp them. "You had a great song...a really great song...but having a great song doesn't automatically get you a great recording. Having a great song doesn't guarantee you'll end up on the radio. Who changed the key? Who turned those drums into a pounding timpani? Who worked the EQ and the reverb and the levels, and accentuated the moody swirl of the track? Who heard everything that made that song moving, made it matter, and brought it to the front? It was me. Me, you assholes. You made the song great, but I made the recording great. So don't come in here, and...and look at me, like I'm just in your way. And don't talk to me like the only thing I had to offer you that day was to stand aside and let your awe-inspiring greatness shine through. Because fuck you. Fuck you. 'As Long As I'm Here' was a fluke...it was a song that happened to be clear, and distinct, and obvious in its needs. Most songs aren't like that. Most songs need work, and thought, to become great tracks. That's what I've spent the last week trying to give you, that's what I'm worrying myself sick over, and you don't even know." I shake my head, exhausted and defeated. "I can't believe it. You don't even know." "I'll tell you what I know," Brooke says slowly, deliberately. "I know that I'm standing here listening to a fucking gearhead take credit for our music. I'm listening to a dumb fuck who apparently wants to believe that the only thing standing between us and failure is himself." "That's not even remotely what I'm saying." Looking around the room, I see a row of skeptic disapproval. "You know," Teddy says quietly, "we really thought you were different, Jake." "I guess I thought the same thing about you," I return his sad look. He shakes his head and turns to the band. "Let's get our shit and get out of here." "Wait," I snap, realizing that I've gone too far. "What? Friends or not, we've got a record to make." "Is that what we've been doing here?" Mickey sneers. "I was beginning to think that this was rehearsal." When they've all gone, Brian comes back in. "Now what?" he asks. I shrug. "I don't suppose you know how I could find Walter Russell." "I know his engineer. Lemme text him, see what I can find out." He messes with his phone for a bit. "He's down in F doing some mixing, but they're taking a break. Tony says you can find him up in the Birdhouse." "Thanks, Brian," I say. "I'm going to go see if I can get some wizened advice." "Sure thing," he says with that ever-present half-smile. "Good luck." The Birdhouse is a huge rooftop deck area that can hold a hundred people or more. It's usually rented out for release parties and the like, but bands often head up there for a smoke when they break from recording. Today, I climb up the spiral staircase and find Walter Russell all by himself, leaning on the railing and looking out at the surrounding neighborhood. "Walter," I call out as I approach. "I was wondering if you had a minute." "Fuck you," he says, without turning around and without much emotion. "Go away." I stop about ten feet back from where he stands. "I need to apologize to you." "I said fuck you. And I believe I said go away." "Walter, please. I know I was an-" "FUCK YOU, I SAID," he turns on me, face a mask of hatred. "GO AWAY." I stare at him for a moment. I don't know what to say to this kind of stonewalling. "Please. I'm fucking up," I admit. "Bad." He looks me up and down, sighs, and turns back to his view. "Fuck you," he says. "Go away." What can I do? I go away. - It's not even noon yet when I get home. Coming up the stairs, I peer through the sun's blinding light and see Buck sitting outside on the deck. He's got a brown-bagged bottle of something not wine, and he's slouched low. I need a drinking buddy right now, but his presence is confusing to me. "Hey, man," I call out. "Aren't you supposed to be at work?" "Well, now," comes the drawled reply, "that sounds like Jake Currie." I freeze about eight steps from the top. That's not Buck. That's AJ. "Uh, yeah," I say slowly. "That's me. What's going on?" He attempts to stand up, but it doesn't go well, so he just falls back into the chair. "Don't worry," he waves his hand dramatically, drunkenly. "I'm not gonna fight you." "That's good," I say, still speaking slowly and carefully. "I'm trying to cut back on that kind of thing." He laughs, kicking a leg out and half-turning in his chair. Then he sits up straighter and peers over at me. "You comin' up?" "I'm still scared." He shrugs. "Okay. She's not home right now." "She's not. And I don't like thinking of this as her home." "She prolly does." "I don't think so. We're not..." I'm totally at a loss on how to phrase this. 'Fucking' seems like the wrong word to use. "Not yet," he tilts his mystery bottle at me. "But that one always gets her way. That's what Jasmine does best...look out for Jasmine." "She knows how to break a heart," I admit. "Hard to want a woman who makes that a hobby." "But I shouldn't have hit her." Suddenly he's on the verge of tears. His face is all scrunched up like a kid who just skinned his knee and is trying to look tough. "I hit my wife! That was wrong." "It was. But she was wrong, too. What the fuck was she even thinking? Do you know?" "Like you don't." "Like, I don't. Really." He sighs. "Then you're as fucked as the rest of us." He thinks that's funny, and the tears are gone now. "Maybe I am gonna fight you, Currie." He stands up. "Yeah. Yeah, I think I am." Alcohol again comes to my rescue, as it takes him almost as long to stagger over to the stairs as it does for me to reach my car and start it up. I'm gone before he even negotiates the top step. He didn't seem too serious...in fact, the whole conversation had a surreal humorous quality that I don't get...but I'm not about to stick around and find out what kind of bullshit a man that emotional and drunk might start. Driving around town, I'm stuck with two thoughts: first, I have probably just ended my recording career, and second, Jasmine Knox has got to go. Speaking of, I should probably call her and warn her about our possible visitor...and have Buck call me when he gets home to let me know if AJ has moved on. Opening my phone, I'm surprised to discover that I have six missed calls. Checking the log, they're all from the same place. I almost don't call back. I almost can't. The number on the log is the facility where Grandpa Cooper lives. I push the little green button. "Hello?" It's Santa's wife again. "Hi. This is Jake Currie, I had some missed calls?" "Oh, honey," she's so full of sympathy that I immediately know. "When?" I ask. "Last night," she's dripping with pity, "in his sleep. You know he-" I hang up. It's all that I can do to pull into a Harris Teeter lot and park before I'm blinded by tears. I cry and cry and cry. For all the warning signs, clear and unmistakable, it still feels sudden. It still feels brutal and cold. My grandfather, the only living relative I had, has died in his sleep. I never got back up there to see him. I barely even called, near the end. Here am I, the last of my tribe. The only remaining branch on a bent and rotting tree. Here am I, lost as the night. Alone as any dreamer. Friends and family have all gone before. There's nobody else left to grieve for August Cooper, who sold newspapers to the troops on the trains during World War II. Who rode those same rails home from Korea. Who always gave and never asked for anything in return. There's nobody left but me, sitting here alone in a grocery store parking lot, and I grieve all the harder for it. Hallelujah Ch. 09 The podium wobbles a little as I reach out to grip it. It's made of compressed wood, a dark and somber shade of brown, and from afar it looks nice and mournful. But now that I'm right next to it I can see that one of the casters is either loose or broken, and the whole thing is just waiting for someone to lean on it wrong and send it crashing to the ground. I adjust my grip to prevent both the wobbling and its accompanying squeak. It occurs to me that this is exactly how the bored-looking priest placed his hands when he was up here. Now I get it. Even in this small room, the collected crowd looks abysmal. The aforementioned priest is seated, now, having delivered his churchy service. There are four old women and two old men from the home, none dressed in black, all seated near the door. I vaguely recognize two of them, but Grandpa never introduced me to any of them or gave me any reason to assume they were friends. I imagine they're here by way of karma. If they go to their comrades' funerals, they probably tell themselves, then maybe somebody will come to theirs. Even at my age, the idea of an empty funeral feels depressing. For someone who is staring down the face of death... For the most part, they watch the ground examine the walls, stoically ignoring any possible significance this setting might have for them. Besides them, there are three nurses who Grandpa must have made an impression on, myself, and Jasmine. One of those nurses is a fat large-breasted thing of maybe twenty-seven. Turns out she was my 'Mrs. Claus,' and I'm glad I don't take any pride in my age guessing skills...I would have been off by twenty years or more. Something about that voice sounds so warm and safe throws me off. It must be all the empathy and grandmotherly calm. She was a little more persistent than most in offering condolences. "He was so proud of you," she said over and over again as she constantly sought ways to make physical contact. "I've never seen anything like it." She reached out a fat hand and rubbed my arm. "I never knew," I admitted at last. "He never said much, or asked much, about my career. I guess I assumed he was proud, but it's nice to hear it." She blinked at me. "What do you do?" "He never told you?" She squinted, like she was thinking really hard about that one. Her hand came up, and I was afraid I was going to get sweaty-palmed again, but she only stroked her chin. "No. No, I don't recall him ever talking about a job, or anything like that." I didn't expect that. "Then what was he proud of?" I asked. She mirrored the same flabbergasted face right back at me. "Why, YOU, dear. Mr. Cooper was always telling us about YOU, and what kind of wonderful you were." By that point she was looking at me like maybe she was reevaluating Grandpa's assessment. "He seemed to think you could do anything in the world that you wanted to do. I don't think he worried too much about what you chose, because no matter what it was he knew you could do it." I couldn't think of anything to say to that. It didn't take her long to excuse herself and go sit and talk quietly with the other nurses. Jasmine overheard. I know she did. But she didn't say anything to me about it, except to ask me how I was doing the next time I went by her. I initially didn't want her to come up for this. I felt like what I needed was more space, more distance, not less. Having Jasmine Knox around me is clearly not conducive to good decision-making or wizened thinking. But Grandpa Cooper was a part of her life, too, and it seemed rude to deny her the chance to pay her respects. They'd always gotten along well, bonding pretty strongly while we were together. He made her laugh, and to an old man getting a beautiful girl to giggle has to be a marvelous sensation. I assume it's the equivalent of when you had that wonderfully-breasted third grade teacher who never really caught on that third grade boys like boobs too, and who would lean over you from behind so that you could feel their glorious weight brush your shoulder and arm. You know, somewhere between innocent and "This sure kicks ass." That kind of feeling. And if she hadn't seen him in the last six years, I knew that he was still a part of her past that had mattered to her and was now gone. She had every right to say goodbye. Still, in spite of how completely alone (and therefore lonely) Grandpa's passing has made me feel, I refused to travel up here with her. If we were going, we were going separately. Jasmine thought that just seemed stubbornly stupid, especially when she could get us both airline tickets and all I could afford was to drive up. I was almost inclined to agree when I got halfway from Nashville to New York, but I'm glad I did it. I needed the time to think. And, since Buck was willing to lend me the money for gas, it was an opportunity worth taking. I think he was a bit relieved to have us away for awhile, after having to be on AJ patrol for half a week. Whether I wanted her here or now, Jasmine's been something of a godsend. She helped arrange the funeral. She contacted Bennie and left a message with John Kennedy regarding Grandpa's passing. This was probably unnecessary; I'm sure both of them had already been informed by Teddy Fields that I was no longer welcome to work