Oedipussy (9 page)

Steve turned to me, and parroted, "everything is going to be okay." Was I the crazy one?

"Fine. Yes. Everybody's right." The weeping Vietnamese relatives remained with their heads bowed and their beads dancing in their hands across their mouths. This made no sense. Who let these fucking candles and incense in the hospital?

"Let us know if you change your mind," I continued. "This is all a good thing. I hope you get well. We can find another drummer, but we can't replace you."

"You're right."

I stood, shaking my head. John had stopped talking, and the robotic motions soundlessly continued.

"Bye John."

We turned to leave. The bodies of his relatives parted around us like the sea, and we the staff of Moses struck down into the sands on the shore. We were our exodus.

"So now to find Kurt, if he still wants to be in the band," reminding Steve of our mission. I realized I didn't normally know where to find Kurt.

We left the hospital and pulled out of the parking lot.

"And where is home for Kurt?" I asked. Steve shot me a look that communicated 'are you serious?'  "What? I've never been there before. He's always come over to my place, or we've met him out."

"Down by the bridge," he replied, with an unspoken 'duh.'

We drove for five minutes and ended up by the high school. Steve directed me behind the building to a small bridge over a runoff stream that I had never noticed before.

We turned onto a service road, and down a vertical slope with such a steep diagonal grade that the car could barely hold on. The angle was nauseating. Two treads in the ditch worn away like scratches in the earth was the only indication it was even possible to drive on it. Steve took the wheel, and we zigzagged into the ditch. I covered my eyes as he steered; my perspective was a mess. He somehow folded into an impossible turn.

And we stopped. We were safe. It was so strange.

Steve got out and started walking under the bridge, and I followed. When we drove over it, the bridge looked three or four feet above the ditch. It's job was to bypass a little stream of water for drainage purposes. Once we were standing at the bottom, however, it towered almost ten feet above us.

The water trickled by in the mud.

I closed one eye, wracked with this impossible geometry of reality.

Was Kurt homeless?

A giant grate covered the pipe with weedy and swampen strings hanging from the horizontals. Steve walked me to the wall to the right to the pipe.

"Go ahead," he offered with a toss of his head, directing me to the wall beside the pipe.

Steve allowed me go first, to nowhere.

"Where?"

"There." No gestures. Nothing. Concrete wall.

"Where?"

He shook his head, frustrated, "there!" and pointed to a small hole in the wall that I hadn't bothered to notice. It was a square, deep, black hole as old as the concrete. Could I fit my head in, if I tried? If I was standing on tiptoe?

If I could, why would I?

"What am I supposed to do?"

Frustrated, he grabbed the back of my neck and walked me over to the hole like a child. The square was at face level, a little bit above my height, and he pushed my head into the cutout.

"Seriously? What are you doing?"

"Just go in, what are you waiting for? You're killing me! I'm dead!"

As he pushed my head forward, the hole surprisingly seemed wide enough for my shoulders, so I was able to wiggle in. He was right. I could fit. I wiggled in and wiggled in, and darkness began to envelop me as I pushed further in and the sunlight behind me was drowned out. It was a little tight, but not impossible.

It became somewhat difficult to breathe, musky mildew and stagnant basement air hung immobile. A little more wiggling and the hole turned from a square to a cylinder. Ahead, in what dim light there was, I saw a pair of sneakers snaking their way through with difficulty. Were they my sneakers? I wanted to bite them to hold on to them so I didn't lose my shoes. I wouldn't want to walk back out in the muddy marsh without my sneakers.

What?

Then, darkness.

I pushed harder and harder in, and it was tighter around my head and upper body as claustrophobia gripped me and I felt my head squeezing in deeper, unable to move. But then a pop, and cooler air freed me from my musky breathy moist lungbreath. My face was in a room, and the rest of my body remained in the tight grip of the tube like a chrysalis.

