Andrew:
It getting him out of there was borderline impossible. It wasn't that the rest of the crowd wasn't more than willing to help me now that he wasn't being entertaining anymore, it was that drunk, passed-out people become limp dead weight upon the first attempt to move them. Eventually, I grabbed his hands and someone else grabbed his feet, and we hauled him out like a sack.
Then, once I was outside, I dialed 911. His pupils were going funny, and his heart rate was weird. I was getting a little worried myself, now. When the paramedics arrived, the looks on their faces proved to me that I'd chosen the right course. "Excuse me, sir, what relation are you to him?" one paramedic asked me, as the others got him loaded and stabilized and a bunch of other worrying actions.
"Uh, boss, friend of his sister, and search-and rescue operative," I said. I might have been a little in shock at the whole flashing lights bit, because that is not what I would have said under normal circumstances. "I mean, I'm the one who found him."
"He's in pretty bad condition, and we can't find his wallet," she told me. "Do you have contact information for any relatives?"
"I do, actually," I said, pulling my wallet and Morgan's business card from within. "Thank you, sir. What relation is she?"
"Um, cousin, I believe. She was worried about him, so she'd probably waiting by the phone right now." I stopped. "Crap, I haven't told her yet. She's got to be freaking out."
The rest of the conversation passed in a bit of a blur, because I was paying way more attention to feeling guilty about Morgan likely being off at the office, freaking out. I was a champion guilt-feeler, and this was perfect circumstances for it.
As soon as I could get away, I did, and called her. "Andrew?" she asked. She was definitely sounding worried now.
"Yeah, it's me," I said. "I found Nathan."
"Oh, thank god," she said. Then, "Wait, is he okay? Found does not mean okay. Tell me he's okay."
"Well," I said, hesitating, "He's not dead."
Morgan started cursing, vehemently, strongly, and at length. "... Shit," she finished, loudly enough that I had to pull the phone away from my ear. Then, more calmly, she said, "How bad is it?"
"The paramedics say he's probably going to be fine," I said, "But he's going to need to have his stomach pumped, probably, and he's going to be hungover for the next week or three."
Silence. Then, almost inaudibly, "What hospital?"
"Midtown," I said. There was a click on the other end of the line. I looked at my phone. Then I said, "Screw it," and started walking towards Midtown.
Tammany:
After about two hours, when Andrew had yet to text me about what a pain Nathan was - his favorite subject, and apparently his only conversation starter with me - I started getting a little paranoid. What if Nathan had actually ended up in trouble? God, I was going to feel no end of guilty for making fun of him if he'd been off lying in a ditch somewhere. So I texted him /where r u?/
He didn't respond. In my admittedly so far meager experience, he would text back at all times, unless he was dead, unconscious, or watching Doctor Who. He would have gone to work if he'd found Nathan. I text him again. Nothing.
I tried to just ignore it, write it off as nothing. Everyone lost their phones occasionally. This was just his turn. But as time passed, I was less and less able to focus.
I looked at Cale, who'd managed to get himself upright long enough to end up draped over the counter. He'd stopped moaning in favor of mumbling incoherently whenever I spoke to him. "You've got the front for a bit," I said. "I'm going to go make a phone call."
He mumbled at me. I caught 'hate,' 'evil,' and 'sleep,' but the rest was too slurred to make out.
"You do that," I said, and went in the back to call Grace.
"Mmmlo?" she answered. She sounded half asleep.
"Are you awake right now?" I asked. "And do you know where your brother is, by chance?" Then I realized exactly how creepy I was being, calling my employee on her off day to find out where her brother (who was uninterested in me, apparently) was, simply because I was paranoid because he wasn't answering his phone. I made the face of the overly attached girlfriend at myself in the shiny surface of the freezer.
"Yeah, he's at the hospital," she said. My heart fell about to my feet. "Apparently he's keeping an eye on that Nathan guy. He partied hard last night. Like, really hard."
"Thanks," I said, not sure whether to feel bad or relieved, and compromising on bad that I was relieved. "Just wanted to make sure he hadn't wandered off to the sketchy part of town and gotten himself shanked."
"No, he's all good," she said. There was a murmur in the background. "Oh, just Tammy, from last night," Grace said, muffled like her hand was over the receiver. "I'll be done in a minute, babe."
My eyebrows went up. Unexpected connection, her and what's-his-name, the disliked duo's friend. “Alright, see you tomorrow,” I said, and hung up, giving them their privacy. I walked back out front, to find Cale standing perfectly vertical and dealing with some customers in a completely mature manner. He gave me a honeyed glance before handing the man a ham sandwich and ringing him up.
Once the man was out the door, I said, “I’m glad to know that in times of adversity, you can still function.”
“Bury yourself in in a hole and die,” he said, before easing himself down onto the couch and covering his eyes again.
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Days 9 through 12 (sorry!)
Okay, in my own defense, my computer has been spazzing out for a while. Getting it to work long enough to get this posted was an epic battle.
Tammany (continued):
There was an uncomfortable silence until we got back with everyone's drinks, at which point Cale started talking with Grace as if nothing had happened. I found myself getting well and truly pissed with this Morgan person. Whatever she'd done that made Cale this edgy and uncomfortable so long after it happened must have been awful. I slipped over to her once we'd distributed beverages. She smiled at me, the awkward smile that says, 'you're in the same group of concert-goers as I am, but I honestly wouldn't know you from Eve, so I'm just going to smile and hope you go away.' And she made it seem elegant. Bitch.
I smiled back to her, and said, sweetly as I could, "I don't know what you did to Cale, but if I ever find out, and if you ever do it again, or hurt him in any way, I will murder you and turn you into sandwich fillings. Okay?"
She stared at me, the irritatingly sunny expression gone from her face, replaced by a frown. But before she could respond, I said, "No," and walked back around to join Andrew and Cale. I felt better.
The band was due to come on at any minute. They were an as-yet unsigned group, hence why Andrew had brought Nathan along. I'd seen them once or twice, and they were good, but only in parts. The kayboardist and drummer were merely mediocre, but the lead singer and guitarist, Rhiannon Shay, was possibly my favorite of all the musicians to frequent the Oyster. She could sing down the moon, if so she wanted. She was absolutely amazing. I intended to point her out to Andrew at the first available moment. Of course, it turned out that I didn't have to, because as the band filtered onto the stage, he leaned over to me and asked, "Who's that chick?" I told him. "I like her," he said, decisively. "She's the only one who seems to have a clue what she's doing."
And she was - she was helping with the last minute adjustments with the other two, as well as getting her guitar ready. Then she turned to the audience, and we all fell under her spell. Her stage presence was magical. Twenty songs later, she released us all by announcing the set break, and I turned to look at Andrew. He was still staring at the stage. Grace, who was on his other side, leaned around him and stage-whispered to me, "He's in a music coma. We should probably shake him."
"No, I'm good," he said, shaking himself awake. Then he mentally disappeared again for a moment, before returning to announce, "I need her." He grabbed Nathan and marched off.
"Does he have a plan to get backstage without getting in absolutely huge amounts of trouble?' I asked his sister.
"Oh, he usually manages," she said, with a wave of her hand. "I've only known him to get thrown out of a place once, and that was because we were in Portland over the summer and he chose the wrong room to march into. It was the employee break room, not the backstage area."
"That must have been embarrassing," Cale said, (sort of) interacting with me for the first time in an hour.
"Well, he still signed the person he wanted to sign, so it wasn't a complete loss," Grace said, smiling at him. Then she turned away and started talking with Jim, who'd been her companion all night.
That's when Cale grabbed my hand and pulled me out of the crowd, the performance hall, and even the building. "God, Cale, wait, do we have our ticket stubs?" I asked, leaning back against his tug.
"Yeah, yeah, I got them," he said, continuing forward. "Look, you're the one who wanted to find out what happened with Morgan, alright?"
I followed without complaint.
When we were out on the street, leaning against the cool brick wall in the smoky night air, I looked at him expectantly. He took a deep breath, and said, "You remember your senior year of college, when I was a new graduate trying to figure out how to not become an accountant when my degree was in business and math?"
"Yeah," I said, nodding. "Bright idea, that major, by the way."
He rolled his eyes. "Anyway, you remember how intense I was about music back then. Way more than I am now. I was doing auditions, sending out tapes, all that crap, just trying to get a response, seeing if I could make it that way rather than doing the books for places and working fast food."
"You complained all the freaking time," I said, shaking my head at the memory. "No sympathy for my senior project."
"Hey, real life is hard," he said, turning his face up towards the streetlight overhead. "You didn't get that yet. But the thing was, with all those tapes going out and stuff, I was getting responses. People were interested. Even our very own local Music Inc. asked me to come in a do a demo."
I stared at him accusingly. "You never told me that!"
"I didn't want to get both our hopes up," he said, apologetically. "If I got turned down, you'd have gone mama bear and torn someone a new one and I'd have been embarrassed. But I did the audition - and I met Morgan. She was just a secretary there, with a brand spanking new degree in the exact same stuff I had a degree in, unsatisfied with her job, looking for something or someone to keep her mind off the fact that she was basically a data entry clerk and coffee-getter. I ended up becoming that someone."
"Was this when I was on that trip to Chile for a quarter?" I asked. "Because if you'd gotten yourself a girl that looked like that, and I was around, I would never have heard the end of it. Ever."
Tammany (continued):
There was an uncomfortable silence until we got back with everyone's drinks, at which point Cale started talking with Grace as if nothing had happened. I found myself getting well and truly pissed with this Morgan person. Whatever she'd done that made Cale this edgy and uncomfortable so long after it happened must have been awful. I slipped over to her once we'd distributed beverages. She smiled at me, the awkward smile that says, 'you're in the same group of concert-goers as I am, but I honestly wouldn't know you from Eve, so I'm just going to smile and hope you go away.' And she made it seem elegant. Bitch.
I smiled back to her, and said, sweetly as I could, "I don't know what you did to Cale, but if I ever find out, and if you ever do it again, or hurt him in any way, I will murder you and turn you into sandwich fillings. Okay?"
She stared at me, the irritatingly sunny expression gone from her face, replaced by a frown. But before she could respond, I said, "No," and walked back around to join Andrew and Cale. I felt better.
The band was due to come on at any minute. They were an as-yet unsigned group, hence why Andrew had brought Nathan along. I'd seen them once or twice, and they were good, but only in parts. The kayboardist and drummer were merely mediocre, but the lead singer and guitarist, Rhiannon Shay, was possibly my favorite of all the musicians to frequent the Oyster. She could sing down the moon, if so she wanted. She was absolutely amazing. I intended to point her out to Andrew at the first available moment. Of course, it turned out that I didn't have to, because as the band filtered onto the stage, he leaned over to me and asked, "Who's that chick?" I told him. "I like her," he said, decisively. "She's the only one who seems to have a clue what she's doing."
And she was - she was helping with the last minute adjustments with the other two, as well as getting her guitar ready. Then she turned to the audience, and we all fell under her spell. Her stage presence was magical. Twenty songs later, she released us all by announcing the set break, and I turned to look at Andrew. He was still staring at the stage. Grace, who was on his other side, leaned around him and stage-whispered to me, "He's in a music coma. We should probably shake him."
"No, I'm good," he said, shaking himself awake. Then he mentally disappeared again for a moment, before returning to announce, "I need her." He grabbed Nathan and marched off.
"Does he have a plan to get backstage without getting in absolutely huge amounts of trouble?' I asked his sister.
"Oh, he usually manages," she said, with a wave of her hand. "I've only known him to get thrown out of a place once, and that was because we were in Portland over the summer and he chose the wrong room to march into. It was the employee break room, not the backstage area."
"That must have been embarrassing," Cale said, (sort of) interacting with me for the first time in an hour.
"Well, he still signed the person he wanted to sign, so it wasn't a complete loss," Grace said, smiling at him. Then she turned away and started talking with Jim, who'd been her companion all night.
That's when Cale grabbed my hand and pulled me out of the crowd, the performance hall, and even the building. "God, Cale, wait, do we have our ticket stubs?" I asked, leaning back against his tug.
"Yeah, yeah, I got them," he said, continuing forward. "Look, you're the one who wanted to find out what happened with Morgan, alright?"
I followed without complaint.
When we were out on the street, leaning against the cool brick wall in the smoky night air, I looked at him expectantly. He took a deep breath, and said, "You remember your senior year of college, when I was a new graduate trying to figure out how to not become an accountant when my degree was in business and math?"
"Yeah," I said, nodding. "Bright idea, that major, by the way."
He rolled his eyes. "Anyway, you remember how intense I was about music back then. Way more than I am now. I was doing auditions, sending out tapes, all that crap, just trying to get a response, seeing if I could make it that way rather than doing the books for places and working fast food."
"You complained all the freaking time," I said, shaking my head at the memory. "No sympathy for my senior project."