with his band. She took a plane, insisting that if I wouldn't do the same then she was at least paying for the motel rooms. I let that happen, under the condition that we stay in separate places. I got another "you're being a stubborn jackass" look, but no argument. Even a woman has a hard time lecturing a man when he's grieving. She's also been smart enough to maintain a certain distance. I don't know if she understands why, fully...maybe she figures it has to do with AJ's appearance, or maybe she thinks I'm moody because I lost my job and my grandfather...but she recognizes that it's important to me to stay away from her for the time being. Up until now, I think the whole funeral has been a bit of a joke. Funerals and weddings have one thing in common: you let the church in and suddenly the first two-thirds of the ceremony have nothing to do with you. They are completely interchangeable from person to person. Here we are mourning an individual, someone who stood out from the crowd and who did their own thing, and there's nothing individualized or unique about the first forty minutes of sermon. Lots of talk about God, hardly anything about August Cooper. No surprise there, really...that's just the way it is...but I'm glad I insisted on saying a few words near the end. If I hadn't, we might as well have just all gone to church on Sunday. Standing up here now, looking down at a poorly mixed handful of strangers, I wonder what the fuck the point even is. One of the nurses looks at her watch. The old man seated nearest the door quietly makes his exit. Even the priest seems distracted. The only person who really cares that August Cooper is never coming back is me. I take a deep breath. Let me eulogize my grandfather, so that none may hear. "After my mother died," I say, to no one, "my grandfather started to occasionally refer to me as 'son.' Not often, at first, but as the years passed he did it more and more. Sometimes, not always, he would correct himself after, without apology or embarrassment. I always assumed it was a slip of the tongue." I can't help but smile a little bit as I continue. "You know what? I can't think of one other time, or of one other scenario, where he slipped and used any word other than the one he intended to use. Not one. If he couldn't remember a name, or how a story ended, he would simply stop. If it took him four minutes to find the right word, the word he was looking for, then he would take those four minutes to think. He always had the time for the right word." I find myself looking at the fat nurse. "August Cooper was careful with his words. If he omitted something, it was intentional. If he told the same story over and over again...it's because he believed it was worth the telling. I think he knew, as some people instinctively know and as others never learn, that the words are important. Even more important than the story." I'm getting choked up, now, and I can feel my smile fade. "My grandfather didn't call me son by mistake. He didn't call me son as a way of mourning, or hiding the loss of, his own child. And he didn't call me son as a casual term of endearment. My grandfather, in his own gentle way, wanted to make sure that I knew how much I meant to him. He wanted me to know that, even if I only had the one person left in this world, it was someone who loved me unconditionally and who would be there for me." I have to pause for a moment to regain control. One stray tear tickles my cheek, and for some reason it embarrasses me. Where will I cry, if not at a funeral? I look down at Jasmine, and she has a matching tear on her own cheek. "When my dad died, it hurt. He didn't deserve the way his life had been torn apart in the last years before his death, and it still makes me sad to think of where he was when he passed. It makes me sad to think that I was a small part of that. But I learned to cope with my feelings, and in some ways as time passed I got over the loss. When my mother died, it hurt even more...not because I loved her more, or because she was more important to me, but because this time I didn't have a parent to lean on as I grieved. And yet August Cooper was there, and Jasmine Jones was there. They were there for me. And again, with time, I learned to live with the loss. This, somehow, seems worse. This time, I'm not sure..." my throat catches, and I can't speak. I look out at these people, some of them now watching me carefully. Fat nurse wipes at her eyes, and I don't want to be here. I can't be here. I have to get out. I do my best to maintain some semblance of self-control, at least enough that I'm able to wave my hand apologetically and step down from the podium with quiet grace. I walk slowly, calmly down the aisle, not running or weeping or even hurrying, and only when I'm outside do I begin to speed up. Across the street from the funeral home is a diner. I go in, take a booth in the corner, and order coffee. Jasmine never shows up, which is good. After a few hours, I pay my tab and leave. The home is closed and my car is the only one left in the lot. I pull my jacket tight against the chilly wind. Goodbye, Grandpa. - I spend most of the rest of the day in my hotel room. I don't have anywhere I really want to go, or anyone I really want to see, although I know that laying around feeling sorry isn't helping me. If I could get up, if I could move beyond, then I would. But I have no inertia, and that's just what it is. Jacob Currie. Currie. I run the name over and over in my head. But it's not the name, it's the people. My mother and father, their parents...all the things that made them of this world. It's all gone, except for what little remains in me. And those remains are likely to vanish, too. There are no little Jake Curries running around anywhere, and I wonder if there ever will be. I'm going to be thirty-two soon, and I haven't even met the right woman yet. Or maybe I have, and I never gave her a chance because I wasn't prepared to do so. Or maybe I met her, and she got away. There is something of August Cooper in me, and it feels special enough that it should be preserved. It feels like the most valuable thing I have to offer this world. For the first time in my life, the idea of looking down at the round, cherubic face of a child bearing my name seems overwhelmingly beautiful. It seems like something to want. Something to need. I'd never really thought hard about the idea before. I guess I always felt an undercurrent of certainty that I would not make a very good father. My own parents were such a mess by the end, and I feel like I share their stumbling ways more than my grandfather's calm and timeless wisdom. I just always thought I had to wait until I had my shit together, and that if that never happened then it was okay to not father a child. Now I'm wondering if that was a mistake. How could it be, though, if I had no one to start my family with? It's getting late when a knock on the door pulls me out of my meditation. It's Jasmine, and she has McDonalds. "I was worried that you might not have eaten," she says. "I haven't," I admit. "Thank you." She looks up at me, sad empathy in her eyes, and she looks beautiful. She's changed clothes, donning that peasant skirt that looks so nice on her, and has only the lightest touch of make-up on. "Can I come in?" she asks. Jacob Currie. Currie. "Yes." We sit silently next to each other on the bed and eat our hamburgers. "That was sweet, what you said today," she says when we've finished. "No it wasn't." "It was." She turns to me, and I notice that she smells good. "Thank you for letting me come. And for..." she bites her lip, staring at me, and I turn to look at her. She kisses me. Again, almost without passion or lust. She simply pushes her lips to mine and holds them there. Her hand comes up and touches my cheek through my beard. And suddenly all I can feel is that this is someone who I am close to, who has mattered to me and who matters to me now. I kiss her back, pushing forward so that she lies back on the bed. I follow, crouching over her. We finish the kiss and I pull back just enough to look down into her eyes. She smiles up at me and strokes my cheek. "Please," she says softly. We kiss again, and I feel drunk. Her hand is fumbling with my belt buckle, and then my zipper. She pushes my pants down and hikes her skirt up. Another kiss, and I pull her underwear off of her. There's no more foreplay than that, no real sensuality at all. There's just the driving need to be together, but it's enough. She's soaking as I slide into her. She gasps and pulls at my back. I can hardly breathe. We're moving together, pushing our bodies up against each other, but it's happening to somebody else. Or it's happening to all of me. I can't tell which. She cries out, and I can see a tear on her cheek. I am more aware of my orgasm in the abstract than from any real sense of pleasure. We share another long kiss. I stay there, above her, for a long time afterward. She cries for a while, whispering "thank you" through the sobs, and I don't know what to say. After a while we climb under the covers and hold each other. It's so intoxicating, I don't know how I could ever want anything else. "Good night," she says softly into my neck. "Good night," I whisper back. And I sleep very, very well. - The next morning is surprisingly easy, and after showering we walk across the street to get some breakfast. The conversation is light and flowing, and neither of us is trying to test the other to see what all this means. The wind is gone and, in spite of the late season, its sunny and warm outside. "Your flight leaves tomorrow morning, right?" I ask as we finish up. "It does." She dabs at her lips with a napkin. "Were you planning on leaving right away? It's a long drive." "I don't mind that. The drive is kind of nice. I was actually wondering how you planned on spending your day." "Shopping, I suppose. There's an outdoor mall not too far from here, and a larger shopping plaza up the road from that. Why?" I shrug. "Thought I might join you, if you don't mind." She looks like she wants to jump across the table and hug me. "Of course I don't mind!" We spend the day going from store to store. I'd forgotten, but shopping was never a painful experience with Jasmine. The outdoor mall has a craft fair set up in the parking lot, and most of the items are either worth talking about for how neat they are or worth making fun of for what pieces of shit they are. We laugh and kid and eat well, and even hold hands for a little bit as the sun starts to dip down. It's almost seven by the time I pull into the lot at her hotel. "Are you..." she gives me a hopeful look, "...are you staying?" I take a deep breath. It's tempting. "No," I say. "I've got a lot to think about, and night driving is good for that." "You're not too tired to drive?" "I've got enough money for a stopover somewhere, but no. I'll just get a coffee and see if I can't make it home in one rush." She smiles. "You'll spend all night listening to music, I suppose." I shake my head. "No. That doesn't really appeal to me right now." "It doesn't?" She raises her eyebrows. "Who are you?!" We both laugh. "Good question. You sleep well, okay?" I lean over and kiss her. She tastes like lip gloss. "I'll see you in Nashville." "See you there." She seems to want to say something more, but she doesn't. I'm glad. Instead, she just climbs out of the car and shuts the door. Once she's gotten her packages out of the back seat, she gives me a wave through the window and steps back. I return the gesture and drive on. Looking in the rear view, I can see her watching me pull away. I look down at the IPod, sitting in the cupholder. 'Who are you?' she'd asked. Makes me think of the Tom Waits song. One of the finest bits of songwriting I've ever... And there I go again. I don't need music trivia or one-liners from other people's songs right now. I need silence, and focus. As I come up the on-ramp onto the interstate, I roll down the window and throw the IPod out, as hard as I can. It bounces on the concrete and ends up lying lonely in the dirt. I roll the window up and start over. 