The tiny oblong room was fully furnished. My face felt like it took up an entire wall. There was a bookshelf, a little fire, and beautiful framed paintings that hung against the laws of physics along the walls that curved in a dome like the inside of an egg. There was a teapot with a steaming cup of oolong tea on a little side table, and a beautiful Victorian chair. Kurt sat in the chair, hiding behind a book. He was wearing an Offspring tee, jeans, Doc Martin's, and a flannel shirt tied around his waist. He was small, and my face was so big. He sat with his grunge posture in this big chair, his ass hanging off the seat and his shoulders barely clearing the back.

"Hello, friend," he greeted me. His voice was surprisingly normal, regardless of his appearance. This Beatrix Potter woodland den was perfect for him somehow, even though it was impossible. It was believable. This was where he lived. No wonder he never wanted me to see it.

"Hi, Kurt," I said. My voice echoed strangely in the little den. "What are you reading?"

He turned the book around and looked at the cover. Nothing was written on its leather binding.

"
The Screwtape Letters
."

"Hmm," I responded. Never heard of it. I wanted to write it down - I would take a book he was devouring so intently very seriously. I wanted to look at it but I couldn't reach my hands.

A crack and a shaking came from the other side of the room, and a panting fell from the wall. Steve's big face appeared directly across from mine. We were the same size, at least. This was a miracle of dimension - our faces transforming the room into a cozy irony of dizzying gigantism and miniature scale.

"Hey, man," Steve said. "New painting? Sorry about that."

"It's okay."

"I never knew you lived here," I mentioned. That didn't make a whole lot of sense - I never knew he lived anywhere.

"Yeah, down the rabbit hole and into the hearts of millions." Neither did that.

"So," Steve began, "we are here to ask you about something, very easy." His eyes darted from me to Kurt, to me, to Kurt. "Todd, tell him."

"Yeah, so it turns out that a random record guy from Arista was at our show. They want us out in New York to meet with them and work on some deal. He is going to fax me Monday with some forms - but, basically we just want to know if you're in."

"Rad," and Kurt was back to his lachrymose, careless attitude. "I'm in."

"Excellent!" Steve was ecstatic. "There is one tiny little hiccup."

"Wait, how did this happen to begin with?" Kurt asked.

I started, "When I woke up, Mom told me that there was a message on the answering machine, and it was this guy. Steve had come over to work on some things. We called him back together."

The men, Kurt especially, were behaving uncharacteristically. Still, the momentum would be great for all of us.

"So, what is the hiccup?"

"Today we went to meet John at the hospital to tell him about the record deal, and he is still all bandaged up. He told us he was going to focus on college and that would be that. He's going to MIT."

"And?"

"And that's that."

"I thought we were going to take a year off from college. I mean, by 'we' I mean him because the rest of us didn't have any real plans."

"I know." Suddenly this felt like a real conversation. I had forgotten that I was a big face in a cubby-hole room next to a miniature crackling fire next to my miniature friend Kurt. It was a real discussion in the small, cozy cubby. "Listen, we can still do this. This is what we want. Let's see how long we can ride this train and make it work."

"Yeah," Steve echoed.

"Alright," Kurt added.

"We just need to find a new drummer. Piece of cake since we already recorded," Kurt reminded us.

"Well, we can go without him." Steve offered.

"Makes sense," I replied.

"Splendid," Kurt said. Splendid? "Give us a call when you have the trip figured out, and we can just go by your - who was it? Bruce? Bruce's plans."

Had I said his name?

"Okay. I will just call the both of you, and we will make it happen. We can find a drummer when we get back and just tell the label he couldn't make it."

"Saturday still?" Kurt asked.

"Yup."

"See you boys then," he replied, and picked his book back up and perfectly posed in the same fashion as when we arrived. Slouched, down, and transfixed. He was little statuary frozen in a Beatrix Potter diorama.

I shimmied my shoulders backward, and slithered back inch by inch. The hole of the little apartment got smaller and smaller, the aperture closed, my legs and my head could move a little, and my lungs finally filled.

I popped out of the hole, and the dark square in the concrete retreated from my vision as quickly as it had arrived.

"That was weird," I said to Steve, already standing behind me as he was before I went in.

"Give the guy a break," he replied.

I had to give the guy a break. For whatever reason that Kurt lived in a cubby under the bridge behind the high school, it was clear why we never went to visit him and he didn't have anyone over. It was a nice little place, though.