"Hey, real life is hard," he said, turning his face up towards the streetlight overhead. "You didn't get that yet. But the thing was, with all those tapes going out and stuff, I was getting responses. People were interested. Even our very own local Music Inc. asked me to come in a do a demo."
I stared at him accusingly. "You never told me that!"
"I didn't want to get both our hopes up," he said, apologetically. "If I got turned down, you'd have gone mama bear and torn someone a new one and I'd have been embarrassed. But I did the audition - and I met Morgan. She was just a secretary there, with a brand spanking new degree in the exact same stuff I had a degree in, unsatisfied with her job, looking for something or someone to keep her mind off the fact that she was basically a data entry clerk and coffee-getter. I ended up becoming that someone."
"Was this when I was on that trip to Chile for a quarter?" I asked. "Because if you'd gotten yourself a girl that looked like that, and I was around, I would never have heard the end of it. Ever."
Friday, November 9, 2012
Day Eight
(Sorry this is being posted late!)
Tammany:
That week was pretty calm. Grace really did fit in as well as it seemed she would that first chaotic weekend. We had yet to discover any dirty little secrets about her; she didn't seem to be a secret druggy (like Amanda had been), she had yet to simply fail to show up one day (like Richard), she hadn't been caught trying to carry out a cash register (like Pauly), and she liked The Princess Bride (unlike Rachel), which meant, as far as I was concerned, that she was a keeper. She wasn't even ruffled by Cale's tendency to jump out from behind random objects and try to scare her. In fact, she usually calmly pointed out some part of him that hadn't been completely hidden. He found this off-putting, and I found it funny beyond belief. Watching a girl half his size calmly informing him that he wasn't scary, and watching Cale wilt, was highly cathartic, even if I wasn't in any particular need of catharsis at that moment.
Grace had become a part of our little group amazingly quickly, and she was dragging Andrew with her. I didn't particularly mind that, of course. He didn't seem to think that I was anything special, though, never really singling me out. I retained a vague sense of hope, however, because from what I'd gathered from (subty, carefully, and above also, unnoticeably) pumping Grace for information, he didn't have anyone else he was interested in, aside from perhaps his mixing equipment. I was confident that his equipment wouldn't mind sharing him with a non-metallic interest. I hoped.
That Friday, Cale had scored tickets to a concert down at the Oyster, so we were all heading down there. I was less than thrilled that Andrew's apprentice would be making an appearance. From what I'd heard, he was the devil incarnate crossed with a sullen teenager. This was likely exaggerated, but still. Not cool crashing our night.
We all met at my cafe before the concert because it was close, convenient, and because it was way easier than anything else would have been. I was the first one there - unsurprising, because my apartment was above. All I had to do was get dressed in the vintage skirt I'd just bought and come downstairs. It was the best arrangement ever. Mornings were so nice without a commute of more than a flight of steps. I sprawled in one of the comfortable chairs in the little conversation alcove, grabbed my Stephenson book (only fifty pages left!) and awaited the rest.
Cale arrived next, to my complete and utter shock. He showed up in what almost could have been his stage outfit, with eyeliner and everything. "Hot date?" I asked. "Should I be worried about some woman stealing you affections from me?"
He scowled. "You're funny. No, I just wanted to look presentable for a change."
"For an emo-goth concert?" I asked.
"Yes, of course," he said, rolling his eyes.
"Pull up a chair," I said. "I don't think the others are going to be here anytime soon."
Of course, because the universe loves to prove me wrong, the bell on the door immediately jingled, and three people walked in, looking awkward and out-of-place. There were two men, one of whom was taller and looked like that one hipster dude everyone knows, who has a mustache tattooed on his finger - full on ratty plaid shirt and thick-framed glasses. The other was shorter and looked sort of like a confused punk with parents trying to neaten him up. The woman, who was almost six feet tall without heels on, was movie-star-striking - long brown hair, pale skin, gorgeous. She was dressed like a designer had taken the idea of 'vintage chic' and pushed it to its logical, classy extreme. I wanted to be her, just for a moment.
But then I pulled myself together. "Can I help you?" I asked, standing up. "I'm sorry, but the cafe is closed right now-"
"I'm Farthing's apprentice," said the punk. "My friends were coming to the concert anyway, so they just came with me here."
"Oh," I said, off-balance. "That's - fine, I guess. Sit down?"
I glanced at Cale to see what he made of these people, only to find that he'd locked eyes with the woman and was apparently staring her down. The two guys sat down at one of the tables, and slowly, not taking her eyes off Cale, the woman followed. It was truly difficult not waving a hand in front of Cale's eyes to see if it would affect him.
Fortunately for my dignity, he pulled his eyes off her and said, with forced calm to me, "So how was your day?"
"Pretty good," I said, normally, "No issues with the shop." Then I leaned in and mouthed, /Who is she?/
He ignored it, and continued making completely stupid small talk with me, while a heated whisper conversation went on at the table. I can honestly say I have never been more in agony from my sense of curiosity than for the ten minutes or so that passed before Grace and Andrew showed up.
When they came in the door, I jumped up to meet them, and said, "Your apprentice is here. He brought friends."
Andrew, who was looking every bit the casual indie gentleman, looked over at their group, and said, "Oh, hey Morgan. I didn't know you were coming."
Cue jealousy.
"I just wanted to see what the scouting scene was like," she said, smiling up at him angelically. I hated her a little. "Do you mind?"
"Of course not," he said, smiling back. Then, to Grace, Cale and me, he said, "Guys, this is Morgan, my search-and-rescue team from my job. I'd be a body lost amidst the cavernous basements of the office complex if it weren't for her."
"Oh, Scary Lady?" Grace asked, a twinkle of mischief in her eye. Morgan raised one elegantly shaped eyebrow. Andrew looked embarrassed. I felt marginally better.
"Maybe," he said, unconvincingly dodging the question. "And this is Nathan," he said, indicating the failed punk. "My apprentice extraordinaire." The punk acknowledged us with a short nod of his head. "And I'm not entirely sure who you are," Andrew said, looking at the hipster. "Sorry."
"This is Jim," Morgan said, "A friend of Nathan's and mine. He's very into the indie music scene."
"Hey," Jim said, smiling around. He was the one person of the three that I thought I might eventually like. The other two were amazing targets for jealousy and simple dislike. I felt bad about that, but that made it no less true.
"If we're all here, should we head out?" Andrew said, bless his unobservant heart. We all concurred.
The walk to the Oyster displayed us and our groupings remarkably well. Cale was in the front, as far from Morgan as he could get while not looking like he was avoiding her. Then there were me and Grace, walking along and talking about nothing in particular. Andrew wavered between walking next to us and trailing back to talk to Morgan, who was just in front of Jim and Nathan, who trailed as far back as they could.
Upon reaching the Oyster, we all sort of piled in on each other at the door while Andrew tried to sort out everyone's tickets. I was in the unenviable position of lone buffer between Cale and Morgan. They were both ignoring each other so thoroughly that I was a little shocked I hadn't frozen solid in the icy atmosphere. Every so often, one of them would glance at the other, sneer or wrinkle their nose, and then look fiercely in another direction. I was beginning to suspect one of them had killed the other's favorite childhood pet or something. What was weird was that I had absolutely no clue what was going on, and I knew just about everything about Cale. If something was bugging him this much, I was pretty sure I'd know about it.
Eventually, we were all allowed entry, and I momentarily forgot about the drama, instead basking in the amazing atmosphere of the Oyster. The place was perfect. An ancient warehouse had been renovated into a performance space and bar, while leaving as much of the original wood and stonework in place as possible, and shoring everything up with salvaged iron girders from a bridge that had been demolished. The light were old gaslamp fixtures that had been retrofitted to hold candle LEDS and sodium lights. The place looked like someone had said, "You know the Industrial Revolution? Let's turn that into a concert venue." Even the smell - Guinness, steel, and wood polish - felt right. I loved it. Watching the faces of the newbies to the place, I knew that at least Andrew got it, and perhaps Jim.
I didn't even bother stopping to grab a table, because table were for wimps and people who hated music. Instead, I used my best elbow-fu skills and managed to jostle all seven of us towards the front, right in the area where we would be super-close to the stage and yet not deafened. Then, I shouted, "I'm getting drinks - any orders?"
Pandemonium. Alright, so I probably should have asked one at a time, and not loud enough that the surrounding people could hear. But still.
Five minutes later, I had five orders and Cale's arm, and we went to go fight the crowd at the bar. I, of course, started quizzing him immediately. "What's with you and Andrew's sort-of-boss?" I said, trying not to sound like an eager gossip monger and failing miserably.
"Nothing," he said, not meeting my eyes. "Absolutely nothing."
"Lies and damned lies," I said. "Truth now."
"We met a couple years ago," he said. "Nothing big. We just didn't get off on the right foot."
"Okay, one, the only people you don't like are idiots and the arrogant. Two, 'getting off on the wrong foot' doesn't translate to 'looking directly at her burns my eyes'. What. Happened?" I rounded on him, doing my best to stare him down when I was looking a good foot upwards.
"Not now, okay?" Cale said, looking around. "Just, not now." He actually sounded upset. Cale was /never/ upset. I dropped it.
Tammany:
That week was pretty calm. Grace really did fit in as well as it seemed she would that first chaotic weekend. We had yet to discover any dirty little secrets about her; she didn't seem to be a secret druggy (like Amanda had been), she had yet to simply fail to show up one day (like Richard), she hadn't been caught trying to carry out a cash register (like Pauly), and she liked The Princess Bride (unlike Rachel), which meant, as far as I was concerned, that she was a keeper. She wasn't even ruffled by Cale's tendency to jump out from behind random objects and try to scare her. In fact, she usually calmly pointed out some part of him that hadn't been completely hidden. He found this off-putting, and I found it funny beyond belief. Watching a girl half his size calmly informing him that he wasn't scary, and watching Cale wilt, was highly cathartic, even if I wasn't in any particular need of catharsis at that moment.
Grace had become a part of our little group amazingly quickly, and she was dragging Andrew with her. I didn't particularly mind that, of course. He didn't seem to think that I was anything special, though, never really singling me out. I retained a vague sense of hope, however, because from what I'd gathered from (subty, carefully, and above also, unnoticeably) pumping Grace for information, he didn't have anyone else he was interested in, aside from perhaps his mixing equipment. I was confident that his equipment wouldn't mind sharing him with a non-metallic interest. I hoped.
That Friday, Cale had scored tickets to a concert down at the Oyster, so we were all heading down there. I was less than thrilled that Andrew's apprentice would be making an appearance. From what I'd heard, he was the devil incarnate crossed with a sullen teenager. This was likely exaggerated, but still. Not cool crashing our night.
We all met at my cafe before the concert because it was close, convenient, and because it was way easier than anything else would have been. I was the first one there - unsurprising, because my apartment was above. All I had to do was get dressed in the vintage skirt I'd just bought and come downstairs. It was the best arrangement ever. Mornings were so nice without a commute of more than a flight of steps. I sprawled in one of the comfortable chairs in the little conversation alcove, grabbed my Stephenson book (only fifty pages left!) and awaited the rest.
Cale arrived next, to my complete and utter shock. He showed up in what almost could have been his stage outfit, with eyeliner and everything. "Hot date?" I asked. "Should I be worried about some woman stealing you affections from me?"
He scowled. "You're funny. No, I just wanted to look presentable for a change."
"For an emo-goth concert?" I asked.
"Yes, of course," he said, rolling his eyes.
"Pull up a chair," I said. "I don't think the others are going to be here anytime soon."
Of course, because the universe loves to prove me wrong, the bell on the door immediately jingled, and three people walked in, looking awkward and out-of-place. There were two men, one of whom was taller and looked like that one hipster dude everyone knows, who has a mustache tattooed on his finger - full on ratty plaid shirt and thick-framed glasses. The other was shorter and looked sort of like a confused punk with parents trying to neaten him up. The woman, who was almost six feet tall without heels on, was movie-star-striking - long brown hair, pale skin, gorgeous. She was dressed like a designer had taken the idea of 'vintage chic' and pushed it to its logical, classy extreme. I wanted to be her, just for a moment.
But then I pulled myself together. "Can I help you?" I asked, standing up. "I'm sorry, but the cafe is closed right now-"
"I'm Farthing's apprentice," said the punk. "My friends were coming to the concert anyway, so they just came with me here."
"Oh," I said, off-balance. "That's - fine, I guess. Sit down?"
I glanced at Cale to see what he made of these people, only to find that he'd locked eyes with the woman and was apparently staring her down. The two guys sat down at one of the tables, and slowly, not taking her eyes off Cale, the woman followed. It was truly difficult not waving a hand in front of Cale's eyes to see if it would affect him.
Fortunately for my dignity, he pulled his eyes off her and said, with forced calm to me, "So how was your day?"
"Pretty good," I said, normally, "No issues with the shop." Then I leaned in and mouthed, /Who is she?/
He ignored it, and continued making completely stupid small talk with me, while a heated whisper conversation went on at the table. I can honestly say I have never been more in agony from my sense of curiosity than for the ten minutes or so that passed before Grace and Andrew showed up.