'Who are you?' she'd asked... - It takes about thirteen hours in a car to go from the lower New York area to Nashville, Tennessee. Plenty of time to reassess pretty much every single thing going on in my life. Fueled by a steady intake of coffee and a sense that my arrival home marks some sort of significant deadline, I drive the whole way without stopping to do more than pee, get food, or caffeine up. The list of questions I face is so impossibly endless and all-encompasses that I almost feel as if there's no starting point. I have no single tract where I can plant my flag and say, "Here. This is the one thing that will remain true. Everything else must be build around it." Literally every tiny bit of who and what I am feels worth questioning. And as hard as that is...it feels right. It feels like I'm asking questions that I should have asked a long time ago. Still, as important as it may or may not be, it's an arduous process. I keep running into some question or feeling that forces me to start over. I keep going back to that question. Who am I? Somewhere around Buchanan, Virginia it starts to feel like pieces are falling into place. It's like I'm building a puzzle...the more sections I can find a home for, the clearer the big picture becomes. Only this puzzle is three dimensional. And it has a billion pieces. And like any puzzle, there's one magic piece that seems to clear everything up. Once that one piece has found its home, everything becomes clearer. By the time I leave Virginia, that piece is in place. Somewhere around the border, I realize something about myself that helps me understand everything. I mean EVERYthing. I know, for the first time, exactly what the problems are and exactly what solutions need to be applied in order to fix them. And I know that I can apply them. It's just after ten in the morning when I pull into the parking lot. My stomach hurts from too much greasy food and coffee. I'm buzzed and exhausted in nearly equal measure. My back thinks its fifty years old. Jasmine isn't here yet...her flight lands at ten thirty...so I piss in the sink. Then I lie down and pass out. - "Jake. Jake, I know you're tired. I think you need to get up." Soft, small female fingers run through my hair, and I feel the warm breath on the back of my neck right before she kisses me there. Hallelujah Ch. 09 I groan. "What time is it?" "It's two." "In the morning?" She giggles. "No, honey. I know you probably haven't slept long, but there are a few messages on the answering machine I think you need to hear." "So play them. No way am I getting out of this bed." The hide-away shifts as her weight leaves it, and a second later I hear the beep of the answering machine. "Mr. Currie, this is John Kennedy calling in regards to our mutual friend Teddy Fields." I recognize the thick-tongued voice instantly. I suppose this is my official kiss-off. "We're all just as sorry as can be for your loss, son," he says. I almost believe him. "And Teddy wants to know when you'll be ready to get back to the studio. He's still itching to make this record, and...uh...we still think you're the guy for the job. Call me back when you get into town, and we'll look at scheduling it. You have my number." I sit up, wide awake now. "What the fuck?" I blink uncomprehendingly at the machine. "Did I hear that right?" "I don't know," Jasmine shrugs. "But it sounds good, doesn't it? Listen to the next one." She pushes the button again, and Bennie Rich comes coasting out through the speaker. "Jake, this is Bennie. Call me. Soon. Before you call Kennedy." A pause, like he wants to say something more. "Bye." I shake my head. "What the fuck is going on?" Jasmine shrugs again. Pushing up, I go to the phone and dial Blackbird. A familiar airy voice answers on the second ring. "Blackbird Studio. Jennifer speaking." "Hey, Jennifer. It's Jake Currie. Do you know what's going on?" She breathes out through her mouth. "I don't. But I know that Bennie was trying to reach you. He's out of the office right now, but he said if you called to ask you to meet him in his office tomorrow morning at eight o'clock. Can you do that?" "Sure. I guess. But I don't get what-" "Sorry, Jake. I have another call coming in. See you tomorrow!" She clicks off. I stare at the phone a minute, then hang up. Well, I'm not entirely sure what all is up, but maybe I'm making a record after all. If that's the case, it doesn't change my plans. It only postpones them. Speaking of plans, Jasmine comes up behind me and wraps her arms around my stomach. "What'd you find out?" she asks. "Nothing," I admit. "Jaz, I think I've made some decisions, and I need to talk to you about them." "Sure," she says, slipping away from me and leaning against the kitchen counter. "I was wondering if you were going to tell me what all the thinking was about." "Yeah," I look over at her. She's relaxed, happy, and gorgeous. "What I was-" There's a knock at the front door. With an apologetic look, she goes to answer it. Buck is standing there with two bottles of wine. His clothes are looking pretty dirty, and he looks like he spent the whole morning sweating. "Would you two mind joining me for a drink?" he asks. "Now might not be the best time," I admit. "Now might be the last time," he says. "I'd sure like it if you would say yes." Jasmine and I look at each other. She shrugs. "Yes," she says. So we sit out on the deck and drink. My moment will have to wait. "Why is this the last time?" I ask. "I'm moving. I have moved, actually. Everything I own is in a U-Haul over at my friend's house. All that's left is to hand over the keys and do the walk-through." "That was fast. What happened?" "Got a job offer. A good one, in Minneapolis." "Yikes. Going cold weather, eh?" He nods. "Better you than me, I guess. What kind of work is it?" He shrugs. "Doesn't really matter what kind. But it's more IT work. Boring ass, mind-melting, check-cashing IT work." "What about your wine?" "The two dentists can manage without me. I'm not much of a financial contributor these days, so they really will only be losing a small amount of manual labor. Nothing they can't survive without." Jasmine tilts her head. "But what about YOU? Can you still do that up in Minneapolis?" He scrunches up his face. "It'll be a challenge. I'll never have such a good thing as I had going here, I guess. It'll never be as easy to get grapes, and they'll never be as nice. I'll be pretty limited in what I can make, and I won't be making as much. But I can still hack it, I guess." "I'm gonna be real sorry to see you go," I admit. "I'd hate to think where I'd be right now if I didn't have you looking out for me." "Yeah, well," he looks uncomfortable, "I'll be telling stories about Jake Currie until the day I die. You can count on that." "When you tell them, make me sound like a bodybuilder." "I was thinking more like a midget wrestler." He smiles. "Bald, too." We lapse into silence. Later, as the last of the wine is consumed, we shake hands and say our goodbyes. I watch him walk down to his car, one more person I don't know anymore. And then Jasmine Knox, the only person left in my life, turns to me and smiles. "What did you want to tell me, before?" * If you're reading this as it's being published on the site, then this is where I apologize and warn you that the last two chapters (which will appear together, since they're each likely to be no longer than this one was) won't be up for a week or more. I know what happens in them, but I haven't written a damn word yet. This being the holidays, my time is simply not my own. Fortunately, this being the holidays, you should be too drunk to care for the next week anyway. Hallelujah Ch. 10-11 CHAPTER TEN Bennie Rich watches me with a lazy irritation. His face is almost neutral, except for a slight narrowing of the eyes that seems to go away whenever he looks at anything besides me. Well, what are you going to do? I give him my best 'open to suggestions' look in response. I don't have a fucking clue what I'm doing here. It's his show, and I'm happy to let him run the ball. He taps his pen against the desk, then sets it down and sighs. "What am I going to do with you, Jake?" he asks, a wistful tone to his voice. "What am I going to do?" I grunt. He's clearly enjoying himself...he really seems to love these little power games...but I'm not going to be the sheepish apologist this time around. "You could always start by telling me what the fuck is going on," I say flatly. A small smile flickers across his face. "I could, yes. I could do that. Clear the whole mess up, set your mind at ease, etcetera etcetera. I'm not going to do that. But I could." I lean back, cross my arms and wait. What a jackass. "You really messed things up for yourself with that record, didn't you Currie?" he smiles sweetly. I nod, unembarrassed. "Is that why I'm here? So you can gloat about it? I guess I'm okay with that." "Good," he leans back, putting his feet up on the desk. "That makes me very, very happy. I've been looking forward to doing exactly that. Yes, the legendary Jake Currie...the man who thought he knew best...really learned otherwise. He finally discovered that he's not actually better than everybody else. He's not blessed. He's not unstoppable. That's gotta hurt a little, I imagine. Being taken down a peg, finding out just where your limits sit, always does." I nod again. Why lie about it? He's going way over the top, but the basic truth is there. "And now," Bennie waves his hand and opens his eyes wide, like a minstrel telling a tale, "he's as confused as can be. He's confused, because he knows he should be finished. Washed up. Deleted. He didn't just waste an insane amount of studio time, he didn't just cost a label a lot of money with no return. Oh, no. That wouldn't be enough, would it? He also managed to shout at, and insult, the fucking band. The fucking producer insulted the fucking musicians! That's one for the ages, I tell you. What were you even thinking? Musicians are so sensitive and touchy...hell, half of them are drug addicts anyway...that it's like walking a minefield with them until you can really win them over with bullshit compliments and praise. If you ever do. Any engineer or producer worth their weight knows to be careful about how they approach the artist. Even the dumbest ones know." He tilts his head and shakes it. "But not Currie. No, not that guy. He lit into those fucks like it was the Fourth of July. And from what I hear, he still managed to be surprised when they stormed out. Yet another legendary Currie tale that will live on and on for as long as this studio stands." He puts his feet down, sitting up straight, and sniffs. "Yet, so far as you know, the band still wants you to produce. And, so far as you know, the label will still allow it. And now here you are, sitting in the office of the studio manager who once fired you...a man who didn't much care for you even before this little fiasco started. And you wanna know why?" "Why?" He reaches over to his phone, a big and aging device with rows of buttons, and rests his finger gently on one labeled 'Front Desk.' He smirks at me. "Because, my dear boy, I enjoy your confusion." He pushes the button down, and the phone beeps. "Now, please, Jennifer." A second later, the door opens and Walter Russell waddles in. From where I"m sitting, the door prevents his seeing me until he's walked fully into the room. "Bennie," he smiles, "you needed to see..." he trails off as he notices me, and his smile disappears. "What the fuck is he doing here?" he snaps. Damn. He stole my line. "Shut up and sit down, Walter," Bennie waves impatiently towards the adjacent cushioned visitor chair. Russell doesn't move an inch. "Bennie," he says slowly, uncertainly, "I don't know what you think-" "I said sit down." "No." His face is getting that blotchy look, and he's breathing harder. "If you'll excuse me, I have a session." "It's postponed. Doesn't start for an hour. I already called everybody and adjusted the books so the label can be reimbursed later." He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. "You are an adult, Walter. You're not a rock. You're not an island. And you do have the time." Russell looks at me again, hatred clouding his face, but he walks over and has a seat anyway. "Fine. I have the time. What do you want?" "I want you to help Jacob fix his session." Both of our eyes widen. "No way," Russell says slowly. "No fucking way, Bennie. That little-" "Stop, Walter. Just...stop." Bennie looks between us with a tired frustration. "This isn't about you. It's not about either of you. It's not about liking each other, or being friends, or holding hands. It's sure as shit not about puppy dogs and rainbows. This is about a recording session that is in danger of becoming a real disaster. This is about an artist who has just experienced a small commercial break-through, and has commercial potential. It's about a label that is investing their confidence in the idea that a record is going to be made here," he slaps his desk top, suddenly looking just as angry as his contemporary. "In my studio! It's about business! It isn't about Jacob Currie failing! And," he calms down a little, breathing deep, "it's about music, Walter. If nothing else, it's about that. Help the boy." "No. If you think he needs help, then you help him." But Walter's voice is softer, now, and his face is clearing up. Bennie sags a little, revealing a little of that sadness that's lived inside him for decades. "You