The Bad Decisions Playlist (18 page)

“Uh . . . Shane?”

“Yeah.”

“Everything okay?”

“Nope,” he says. “I'm stuck.”

“What? Did you fall? Are you hurt?”

“No. Not that kind of stuck. This is more of an existential stuck.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Stuck. It's over.”

“What is?”

“Everything. This.” He makes a squiggly finger gesture toward the ceiling.

“The record?”

“Yep. Done. Over. Remember how Ed said Barry was going to run out of patience? Barry ran out of patience. I don't blame him.”

Now I step in, the door closing behind me with the sucking sound of an air lock sealing.

“He pulled the plug?!”

“Yep. The plug, she is pulled.”

“That's it? How can he do that?”

“He's the person who inserted the plug in the first place, so he has full plug-pulling authority. It's his dime. And his plug.”

“But . . .”

“That's Barry.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means Barry's the sort of guy who calls you up one day, probably sitting by his pool in Beverly Hills, and says, ‘Hey, get in the studio.' He's also the sort of guy who calls you up, you know, still sitting by the pool, and says, ‘Send me something good tonight by eight p.m., or get out of the studio.' Which he did.”

“So send him something!”

“That's the point. There is no
something
to send him. I have nothing.”

“But​—”

“The other night when I performed​—​how many of those songs did you know?

“All of them.”

“Right. Every single one. What does that tell you?”

“But you've been in here​—”

“For three weeks. And I have nothing. I didn't have anything going in, and nothing's happened since I got here.”

“Nothing? All these weeks?”

“Well, lots of arguments and me being an ass. Lots of that.”

“But​—”

“Did you not hear me about the stuck thing? I have a bunch of partial songs, all of which, even in their partial form, are crappy to begin with.”

“Half songs,” I mutter, not even intending to say it out loud.

“You say ‘half songs'? Yeah, that's what I have. Half songs. I have maybe one song that's any good.”

“So give him that!”

“You have a band hiding behind you?”

“Can't you just record something solo?”

“He wants a song, Austin,” he says, finally looking at me again. “Not a sketch of a demo of a demo.”

“Well, what do you need?”

“I need a
band.
A drummer, a bass player, rhythm guitar, blah blah blah.”

“But you know so many musicians!”

“Yerp. And they know
me.
That's the problem. Frankly, even
I
don't want to work with me anymore.”

“You could use​—”

“Do
not
say a drum machine. I will
not
use a drum machine. I need a real drummer. And everything else. In, like, an hour or so.”

“I can do that.”

“Great. I'll be here. A drummer, guitarist . . .”

“How about a girl to sing harmony?”

“Sure, why not. A horn section. Strings. Bring it all.”

“I'm serious.”

“Fantastic.”

“I'm
serious!
Stay here! I'll be back in an hour. Two, tops!”

As the door is closing I hear him say, “Austin, wait,” but I'm already on my way.

Put it back on my back / I will carry it, I'll carry it /

I'll carry it for you / I will carry you too

I drive across the office parking lot all the way to where it meets the lawn. Kent's truck and trailer are nearby, but I can't see anyone. Then, at the far edge of the field, which looks to be ten miles away, I see a tiny figure pushing a lawn mower. I take another look around to make sure Kent isn't in evidence, then put the Rover in gear and ease it over the curb and onto the grass.

I drive across the lawn, sticking to the edge, careful not to gun the engine and tear up the turf. The tiny figure is getting less tiny, growing in size until I'm fairly certain it's Todd pushing the mower, then a hundred percent sure. I increase my speed to medium.

I drive along next to him for a good five seconds before he realizes I'm there and does a double take, coming to a halt. I stop even with him. He stares at me, then twists to see the path I took to reach him, checking to see how much damage I've done, before taking off his headset.

“What the hell?” he says, over the competing sounds of the Rover and lawn mower engines. “You're screwing up the lawn! I'm almost done!”

“You want to finish it?” I say.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“What I mean is, I think I've got something a lot more fun to do.”

∗  ∗  ∗

We keep the windows rolled down as we drive, because Todd smells like someone who has spent the better part of the day mowing a giant lawn.

Out there in the verdant fields, I had to repeat to him three times what I was asking, until finally I leaned my upper body out the window of the Rover and reached down to shut off the mower engine. Then I said, “I'm saying, I want you to come right now to a real recording studio to play drums on a real song with a real-live straight-up famous person.”

When he just stared up at me, still confused, I said, “Listen. The way I see it? You owe me four thousand bucks for that mandolin. You come now and play drums for this recording session, and we're even.”

“You want me to play drums in an actual recording studio.”

“Yes.”

“Right now.”

“Right now.”

We left the mower where it was in the middle of the field. He didn't ask a single question more at that point, just circled around in front of the Rover, climbed in the passenger side, and said, “Let's go.”

We've barely talked at all. Once when we get to a light, he says, “Do they have a kit there? My dad got pissed off and sold mine, like, two years ago.”

“They have a kit. You think you can still play?”