When they came in the door, I jumped up to meet them, and said, "Your apprentice is here. He brought friends."
Andrew, who was looking every bit the casual indie gentleman, looked over at their group, and said, "Oh, hey Morgan. I didn't know you were coming."
Cue jealousy.
"I just wanted to see what the scouting scene was like," she said, smiling up at him angelically. I hated her a little. "Do you mind?"
"Of course not," he said, smiling back. Then, to Grace, Cale and me, he said, "Guys, this is Morgan, my search-and-rescue team from my job. I'd be a body lost amidst the cavernous basements of the office complex if it weren't for her."
"Oh, Scary Lady?" Grace asked, a twinkle of mischief in her eye. Morgan raised one elegantly shaped eyebrow. Andrew looked embarrassed. I felt marginally better.
"Maybe," he said, unconvincingly dodging the question. "And this is Nathan," he said, indicating the failed punk. "My apprentice extraordinaire." The punk acknowledged us with a short nod of his head. "And I'm not entirely sure who you are," Andrew said, looking at the hipster. "Sorry."
"This is Jim," Morgan said, "A friend of Nathan's and mine. He's very into the indie music scene."
"Hey," Jim said, smiling around. He was the one person of the three that I thought I might eventually like. The other two were amazing targets for jealousy and simple dislike. I felt bad about that, but that made it no less true.
"If we're all here, should we head out?" Andrew said, bless his unobservant heart. We all concurred.
The walk to the Oyster displayed us and our groupings remarkably well. Cale was in the front, as far from Morgan as he could get while not looking like he was avoiding her. Then there were me and Grace, walking along and talking about nothing in particular. Andrew wavered between walking next to us and trailing back to talk to Morgan, who was just in front of Jim and Nathan, who trailed as far back as they could.
Upon reaching the Oyster, we all sort of piled in on each other at the door while Andrew tried to sort out everyone's tickets. I was in the unenviable position of lone buffer between Cale and Morgan. They were both ignoring each other so thoroughly that I was a little shocked I hadn't frozen solid in the icy atmosphere. Every so often, one of them would glance at the other, sneer or wrinkle their nose, and then look fiercely in another direction. I was beginning to suspect one of them had killed the other's favorite childhood pet or something. What was weird was that I had absolutely no clue what was going on, and I knew just about everything about Cale. If something was bugging him this much, I was pretty sure I'd know about it.
Eventually, we were all allowed entry, and I momentarily forgot about the drama, instead basking in the amazing atmosphere of the Oyster. The place was perfect. An ancient warehouse had been renovated into a performance space and bar, while leaving as much of the original wood and stonework in place as possible, and shoring everything up with salvaged iron girders from a bridge that had been demolished. The light were old gaslamp fixtures that had been retrofitted to hold candle LEDS and sodium lights. The place looked like someone had said, "You know the Industrial Revolution? Let's turn that into a concert venue." Even the smell - Guinness, steel, and wood polish - felt right. I loved it. Watching the faces of the newbies to the place, I knew that at least Andrew got it, and perhaps Jim.
I didn't even bother stopping to grab a table, because table were for wimps and people who hated music. Instead, I used my best elbow-fu skills and managed to jostle all seven of us towards the front, right in the area where we would be super-close to the stage and yet not deafened. Then, I shouted, "I'm getting drinks - any orders?"
Pandemonium. Alright, so I probably should have asked one at a time, and not loud enough that the surrounding people could hear. But still.
Five minutes later, I had five orders and Cale's arm, and we went to go fight the crowd at the bar. I, of course, started quizzing him immediately. "What's with you and Andrew's sort-of-boss?" I said, trying not to sound like an eager gossip monger and failing miserably.
"Nothing," he said, not meeting my eyes. "Absolutely nothing."
"Lies and damned lies," I said. "Truth now."
"We met a couple years ago," he said. "Nothing big. We just didn't get off on the right foot."
"Okay, one, the only people you don't like are idiots and the arrogant. Two, 'getting off on the wrong foot' doesn't translate to 'looking directly at her burns my eyes'. What. Happened?" I rounded on him, doing my best to stare him down when I was looking a good foot upwards.
"Not now, okay?" Cale said, looking around. "Just, not now." He actually sounded upset. Cale was /never/ upset. I dropped it.
Thursday, November 8, 2012
Day Seven
Nathan (Cont.)
The company had always been his baby, and I was not going to let him down. And if he said that he thought this little charade would be good for me and the company, then I'd do it. I'd curse Morgan down to the icy depths of her soul for bringing him into this, but I'd do it.
Come Monday, I was sitting in my office, wearing clothes way more casual than I was used to wearing in a business setting. It felt strange to be sitting behind my desk while not only tie-less, but also in jeans and an old band t-shirt from my college days. I was shifting in my seat, playing with the suddenly fascinating balls-on-string desk toy when Morgan came in. She gave a wolf-whistle when she saw me. "Ready for your brand-new learning experience?" she asked. "Ready to go?"
"I hate you and wish worms upon your ovaries," I said, darkly, watching the balls click back and forth.
"Aren't you cheery?" she said. I could hear sunshine dripping from her voice. "Come on, Andrew is waiting for you."
"You're on a first-name basis with him now?" I asked, reluctantly rising from my desk. "That's a little informal for a CFO, don't you think?"
"Says the man wearing a Sex Pistols shirt," Morgan said, waggling her eyebrows.
"Shut up," I said. "It was a punk phase. I grew out of it. Let's just go, okay?"
She just laughed at me and took me downstairs.
I'd never really been below the main floor before, except for some publicity photos early last year. It was a little odd, a foray into a strange world I'd often heard about but seldom seen. It got darker, less spacious, and a little bit creepy. The soundproofing covering the walls made everything seemed muffled, and the occasional bass thumps that escaped from the recording studios felt like the steps of giants. Morgan seemed perfectly at home, which honestly didn't surprise me. For someone whose actual job was more or less accountant for the company, she spent a lot of the time wandering around the premises. She said it was to gauge the actual need of the company. I was pretty sure that she simply wanted to hear the interpersonal scandals, so as to maintain a working knowledge of all juicy gossip in the building.
Despite the creepiness, it was still an unfortunately short walk to the new premises of Farthing Records. Morgan, with no regard for my own sensibilities, simply walked in, giving me no time to compose myself or find a way to get out of this. "Andrew, did you need a sherpa today?" she asked.
"I successfully got down here all by myself," called a guy's voice from the depths of the studio. "I barely needed to look at my map. I called it a win."
"Come out here and say hello to your new student," she said, pulling me inside the room after her. "The Oz act is not that impressive without the light show." Then, to me, she hissed, "If you give away the game, I'll tell Uncle on you."
"You're so mature," I whispered back.
"Coming!" came Farthing's voice again.
"How do you know him this well?" I asked, still sotto voice. "You met him all of once, as far as I know."
"We've been emailing back and forth since Thursday," she told me, normally, as Farthing emerged from the back. "I've been telling him your current qualifications and apologizing for dumping you on him when he's still figuring out the ropes."
"Oh, it's all good," Farthing said, annoyingly cheerful. "With what you told me on the autonomy aspect, I'm pretty sure I've got everything down now. And having someone to help out with the simpler stuff will be nice."
"Of course. This is Nathan," she said, tugging me up towards her. "He really is almost completely new to everything, and you are doing me an amazing favor teaching him."
"It's fine," he said, smiling at her. The smile faltered slightly when he looked at me and extended a hand. "Nathan, I know we'll work well together."
"Of course," I lied, shaking hands. "It will be very instructive, I'm sure."
"I'll just leave you two boys to it," Morgan said, smiling sunshine, puppies and lollipops at Farthing, and adding just a touch of arsenic for me. "Have fun."
I restrained myself from muttering sarcastic comments under my breath, but only just. Instead, I turned to Farthing and said, "So what are going to do?"
"Well, I'm assuming that that you are really a rank beginner," he said with a smile pasted on his face. "So we'll begin at the beginning. How much do you know about music theory?"
"I took some music classes in high school, and played clarinet," I said.
"But what about actual music theory?" he pressed. "Do you know what a mode is?" I gave him a blank look. "Circle of fifths?" he asked. Nothing. "Could you point to middle C on a piano?"
More nothing.
It was a couple hours.
At lunch, I escaped, and furiously phoned Morgan from a nearby McDonald's. "This is not. Going. To work."
"You seem stressed," she said, calmly. "Is there a problem?"
"The man dumped an entire textbook's worth of theory on me in a two hour period," I said, whispering despite the fact that Farthing was in his basement, eating lunch there and being unnervingly intense about strange harmonies. "He is insane. He cannot expect me to learn all this-"
"So you can't do it?" she said, cutting off my rant just when my flow was beginning to truly get going.
"What?" I asked, derailed.
"Can you not do what he's asking of you?" she asked. "Because if you can't, I'm more than willing to be the go-between and tell him you felt it was too difficult."
"Of course I can do it," I said, affronted. "I just think he's pushing -"
"Either you can do it, or you can't," she said, pleasantly. "If you can't, I think that we should just finish this now and let you get back to mergers."
"Wait a second," I said, "Why do think I want to leave?"
"Well, you're calling and complaining to me, so I assume you want out," she said.
"That's an assumption," I said, irritated. "Maybe I want to stay."
"That's wonderful," she said, brightly. "I'll see you at the end of the day. Your lunch period is nearly over, you might want to get back." And she hung up.
I looked at the phone, feeling momentarily victorious. Then I realized that she'd just completely snowed me. I thought about calling her back, but decided it honestly wasn't worth it. The challenge present in her words bugged me no end. I wanted to prove here wrong, even though I knew that was exactly what she wanted me to want. There were reasons why I disliked the woman sometimes.
The rest of the day, I acted as polite and paid as much attention as I could. It was an uphill struggle, but I don't think I offended him any worse than I already had.
Morgan shanghaied me on the way back to my car. "You're going on a scouting mission on Friday," she told me. "Just so you know."
"Can I get out of it in any way?" I asked, tiredly.
"No."
"Fine."
Andrew:
My first real day of work went relatively well, for the first hour or so. I didn't get lost, I didn't get in trouble, and the equipment loved me in the way only sound equipment can love its operator. I played a couple sound checks, and for the moment, all thoughts of Tammy and associated emotional issues were put on hold, in favor of my one and only true love. We were soul mates, destined from the beginning to find each other, this sound board. It was fate.
Our happiness together was interrupted, right on schedule, by Morgan the Scary Lady and my new apprentice. I met him for the first time and almost immediately wished I hadn't. He was wearing a Sex Pistols shirt and a sullen expression, and looked a little older than I was. There was nothing about him that gave me hope for a good working relationship. When I began asking him what he knew, I wanted to cry, a little. He didn't know anything. I hadn't thought he'd be a virtuoso, after Morgan's warning emails, but I'd thought that he would at least know the basics about music theory and I could build from there. Unfortunately, when I took him to a keyboard, when I asked him where middle C was, he hit E. There was nothing there off which for me to build.
I decided to start with the basics, and gave him a crash course in theory that morning. He was looking a little overloaded and was beginning to get unnecessarily sarcastic around noon, so I suggested he go and grab something to eat. I ate and texted Grace and worked with some of the tracks for Dresden's Dreams.
/You would not believe my apprentice,/ I sent.
/y not?/ she asked.
/He's a D and knows absolutely nothing/
/that sucks. its the bruise in your perfect apple of a job/
/He's annoying and wasting my time./
/i was thrown up on yesterday. dont talk about your bad job/
/You like your job./
/except that there r bratty kids whose parents scream at me and then the kid throws up on me/
/True/
Then Nathan came back and I embarked on the uphill journey of teaching him the basics of the computer side of things. It was easier than the music theory side that morning, for whatever reason. He was (slightly) less recalcitrant, and he actually had some idea how computers worked. I made a mental note to put him on the mixing side as often as could be excused. He did have a decent ear, although he took the song samples I gave him weird places. He emphasized guitar and drums over the keyboard in all cases, which sometimes didn't work and sometimes brought out some interesting rhythmic ideas between the drums and keys.
I felt better by the end of the day, or at least like this wasn't going to be a complete fiasco. Nathan went home with visible relief, something which I definitely understood. Then I got an email from Morgan, suggesting I show him what scouting was like. I sat looking at the screen for a couple minutes after I got that, mind racing, trying to think of how I could break it to her that her golden boy was absolutely not going to be able to scout well. If he acted with potential talent anything like the way he acted with me, we'd lose any chance we had with them.
Then another email came through which made me wonder, just for a second, whether Morgan was psychic, telling me that of course I should do the talking during any actual meetings. I gave up and replied that sure, that very Friday I was hitting a concert and of course he could come. Then I ran away home and crashed, hard, pausing only to tell Grace that we, unfortunately, had an extra person to get tickets for on Friday.