"At least we have everyone in besides John," Steve mentioned as we walked up to the car.

"Yeah."

"I honestly saw this coming a while back - he had been mentioning college the whole time. We could have been more cautious."

"I mean, did anyone honestly think that we would have a record executive offering us a deal the day after the coffee shop?"

"True."

We sat in the car. Steve was in the driver's seat. I had no idea how this car was going to scale the mud and rocks ahead of us to get us back to the road. Steve would navigate it fine considering he got us down here in the first place. The car started, and he gunned us forward. I covered my eyes again.

"What I don't get," I considered as Steve hauled the little car up the banks of the muddy, jagged, and impossible sluicey mound at incomprehensible angles, "is why he wouldn't humor us with wanting to do this. Especially since the record deal or whatever could potentially - perhaps easily - pay for college. I mean, what is MIT, twenty thousand a year or something? If they gave us a deal that left us each eighty-k at the end of it all, he would be all set. I might not know what I am talking about, but a record deal at three hundred grand seems like a small one."

We returned to the road toward my house.

"I don't have any idea how it works."

"Okay, but if we are talking about it costing the same to the record company as an expensive house, that seems to make sense to me."

"I see your point, but he already made his decision."

"I'm just saying."

We pulled up to my house, and Steve waited until I got out.

"So, I'll give you and Kurt a call and let you know what that paperwork looks like when I go to work at the copy shop Monday afternoon. What is the soonest you can pack up and be ready to go if he wants us in New York right away?"

"Whenever you think. I'm sure Kurt is the same."

"Good. I'll give you a call Monday when I get out and we can work out the logistics from there... I had a great day with you, man. I really like this new enthusiasm and passion you have for the band."

"This is all going to come together."

I opened the car door and walked toward the house. As I walked up the drive, my pacing slowed. The house seemed to move further away as I walked.

The sky seemed to darken into dusk, and I feel like I fell or dove into something and the world folded over into itself as I nuzzled in bed next to Jenny.

...Who was there?

...It was all very bizarre.

"I think we should have a game plan going into this so that we don't get screwed over," I said as we drove down the packed boulevard. Buildings sandwiched us in shade as the car darted along. The structures were so immense that their heads swam in a cloud of fog.

The congestion on Broadway was palpable on the hazy, smoky dirt-milk of a Thursday morning. The three of us sat in the back of a cab that smelled like curry yellow cheese curl dust. A strange fear crept up me as I watched people in various stages of depressive horror wandering in front of Sbarro, Roy Rogers, and down and out pornographic establishments.

Our yellow Crown Victoria picked us up outside JFK Airport only four days after our performance at Paul's coffee shop. Our driver held a sign that said "Dawn Ego" on it. We had no trouble on our way except for the guy that thought we cut the cab line and called us assholes. He was right - we were a bunch of assholes. But we didn't cut.

The fog descended around the cab as we waited at a stop light. The veil of milky white cloud ebbed over the cab like the slow motion pour of a water tub a winning team pours over their coach. The waves and curls of fog devoured a dollar porn theater and then the trenched black man passing with a bottle in a paper bag. The mist devoured our cab, covering every window as if we were travelling down the Congo, the screams of car horns and 'fuck yous' hitting us from every unseen angle.

"I don't really know what to expect." Steve spoke with the genuine naivety that we all felt.

"Let's go in with some sort of solid plan of the least of our expectations. But we start big. Let them work for it. That way, even if they their expectations are different, we don't compromise lower than we deserve."

The thick blanket of fog still surrounded the vehicle, and yet the cab moved on. It was difficult to parse where we were going and how we were getting there. Perhaps this was normal? The cab driver seemed fearless, like this was just a normal day on the job. It felt like we were falling.

"So what are we going to demand?" Kurt asked.

"Let's make a list. What is it we want? I want to pay for college when this is over, just as my backup, so we should shoot for a base amount. What would you say to at least twenty thousand each year of our contract as well as the rights to a percentage of sales of CDs and merchandise?"

"For three, or for four of us?" Steve made sense - we needed a specific number.