know I can't do that, Walter," he says quietly. "I can't help him." Russell has the decency to look embarrassed. He closes his eyes, maybe searching for a way to argue himself free of this whole mess, and then he rubs his temples and sits up straight. "What's the problem?" he asks. I look at Bennie, but Bennie just looks back at me, so I answer. "None of Teddy's songs sound complete, or finished, but I can't figure out what to do to get them there. It's like I'm freezing up out there. I don't even know how to fake it." He nods silently, eyes still closed, and scratches his chest as he answers. "You know, kid, I've been working in Nashville a long time. Longer than you're able to understand, yet. I play ball the Nashville way. It's a good way. There are clear rules and no questions. Some people look down on it, you know, but a lot more people talk about it with wonder and respect. And well they should. Even now, after all these years, this is still a town that turns out hit records and beautiful sounding albums with a consistency that nobody else can match. Nobody. I'm part of a machine, yes. But it's a machine that music fans will be speaking about with awe in their voices for years to come. And I do my job well." He stops for a minute, and I wonder if he's done, but he continues. "Thing is, Teddy Fields just ain't a Nashville singer. I don't even know what he's doing here. And you, kid, ain't a Nashville producer. But that's why you worked so well together. That's why I couldn't do shit with that guy. My job is always to take the song and make it fit alongside other artists' songs as best I can. Make it something anybody can hear and just...just feel, without thought or investment. Make it ready for radio. You, though, made a song...that ballad that was on the radio...that went over for the exact opposite reason. It went over because it was different. It didn't sound like other people's records. One listen, and it stayed with you. Two notes in and, if you'd heard it before, you recognized it. It could never be a top ten hit...truth be told, I still think it's a shit song...but it was nothing if not memorable. This question you're asking yourself...'What do I need to do to complete this song,'...I'd wager that it ain't the question you asked yourself when you first heard that track. First time you heard it, what did you think?" I bite my lip, trying to think back. "I...don't know. I don't think I asked any questions." "The hell you didn't. What made you treat the drums the way you did?" "Well, they were already such a powerful component when they came in that-" "What made you feed so much reverb and emphasize the low end the way you did?" I blink. He really does remember the song. "I...uh...the feel was already swampy. I just..." and that's it. Just like that, I know what I asked. I stare at him. "I asked myself what made the song unique. And then I emphasized that." He nods, opening his eyes. "That's why you're the guy to work with Teddy Fields. He ain't no pretty voiced singer, or even some nasally songwriter who happens to write really great love songs. His gift, if you care to call it that, is that he's so damn different. I always thought that if I could streamline him a little, he could really take off. I mean, if you took his originality and matched it to some of that good old Nashville perfection, it seems like you would have something for the ages. And that's what I tried to do. What you did to me, on a personal level, was shit Jake. And the attitude you did it with was contemptuous. What's more, with any other artist it would have been a catastrophe. But it wasn't any other artist, and it wasn't a catastrophe. I suppose you are just the producer for Teddy...and Teddy is just the artist for you. So take your fucking question, and make your fucking record, and leave me the hell alone." He glances over at Bennie. "Can I go?" Bennie nods. "Thank you, Walter. From me." "Yeah, well, you got a business to run, and I suppose you have to work with unsavory people from time to time." he stands up shakily, looking old. "But you've always got me to look out for you. As long as I'm here, you'll be safe." When he's gone, and the door is closed again, I turn back to Bennie. "You didn't have to do that," I tell him. "Yes I did," he waves dismissively. "What goes on in my studio is concerning to me, and I won't have failed sessions involving failed producers impacting my integrity. Now, if there isn't anything else, I have work to do." I watch him go about the business of becoming engrossed in his computer screen. I don't know much about what it must be like to be a teenager craving the approval of a distant, hard-to-please father, but I think I'm starting to get the idea. Part of me wishes I had something more to offer, some magic combination of words to string together, that would both let Bennie know how grateful I am and at the same time impress him somehow. But that's not going to happen, and soon enough it won't matter anyway, so I quietly make my exit and head for home. - They're showing some old woman Buck's apartment when I get there, and the manager feels the need to introduce her to me. She's overly friendly, probably lonely. She can't be much younger than Grandpa was. I promise to help her move in, and she puts her hand on my arm. "You're a very sweet young man," she tells me. I let her think so. Jasmine isn't home...even though I'm pretty sure she was only working a morning shift today...so I have a sandwich and a Diet Coke before calling Kennedy. "Hello?" he answers almost immediately. "It's Jake." "Jake, thank god. I was beginning to think you were gonna do something stupid." "I did. I called you. Why on earth is Teddy still wanting to record with me? I figured it was game over, after the blowup." "Well, it was. At first, anyway. But the news about your loss came so quickly after the...disagreement....you know, that when I told the band they somehow came to the conclusion that you had been stressed out by your only remaining family member's ill health, and that was what lead to your bad behavior." "You lied to them?" "Oh, they drew their own conclusions. I just decided not to correct them when they drew poorly. They felt pretty bad about jumping on you like that, really, and I think they were regretting the whole thing even before they learned about your grandfather. It just gave them an easy way to save face while backing down." "Why would you do that, though? You have to know that the sessions have been a disaster. Why not just let me go and get someone else to finish?" "I probably should. But my judgment is clouded by one hundred thousand paid downloads of 'As Long As I'm Here.' Say what you will, Jake, but you are clearly the best man for putting Teddy Fields over. And that means food on my plate." A hundred thousand? Holy shit. "And if I continue fuck it up?" "I don't think you will, but that's just me. And if you do, well...the label will eat the cost, and you'll take all the blame. Teddy and I don't stand to lose a thing." "I can't tell you how heartwarming that is." "Hey, it wasn't so long ago that you were one of the least forgiving and most finicky negotiators I've ever seen play the game, so don't go feigning sensitivity now. Remember, I saw you when the kill was fresh and the blood was on your chin." "Maybe, but I guess just don't like you using my grandfathers death in such a crass way." "I can only hope that when I go there's somebody around who can turn my passing into something of worth." "I believe that you mean that." "You should." I shake my head. "So now what?" "Now you tell me when you'll be ready to get back to it. And no matter what your conscience tells you, you don't say shit to absolve the band of their false assumptions. Simple as that." He sounds pretty pleased with the whole idea. "Have you talked to Bennie yet?" "You knew about that?" "No. But I know Bennie, and last I heard from him he was plenty pissed off about how the sessions were going. The guy can't hardly stand to stay out of something like that." He laughs. "Oh." Somehow, I'm disappointed. And I don't like Kennedy laughing about it. "Yeah, he helped me out. Quite a bit, actually." "Glad to know it. Don't tell him I said this, but I almost think he kind of likes you. When do we start?" "What's open on the schedule at Blackbird?" "I have Bennie's assurance that he's keeping Studio A open for whenever we're ready to start." "Wow," I raise my eyebrows again, "that's awfully generous of him." "Maybe it is," Kennedy sounds like he's getting bored. "So, again...when?" "Tomorrow." I want to get this over with as fast as possible. "Tomorrow," he sounds pleased, probably mistaking my hurry for enthusiasm. "I'll tell the band." We say goodbye and I look at the phone for a minute before hanging up, as if I could look through it and see John Kennedy looking back at me. Come to think of it, I've still never actually met the guy. He's like my first middle school girlfriend...a phone call-only affair, no touching. The door opens, and Jasmine slips into the living room. She's dressed like someone going in for a job interview, her hospital scrubs suspiciously absent. "Hi," she says, a little sheepishly. "How was your meeting?" "Unpleasant, but the results were better than I would have expected. Where've you been?" I immediately regret asking...it's not really my business. And from the look in her eye, I can see that it has given her a little bit of satisfaction. "I asked AJ to meet with me one last time, before the divorce goes through. I guess I just wanted to know that he was moving on, you know? I wanted to see that life was looking up for him, so I wouldn't feel so guilty about it all the time." I think of the drunk comedian sitting on my deck chair, not so long ago, warning me about Jasmine who always gets her way. "And is he?" She nods, but she doesn't elaborate and she looks away as she does it. "Huh." I don't even act like I believe her. She looks tired. "Have you eaten?" "I had a sandwich. I'm not really hungry." "Oh." She shuffles from one foot to the other. "Are you going to be...recording again soon? Is that what everything was all about?" "Yup. Tomorrow. I guess I'm finishing this album after all." She studies my face. "And then?" I shrug. "It doesn't change anything." Her shoulders fall a bit. "I suppose that's good." "I think it is." "Well. Okay." Without another word, she shuffles into her bedroom and closes the door. I fall into the couch, dropping my head back onto the cushions and sighing. The whole thing makes me exhausted. I can't wait until it's over. A bottle of wine would probably do me good, but I seem to have lost my appetite for drinking lately. Just like I'm losing my appetite for a lot of things. This shifting desire has left me with a surplus I don't know what to do with. Don't want it, can't hardly get rid of it. Maybe I should just drink it all down and walk away. I yawn. Another time, perhaps. - The band comes in hanging low, a somber procession of floor-gazing children who know they fucked up. It's an unpleasant sight. I remember what Kennedy said, and I know that the sympathy they feel right now is the only reason we're even here, but I'm not about to purger myself and invoke my grandfather's name for the sake of a fucking recording session. It's a promise I make. "Go get setup," I tell them immediately, preempting any discussion on the matter. "I have a few ideas I want to try out, and we've only got about five days left to us." Teddy studies my face. "Yeah. Sure. Listen, Jake-" "Just go, Teddy. I need for us to move fast. I haven't had my head in the game for a while now. But it wasn't about family, or dying, or any of that. Truth is, I wanted to think it was about you, for a while there. But it wasn't. It's about me. And right now I'm feeling ready to fix all that, so I need you to get the fuck into the studio and play some fucking music." He smiles through the sad eyes. "Yeah. Sure, Jake." I don't think he believes me, but who the fuck cares? I didn't lie. That's all I can give him. Brian hasn't said much since I arrived, but he gives me that half-smile now. "Sounds like we're in for it, today. You look pretty confident." "Well, I'm not," I admit, going over to watch the band through the Plexiglas. "But at least now I'm asking the right question." In the reflection, I see him give me a sideways look as he turns back towards the console. Whatever. Flipping the talkback, I tell the band to start with 'Open it Up.' "Sure thing," Teddy says. "Are we recording straight up?" "Absolutely. But I want to try something. Just humor me, okay?" "Okay," he doesn't look like he likes where this is going. "What?" "See that supply closet to your left? On the north side of that is a row of electric guitars. Fish out something that looks like 