The company had always been his baby, and I was not going to let him down. And if he said that he thought this little charade would be good for me and the company, then I'd do it. I'd curse Morgan down to the icy depths of her soul for bringing him into this, but I'd do it.
Come Monday, I was sitting in my office, wearing clothes way more casual than I was used to wearing in a business setting. It felt strange to be sitting behind my desk while not only tie-less, but also in jeans and an old band t-shirt from my college days. I was shifting in my seat, playing with the suddenly fascinating balls-on-string desk toy when Morgan came in. She gave a wolf-whistle when she saw me. "Ready for your brand-new learning experience?" she asked. "Ready to go?"
"I hate you and wish worms upon your ovaries," I said, darkly, watching the balls click back and forth.
"Aren't you cheery?" she said. I could hear sunshine dripping from her voice. "Come on, Andrew is waiting for you."
"You're on a first-name basis with him now?" I asked, reluctantly rising from my desk. "That's a little informal for a CFO, don't you think?"
"Says the man wearing a Sex Pistols shirt," Morgan said, waggling her eyebrows.
"Shut up," I said. "It was a punk phase. I grew out of it. Let's just go, okay?"
She just laughed at me and took me downstairs.
I'd never really been below the main floor before, except for some publicity photos early last year. It was a little odd, a foray into a strange world I'd often heard about but seldom seen. It got darker, less spacious, and a little bit creepy. The soundproofing covering the walls made everything seemed muffled, and the occasional bass thumps that escaped from the recording studios felt like the steps of giants. Morgan seemed perfectly at home, which honestly didn't surprise me. For someone whose actual job was more or less accountant for the company, she spent a lot of the time wandering around the premises. She said it was to gauge the actual need of the company. I was pretty sure that she simply wanted to hear the interpersonal scandals, so as to maintain a working knowledge of all juicy gossip in the building.
Despite the creepiness, it was still an unfortunately short walk to the new premises of Farthing Records. Morgan, with no regard for my own sensibilities, simply walked in, giving me no time to compose myself or find a way to get out of this. "Andrew, did you need a sherpa today?" she asked.
"I successfully got down here all by myself," called a guy's voice from the depths of the studio. "I barely needed to look at my map. I called it a win."
"Come out here and say hello to your new student," she said, pulling me inside the room after her. "The Oz act is not that impressive without the light show." Then, to me, she hissed, "If you give away the game, I'll tell Uncle on you."
"You're so mature," I whispered back.
"Coming!" came Farthing's voice again.
"How do you know him this well?" I asked, still sotto voice. "You met him all of once, as far as I know."
"We've been emailing back and forth since Thursday," she told me, normally, as Farthing emerged from the back. "I've been telling him your current qualifications and apologizing for dumping you on him when he's still figuring out the ropes."
"Oh, it's all good," Farthing said, annoyingly cheerful. "With what you told me on the autonomy aspect, I'm pretty sure I've got everything down now. And having someone to help out with the simpler stuff will be nice."
"Of course. This is Nathan," she said, tugging me up towards her. "He really is almost completely new to everything, and you are doing me an amazing favor teaching him."
"It's fine," he said, smiling at her. The smile faltered slightly when he looked at me and extended a hand. "Nathan, I know we'll work well together."
"Of course," I lied, shaking hands. "It will be very instructive, I'm sure."
"I'll just leave you two boys to it," Morgan said, smiling sunshine, puppies and lollipops at Farthing, and adding just a touch of arsenic for me. "Have fun."
I restrained myself from muttering sarcastic comments under my breath, but only just. Instead, I turned to Farthing and said, "So what are going to do?"
"Well, I'm assuming that that you are really a rank beginner," he said with a smile pasted on his face. "So we'll begin at the beginning. How much do you know about music theory?"
"I took some music classes in high school, and played clarinet," I said.
"But what about actual music theory?" he pressed. "Do you know what a mode is?" I gave him a blank look. "Circle of fifths?" he asked. Nothing. "Could you point to middle C on a piano?"
More nothing.
It was a couple hours.
At lunch, I escaped, and furiously phoned Morgan from a nearby McDonald's. "This is not. Going. To work."
"You seem stressed," she said, calmly. "Is there a problem?"
"The man dumped an entire textbook's worth of theory on me in a two hour period," I said, whispering despite the fact that Farthing was in his basement, eating lunch there and being unnervingly intense about strange harmonies. "He is insane. He cannot expect me to learn all this-"
"So you can't do it?" she said, cutting off my rant just when my flow was beginning to truly get going.
"What?" I asked, derailed.
"Can you not do what he's asking of you?" she asked. "Because if you can't, I'm more than willing to be the go-between and tell him you felt it was too difficult."
"Of course I can do it," I said, affronted. "I just think he's pushing -"
"Either you can do it, or you can't," she said, pleasantly. "If you can't, I think that we should just finish this now and let you get back to mergers."
"Wait a second," I said, "Why do think I want to leave?"
"Well, you're calling and complaining to me, so I assume you want out," she said.
"That's an assumption," I said, irritated. "Maybe I want to stay."
"That's wonderful," she said, brightly. "I'll see you at the end of the day. Your lunch period is nearly over, you might want to get back." And she hung up.
I looked at the phone, feeling momentarily victorious. Then I realized that she'd just completely snowed me. I thought about calling her back, but decided it honestly wasn't worth it. The challenge present in her words bugged me no end. I wanted to prove here wrong, even though I knew that was exactly what she wanted me to want. There were reasons why I disliked the woman sometimes.
The rest of the day, I acted as polite and paid as much attention as I could. It was an uphill struggle, but I don't think I offended him any worse than I already had.
Morgan shanghaied me on the way back to my car. "You're going on a scouting mission on Friday," she told me. "Just so you know."
"Can I get out of it in any way?" I asked, tiredly.
"No."
"Fine."
Andrew:
My first real day of work went relatively well, for the first hour or so. I didn't get lost, I didn't get in trouble, and the equipment loved me in the way only sound equipment can love its operator. I played a couple sound checks, and for the moment, all thoughts of Tammy and associated emotional issues were put on hold, in favor of my one and only true love. We were soul mates, destined from the beginning to find each other, this sound board. It was fate.
Our happiness together was interrupted, right on schedule, by Morgan the Scary Lady and my new apprentice. I met him for the first time and almost immediately wished I hadn't. He was wearing a Sex Pistols shirt and a sullen expression, and looked a little older than I was. There was nothing about him that gave me hope for a good working relationship. When I began asking him what he knew, I wanted to cry, a little. He didn't know anything. I hadn't thought he'd be a virtuoso, after Morgan's warning emails, but I'd thought that he would at least know the basics about music theory and I could build from there. Unfortunately, when I took him to a keyboard, when I asked him where middle C was, he hit E. There was nothing there off which for me to build.
I decided to start with the basics, and gave him a crash course in theory that morning. He was looking a little overloaded and was beginning to get unnecessarily sarcastic around noon, so I suggested he go and grab something to eat. I ate and texted Grace and worked with some of the tracks for Dresden's Dreams.
/You would not believe my apprentice,/ I sent.
/y not?/ she asked.
/He's a D and knows absolutely nothing/
/that sucks. its the bruise in your perfect apple of a job/
/He's annoying and wasting my time./
/i was thrown up on yesterday. dont talk about your bad job/
/You like your job./
/except that there r bratty kids whose parents scream at me and then the kid throws up on me/
/True/
Then Nathan came back and I embarked on the uphill journey of teaching him the basics of the computer side of things. It was easier than the music theory side that morning, for whatever reason. He was (slightly) less recalcitrant, and he actually had some idea how computers worked. I made a mental note to put him on the mixing side as often as could be excused. He did have a decent ear, although he took the song samples I gave him weird places. He emphasized guitar and drums over the keyboard in all cases, which sometimes didn't work and sometimes brought out some interesting rhythmic ideas between the drums and keys.
I felt better by the end of the day, or at least like this wasn't going to be a complete fiasco. Nathan went home with visible relief, something which I definitely understood. Then I got an email from Morgan, suggesting I show him what scouting was like. I sat looking at the screen for a couple minutes after I got that, mind racing, trying to think of how I could break it to her that her golden boy was absolutely not going to be able to scout well. If he acted with potential talent anything like the way he acted with me, we'd lose any chance we had with them.
Then another email came through which made me wonder, just for a second, whether Morgan was psychic, telling me that of course I should do the talking during any actual meetings. I gave up and replied that sure, that very Friday I was hitting a concert and of course he could come. Then I ran away home and crashed, hard, pausing only to tell Grace that we, unfortunately, had an extra person to get tickets for on Friday.
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Day Six
Andrew (continued)
I don't know what I said when we got to the table - I couldn't hear myself, so they probably couldn't either. We had a conversation consisting of (what I assume to be) pithy comments on the volume in the room, vigorous nodding of heads, the occasional cocking of heads, and the regular loud shout of, "What?!" It was extremely productive.
Finally, though, the lights dimmed even further, and a truly deafening announcer told us to put our hands together for C. Smith. We did so with enthusiasm. It was still quieter than the room had been previously. And then Cale walked onto the stage. I'm pretty sure my jaw hit the table. Here was the answer to all my needs, sitting at an elderly keyboard with a mic stand zip-tied to it. "Hey, everyone," he said. The crowd roared.
The next hour was amazing. His voice - I've heard better, sure. But I've also seen better cars than a Ferrari. It just so happened that those cars were either time machines or sentient. His voice was freaking amazing. The woman at the table next to me swooned a little every time he drew breath, and even as a completely heterosexual male, I thought that completely understandable. But his piano skills made me angry. It was completely irresponsible of someone with piano skills like that to not be famous. Honestly. Some people.
His covers were amazing, his original songs pretty good. Even where lyrics were weak or where his voice wasn't quite right for the song in question, the piano made it all alright. I wanted him to play my songs.
I said as much to Grace, when his set finally ended. She started laughing. "What?" I asked, affronted.
"You said that the way some women say that they want to have someone's children," she said, giggling. "You are such a music nerd, I love it."
"That's my job," I said, with dignity. "Music nerdism is an important trait in someone who makes music for a living."
"Just go and pop the musical question to him," she said, pushing me towards the stage. "But remember, emeralds look good on redheads."
"I'll get him an emerald-studded keyboard," I called back, before I was drawn away by the currents in the crowd. So I fought my way up to the stage area, and then to the stage door. There was an alarming group of hipster girls, who were doing their best to pretend that they were only there to ironically make fun of the girls looking to hook up with the musician. I squeezed around the edge of the group, and told the official-appearing man who stood by the door, “I’d like to speak with Mr. Smith.”
“So would they,” he said, hooking a thumb towards the ugly-sweater-wearing crowd behind me. “Is there any reason I should take you more seriously than them?”
“Tammy told me to go talk to Cale,” I said, a shot in the dark.
A good one, apparently, because his eyebrows rose, and he said, “Oh, that’s fine then. Tell Tammy hi from Josh,” and opened the door. I hurried through, before the hipsters sensed the disturbance in the force and mobbed the poor man.
The backstage area was a long, echo-y hallway that seemed reminiscent of every backstage I’d ever had to stand around in during one of my groups’ concerts. There was a door from which all the noise of the performance area emanated, and another, beat-up door across from it that had a rough ‘Dressing Room’ placard on it. I went towards that one and knocked on it.
“Is someone dying or are you interesting?” came Cale’s voice. “Because otherwise go away.”
“Am I interesting?” I asked. “Because otherwise I’m stuck here, because my sister is a scary lady.”
“Oh, sh-“ I heard, and then the door opened. Somehow, Cale seemed taller. It might have been the hair, gelled almost upright. Or maybe it was the eyeliner. “Do I have to yell at Tammy?” he asked. “I told her not to bug you about hooking me up with anything.”
“I can’t say she’s completely innocent, because she invited my sister, who brought me,” I said. “But as far as I know, there was no plot."
"That's good," he said, leaning on the door frame. He seemed a little awkward, not entirely sure what to do with his hands. "Um. So why are you back here?"
"Oh. Because despite the lack of plot, I want you to play my music?" I said.
He blinked. "Seriously?" he asked.
"Yeah, seriously," I said. "I've got some piano ballads that could use you. And all my pieces include keyboard. And I've got some male solos that would fit you, too."
Cale shifted in the door, withdrawing back into the room a little. "Give me some time to think about it, alright?" he said. "I like what I've got going on right now. I'll need to think before I commit."
"That's fine," I said, mentally crying, /no, it's not! I want your skills/. "Just get back to me whenever. There's plenty of samples of my stuff on my website, so if you want to check it out it's all there."
"Sounds good," he said, his hand finding the door handle. "If you'd excuse me, I want to change out into street clothes, and get rid of all of this," with a vague motion towards his face.
"Sure, of course," I said, backing away. "You do that."