"Four, obviously."

"So that is," he looked into his skull, "a hundred and sixty thousand dollars with a two year contract. We actually would just end up with eighty-k each year of the contract."

"That a good minimum?" I needed validation.

They nodded.

"I think we should also get equipment sponsorship, recording and tour related expenses, and whatever else so those numbers stay. I think no matter what, touring, food, equipment, and recording are part of our contract - that way our take home pay doesn't get eaten up when they want us to foot the bill for their expenses by being sneaky."

"Perfect," Steve responded.

"The way I see it," I continued, "is that all of this stuff they might want to work into the contract they will already own, or can sell as assets when our contract is over. So while we wouldn't get to keep it, they would get to reclaim some of that money and it is essentially their stuff anyway. They probably have full time drivers and things like that on the payroll for tours anyway, and all the other stuff in garages, and hangars, or whatever."

The cab stopped, and the waterfog lifted. It drained from a heavenly bathtub in a spiral above our heads.

"Here you go," the cab driver said, "Arista Records, Midtown West."

We piled out in front of a big sloping building in the vertically oppressive city. This was decidedly not Twin Falls, and we were infected with the people and the excitement and the energy of our potential. This was it.

We entered. The concierge greeted us at the desk. As Steve talked to him, Kurt hit me and I spun around.

"Whoa!" He was pointing to a determined man with long hair walking out of the building.

"What?"

"Dude that was Brad Roberts."

"Who?"

"Crash Test Dummies, man!"

"Oh."

"Guys," Steve beckoned us to the elevator.

The elevator doors closed. Gravity pulled us into the floor, and my ears popped before the tug levelled off. The car began to tumble and shake. The horizon changed, and we had to step on the walls of the elevator to stay upright as it tumbled up the shaft. My eyeball muscles tensed, confused as the lights flickered, and then we were scrambling to gain footing on the ceiling (now the floor) and avoid the emergency door, and back around to the side again. I tripped on the wall bars, but gained my footing. We bounced off one another with our arms out to gain some leaning purchase on a wall or one another as the elevator slowed to a stop and was upright again.

Bing! The doors parted. I felt bad for the dusty foot marks we left on the walls and ceiling. That didn't leave a very good first impression.

We were greeted with a mod-design waiting room of steel and blue fixtures, and
Arista
in brushed steel above the reception desk. Televisions flickered with music videos, and the area was clean and smelled like new car. Music we hadn't heard before played over the speakers in the ceiling. It was hip, saucy, and sharp.

We introduced ourselves to the receptionist.

"The Dawn Ego. Right this way."

She brought us through a automatic lock door she shut off with a buzzer, and through an open office area with low-walled cubicles. She turned at a room filled floor to ceiling with snacks, and large coolers with soda, water, and booze.

"Can I offer you anything?" She presented her hand to the doorway. We walked in and ransacked the junk food and soda, and she waited patiently. Kurt ate three bags of Doritos, almost including the bag, and a few Slim Jims, and swallowed, swallowed, swallowed it all down. He practically had to unhinge his jaw to stuff it all down as quickly as he was. Steve and I grabbed a soda before we pulled Kurt from the room.

The receptionist brought us to a corner office. She opened huge double oak doors. They presented an office lined by windows overlooking the New York City skyline from a hundred miles up. Everything was visible up in the clouds. The Empire State building towered. The World Trade Center were twin inspirations to the American Dream. The Statue of liberty stood grim and stolid just before turning around and giving us a cartoonish wink and a wave of her flaming torch and a welcome, welcome, and prosperity! Everything bled prosperity.

The secretary turned from us and left, closing the double doors behind her. A huge leather swivel chair faced out toward the windows, and a woman was standing beside it. A hearty guffaw cackled as the chair turned toward us. It was a forty-five year old man with thinning grey hair, smoking a smoldering cigar. The scene reminded me of the autonomous, robotic performance of John in his convalescent bed. I took all this in, but with the strange feeling of laying down half-asleep and still.