1959. Underneath me on the wall your facing is a row of little practice amps. Do you see the one that says Rivera across the front? It's a maroon color." "Yeah. I see it." "Plug the guitar you use directly into that. Don't change the settings on the amp...I set them up this morning." Teddy looks over at the closet, then at his band, and then up at the control room window. I know what he's thinking: 'Oh, shit, the kid's still trying to change us.' "Can I ask why?" "You said you'd humor me. Just one run through like this...I want to hear how it sounds." "We have time for that?" "Your manager pointed out to me just yesterday that if we go over budget, it's my ass and not yours. Let me do with my ass as I will." He snorts a laugh. "Well, when you put it like that." While he's fishing out a guitar, I turn back to Brian. "You know what I hear when I listen to this song?" "What?" he asks. "I hear 'I Saw Her Standing There,' mixed with 'Houndog,' stirred together with The Stones doing 'Route 66.' You know what I'm saying?" Hallelujah Ch. 10-11 "You're saying you want me to change the vocal chain." "I do. But more to that Elvis twitch than the Beatles shine. Lots of slap-back echo on the vocal and guitar. Hell, put some on the kick, too. Wield a heavy hand on this one. If it's too much, we can always trim back later in post, but I need the band to see what the intentions are." "Got it. Anything special on the EQ, or just the standard fare?" "The drums are gonna be snare and cymbal heavy. There won't be a lot of work with the toms....maybe none at all. So that frees up some space to do with as you will. You will have to be careful not to let the piano and cymbals smear each other, but beyond that just be gentle with the sculpting." "I can do it." He turns to his work, and I can't help but notice a tone in his voice that I hadn't heard before. Not quite excited, at least he's sounding hopeful. At that moment, Teddy comes out of the supply closet tenderly carrying a Gretsch Country Gentleman. A classic guitar with a driving, clean tone, it's gonna get distorted as all shit before I'm done with it...but it will still be sharp and snapping. I hit the talkback. "Teddy, that's so perfect my balls just dropped a little." He laughs. "I guess that's a good thing. Am I plugging directly into the amp?" "Yup." He plugs in and flips it on. The cable is plenty long, so it isn't long before he's over with his band noodling around on his new toy. He looks surprisingly natural with the oversized red beast of a guitar strapped over his shoulder. I flip the talkback. "What I'd like to do is run through the song once with all attitude. Teddy, just stick to barre chords but play 'em with punch. We'll let Mickey fill in any spaces with the piano. Mick, a little bit of Jerry Lee Lewis is in order. Fair?" "Fair." "Cool. And Paul, lay off those toms completely. Make believe they don't exist. We're gonna record this, so give it everything." Paul looks nervous. "Shouldn't we practice first? We've never played this way before." "I thought you liked spontaneity. Look guys, it'll never be quite as real as the first time, so we'll just see if we can get a take. If you fuck up, we'll just do another. If you don't like the way it sounds, we'll revert. No big deal." I look over at Brian, and he gives me a thumbs up, so I turn back to the band. "Boys, for the next ten minutes this is Sun Studios and I'm your colonel. Tear it up." They do. The song's Beatles melodies and 1950's energy were its defining characteristic, and Teddy falls into a sputtering strum pattern without putting any thought into it. He palm mutes, cutting a lot of the chords short almost as soon as he's struck them. It sounds great with the slap-back echo. Meanwhile, just standing up and playing it instead of sitting with his lap steel has changed his approach. He throws way more attitude and bite into the vocal, twitching and jerking around the mic, and even letting out a little yelp at the end of the last chorus as the band bursts into a gleeful jam of an ending. He plays faster, causing everybody to play faster. I hadn't intended that, but now that he's punching strings instead of sliding around it sounds better with a little more rush to it. Afterward, they all rush up to the control room, and they immediately fall in love. We'll have to fix a few things...the reverb is a little too heavy and the lap steel would sound glorious as a background addition to the chorus...but we've basically bagged the song in a single take. It sounds fantastic, topping 'As Long As I'm Here' and humiliating 'Hazy Witness.' Mickey English is pacing and biting his lip by the end of the playback. Teddy laughs and slaps me on the back. "Holy shit, am I glad you're back," he says. I give him a look. I'm tempted to point out to him that once again my ideas have redefined his song and helped give him a track that has radio potential written all over it. Instead, I just wink. Mickey slaps his hands together. "Now what?" "Overdubs?" Brooke suggests. I shake my head. "We need some, but let's not kill this momentum. Get back down there and let's see if we can't do something with that song where you keep interjecting 'all right' after every line in the verse. What's the name on that one?" "'Alright,'" Fields says straight faced. "Alright," I say. "That one. Go back to your normal setup for now. Do a couple of run-throughs and then we'll talk about a recording." As the band heads down the stairs, Brian looks over. "Any ideas on this one?" "Not yet," I say. "But I will soon enough." - By the time the day ends, we've put 'Alright' in the bag and overdubbed Fields slide onto 'Open it Up.' We've also added some hand claps and some background vocals that the whole band partook in. Everybody's grinning and talking about the songs as they head out the door. The band is clearly relieved to have four completed tracks now instead of just the two, and especially to know that at least three of them are great. I stay behind and act busy until they're all gone. Then, after locking up, I head down to Bennie's office. The door is open and nobody's inside. I look at Jennifer, but she just shrugs. Oh, well. The drive home is peaceful. I'm getting to really liking driving around with no music playing. It makes it easier to think. But, really, I don't think. I don't even move. I just stay where I am, and let the land move around me. It's a wonderful feeling. I can see the moon just starting to appear as I get home, and I take that as a bad omen. Sure enough, Jasmine is sitting at the kitchen table, a bottle of our wine open in front of her. She looks tired. "Hey," I give her a weak smile. She looks up at me and the muscles around her mouth move, but it doesn't really become any sort of expression. "Can I talk to you?" she asks. "Yeah. Yeah, alright." I sit down opposite her. I guess I knew this was coming eventually. She takes a drink direct from the bottle, and then her chest expands in a deep breath. Her eyes focus directly on mine, and I know I'm in for it. "Tell me why," she says. Aware though I was that this was going to happen, I still don't feel ready. I'm almost tempted to reach out for the bottle, but it won't help. "That's a lot to tell," I tell her. "'Why' is the biggest question there is." "I've got time," her lids droop slightly to show her unamused status. I put my elbows to the table and lean on them, Bennie Rich style. "There are plenty of answers, Jasmine, but none of them are going to take the way you feel right now away. You know that well enough. It's just the right thing to do. That's all." She shakes her head. "It isn't the right thing. How can you even think that? I know you feel the same way I do." "I think that I do. But that doesn't mean that it's enough. Do you remember what I told you before?" "That you fell in love in high school, and you never let yourself grow up." I hold a finger up. "That's not quite it. I did say that I fell in love in high school. In fact, I said I fell in love twice. They were two equal, powerful sensations, and that's all well and good, but I just never moved beyond them. I wanted, the way a teenager wants, those two lovers to define me forever. I wanted them to BE who I was. So, when I was given the chance to see them for what they were...the first steps of a child...I misunderstood the message. I didn't ignore it, or deny it. I just couldn't understand it. It seemed too impossible to me, in my naivety, to be true." I tap my finger on the table, pointed at her. "But you saw it. You did. And to some degree I think you understood." She shakes her head. "No. I was the one who was stupid. I was the one who made the mistake." "But, see, you didn't. You left me, and you were right to do so." I hold up my hands as she shakes her head again, opening her mouth to argue it. "It's true. When you first told me your side of the story, I thought I saw a grown woman regretting a young girl's misbehavior. But I didn't. What I saw was you, as you are now. A near stranger to me, someone I used to know, experiencing a hurt. I was seeing you struggle with the hardest pain of your life, the biggest mistake you ever made. And that mistake wasn't leaving me, or cheating on AJ. It was marrying a man you didn't love...because you were scared. And, now, in your terror, you are trying to make the exact same mistake over again." She scowls at me. "Being with you isn't a mistake." "Jasmine, why did you leave me for AJ?" She bites her lip. "I was scared. I mistook the difficulty of trying to build our life together as being work, and being around him made me remember that simple teenage innocence we used to have. It was a stupid-" "Jasmine, look at where you are now. You're scared, you screwed up the life you had, and being around me is making you remember the simple innocence of two people who are conquering the world together. It's no different. AJ and I just switched roles is all. You don't need that. You need a fresh start. You need to find somebody with whom you don't have a past, so that you can be sure you're not hedging your bets on a good memory." She wipes at a tear. "You're so wrong about why I want to be with you." "Maybe. But it doesn't matter, because I'm not wrong about why I want to be with you. I want to be with you because I've invested more than a decade of my life into believing that you could make me happy. My emotions are wrapped up in a bullshit fantasy, and that's not a good way to start something real. Do you realize, I don't even know what I want in a woman anymore? I closed myself off from even thinking about it. I never thought about wanting a woman, because I only wanted you. I dated, but I never loved anybody else because it was important to me not to. And that's where that got me. I'm not sure what I want to look for in a woman, because I was only ever looking at ONE woman." I look away for a moment, not wanting to watch her cry. "It's the same, you know, with my other lover." "Don't call it that." "That's what it was. Fuck. I fell in love with music, as surely as anybody falls in love with anything. I fell hard. And just like I did with you, I wrapped myself in it so tightly that I wasn't even aware of anything else. For a while that was great. But something changed, and I couldn't figure out what that was. And I lied to myself to avoid the truth. But I know the truth, now. The truth is that I didn't walk away from the work I was doing in New York because Nashville was a new milestone. I didn't do it because I missed home. I didn't do it to work with new people, or to be a part of something spectacular, or any of that. I did it because, deep down, I was bored. Not brimming with ideas, or full of some righteous need to take on the establishment of the scene. Just bored. And Nashville was an obvious choice for mixing things up. I could put myself in completely foreign situations so that I wouldn't have to realize that I was bored. I could be around people who disagreed with me, so I could fight the boredom with drama and anger. I could protect myself. See, when I look at you I know that I have to accept that we can't be together, because I already tried it once. I tried it with the other girl, and it failed. Music and I have nothing for each other anymore, aside from a history of affection and an easy comfort. We have memories, and we will always matter to one another, but there just isn't a future there. I should have seen that a long time ago and recognized it for what it is: an adult learning that they aren't necessarily going to stay in love with their high school girl forever. I didn't. I tried to just make a few changes and carry on. And when that wasn't enough, when engineering here was no more pleasurable than it was up north, I pushed my way into producing. Only that didn't help, either. I was digging deeper