The door closed, and I walked away feeling a little like I'd just been blown off. The walk back to where I'd left Grace was a little harrowing, because there was this dense miasma of Pabst Blue Ribbon in the air, mixed amongst the many, many sweaty hipsters. I began to remember why I'd hung backstage at Thomas's concerts, instead of watching in the 'electrifying' atmosphere. In certain areas, the word electrifying only means that if a power line falls into the area, everyone is going to die a smelly death.
Grace and Tammy were sitting together at the table, engaged in the kind of girl talk that requires the participants to be leaning together closely enough that the tops of their heads touch and furtive glances to be shot off in the direction of any and all watchers approximately once per nanosecond. I felt irrationally guilty interrupting them.
That feeling lasted about the time between their furtive glances, however, because the first thing Tammy said was, "So did Cale agree to join your band thing?" Then it disappeared like water on a hot stove - quickly, replacing itself with steam.
"No," I said,abruptly. Both girls looked affronted. "He said he needed to think about it. And he assumed there was a plot to get me back there, and didn't appreciate it. I don't like people plotting stuff, okay?"
Grace had the decency to look a trifle guilty. She was well aware of my low tolerance level for what I called 'plots' and others called, variously, 'drama,' 'schemes,' and 'shit going down.' I had issues with it all through high school, and still did. People shouldn't screw with other people behind their backs. They just shouldn't.
"Sorry," she said, shooting Tammy an indecipherable look. "And really, the only plot that was going on was seeing whether or not you liked his stuff. We wanted it to be a surprise."
"Well, I'll admit that I was surprised," I said, sitting down beside them. "He's really good. Like, really, really good."
"When he comes out, we should go out to dinner," Tammy said. "He's always hungry after these things."
"Sure," I said. "But I won't be talking about music. Alright?"
"Deal," Grace said, quickly. She knew when not to push me, and finding out I'd been screwed with was one of those times.
"Cool," I said, and let it go.
Nathan:
The weekend was not relaxed. I spent it working on details for a couple acquisitions and the rights for a major corporation's commercials, trying to figure out how to suggest that a song about certain stronger-than-PG-13 practices might not be the best way to advertise laundry soap without losing the deal. It was not fun. Plus I had the whole 'faux apprenticeship' deal hanging over my head. I spent what little downtime I had thinking of ways to get out of it. I kept running up against the same issue, though: my father had said it was a good idea.
Now, if there had been any other force behind this - if it was just Morgan, or if it was just some publicity stunt - then I would have just said no, and to hell with the consequences. But my father was another matter entirely. He was still, in all but legality, the head of the company. That he trusted me enough to let me deal with the nitty-gritty aspects of running the company while he went into medically-forced retirement meant the world to me.
I don't know what I said when we got to the table - I couldn't hear myself, so they probably couldn't either. We had a conversation consisting of (what I assume to be) pithy comments on the volume in the room, vigorous nodding of heads, the occasional cocking of heads, and the regular loud shout of, "What?!" It was extremely productive.
Finally, though, the lights dimmed even further, and a truly deafening announcer told us to put our hands together for C. Smith. We did so with enthusiasm. It was still quieter than the room had been previously. And then Cale walked onto the stage. I'm pretty sure my jaw hit the table. Here was the answer to all my needs, sitting at an elderly keyboard with a mic stand zip-tied to it. "Hey, everyone," he said. The crowd roared.
The next hour was amazing. His voice - I've heard better, sure. But I've also seen better cars than a Ferrari. It just so happened that those cars were either time machines or sentient. His voice was freaking amazing. The woman at the table next to me swooned a little every time he drew breath, and even as a completely heterosexual male, I thought that completely understandable. But his piano skills made me angry. It was completely irresponsible of someone with piano skills like that to not be famous. Honestly. Some people.
His covers were amazing, his original songs pretty good. Even where lyrics were weak or where his voice wasn't quite right for the song in question, the piano made it all alright. I wanted him to play my songs.
I said as much to Grace, when his set finally ended. She started laughing. "What?" I asked, affronted.
"You said that the way some women say that they want to have someone's children," she said, giggling. "You are such a music nerd, I love it."
"That's my job," I said, with dignity. "Music nerdism is an important trait in someone who makes music for a living."
"Just go and pop the musical question to him," she said, pushing me towards the stage. "But remember, emeralds look good on redheads."
"I'll get him an emerald-studded keyboard," I called back, before I was drawn away by the currents in the crowd. So I fought my way up to the stage area, and then to the stage door. There was an alarming group of hipster girls, who were doing their best to pretend that they were only there to ironically make fun of the girls looking to hook up with the musician. I squeezed around the edge of the group, and told the official-appearing man who stood by the door, “I’d like to speak with Mr. Smith.”
“So would they,” he said, hooking a thumb towards the ugly-sweater-wearing crowd behind me. “Is there any reason I should take you more seriously than them?”
“Tammy told me to go talk to Cale,” I said, a shot in the dark.
A good one, apparently, because his eyebrows rose, and he said, “Oh, that’s fine then. Tell Tammy hi from Josh,” and opened the door. I hurried through, before the hipsters sensed the disturbance in the force and mobbed the poor man.
The backstage area was a long, echo-y hallway that seemed reminiscent of every backstage I’d ever had to stand around in during one of my groups’ concerts. There was a door from which all the noise of the performance area emanated, and another, beat-up door across from it that had a rough ‘Dressing Room’ placard on it. I went towards that one and knocked on it.
“Is someone dying or are you interesting?” came Cale’s voice. “Because otherwise go away.”
“Am I interesting?” I asked. “Because otherwise I’m stuck here, because my sister is a scary lady.”
“Oh, sh-“ I heard, and then the door opened. Somehow, Cale seemed taller. It might have been the hair, gelled almost upright. Or maybe it was the eyeliner. “Do I have to yell at Tammy?” he asked. “I told her not to bug you about hooking me up with anything.”
“I can’t say she’s completely innocent, because she invited my sister, who brought me,” I said. “But as far as I know, there was no plot."
"That's good," he said, leaning on the door frame. He seemed a little awkward, not entirely sure what to do with his hands. "Um. So why are you back here?"
"Oh. Because despite the lack of plot, I want you to play my music?" I said.
He blinked. "Seriously?" he asked.
"Yeah, seriously," I said. "I've got some piano ballads that could use you. And all my pieces include keyboard. And I've got some male solos that would fit you, too."
Cale shifted in the door, withdrawing back into the room a little. "Give me some time to think about it, alright?" he said. "I like what I've got going on right now. I'll need to think before I commit."
"That's fine," I said, mentally crying, /no, it's not! I want your skills/. "Just get back to me whenever. There's plenty of samples of my stuff on my website, so if you want to check it out it's all there."
"Sounds good," he said, his hand finding the door handle. "If you'd excuse me, I want to change out into street clothes, and get rid of all of this," with a vague motion towards his face.
"Sure, of course," I said, backing away. "You do that."
The door closed, and I walked away feeling a little like I'd just been blown off. The walk back to where I'd left Grace was a little harrowing, because there was this dense miasma of Pabst Blue Ribbon in the air, mixed amongst the many, many sweaty hipsters. I began to remember why I'd hung backstage at Thomas's concerts, instead of watching in the 'electrifying' atmosphere. In certain areas, the word electrifying only means that if a power line falls into the area, everyone is going to die a smelly death.
Grace and Tammy were sitting together at the table, engaged in the kind of girl talk that requires the participants to be leaning together closely enough that the tops of their heads touch and furtive glances to be shot off in the direction of any and all watchers approximately once per nanosecond. I felt irrationally guilty interrupting them.
That feeling lasted about the time between their furtive glances, however, because the first thing Tammy said was, "So did Cale agree to join your band thing?" Then it disappeared like water on a hot stove - quickly, replacing itself with steam.
"No," I said,abruptly. Both girls looked affronted. "He said he needed to think about it. And he assumed there was a plot to get me back there, and didn't appreciate it. I don't like people plotting stuff, okay?"
Grace had the decency to look a trifle guilty. She was well aware of my low tolerance level for what I called 'plots' and others called, variously, 'drama,' 'schemes,' and 'shit going down.' I had issues with it all through high school, and still did. People shouldn't screw with other people behind their backs. They just shouldn't.
"Sorry," she said, shooting Tammy an indecipherable look. "And really, the only plot that was going on was seeing whether or not you liked his stuff. We wanted it to be a surprise."
"Well, I'll admit that I was surprised," I said, sitting down beside them. "He's really good. Like, really, really good."
"When he comes out, we should go out to dinner," Tammy said. "He's always hungry after these things."
"Sure," I said. "But I won't be talking about music. Alright?"
"Deal," Grace said, quickly. She knew when not to push me, and finding out I'd been screwed with was one of those times.
"Cool," I said, and let it go.
Nathan:
The weekend was not relaxed. I spent it working on details for a couple acquisitions and the rights for a major corporation's commercials, trying to figure out how to suggest that a song about certain stronger-than-PG-13 practices might not be the best way to advertise laundry soap without losing the deal. It was not fun. Plus I had the whole 'faux apprenticeship' deal hanging over my head. I spent what little downtime I had thinking of ways to get out of it. I kept running up against the same issue, though: my father had said it was a good idea.
Now, if there had been any other force behind this - if it was just Morgan, or if it was just some publicity stunt - then I would have just said no, and to hell with the consequences. But my father was another matter entirely. He was still, in all but legality, the head of the company. That he trusted me enough to let me deal with the nitty-gritty aspects of running the company while he went into medically-forced retirement meant the world to me.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
Day Two - Huzzah!
Tammany:
We were at the shop, not doing much of anything. It was the last day before Labor Day weekend, which meant that none of the regulars were here, and all the vacationers hadn't arrived yet. It was nice and quiet. It would be hell tomorrow, though, and every day after. Why Jane had had to quit now, just before the busiest time of the year, still annoyed me. I'd just put up the 'Help Wanted' sign in the window and was making myself food to calm down.
Cale, of course, was sprawled out on the couch I kept behind the counter, humming along with the radio, hands twitching as he played chords on an imaginary piano. His computer was sitting on the table beside him, the screen dimming every so often as it thought it was being ignored. He'd swipe a finger across the mouse pad to brighten it back up.
"You're going to kill the battery doing that," I told him. "And I thought you had to balance the books for that hardware store down the street. That's not balancing anything."
"I'm working on a project. Don't interrupt my creative flow," he said, with great dignity. The effect was ruined somewhat, because his head was hanging off the edge of the cushions and that mass of ginger hair was brushing the floor.
"No, that's the flow of blood to the head," I said. "You're getting yourself loopy."
"Exactly. Loopy is creative." I watched him slide down the couch a further two inches. His head was now dangerously close to the floor. "Looooopy."
I said, "You're going to smack your head."
"Am I?" he asked, and tilted his head to look at the floor, which cause it to smack into the floor. "Ow! Mother of god, ow. You did that on purpose, woman," he said, looking up at me. "Ow."
"It is completely your fault and I take responsibility for nothing," I said, primly, going back to my sandwich.
"Vile witch," he muttered, twisting and contorting himself until he vaguely resembled upright. "You shall pay for your sins." The door opened, the bells hanging from it jingling. He continued his rant, saying, "Suffer not a witch to live - I shall douse you in cheese and you shall wither -"
"You're scaring the normal lady," I told him, before smiling at our first vacationer of the year. "Sorry, he's a little special. What will you have?"
"A job?" she asked, looking around at the movie and music posters plastering the walls. "That would be awesome."
I blinked. "Wait, seriously?"
"Yeah, seriously. I just moved into the neighborhood." She looked at me, a hopeful smile on her face. "And I sort of really need a job."
I reached under the counter to the slim pile of forms that I'd printed out that morning. "Uh, just fill this out, I guess. You've never murdered someone with a bread knife or by poisoning their food, right?"
"Except for one man in Reno, just to watch him die," she said. Her face was completely straight.
"I like her," Cale said, successfully standing up. "You should definitely hire her."
The chick nodded earnestly. "You really should," she said.
I rolled my eyes. Then I heard the sound that becomes familiar to any owner of a restaurant - a grumbling stomach. The chick looked embarrassed. "Sorry, we were moving furniture all morning. I'm sort of starving."
"What kind of sandwich?" I asked.
She peered over the counter at my soon-to-be lunch. "Whatever that is, with cheese."
"One gazpacho and hummus, coming right up," I said.
Cale flopped dramatically back onto the couch. "I'm surrounded by people who refuse normal sandwiches. Hummus is not a sandwich filling."
"And neither is spray cheese," I told him. "Philistine."
"Gourmand."
As we argued, the chick filled out the papers at the counter. When I finished the sandwich and she handed me a five, she passed me the application as well. Her name was Grace Farthing, apparently. I glanced over the application, noted the lack of spelling mistakes and people murders in her past, and nodded. "Cool, you're hired," I said.
"Really? Awesome," she said. "When do I start?"
"Tomorrow?" I asked tentatively.