"Har, har, har, yes, yes, yes," he was addressing the svelte woman next to him. I recognized her. It was Whitney Houston. Her close-cropped curly hair and makeup made the three of us melt into the floor. She was beautiful. Positively radiant. She laughed as he continued the middle of his tirade, "and you tell your producer, no more of those expenses that have been a bit on the treif side! ha HA!"

They both started laughing.

Houston started saying something, but her throat and lips were only movin. No sound came out. She smiled, and Hirons was acknowledged what she was saying.

"Well, I will see you in three weeks. We'll start recording on that and work on the logistics of the tour." The cigar bobbed in his catfishy mouth, dropping ashes that dissipated before they hit his suit. The ashes obliterated into thin air.

Houston mouthed something.

"These guys are the new grunge act I am picking up, if everything goes as planned. ’The Dawn Ego,' and this is,... Todd?"

I raised my hand. Houston looked at me, raising an eyebrow.

"And this is Kurt and Steve," I said, pointing. "Johnny couldn't make it."

Houston mouthed something to me. I couldn't comprehend a hint of what it was.

"Yup," I mustered. She was smiling, and visibly laughed along with Hirons, even though Hirons laugh was the only one that registered aloud.

Houston mouthed again, wiggling the tips of her fingers at me in a 'goodbye' before leaving. The door closed.

"The Dawn Ego," Hirons began. His cigar was gone and he nodded his head. We all nodded our heads. He was nodding his head. We were nodding our heads. The distant Statue of Liberty nodded her head.

"The future of The Dawn Ego. The future in which you take the world by storm with your electric rock and roll, and an image that screams anarchy and revolution. Revolution for the world, and for music itself."

"You've put some thought into this," I said.

"You are going to be a brand as much as a band. Kids will want to be you, and everyone will want to listen to you."

"Sure!"

"Excellent. I really want to outline what this is going to look like, but I also want to make sure that you are taken care of and that you are happy with our agreement. Are you going to be able to sign for Johnny, even though he isn't here?"

"We're actually going to skip Johnny."

Hirons paused, nodding.

"That doesn't entirely look good for you guys right out of the gate."

"Don't worry, it is a lot less interesting than you think - he got into a car accident and it shook him up. He said he wanted to focus on college."

"Oh. Well, best of luck to him. You're going to need a new drummer. We can help with that."

"That would be great."

"I'll make some copies of your tape, send it out to some pros, and see what we get back. At the least, we can get a studio drummer for you for your first album...which brings me to the meat of our conversation.

"The way this works is that we make up a contract with a set number of albums and tour commitments, and come to an agreement about how that is going to look and what you are going to be paid for your work. I already have something written up here."

He took several copies of a packet from a folder on his desk containing several sheets of carbon copy paper wrapped around and stapled at the top. It had a folio-pad type roll over cardstock and a blue 'Arista' on it. It felt clean and fresh, and as exciting as the first day of elementary school.

"Here's the gist of it: We want you for at least two albums and two tours. We will be given full rights to your music, but only in terms of licensing for the next twenty years. The music remains your property, the recordings ours. We can renew after that time. We'll be paying the four of you five hundred thousand dollars over the next two years, five percent royalty on the records in addition to the base cost, and we'll also be covering tour, staff, instrument, wear and tear, and other expenses when the time comes. There are some other small things - such as when I say tour, I mean your first official Arista tour, but we may be requiring you to find you and your equipment to several performances around home before we start putting you on with another band. Of course in that case we cover gas but you guys take care of lodging as long as it is within seventy-five miles.

"You'll record your first album in Nashville in three months. We already have the space booked, and we're working on sponsorship deals for instruments that you will take on tour and keep after you get them. You can record the EP songs and finally have them done professionally, or you can write new stuff. It does need to have a little bit of preapproval by the engineer and producer, so bring some extra material just in case."

Hirons looked at us with expectation, seemingly waiting for a reaction right away. I did everything I could to keep myself in check.

"That's pretty much what this document says," he tapped a fat finger on the contract. "We have a lawyer here for you to talk to if you want before you sign anything - granted, he works with us, but we aren't here to try to screw you. He'll answer any questions that you may have and I promise that he'll do it in the most honest, ethical manner.