into a hole I didn't care to live in. Even today...and we did real good today...my only sense of pleasure was in knowing that I didn't feel like a failure. That's where I stand with the music industry, Jasmine. And that's where I stand with you. If I were to stay, to try and start a relationship with you, you can't even imagine what an asshole thing that would be for me to do. It wouldn't be fair to either of us. I don't love you. I love the concept of you. I love having someone in my life that is a part of my history, who offers me those sentimental feelings that most people get from their parents and their siblings. It's a crutch. And I'm sorry." She nods, but she's crying. A backhanded wipe at her eyes to clear them almost knocks over the wine bottle, and we both jump to catch it. "I'm going to bed," she says. I nod, say nothing, and just watch her go. Then I pour the rest of the bottle down the sink. CHAPTER ELEVEN "I fell in love, on and off, with the sound of something soft. "They left it hanging on a cross. I let it down, and brushed it off." Teddy Fields's voice comes out of the speakers, hushed and reverent, over a barely-there bassline and a fingerpicked acoustic guitar. That's right. I got him to put an acoustic guitar on one of his songs. It was what the song needed, and nobody complained when they heard the results. Actually, I'm feeling very optimistic about this record. I think Teddy has more than just a shot at breaking through with it. I think he could end up with quite the lucrative future on his hands. And I think he knows it. The more songs we managed to finish, the more willing to take direction he became. He even requested my thoughts a few times, near the end. And he wrote this song overnight before the last session, insisting that we take the time to cut it. It's an affectionate track, a tender declaration of love for nothing more than the idea of sound. I love it. Maybe it's my favorite. I wish I could say that we got the record done on time, but it took us one day extra to catch back up. That's not a huge deal...making records is a lot like redoing a bathroom: you kind of assume it's going to cost five to ten percent more than the quote. Still, it's a little black mark on my very small resume as a producer, and if I were intending to continue down that road it would be concerning to me. As things stand, I frankly don't give a shit. Right now I'm sitting in Studio C, alone, listening to the final playback before signing off. The last two days have been spent with Brian, touching up the mixes and making final adjustments. Teddy and Brooke came by on the first day, but they seemed bored and they didn't come back. Oh, and I finally met John Kennedy. He came in with them. The son of a bitch is damn near slender. Where that "fat Cajun after a few drinks in him" slur comes from, I'll never know. I'm supposed to e-mail John a copy of the mixes as finished, and the band will see if they want anything changed. I don't think they will...and if they do, it will have to be someone else who does it. I'm out of here. The new song, 'Mistakes,' is the last track on the album as sequenced. As soon as the last note rings out, I'm taking off. I close my eyes and listen to the last verse. "I fell in love, through and through. It looked the same, but it felt brand new." The instrumentation ends with the last word...no outro...and it all just rings for a moment before fading to black. And just like that, the adventure is over. Bennie Rich is standing in the hallway when I open the door. I jerk a little in surprise, and he winks at me and smiles. "I didn't want to interrupt anything," he says. "I kinda imagine that this was a moment for you. Unless you've changed your mind." "I haven't." He nods. "Fair enough. Do you know where you'll go?" "Minneapolis, for now. There's a behind-the-boards opening at a public radio station up there. And anyway, I have a friend up there, and I'd really like the chance to hear his story." "Mixing board work doesn't sound like much of a change, Jake." "It's enough for a start. And once I'm settled I can look into education possibilities, or whatever. I think I'd like to learn a new trade." "College." Bennie's smile widens. "You think you'll be able to afford it?" I think about the record I just heard. The record that will be hitting shelves in four or five months. "Yeah. Definitely." "Good." He seems uncomfortable. "Listen. Jake. If you need a recommendation or whatever..." "Sure, Bennie. I'll let you know." He nods, still looking like he has something to say. I take pity on him. "I should get going." "Sure." He holds out his hand, and I take it. "Jake, I'm glad you came back." I have to think about it for a moment, but I finally am able to say, "Me, too." - Jasmine's already moved out, but I'm not surprised to see her sitting on the steps when I pull up. After that last big talk, she couldn't get out fast enough. I'm sure being around me was upsetting her. Still, she was gracious enough to offer to pay one additional month's rent for me if I needed it, and she's called to see how the recording was going more than a few times. I'm glad that I won't need that rent money. "Hey," she smiles at me as I approach. It's a genuine smile, the kind you give to close friends and rarely seen cousins. That pleases me. "Hey yourself." I wave at the front door. "I'd invite you in, but there's nothing in there." "Yeah, I looked in the window. I almost wondered if you'd left early, decided to skip out on me." I shake my head. "I wouldn't do that. Most of what I'm taking's in my car. The rest is donated or tossed. All except for this." I hold up the bottle of wine in my hand. "I see that. Are we going to have a glass?" "I promised, didn't I?" So we sit on the steps with our red plastic cups, sipping our wine and not saying very much. It's a good feeling. "Jasmine," I say when I'm finished. "Would you be my sister?" She gives me an amused look, one eyebrow up. "If it were anybody else but you, Jake, I'd point out how gross that is." She sighs. "But, yes. I'll be your sister." And then she turns and points at me. "But only if you'll be my brother, and you'll keep in touch and let me know how life is. Send me Christmas cards, call me once in a while, stuff like that." I nod. "Absolutely." She smiles. "It's good to have family, Jake. I'll be happy to be yours." "Good. So, Sis, how's your new apartment?" "Not as gross as the old one, and a little bit bigger, too. Nobody pees in the sink." "You knew!" I stare at her, and she laughs. "I thought I might look into nursing." "Really?" I smile. "Changing your mind about those people?" She finishes the last of her wine. "Maybe. Or maybe it was all an excuse to explain why I gave up on my dream. So I didn't have to admit that I quit because it got too hard." "Hmm." The wine's gone and the conversation is slow, so we stand and hug. Jasmine looks up at the sky, shading her eyes with her hand. "Day's half over. You sure you're ready to start the drive?" "Oh, I've got miles and miles to go. Postponing it won't help a thing. And you know how I feel about night driving." "I suppose. What will you do?" "Have a few choice words with the moon." She shakes her head. "Someday you'll have to explain that to me. Still, it seems like such a long drive." "Yeah," I admit. "It is. I wish I could go by train." "By train? Why?" I squint over at her. "Didn't Grandpa Cooper ever tell you about the trains?" She shakes her head. "I must have missed that one." I clap my hands together. "I can tell you all about them, if you want. I don't really have a schedule to fall behind, and I like talking with you." She looks over at me, but she only nods. Because she wants to hear it. Because she believes me. Hallenbad Hallenbad is the German word for indoor swimming pool. This hallenbad is also equipped with a bar, hot tubs, saunas and showers. I like going there after a long day of work where I can exercise by swimming a few laps, practice diving and then head to the bar for a beer. When I have a beer or two after some laps and diving, I like to people watch and see if there are any potential fuck buddies. This particular evening the geriatric crowd was in full force and no sweet young babes or twinks to hit on. I swallowed the last of my second beer when I caught an older gent staring at me. At first I played it cool and stared straight ahead, pretending not to notice him. When I thought the coast was clear, I turned in his direction and saw he was still looking at me. I didn't turn away and stared at him, but his gaze at me was intense and I felt a twinge in my speedos as our eyes continued staring each other. I quickly looked away and felt flush in my cheeks, embarrassed that this older guy just stared me down and won! I raised my glass again but only a bit of foam drained from it and I felt like an ass, pretending I had more beer to drink while trying not to look rattled. I got up from my stool and headed back into the pool. I wanted to look back and see if he was still staring at me but I didn't. I submerged under water and using my feet pushed off the wall and swam ahead until my lungs were about to burst. When I broke through, I turned around and saw he was no longer sitting on his stool. I figured he left. I re-submerged and headed back in the direction where I came from kicking hard with my legs, trying to reach the wall. Just as I was about to reach the wall when a splurge of bubbles appeared before me, followed by two feet, legs and a swimsuit. I slowed down as much as I could, before I could stop, my mouth and nose were face to face with his cock and balls. I quickly shot up out of the water gasping for air and ready to berate the owner of the feet, legs and crotch, when I realized it was the older gent from the bar. He stood there with a small grin and a look of disdain. I was standing in front of him, gawking and speechless. I finally muttered in German for him to excuse me! I swiftly moved around him to climb the wall and wouldn't you know it, my foot slipped! I know he was watching me and I didn't even have to look back. I went to my small locker pulled my speedos off, tossed them in the wall locker in exchange for my towel. I tossed my towel over my shoulder and entered the sauna. I laid my towel length wise on a lower tier and sat on it for a minute. I needed to relax, that old bastard had me rattled and I didn't understand why. I know I have a weakness for older guys but this was surreal. I lay on my back and closed my eyes and started to doze off. A rush of cold air woke me and I opened my eyes staring at the ceiling of the sauna. I heard the door close and the heat return over my body. My eyes started to close again when I heard the creaking of the wooden boards under the footsteps of the person who entered. More creaking as the unknown person was positioning himself opposite of where I lay. Then as he settled down, I felt that familiar feeling of being stared at. I lay there frozen in both fear and excitement. I didn't know if it was the old bastard from the bar and pool or if it was someone else. I heard a small grunt come from my sauna companion but still I didn't dare look to see who emitted the sound. After what seemed like an eternity, I finally glanced over to see who was in the sauna with me. Attempting to look as if I was turning over, I saw him and there he sat, naked like me. Thankfully his eyes were closed as I stared at him. Full head of grey hair that matched his hairy chest and beer belly. His pubic hair was also snow white but I couldn't see his cock and balls but as if on cue, he opened his legs, but not his eyes. He had a gorgeously thick, uncut cock that sat atop his very round and hairy balls. I couldn't stop staring at his thick meat stick protruding from his hairy crotch. I felt a stir in my own crotch as I started getting hard. Suddenly, without warning, he opened his eyes, giving me that hard stare as if I got caught with my hand in the cookie jar. I gulped hard and felt paralyzed by his powerful stare. He leaned forward and I thought he was going to invite me for a closer look and more! A smile grew on my lips when he yanked his towel over his lap, covering himself. I felt stupid and dirty. I quickly got up and exited the sauna but before the door closed, I thought I heard a sinister chuckle escape from his lips. The hot water cascading over my body felt good and relaxing, but I just wanted to wash up and get out of there before I saw him again and make a bigger ass of myself than I already had. I rinsed the shampoo from my hair when I heard the familiar sound of the curtain rings slide across the metal bar. "Fuck him," I thought to myself. I'm just going to shower and then get out of Dodge quickly and not even acknowledge him when I leave. Damn the hot water felt so good that