"Sounds good," she said, smiling. "I have absolutely no idea how to make a sandwich like this one, though," holding up the hummus-which, "so you'll have to teach me."
Cale said, "I can tell you definitively that no one knows how to make that sandwich except for her, because it is an abomination and should never have been conceived."
"Hummus-hater," I said.
"You say it like that's wrong, when egg salad spread is obviously better."
"It is wrong, duh. Hummus all the way," I said,
"I honestly prefer jam to anything else," Grace said.
Both of us turned on her, and I began to suspect she'd fit in perfectly well.
Nathan:
I was honestly considering whistling while I made my coffee. The day was going relatively well, I thought. No major crisis, I'd secured the music rights deal for the new movie, and none of our people had been accused of major scandals. A success in just about every sense. I hadn't even had to deal with Morgan yet.
Of course, new hires - especially expensive new hires - are almost always trouble sooner or later. Unfortunately, today it was to be sooner. The new soundboard operator, whose self-owned private studio we'd just bought out and whom we'd hired - for a very nice salary, might I add - for the new 'indie' label, was MIA, according to a terrified young intern, who probably didn't deserve to be the one sent to me.
"Why are you telling me this?" I asked, annoyed that my for once decent mood was being interrupted. "Tell H.R. Not the President of the Board."
"You did send out a memo saying that all developments about Farthing Records should be reported to you," the intern quavered. "And John in H.R. sent me to tell you."
I sighed. "Have you done anything to irritate him? Burn his coffee, maybe?"
"... Yes?" she said. It was a question, asking if that was the right answer.
"Here's a hint - don't do that again," I said. "John can be a little vindictive with interns. Just try to avoid him."
"Yessir. May I leave, sir?" she asked. I nodded and she fled.
Leaving the executive break room, I was even more annoyed. Expensive, brand-new employees should have the decency to be on time. Someone who couldn't even do that was perhaps not the best hire. I'd even had the head of H.R. interview him by phone personally - maybe there was more than just one person I needed to talk to.
My bad mood building further, I headed for James' office. He had some explaining to do. Or someone did - I wanted explanations.
I heard heels clicking up behind me. Morgan said, "And who are you about to unleash sturm und drang on, cousin dear?"
"James. The idiot. The man hired that new sound booth man, who didn't even bother to show up today. Honestly, do I have to do everything around here?"
"No, you don't - you're simply bored and trying to find a new windmill against which to tilt," she said, keeping up with my long strides with irritating ease. "You know it's not James' fault, too. You pushed through the hire, and being late for orientation isn't something that is dealt with during an interview. And on top of that, your newest opponent is not even a real windmill - Mr. Faring or Thaving or whatever his name is, was actually here on time. Early, even. He simply got himself magnificently, wonderfully lost trying to find his orientation guide. He's now being pointed north and you have nothing to worry about. Go enjoy that the company is running well and you have relatively little to do, for once.
I could feel myself deflating, my self-righteous anger disappearing in a long, slow, sad hiss. "Huh."
"Yeah."
"Maybe I am a little bored," I said, cautiously, slowing my steps and rerouting myself to head back to my office.
"Just a little."
"And perhaps that was just a touch out of proportion, just now."
"A bit." She was nodding her head understandingly. Witch.
"And you can stop nodding like you're perfect, because you've got a run in your hose, cousin mine," I said, a little vindictively. "Go make us another million dollars. Be sure to send me the papers once they're ready to be signed - I'm sure you'll have taken care of everything else."
And I walked - calmly, professionally, and not at all like I was perhaps sulking - back to my office to play with those little balls that click back and forth.
The company was running amazingly smoothly. Everything was profit, everything was money in the bank, everything was good publicity, or at the least not bad publicity. And I was getting just a touch bored. I'd been head of the company for three years now, and during those years I'd pulled it from the brink of disaster and made it thrive. And now I was bored out of my mind. Disaster made me think more quickly, made me react better, made me feel alive. Now all I had were silly little executive toys on my desk and one buy-out or new artist after another. It was great for the business, but my brain was going to melt out my ears soon, and not even Morgan would be able to stop me from going a little crazy then. It would not be good.
As I watched the balls swing back and forth, my intercom buzzed. I pressed talk, and my P.A.'s voice came across. "Mr. Harding, Morgan would like to speak with you."
"Oh, lord," I muttered, and then, pressing talk, I said, "Show her in, please."
Friday, November 2, 2012
NaNoWriMo (clap, clap, clapclapclap)
I'm off and running! This year, I'm going to post whatever I wrote the day before on my blog, which means both a) Content and b) Less guilt that I might be ignoring you. Win-win!
This first little section is a good introduction to Andrew, and lets you glimpse Grace and Morgan. Now I'm going to drink caffeine and type.
Andrew:
The apartment wasn't much, but at least all our stuff was in it now. Grace was sprawled out on the monster couch that had been an absolute bastard to move, her red-socked feet dangling over the arm the only part of her I could actually see. I had collapsed onto a beanbag chair that I was pretty sure we hadn't had that morning, and was seriously considering simply passing out from exhaustion. That taught /me/ to move to a town three states away where I knew no one. Grace and I had had to move everything by ourselves, all two thousand pounds of boxes. (Or that's what it felt like anyway.) I seriously hoped the job was worth it, because otherwise I was going to feel silly.
"Do we know any take-out restaurants around here?" Grace asked me, her head momentarily appearing over her feet.
"Not that I know of," I told her. "We literally just finished moving in, or did you forget the couch and the stairs that quickly?"
"That's a critical research failure, brother mine," she said, her head once more disappearing. "We need take-out. Or pizza. Take-out pizza."
""You mean delivery." I lolled in the beanbag. There is an art to lolling, and I had it mastered. "I'm definitely not going anywhere."
"You're so lazy," Grace told me, and hauled herself to her feet. I watched her stumble over to the counter and grab her phone. A moment of tapping later, she said, "Actually, I am going out. There's a cafe I saw earlier that I want to visit."
"Bring me something," I said plaintively. "I've got orientation at three, remember?"
"Fat chance," she said, and grabbed her shoes and left.
I sighed again, a heavy, mournful sigh. She respected me not at all. Then I fell asleep for an hour.
When I woke up, stomach rumbling, I had forty-five minutes to dress reasonably nice and get halfway across town to the main office. Never has such there been seen such a whirlwind of ties being tied and dress pants being donned. I finished tying my shoes while waiting for the 2:36 train. I was completely ignored while I did so, which was a wonderful change from Greensville. This new town bit was awesome. I was so busy pulling myself together that I didn't even remember to freak out for orientation until I was walking purposefully towards the building. Then I stopped, I froze, I had a momentary panic attack, and then I remembered to breath.
It was all good.
Walking into the building, I was once again overawed by the sheer professionalism of the entire place. Everything was red suede, polished steel, and concrete. The kind of place any sound geek dreams of having as a front office. It was sleek. It was cool. It was completely intimidating. I felt sloppy, even though I was wearing completely unstained clothes and a tie that actually coordinated with everything for once.
I knew I was going to the third floor, room 313. But standing in that lobby, I realized I had no idea how to do that. So going to the front desk, I asked the (attractive) woman at the desk, "Ah, excuse me? I'm here for orientation. What do I do now?"
"Walk down the hallway to your left, go all the way down, you'll see a bank of elevators," she said. "Take the elevator on the right and press button 3b - not 3a because the door will open on the wrong side. Then take the first two lefts and go into the Colombian conference room."
Quick interlude: I'm about to betray my gender and admit something embarrassing: I have no sense of direction. I can't find my way out of a paper bag without ripping it and probably hurting myself. I'm not good with directions. At all. Magellan had a better history of arriving intact at his destination than I do. That should make the next bit the tale more understandable.
I made it to the elevators correctly, I think. I know I hit the button for the third floor. I stood watching the door before me expectantly as I went up. When the elevator stopped, the wall behind me opened. This disoriented me, I think. I swear I took the first two rights, like she'd said. And then I was in the middle of a maze of twisty little passages, all alike. That's about when I realized I was screwed.
I did try. I tried to backtrack. I looked for elevators. I tried to use my basic animal sense of direction to find my way back. At one point, I even punched the Konami code into a random keypad, just to appease whatever fates hated me. It didn't work. I ended up on a different floor, in a dark hallway, where red lights blinked at me at waist level every ten feet or so. It was very unnerving. I kept going, though, because at a certain point you realize you're screwed and you've moved to a different state just to lose your job immediately and end up homeless on the streets eating rats for sustenance. That's about where I was. Honestly, though, by that point rats sounded good, because I still hadn't eaten anything.
Beginning to consider autocannibalism, and striking out blindly, I turned a corner and ran directly into someone who was about my height, wearing lots of pointy jewelry, and walking very quickly. It was painful. "Oh, I'm sorry," I said, backing up hastily. "I'm completely lost, I hope I didn't hurt you.
"Who are you?" the woman asked, brusquely. "And why and how are you here? It's a dark hallway, there is no possible way it could have been your destination."
"Did I mention that I'm very, very lost?" I asked. If I sounded pitiful at that point, it was of course completely intentional and served to get this unknown and irritated woman to help me get out and if at all possible back to Michigan. "I think I'm going to be eaten by a grue."
She shook her head (or so I assumed - it was hard to see in the dark). "You're a techie, aren't you?"
"Does soundboard operator count?"
"Of course."
"Then yes. Brand new and, I repeat, very very lost." I glanced around. "I'm honestly not completely sure I'm in the same building anymore."
"You aren't," she told me. "You're in the basement of the executive office building. I was just closing everything up for the holiday weekend. There are pass codes on the doors to get down here, so excuse me if I'm still a little skeptical of your techie claim."
I didn't mention the keypad. "You're more than welcome to call security on me," I told her. "My orientation was at three. It's way past that now, and I've probably lost my job and will have to live off of rats from now on. I'm just looking for a door out, now."
"Rats?" MY stomach chose that moment to growl.
Feeling and invisible blush spread across my face, I said, "I've sort of been lost for a while."
"It's obvious." She shifted, her jewelry clinking gently. "How about this. I take you to the correct office and tell all involved you simply managed to defy all possible laws of direction, and you promise not to leave your new office without a sherpa and a GPS. And there will be no rats."
"Deal," I said.
About three minutes later, we were standing outside the Colombian conference room, and the woman was speaking with authority at some dude who probably didn't deserve it. I was simply grateful that there was light now, so I didn't think too much about the fact that some random person's secretary was saving my ass. That is, until I went inside, and the poor unfortunate soul who'd been on the other end of her talk looked at me and asked, "How did you make the current VP of the board pity you in less than half an hour on the job?"
"Talent?"
"Getting pitied isn't the kind of talent you need, man," he told me, and proceeded to take me on tour.
The rest of the building - now that I was no longer seeing it through panic- and terror-glazed eyes - was just as impressive as the lobby. I did notice that as I was led closer to my actual place of work, we went further and further down, but I'd expected that. I was just a sound dude. Dark, relatively sound-proof places like basements are my friends. But when we got down there, I nearly died.
I knew I was incredibly lucky to get this job. Cobalt Records was the newest up-and-coming thing, and they were picky as hell with their hires. What I hadn't really gotten was some of the benefits being hired by a multimillion dollar company, like, say, absolutely amazing equipment. I'd seen tables like what was before me occasionally, in catalogs, on websites, and in the occasional dream. But now I had one to play with.
"As you were told when you were hired, you will be supervised by a senior recording manager for the first three months or until it is deemed you are fully capable, and only given control of a few songs from a lower-chain band," droned my guide, in full Corporate mode.
I interrupted his flow, as politely as I could. "Excuse me, you're sure this is the equipment I'm to use?"
"Of course," he told me. "This is the room allotted to you on the rooms list, and the equipment allocated to you on the equipment roster. It's yours."
I looked around again, and realized I could probably die happy, if hungry, at that moment.
I don't remember most of the rest of the tour. Visions of my mixing board and computers were dancing in my head, and I'd heard all the corporate stuff before. I wanted to make music, and after the (in my current opinion, absolutely pointless) holiday weekend, I could. It was going to be absolutely amazing. And there would be absolutely no rats involved.
This first little section is a good introduction to Andrew, and lets you glimpse Grace and Morgan. Now I'm going to drink caffeine and type.
Andrew:
The apartment wasn't much, but at least all our stuff was in it now. Grace was sprawled out on the monster couch that had been an absolute bastard to move, her red-socked feet dangling over the arm the only part of her I could actually see. I had collapsed onto a beanbag chair that I was pretty sure we hadn't had that morning, and was seriously considering simply passing out from exhaustion. That taught /me/ to move to a town three states away where I knew no one. Grace and I had had to move everything by ourselves, all two thousand pounds of boxes. (Or that's what it felt like anyway.) I seriously hoped the job was worth it, because otherwise I was going to feel silly.
"Do we know any take-out restaurants around here?" Grace asked me, her head momentarily appearing over her feet.