after thoroughly rinsing my hair, I stood there with my arms down the side of my body. Then it happened, I smelled his beer breath mixed with a hint of cigarette. "Excuse me please," he mumbled. I heard him but acted as if I didn't. Then I felt his flaccid but fat cock against my hand and he repeated the same statement. I could feel my cock start to rise again and fought hard for it not too. I pulled my head back from the water which now was splashing on my chest, "Excuse me?" I asked. He leaned in closer and now I could feel the heat from his thick dong on the back of my hand. "May I borrow some shampoo? I seem to have forgotten mine." He was staring at me but this time with a softer gaze. I leaned into him wanting him to know that I felt his cock against my hand, he didn't budge and inch. "Shampoo? Sure let me get it for you." He grinned at me when I turned my back to him and bent over to reach my bottle. I lewdly raised my ass towards him more than necessary, making sure he got a nice glimpse of my butthole and round, firm ass. I took my time grabbing my bottle before I slowly stood upright again. His hand was out for me to pour some shampoo into it. He nodded his head, signaling for me to stop pouring and without a word he turned and walked back to his shower head. That recognizable feeling of being a back end of a mule overcame me once more. I poured some liquid body wash into my hands and soaped up my body washing the chlorine away. I stood one final time under the water as I did before when he was standing next to me again. His fat cock was against the back of my hand once more but this time it felt bigger. "I beg your pardon once more," he whispered. Once again I ignored him and once again, he repeated his statement but this time he leaned into me with his hand on my shoulder. I turned my head as the water poured on my head then I leaned in closer and felt his cock against my own. My knees buckled a bit. "More shampoo?" I asked. He shook his head, leaned his face in and asked for body wash. I moved in closer to him and felt our cocks twitch at the same time and asked him what he wanted. His lips were next to my ear when he asked again. I nodded in understanding and slowly turned brushing against his wet, hairy body. I bent forward again with my ass high in the air but this time against his crotch. I could feel the broad shaft of his dick pressed against my ass cheeks, the tip of his uncut meat stick on my balls. I pretended to fumble and let the bottle slip from my hands. He leaned even harder against me and asked if I needed help. I shook my head and dropped to my knees, reached for the bottle of body wash. I turned around, still on my knees and poured some soap into my hands and reached up to his thickening cock. He stood there as I began massaging the liquid soap on his cock and huge balls. He had a gorgeous erection as I worked the soap. Tugging him gently, firmly, quickly then slowly again and again. He liked what I was doing as he groaned in delight. The water rinsed his cock before I gently pulled back his foreskin and took him into my mouth. His meaty hand cupped the back of my head encouraging me to gobble more of his thick dick. I eagerly obliged him. He started thrusting against my face and I could feel his bulbous head hitting the back of my throat. I firmly grabbed the base of his cock, pulled back and looked up at him and said, "Fuck my mouth!" He catered to me as he gripped the back of my head with both of his hands. He started slamming his cock hard into my mouth. I placed a hand on each side of his hips as he face fucked me. He found the sweet spot and the head and a good portion of his cock founds its way down my throat. I gagged a bit and tears started to form. I pulled back just enough to gasp a breath when he quickly slammed his cock back into my throat, he grinded his body against my face. I placed a hand on his belly, signaling him I wanted him to pull back. He ignored me and held my head firm! I felt his cock slowly creep out of my throat and then quickly back down again. He started fucking my face again but not as hard as before. I reached up and grabbed his wrists and he let me pull them off my head. I continued to bob up and down on his cock, hands free. His thrusts met with the motion of my head and then I deep throated him. His knees went weak and I clamped onto his saggy ass cheeks. I pulled back a bit and deep throated him again, I could feel his hairy balls on my chin. My mouth slowly slid off his cock and then I deep throated him again, this time sliding my tongue out to lick his balls. He groaned out loudly. I freed my hand from his ass cheek and reached around and held the base of his cock. Pulling my mouth back, tongue still out I licked his thick under vein until I reached the head of his cock. I swirled my tongue over the entire head then slid my lips down along the underside of his shaft. Balls! Big, hairy, wet balls! I eagerly mouthed them wanting both in my mouth at the same time, but they were enormous! I felt his slippery cock on my face as I sucked, licked and lapped his balls. His started cumming. His hand grabbed the thick shaft and he aimed the head of his cock towards my open slut mouth. Glob after thick glob shot from the tip of his cock, filling my mouth, decorating my face and spilling onto the shower floor. I loved every gooey drop of semen that spurted from his cock into and onto me. When he was done, true to form, he turned and walked away without saying a word. I watched him exit the shower area but this time I felt like a slut and a whore, this time I was extremely happy and satisfied! Halle's Hillbilly Hell DISCLAIMER: This is a fictional tale involving some descriptions of non consensual sex and mind control. It also features characters that hold racist views and speak accordingly. Please do not read it if either of these facts are likely to offend you. Votes, comments, suggestions and feedback are all most welcome. Thank you. * An icy, unfriendly silence descended in the arbitration room as both sets of lawyers and clients took their place. The counsellor took his place at the head of the table but even he could sense the disquieting atmosphere and was sure this would be one of his more unpleasant cases. He cast an appraising eye over both sides. The wife was a petit blonde girl called Alicia, apparently she had grown up in a well to do family down South and been a bit of a rebel. She was a good looking girl to be sure, but looked a bit timid and dim to him. She had fallen in love and married and had a kid with a bad sort, Cain Tull, a member of a notorious family of hillbillies. They had moved North to New York and Alicia had pursued her career dreams but it hadn't taken her long to realise what a loser, and a dangerous loser at that, she had married. Cain had always been dark and mysterious to Alicia, that is what had attracted her in the first instance, but when the mystery started clearing up all she found that he had been hiding was a violent, abusive,, using nature that was as unpleasant as it was scary. Cutting her losses she moved out, made up with her estranged family and hired the best lawyer they could get to make sure she got everything she wanted in the inevitable divorce. That lawyer was a slim, intelligent, articulate, dark caramel coloured lady called Halle Mason. She was thirty one, had an incredible figure that exuded the confidence of someone used to always being in the right. She had perfectly kept, short, dark hair and the firm, taut body of a teenager, through a merciless work out regime she endured every morning. She loved her work and loved nothing more than winning cases. She would certainly enjoy this one, as she sat at the wide, antique table she took a glance at her client and it took all her professional self control not to shake her head. What a stupid little girl. What had she been thinking getting involved with this loser? Halle felt no pity for her though but it was her job to make sure she got what she deserved from the break up, but the child, well that changed things for her, she was determined to get the best for her – and that certainly wasn't being with the father. She glanced across the table and this time wasn't able to suppress a little shudder. No wonder Alicia's father had first disowned her when she had taken up with him, then after realising the error of her ways, thrown his money at getting the best lawyer to straighten everything out. The husband, Cain, was not a pleasant looking character. Really, what the girl had seen in him no-one in the room could work out (including him). Maybe it was the bad boy syndrome or she wanted a little danger and excitement in her life, whatever, it had been a mistake. He sat aggressively at the table, leaning forward and literally snarling at Alicia and her lawyer. He was dark haired and swarthy and it didn't appear he had shaved that week. His cold, dark eyes burned across the table at Alicia and Halle, attempting to intimidate them by his mere presence and size. Because he was big, Halle guessed he was easily 6'5" and more than 250lbs and looked ill at ease in the cheap suit he was wearing. His lawyer was a fat, balding solicitor called Saul Chepstow, who Halle had faced before, he wasn't the brightest and she knew she could easily beat him but he knew enough tricks to get by. Even Chepstow appeared uncomfortable in his client's presence and he busied himself with papers rather than look at him. That didn't help much because Cain kept leaning into him and whispering angrily throughout the meeting. The meeting was a mess, a disaster. They couldn't agree on anything at all, everything Halle asked for her client was instantly dismissed by the solicitor on instruction from an increasingly agitated Cain, to the point that even his own solicitor was looking at him in exasperation. Cain's demands were equally unacceptable and by that point experience told Halle that given how he had been she couldn't afford to concede much at this stage. When they reached the matter of custody and Halle intimated that her client was seeking full custody things just got worse and there seemed a real threat that Cain would turn violent there and then and he had to be warned and restrained before the meeting was hastily brought to conclusion with him issuing a full gamut of threats and insults. Once he was out of the room Halle allowed herself to smile and turned to her client. "Don't you worry honey, I'll rip him to shreds in court, no doubt about it." * Whether she ripped him to shreds or not was up for debate but what was certain was that in court and before the judge, Halle got right under Cain's skin. And the more riled he became, the more professional the sexy layer acted. Verbally he was no match for her leading, piercing questions and it was only a matter of time before he lost his temper, and when it blew it really went and once it did everybody in the court room knew what the result of the case would be. Full custody for Alicia and no visitation for the father as he couldn't be trusted to keep his temper. Now that may have been the end result whatever happened but Cain, and his hick family in the audience were sure that Halle was directly responsible for the result and their hatred for Alicia was neatly transferred to the lawyer..... EIGHT MONTHS LATER Halle Mason turned her sporty BMW gently into the drive of her spacious house in the green belt in the suburbs to the West of the city. She pushed a button that automatically lifted her garage door and slipped the car inside before lowering it again. She sat for a moment in the pleasant, cool semi-darkness of the garage and rested her eyes. It was Eight o'clock and she had had another long, hard day at work. She sighed contentedly as she thought of the progress her various ongoing cases had made. Damn she was good at her job. She opened the car door and got out, retrieving her briefcase and bag from her boot she kicked off her tight shoes at the door into the house and entered to it's cool interior. Her house matched her, it was sleek, clean and immaculate. There was hardly any sign that it was lived in, it was like an ideal homes show house and that was just the way she liked it. She went to her bedroom and hung her smart, expensive trouser suit in her expansive wardrobe and stripped her underwear off and deposited it in the Aladdin's basket in her utility room beside the bathroom. It was very slinky black lace underwear, the kind she loved wearing to work but on week nights like this where she wasn't going out again she sure did like slipping into something a little less sexy but a whole lot more comfortable. It had been an uncomfortably warm Summers day and she needed a shower and as she stretched and yawned she debated in her head whether to have a refreshing