"Not that I know of," I told her. "We literally just finished moving in, or did you forget the couch and the stairs that quickly?"
"That's a critical research failure, brother mine," she said, her head once more disappearing. "We need take-out. Or pizza. Take-out pizza."
""You mean delivery." I lolled in the beanbag. There is an art to lolling, and I had it mastered. "I'm definitely not going anywhere."
"You're so lazy," Grace told me, and hauled herself to her feet. I watched her stumble over to the counter and grab her phone. A moment of tapping later, she said, "Actually, I am going out. There's a cafe I saw earlier that I want to visit."
"Bring me something," I said plaintively. "I've got orientation at three, remember?"
"Fat chance," she said, and grabbed her shoes and left.
I sighed again, a heavy, mournful sigh. She respected me not at all. Then I fell asleep for an hour.
When I woke up, stomach rumbling, I had forty-five minutes to dress reasonably nice and get halfway across town to the main office. Never has such there been seen such a whirlwind of ties being tied and dress pants being donned. I finished tying my shoes while waiting for the 2:36 train. I was completely ignored while I did so, which was a wonderful change from Greensville. This new town bit was awesome. I was so busy pulling myself together that I didn't even remember to freak out for orientation until I was walking purposefully towards the building. Then I stopped, I froze, I had a momentary panic attack, and then I remembered to breath.
It was all good.
Walking into the building, I was once again overawed by the sheer professionalism of the entire place. Everything was red suede, polished steel, and concrete. The kind of place any sound geek dreams of having as a front office. It was sleek. It was cool. It was completely intimidating. I felt sloppy, even though I was wearing completely unstained clothes and a tie that actually coordinated with everything for once.
I knew I was going to the third floor, room 313. But standing in that lobby, I realized I had no idea how to do that. So going to the front desk, I asked the (attractive) woman at the desk, "Ah, excuse me? I'm here for orientation. What do I do now?"
"Walk down the hallway to your left, go all the way down, you'll see a bank of elevators," she said. "Take the elevator on the right and press button 3b - not 3a because the door will open on the wrong side. Then take the first two lefts and go into the Colombian conference room."
Quick interlude: I'm about to betray my gender and admit something embarrassing: I have no sense of direction. I can't find my way out of a paper bag without ripping it and probably hurting myself. I'm not good with directions. At all. Magellan had a better history of arriving intact at his destination than I do. That should make the next bit the tale more understandable.
I made it to the elevators correctly, I think. I know I hit the button for the third floor. I stood watching the door before me expectantly as I went up. When the elevator stopped, the wall behind me opened. This disoriented me, I think. I swear I took the first two rights, like she'd said. And then I was in the middle of a maze of twisty little passages, all alike. That's about when I realized I was screwed.
I did try. I tried to backtrack. I looked for elevators. I tried to use my basic animal sense of direction to find my way back. At one point, I even punched the Konami code into a random keypad, just to appease whatever fates hated me. It didn't work. I ended up on a different floor, in a dark hallway, where red lights blinked at me at waist level every ten feet or so. It was very unnerving. I kept going, though, because at a certain point you realize you're screwed and you've moved to a different state just to lose your job immediately and end up homeless on the streets eating rats for sustenance. That's about where I was. Honestly, though, by that point rats sounded good, because I still hadn't eaten anything.
Beginning to consider autocannibalism, and striking out blindly, I turned a corner and ran directly into someone who was about my height, wearing lots of pointy jewelry, and walking very quickly. It was painful. "Oh, I'm sorry," I said, backing up hastily. "I'm completely lost, I hope I didn't hurt you.
"Who are you?" the woman asked, brusquely. "And why and how are you here? It's a dark hallway, there is no possible way it could have been your destination."
"Did I mention that I'm very, very lost?" I asked. If I sounded pitiful at that point, it was of course completely intentional and served to get this unknown and irritated woman to help me get out and if at all possible back to Michigan. "I think I'm going to be eaten by a grue."
She shook her head (or so I assumed - it was hard to see in the dark). "You're a techie, aren't you?"
"Does soundboard operator count?"
"Of course."
"Then yes. Brand new and, I repeat, very very lost." I glanced around. "I'm honestly not completely sure I'm in the same building anymore."
"You aren't," she told me. "You're in the basement of the executive office building. I was just closing everything up for the holiday weekend. There are pass codes on the doors to get down here, so excuse me if I'm still a little skeptical of your techie claim."
I didn't mention the keypad. "You're more than welcome to call security on me," I told her. "My orientation was at three. It's way past that now, and I've probably lost my job and will have to live off of rats from now on. I'm just looking for a door out, now."
"Rats?" MY stomach chose that moment to growl.
Feeling and invisible blush spread across my face, I said, "I've sort of been lost for a while."
"It's obvious." She shifted, her jewelry clinking gently. "How about this. I take you to the correct office and tell all involved you simply managed to defy all possible laws of direction, and you promise not to leave your new office without a sherpa and a GPS. And there will be no rats."
"Deal," I said.
About three minutes later, we were standing outside the Colombian conference room, and the woman was speaking with authority at some dude who probably didn't deserve it. I was simply grateful that there was light now, so I didn't think too much about the fact that some random person's secretary was saving my ass. That is, until I went inside, and the poor unfortunate soul who'd been on the other end of her talk looked at me and asked, "How did you make the current VP of the board pity you in less than half an hour on the job?"
"Talent?"
"Getting pitied isn't the kind of talent you need, man," he told me, and proceeded to take me on tour.
The rest of the building - now that I was no longer seeing it through panic- and terror-glazed eyes - was just as impressive as the lobby. I did notice that as I was led closer to my actual place of work, we went further and further down, but I'd expected that. I was just a sound dude. Dark, relatively sound-proof places like basements are my friends. But when we got down there, I nearly died.
I knew I was incredibly lucky to get this job. Cobalt Records was the newest up-and-coming thing, and they were picky as hell with their hires. What I hadn't really gotten was some of the benefits being hired by a multimillion dollar company, like, say, absolutely amazing equipment. I'd seen tables like what was before me occasionally, in catalogs, on websites, and in the occasional dream. But now I had one to play with.
"As you were told when you were hired, you will be supervised by a senior recording manager for the first three months or until it is deemed you are fully capable, and only given control of a few songs from a lower-chain band," droned my guide, in full Corporate mode.
I interrupted his flow, as politely as I could. "Excuse me, you're sure this is the equipment I'm to use?"
"Of course," he told me. "This is the room allotted to you on the rooms list, and the equipment allocated to you on the equipment roster. It's yours."
I looked around again, and realized I could probably die happy, if hungry, at that moment.
I don't remember most of the rest of the tour. Visions of my mixing board and computers were dancing in my head, and I'd heard all the corporate stuff before. I wanted to make music, and after the (in my current opinion, absolutely pointless) holiday weekend, I could. It was going to be absolutely amazing. And there would be absolutely no rats involved.
Friday, October 26, 2012
Character Interview with Jim, Morgan, and Nathan
So the basic layout of relationships at the beginning of the book is going to be three separate, distinct groups - Tammany and Cale, the Cafe group; Jim, Morgan, and Nathan, the Music Inc. group; and Andrew and Grace, the New-to-Town group. The NtT's are hired, one at the cafe and one at Music Inc., and that's when the overlap starts. Outlining through blog posts - acceptable or no?
Background for the three:
Jim Reinhart came from a very blue-collar family, with parents who worked basic service jobs for cash. He won a full ride to College University after writing an essay expounding on the rights of the lower-class and the responsibilities of government. Now a math major, extremely intelligent, will flirt with anything that moves - a defense mechanism, because charm got him out of a lot of trouble as a kid.
Nathan Harding came from American nobility, more or less - his father owns the major recording label Music Inc. He works there as a BI manager, and is amazingly good at what he does. He's more or less expected to take over the company after his father retires. He met Jim when they were in college, and they were roommates for two years - they still are, Jim paying minimum rent to Nathan because he doesn't want to feel like a leach while he figures out grad school. Nathan's cynical, sarcastic, and generally expects the worst from everyone. However, when he meets someone whom he deems 'legitimate,' he is the most loyal person on the planet. Has a soft spot for his cousin Morgan.
Morgan Hart is the other heir apparent to Music Inc. Where Nathan is probably going to be the director of the board, Morgan is going to be the actual power behind the throne - key to choosing soon-to-be-popular bands, etc. to add to the label. She always seems to know just a little bit more than everyone else - wrong-footing her is almost impossible. She loves her cousin, and likes some people, but she doesn't suffer fools gladly. It's a regular joy for those who know her to watch her destroy someone who's being an idiot seemingly on purpose. She will occasionally go a little too far, and tends to feel guilty for that.
These will be fun to write, I think. My favorite character and his sister come next, though - Andrew and Grace something-or-other. Who needs last names?
Background for the three:
Jim Reinhart came from a very blue-collar family, with parents who worked basic service jobs for cash. He won a full ride to College University after writing an essay expounding on the rights of the lower-class and the responsibilities of government. Now a math major, extremely intelligent, will flirt with anything that moves - a defense mechanism, because charm got him out of a lot of trouble as a kid.
Nathan Harding came from American nobility, more or less - his father owns the major recording label Music Inc. He works there as a BI manager, and is amazingly good at what he does. He's more or less expected to take over the company after his father retires. He met Jim when they were in college, and they were roommates for two years - they still are, Jim paying minimum rent to Nathan because he doesn't want to feel like a leach while he figures out grad school. Nathan's cynical, sarcastic, and generally expects the worst from everyone. However, when he meets someone whom he deems 'legitimate,' he is the most loyal person on the planet. Has a soft spot for his cousin Morgan.
Morgan Hart is the other heir apparent to Music Inc. Where Nathan is probably going to be the director of the board, Morgan is going to be the actual power behind the throne - key to choosing soon-to-be-popular bands, etc. to add to the label. She always seems to know just a little bit more than everyone else - wrong-footing her is almost impossible. She loves her cousin, and likes some people, but she doesn't suffer fools gladly. It's a regular joy for those who know her to watch her destroy someone who's being an idiot seemingly on purpose. She will occasionally go a little too far, and tends to feel guilty for that.
- What is your lifelong dream?
- J: Graduate school. Don't know how, because that shit's expensive. But yeah, a Master's in math, if not a PhD.
- N: Becoming the head of Music Inc.
- M: Original. To become a world-recognized salsa dancer.
- N: That's a complete lie. You want to move to England and have ten cats.
- M: Five.
- How do you feel about your life in general?
- N: I'm quite happy with it all. No complaints.
- M: I'm a little bored, but I can usually fix that by meddling in others' lives.
- J: You're an evil woman.
- M: Yep.
- J: Anyway, if I won the lottery and didn't have to work in a freaking gas station to earn enough for my Master's, I'd be perfectly happy. Actually, I'd probably settle for just not having to work at the gas station.
- What do you fear most?
- M: In the secure knowledge that everyone involved will forget this entire conversation, I can safely say my greatest fear is loneliness. That's why I have so many friends.
- J and N: .... Seriously?
- M: Shut up.
- J: Greatest fear would be heights.
- N: Morgan, you're sure no one will remember any of this?
- M: Of course.
- N: Then disappointing my father.
- M: I KNEW IT.
- N: Shut up.
- If you could spend a week anywhere in the world, where would it be?
- N: New York, in the boardrooms of iTunes and Spotify.
- J: All work and no play makes Nathan a dull boy.
- N: It also makes him successful.
- M: Now, boys...
- J: Anyway, Oxford or the Bahamas, with a tall, tan someone.
- M: Any hints?
- J: No.
- M: Fine. Probably Paris during Christmas.
- What's the worst argument you've ever been in?
- J: My father wasn't happy with my choice of career. That's all that needs to be said.
- M: There was that row with my friend Molly, back in high school.
- N: I don't argue. I discuss at high volume.
- Who's your best friend?
- M: These two.
- N: These two.
- J: These two.
- If you knew you were going to meet your true love tomorrow, how would you react?
- M: I'd be incredulous. I don't believe in true love.
- N: What she said.
- J: I'd be interested, but wary. Meeting true love at this point could screw stuff up.
- M: Such a romantic.
- J: Says the woman who doesn't believe in true love.
- Final question: How would you react if your friends suddenly no longer wanted anything to do with you?
- N: I wouldn't be surprised. I migh be a little pissed off if they didn't give me a reason, but I wouldn't be surprised.
- J: I'd say go screw yourselves and find new friends.
- M: ... Have a panic attack, maybe. Enter a depressed spiral of booze and pills.
- N: That would be a sight.
- J: Hey, Morgan, no one likes you.
- M: Go screw yourself.
These will be fun to write, I think. My favorite character and his sister come next, though - Andrew and Grace something-or-other. Who needs last names?
Monday, October 22, 2012
Stuff and a Character Interview with Cale and Tammany
First, I have a guest post - a legit essay and everything - on the wonderful blog The Critical Psychopath. So. Go check that out.
Second, I applied for Harvard and Carleton today. Neither have the best music performance programs - or, like, any at all - but I applied. With essays and everything. There's a really big part of me that's freaking the fuck out. Because I'm going to be a legitimate adult, with responsibilities and stuff, in less than a year.
And on top of that, it just sort of hit me today that NaNo is in about nine days. I don't remember much after that revelation, but apparently I froze for several minutes and whimpered slightly. It was reported that I was also mouthing "Ohgodohgodohgod."
That more or less sums up my current feelings.
So I know I posted here a warm-up for the TCWT blog chain. That's not going to happen. All the people who say senior year is easier than junior year are lying liars who lie. I'm having to work far harder this year than I ever have before, which means that even a plot with the silliness of Ada Lovelace's ghost isn't going to be feasible, because it requires thought, effort, and a modicum of research. None of these are things I have in excess this November. So. Instead. My current plot idea is taking a bunch of characters I've thought about before and throwing them into that omphalskeptic favorite - "A Bunch of Friends Hang Out In a Coffee Shop and Don't Do Very Much," or as I like to call it, "[CENSORED FOR COPYRIGHT PURPOSES]". Highly original, I know.
On the upside, my favorite teacher and possible new best friend gave me permission to do NaNo for class credit instead of the normal assignments. So all of a sudden I have forty-five minutes a day to dedicate to NaNo that I've never had before. He might even participate in it, too. So there's a good thing.
But back on the topic of my own NaNovel, I have some characters that I've been sitting on for a while. I have the dynamic between them ready, I know who they are - I just need to send them into action. So, without further ado - Tammany Dreisang and Cale Smith.
I honestly really like these two. They'll be fun to write, at the very least. Next are Jim, Morgan and Nathan.
Second, I applied for Harvard and Carleton today. Neither have the best music performance programs - or, like, any at all - but I applied. With essays and everything. There's a really big part of me that's freaking the fuck out. Because I'm going to be a legitimate adult, with responsibilities and stuff, in less than a year.
And on top of that, it just sort of hit me today that NaNo is in about nine days. I don't remember much after that revelation, but apparently I froze for several minutes and whimpered slightly. It was reported that I was also mouthing "Ohgodohgodohgod."
That more or less sums up my current feelings.
So I know I posted here a warm-up for the TCWT blog chain. That's not going to happen. All the people who say senior year is easier than junior year are lying liars who lie. I'm having to work far harder this year than I ever have before, which means that even a plot with the silliness of Ada Lovelace's ghost isn't going to be feasible, because it requires thought, effort, and a modicum of research. None of these are things I have in excess this November. So. Instead. My current plot idea is taking a bunch of characters I've thought about before and throwing them into that omphalskeptic favorite - "A Bunch of Friends Hang Out In a Coffee Shop and Don't Do Very Much," or as I like to call it, "[CENSORED FOR COPYRIGHT PURPOSES]". Highly original, I know.
On the upside, my favorite teacher and possible new best friend gave me permission to do NaNo for class credit instead of the normal assignments. So all of a sudden I have forty-five minutes a day to dedicate to NaNo that I've never had before. He might even participate in it, too. So there's a good thing.
But back on the topic of my own NaNovel, I have some characters that I've been sitting on for a while. I have the dynamic between them ready, I know who they are - I just need to send them into action. So, without further ado - Tammany Dreisang and Cale Smith.
- What is your lifelong dream?
- T: To own my cafe, which I've technically accomplished. To have it become a local Place, capital P, not just a Starbucks. To own a first edition signed copy of all of Neil Gaiman's books.
- C: To have a successful band. To not have to be an accountant other than for said band.
- T: And me?
- C: ... Fine.
- How do you feel about your life in general?
- C: Other than wishing I had an actual band, it's not bad. Sometimes a bit lonely, but whatever.
- T: I'm good. I don't really want anything more than what I've got now, except maybe a few more customers. I'm easily contented, I guess.
- C: Except when it comes to the last muffin.
- T: Shut up or I will end you.
- What do you fear most?
- C: Being a white-bread accountant for the rest of my life. And spiders. Spiders are scary.
- T: Teenage vandal hooligans with spray paint coming after the cafe at night and defacing all it's windows with nastiness.
- C: Bit specific, isn't it?
- T: At least it's not spiders.
- If you could spend a week anywhere in the world, where would it be?
- T: San Fransisco, definitely.
- C: Can I travel in time, too?
- No.
- C: Then... Sundance?
- Acceptable.
- T: How are you talking to the questionnaire? Is that even possible?
- C: Trade secret.
- What's the worst argument you've ever been in?
- C: Well, there was a nasty political argument that sort of got me exiled from my group of friends junior year of college, but I think the worst would be when I took Tammany's muffin. She would not rest until I had been thoroughly doused in cheez-wiz.
- T: You absolutely deserved it. A once in a lifetime experience - a cranberry triple-chocolate muffin with walnuts, custom-made by my favorite bakery, and you eat it. Idiot.
- C: You covered me with cheez-wiz. You are not the sane one here.
- T: Well, you grabbed the whipped cream and started spraying me back.
- C: Self-defense.
- Who's your best friend?
- C: We just told you about a cheez-wiz and whipped cream fight. You need to ask.
- T: Yeah, honestly.
- If you knew you were going to meet your true love tomorrow, how would you react?
- T: I'd laugh so hard I'd probably pull something.
- C: Hey, don't knock love.
- T: Wait, the high and mighty Cale with a soft side? Be still my beating heart. No such thing as true love.
- Final question: How would you react if your friends suddenly no longer wanted anything to do with you?
- C: Ask what took them so long. Go write depressing songs. Maybe move.
- T: Spend the night sobbing. Maybe get falling-down drunk and make some new friends.
- C: I don't think I've ever seen you drunk. No one likes you.
- T: Shut up, muffin-stealer.
I honestly really like these two. They'll be fun to write, at the very least. Next are Jim, Morgan and Nathan.
Friday, October 12, 2012
The Spy Who Came in from the Cold
So this came from a prompt to find a random book, turn to a random chapter, and take the first sentence as the opening line and the title as the title. Obviously, this is from a chapter from The Spy Who Came in from the Cold. I've never read that book, which made it easy to take the story in an original direction.
The Spy Who Came in from the Cold
The
men called on Liz the same evening. They were snappish and tired, the result of
a long, failed search for a man who would not be found. Liz had known they
would undoubtedly call on her. There were few in the city who’d been as close
to George as she’d been, and now that he’d been revealed as an agent for the
Enemy, of course they’d ask her. She knew nothing, though. She’d never known
anything about him, really, and she was only just realizing that now. She sent
them away clueless, because she had nothing to give them.
It
was a quiet evening, after they left. Liz sat in her living room, surrounded by
full suitcases she no longer wanted to use, staring blankly at the silent TV. She
wasn’t sure what to think, anymore – everything had been turned upside-down,
because of a single revelation – a single person wasn’t whom she’d thought.
Suddenly everything was under examination now. The postman who smiled at her
every day suddenly seemed like a sinister character, even though she’d known
him for years. The woman down at the pharmacy was under suspicion of being an
Enemy Aggressor, sabotaging the country silently and slowly by adultering their
medicines. Even her TV was suspect – the Enemy were said to be extraordinarily
good at infiltration. Who was to say they hadn’t infiltrated the television
channels? After all, that was just acting, and George had managed to actually
live another life.
She
was distracted from her reverie by a knock at the door; at the back door. It
wasn’t the men again. They were too stuffy, too proper, to ever come to the
back door of a house. Actually, no one much ever came to her back door. Only
George.
She
was up and racing towards the door before she was even aware of it. She hauled
the door open, and stared at a surprised George, who still had a hand raised to
knock.
A
beat passed, then George said, “It’s not what you think.”
“Then
what should I think?” Liz asked. “You’re being hounded by the police, for God’s
sake. There’s nothing else I can think.”
“Maybe
that I’m innocent?” George said, stepping inside and shaking the snow off his
jacket.
Liz
just looked at him for a moment. George sighed. “Fine. I’m not.”
“And
you’re getting water all over my floor, too,” Liz snapped.
George
looked down, guiltily. “Sorry,” he said. Then he looked back up at her. “Come
on, Liz, you know me.”
“How
do I know?” Liz asked. “Apparently you’ve lied to me about your basic side in
the war for however many years. How do I know you?”
“Remember
the time I had the flu?” he asked. “When I was delirious and half-dead from
fever?” Liz nodded, grudgingly. “You probably heard me going on about
everything and anything. Things I’ve not told anyone else. Therefore you know
me – the actual me, not the spy whose been blackmailed into this – better than
anyone on the planet.”
“I
also know you have an unholy obsession with grapefruit,” Liz told him. She was
slipping back into the easy banter that they’d developed, she realized. That
had to stop. “The whole ‘foreign enemy spy’ bit is sort of a big exception,
though, don’t you think?”
“I
repeat, I was blackmailed,” George protested. Liz realized they’d been moving
further into her house as they talked, and George was now leaning on her
kitchen counter. She shooed him into the living room. “Look, I need to hide for
the night, and tomorrow morning I’m leaving. For good, probably. You’ll never
have to deal with me again. Can I stay here for the night? Please?”
He
gave her puppy dog eyes. She’d never been able to withstand his puppy dog eyes.
“Fine,” she told him. “But only for tonight. And you’ll sleep on the couch. And
I’m not making you breakfast.”
“Duly noted,” he said, and fell
down on the sofa.
She
had a strange night. She was awake for what seemed like hours, tossing and
turning, trying to decide what to do. George was a traitor, obviously. He
admitted it. He should be arrested and thrown in jail, maybe deported or even
executed for treason, eventually. But she couldn’t imagine ‘George’ and ‘Evil’
in the same sentence. He hadn’t even been in a particularly high-ranking spot.
He knew troop movements, but as far as Liz knew, the only thing that had been
done with that knowledge by the enemy was to avoid surprise attacks. That was
saving lives, not ending them. Turning George over would be wrong, in that
context – punishing someone who was helping both sides.
Once she finally did fall asleep,
her dreams were tormented. Visions of George in prison, of thousands of people
dead, of guilt, of pain, permeated her sleep. When she inevitably woke up, it
was gasping amidst tangled sheets, her heart pounding. She couldn’t turn him
in.
But even as she struggled to calm
down, she knew that she couldn’t remain and not say anything. She was an
absolutely awful liar, and her sense of national guilt would get the better of
her eventually. For her to be silent and for her to remain here were mutually
exclusive goals. But to her surprise, she didn’t feel any strong desire to
remain here, in her home town. Seeing how everyone had turned against each
other in the past several days had soured the town she’d formerly thought of as
quaint. Now it was just backwards. Mulling over this new thought, she slept
fitfully until morning
She
did end up making breakfast for him. He was sprawled on the sofa, an arm
dangling over the edge, snoring like a buzz saw, fit to wake the dead (though
there were fewer now, because of him). He woke up slowly at the scent of frying
ham and the sound of dishes clinking. “Whuzzit?” he asked blearily, in the
time-honored tradition of people awoken from a long sleep that was nevertheless
not enough.
“I’ve
changed my mind,” she told him, sitting down on the chair across from his erstwhile
bed.
“About
what?” he asked, struggling upright. “Is that bacon?”
“It
is indeed, and I’m coming with you.” She watched George eat ravenously for a
moment or so, before he paused, fork hanging in the air.
“What?”
“I’m
coming with you.”
“No,
you’re not,” he told her. “You’re going to stay here and tell them you never
saw me.”
“You’ve
got two options,” Liz said, calmly. “Either you take me with you, and no one is
ever the wiser – I was to take a vacation today, no one will be worried – or
you leave me here and I tell the entire town you came here, broke into my
house, demanded that I shelter you at gunpoint, then ran off in whatever
direction you go when you leave.”
He
stared at her for a moment. “Have you always been this conniving?”
“More
or less,” she said, then got up to get her own plate of food. She heard his
fork clink on the plate, and turned to find him behind her.
“Look,”
George said. “This is going to be dangerous. More dangerous than you could
really understand. I’m a wanted man in two countries, and most of the world has
extradition treaties with one, if not both of them. You coming with me means
that you’re going to get dragged into all of this, too, and I can’t guarantee
your protection.”
“I’ve
thought I was safe for the past who-knows-how-long, and it turns out that there
was a foreign spy who could call down fire on my head should he have so
chosen,” Liz said. “Safe doesn’t mean much anymore. And you need someone who
can actually cook something edible and make sure you don’t run yourself into
the ground.”
“Point,
set, match,” George said, and shook his head. “You’ve got about fifteen minutes
to pack, though. We need to leave ASAP.”
She
grabbed the case she’d held her basics in, and said, “Ready. I was going on
vacation anyway, remember?”
He
grinned, and said, “Well, come on, then.” And so the Spy and the Lady went back out
into the cold.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)