cold one or a long, luxurious, warm one. "Warm I think" she chuckled to herself as she gathered a fluffy white towel from the cupboard and set the shower off running. As it found it's correct temperature Halle examined her face in the large, round mirror before it temporarily steamed up. She brushed and poked at imagined blemishes but really she was as smooth skinned and pretty as when she had started school all those years ago. No wrinkles or stress lines yet, that was for sure. Just goes to show what not having a man in your life did for you! Yes, she worked hard but she was damned good at her job and got great satisfaction from winning the vast majority of her cases. She put her hand under the water and flung the towel over the top over her shower stall and grabbing a body wash, stepped inside. That case with Cain Tull was long since forgotten and it was other more recent ongoing ones she considered as she began to lather her breasts. Over the noise of the water she never heard the door to her cellar creak open and footsteps shuffle out......... There were two of them. They listened intently to the shower hammering down upon the naked lawyer and smiled at each other, the first giving the thumbs up and indicating that they enter the steaming up bathroom. The thick plastic that surrounded Halle's shower was mostly translucent and they could make out through the steaming up surface that she was busy shampooing her hair so the one in the lead reached up and pulled away the towel that hung over the top of the shower unit, letting it drop to the tiled floor with a soft thump. She paused and wiped at her soapy eyes, seeing that the towel had fallen, thinking it must have fallen of it's own accord and cursed as she opened the door and reached down to pick it up again. They were swift. First one sprung in front of her and grabbed her arms in his hands and held her as the other came up behind her, reached his arm around her head and pressed a thick, yellow cloth onto her mouth and nostrils. She barely knew what had happened, her eyes as wide as saucers at this ambush, she didn't even register the pungent smell of ammonia as the cloth was held over her face and quickly her whole body went limp in the strong men's gripping arms. * She woke once during the journey, she was totally disorientated and surprised, thinking for a moment that she was having a very bizarre dream and giving a little moan as she moved her throbbing head. That was enough, a figure appeared over her and once again a cloth was held into her face. In the seconds before she faded out again she was just able to realised that she was in a vehicle that was travelling at quite some speed. * She woke up with her head throbbing, she screwed her eyes up and even doing that hurt, she was vaguely aware of noises around her but she couldn't focus on them yet. She lifted her eye lids but it hurt too much and she was dazzled by bright sunlight and quickly closed them again and involuntarily shuffled backwards from her position on her knees. She was on hands and knees and right then glad to be so, she hung her head down and tried to gather her mind together, where was she? She gently strained her memory banks to try and remember but she only got as far as driving home last night. Then a strange, unnatural snuffling and grunting came from yards to her left and she jumped and moved from it only to be halted by the violent barking of a dog (or dogs?) nearby to her right. What was going on? She faced away from where she thought the sun to be and gradually opened her eyes, all the time looking down. She saw her usually perfectly manicured nails and fingers palm down on a brown, dusty ground, the sun beating down on it from and angled to her left. The snuffling came again and she turned her head slowly to face it, partly relieved to see a large pig in a shaky looking wooden sty poking it's snout between the bars of it's fence. It was a horrible looking brute of a thing and Halle recoiled slightly at it's beady, porcine eyes boring into her. A pig? Where the hell was she? But as she moved away from the sty the dogs started barking again behind her and she turned (ignoring the diminishing pain in her head as she did so) to see three angry looking black and white collies barking, either at her or the pig. She shuffled back until her back came against the stone wall of the open building she was in and only then did she realise that she was completely naked. She felt suddenly at her body, as if her hands might prove her eyes wrong, but there was no mistake, she was a naked as the day she was born, her mounting fear and terror suddenly reaching to new levels as she felt the sweat run in rivulets over her marvellous breasts. She was a confident, intelligent, professional woman, used to thinking on her feet and reacting well to situations but that seemed to count for nothing as she panicked. She tried to push herself to her feet and escape this place but couldn't even make it fully upright as a metal collar around her neck dug into her and went tight. Ignoring her nakedness she felt desperately at the collar, it was a thick, rusting metal one and the heavy chain attached to it was connected by a solid feeling padlock that barely budged under her hands. The chain, in turn was linked into a large stone in the wall of the building that no amount of tugging from the slight lawyer could even budge. She fought hard to keep the tears from flooding her eyes but failed and allowed herself to pull her legs tight against her body and wrap her arms protectively around them and cry. What was going on? That helplessness passed after some minutes, she scolded herself and psyched herself up to mentally deal with this, to find out where she was and why she was here and to get out and back to her house and life as quickly as possible. She might not have her business suit on but as she wiped her eyes and steeled herself she was back to being the hard-nosed professional that she was. She took a few moments to consider things. It seemed apparent that she had been kidnapped and taken here (wherever this was- though looking round and listening it appeared to be a farm somewhere in the country). Her state of undress concerned her but her memory was slowly returning and she could remember being in the shower before everything went blank, that would explain why she had no clothes and she clung to this explanation as anything else pointed to a much worse fate. So who had taken her and why? She racked her mind, it had to be work related and she thought back over her recent and open cases but none seemed to fit – had she stumbled on something that meant she had to be removed? At least the fact she was still alive suggested they didn't want her dead, her captors could have done that already if they wanted to. Methodically she began to take in her surroundings better, testing the limits that she could reach on the chain, craning her head all ways to see if she could glimpse anything that would give her a clue as to where she was or that could be used by her, after all her arms and feet were unrestrained. She even tried calling out but that was fruitless and in the baking sun she soon gave up on that as a pointless exercise. She saw no-one at all as the day slowly passed and the only other signs of life were her animal neighbours, neither in good moods it appeared. Halle sighed and lay down in a patch of shade the high metallic roof now afforded her and fell into an uneasy sleep. She came awake suddenly, a metallic noise ringing in her ears. She was alert immediately and before her sat a large bowl filled with water, she heard footsteps receding but whoever it was had passed from view by the time she had turned around and her calls were met with no response. Dark seemed to come upon her quickly and again she drifted into a disturbed sleep that seemed to have no exit this time. When she did emerge from her stupor her head felt inordinately heavy. Really, she struggled to keep it up and her eyelids felt like lead. When she finally did manage to properly open them she felt like she had just the worst hangover headache imaginable, she struggled to remember who she was or where she was and just stared up from a big wooden chair at a scarlet light shining down on her. She looked slowly at herself, she was still stark naked, her bounteous black breasts topped by rock hard nipples. Fractionally, parts of memories came back to her until she finally recollected who she was. Her first reaction was to get up and run but although her mind sent the signal her limbs didn't respond. She tried again, straining every inch of energy in her mind but still nothing. What the hell was going on now? It was like she had no control of her body. Slowly she realised that there was nothing else to do but pay attention to her surroundings, the darkness and the red light, the thick whisps of smoke and the heady aroma that seemed to pervade the room. She had the sense that she was underground but no actual evidence to suggest it, just a feeling. Then with a resounding clang a lock was opened up and to her right and she heard footsteps approach her. She strained her voice to try and call out but no matter how hard she tried her lips didn't move. She could only stare in wonder and fear at the family that descended into the gloom. Leading the way was Pa, a wizened old man, short and walking with a definite limp, he had a long beard and leered at Halle. Following close behind was his bulky wife, known only as Ma she was an intimidating Southern woman with a temper as mean as her looks. Behind her, nearly stumbling down the steps in his haste, their oldest son Zeb, a giant of a man with a child's mentality. And last, but not least the sneering, snarling form of Cain Tull. Halle's mind filled with dread at the sight of him. He pulled a wire to bring on a couple more red lights and came closer. "Looks like your potion did the trick again Ma, the bitch can't move worth a fuck!" "Yeah, I reckon the cut will do nicely, don't you Pa?" "Yar, looks like a good nigger!" "Well let's see how good the control works shall we Ma? Tell her to get over here and suck my cock." "I wouldn't normally approve of you letting something that colour touch you son but seeing as that bitch stole my grand child from me, I reckon I will, you heard the man nigger, get down on your black knees and suck Cain's cock good now." To her horror and amazement Halle found her body moving at last and doing exactly what the horrible old crone was demanding. This was simply the most bizarre experience that Halle had ever encountered. If she had not been about to perform oral sex on a man she despised and knew to be nothing more than a thug and a bully she might have marvelled at the sensation. Try as she might her mind could not, seemingly, control the actions of her body. It was the equivalent of her mind being kept prisoner inside the rest of her body. This included her voice apparently because as she crawled neared to Cain the old woman's harsh voice rang out again. "Tell him how much you want to please him. Go on, tell my boy you want his cock!" The words spilled from her mouth as if perfectly normal. She did not want to say them but felt strangely compelled to do so and could only cringe mentally as she knelt before him and practically begged to suck his cock. "Please let me blow you. Let me please you." What a nasty smirk that brought to Cain's swarthy face and he curled his upper lip at Halle as he cockily undid his belt. "There it is nigger, some nice white meat for you, be sure and treat it right an' proper now." With the old crones instructions still controlling her body Halle set about her task with apparent relish. Her soft, full lips cushioning his thick, hard, slippery cock head as it shoved into her mouth. It was revolting and inwardly Halle was desperately trying to stop herself but it was to no avail as her mouth and hand treated the bastard to a terrific suck. Bizarrely, the rest of the family looked on keenly, Zeb obviously more than aroused from the lengthy ridge jutting out the front of his jeans. But mother and father watched with interest too and added their own stupid, racist commentary at times. But Halle's mouth and tongue just kept on working their magic on Cain's length. It was like being in this state made her even better at blow jobs (not that she liked giving them anyway), she had no inhibitions nothing she was wary of, her whole body's purpose that of pleasing this man's dick no matter what her mind tried to say. Her thick lips and her slippery pink tongue worked in tandem with her jerking right hand to feed Cain's hard dick into her mouth and treat it with the respect he demanded and the man himself was not slow in thrusting his hips to force it deeper into her waiting mouth and throat.