“Hell, yes,” he says. “I think.”

Other than that, it's quiet until I pull into the parking lot at our next destination.

“What this?” says Todd. “This the studio?”

“No,” I say. “I'll be right back.”

It's a midlevel strip mall, angled parking out front. Between one of those frozen-yogurt places and a bakery is a storefront with a sign on the awning:
LINDAHL CAMPAIGN HEADQUARTERS
. There's a similar rubdown transfer on the big tinted picture window. I lean my forehead against the window, cupping my hands around my face so I can see inside. If this was once a store, there's no evidence of it​—​it's just a big square room. There are campaign posters and maps on the walls. There are two long folding tables set up, the kind they use for buffets at weddings, and about two dozen people sitting at the tables talking into headset phones and typing notes on laptops. They're mostly middle-aged suburban women, and one guy who looks like he's in his twenties. I don't see the candidate.

And there.

Josephine.

A few of the women look up at me curiously when I walk in. I feel like some of Todd's lawn-care smell has clung to me. The one guy is finishing his call, half standing as he does so.

“Can I . . . ?” he says.

“I'm just . . .” I say, hoping that suffices, and point to Josephine, who's talking on the phone and hasn't noticed me yet. I can hear her voice among the others in the room, reading from her script: “. . . values your continuing support and is hoping he can count on you to help him reach his fundraising goals.”

I shuffle sideways and kind of lean over a bit until I'm in her line of sight, raising a hand, and her eyes widen in surprise.

“There are several, uh, several levels . . .” she's saying, stumbling over her sales pitch, then diverts her gaze from me back to the written script on her laptop and gets herself back on track: “Several levels of support that you could select.”

I stand there, shifting from foot to foot, hands in pockets, trying to ignore the other women. Josephine is listening to the person on the phone now and
uh-huh
-ing and
mm
-
hmm
-ing, and gives me a fierce
WTF are you doing here?
look.

I have to talk to you!
I mouth, and she mouths,
What?
Then as I'm remouthing what I'd previously mouthed she holds up a hand to stop me and says, “Well, the candidate's view is that raising taxes on job creators is counterproductive. Mm-hmm. Right.”

She continues with the
mm-hmm
s and
right
s as she pushes her chair back and stands up and crosses to me, her gaze half focused because she's still listening to the person on the phone. I back up as she approaches, to create some distance between us and the rest of the people, until we're at the front corner of the room, the window behind me. When she gets close, she presses the mute button on the side of the headset and says, “What are you doing here?!”

“I need your help,” I say, but she's talking over me, saying, “I'm sorry, I was talking to someone else. No, I'm still listening. Yes.” She gives me another interrogatory glare.

“I need your help,” I repeat. “Right now.”

“Yes, he believes deeply in the sanctity of human life,” she says, then goes to hit the mute button again and instead covers up the little microphone with her hand and whispers, “What are you talking about? I'm working!”

“This is more important!”

“Yes, from conception,” says Josephine in her friendly, reassuring voice, then shifts to whisper again: “Would you get out of here?”

“I need you to come sing​—”

“Gay marriage? Uh, he's morally opposed to gay marriage but respects the law of the land.”

“​—​with Shane in the studio.”

“Sing?”

“In the studio! With Shane!”

“Is everything all right over there, Josey?” says the Guy.

“It's fine, Dan,” says Josephine. “Sorry, sir. Yes, I'm listening. Right, he's morally opposed to it, but​—​uh-huh. Yes.”

“Listen to me,” I say to Josephine, and speak fast to get it all in while she's not talking into the headset. “I'm sorry if I did something wrong last night. You don't have to like me. We don't ever have to speak again after today, if that's what you want. You don't even have to talk to me today. But this is​—”

“Yes, sir, that's correct. Right.”

“This is an
emergency.
It's for a recording. I need you. Shane needs you.”

“Is this a joke?”

“No!”

“You want me to sing. In a​—”

“A recording studio. Yes. You. Sing.”

“He knows a million people, people who do that for a living!”

“There's no one available!”

“I can't go now! What? No, as I said, on a personal level he is morally opp​—​Okay, sir, I don't think that language is very appropriate.”

She listens for a moment. I open my mouth. She holds up an index finger, turns her head a few degrees away from me.

“I
appreciate
your feelings, sir, but I don't think that language is
appropriate.
”

Her voice is rising, sharpening. More heads are turning this way. Dan is sitting sideways in his chair, chewing a fingernail, watching us.

“Josey,” he says. Josephine, brow furrowed as she listens to the headset, ignores him.

“Josephine, please,” I say. “If you​—” Now she replaces her index finger with her whole palm, still focused on whatever she's hearing.

“Well, on a personal level, I find what you're saying offensive,” she says.

“Josey,” repeats Dan. Now
he
gets the palm treatment, a straight-arm like she's warding off an approaching tackle.

“Yes, that particular word is offensive,” she says. It seems like all the other people in the room have given up on their conversations and focused on Josephine's.

“Okay, sir? Sir?” she's saying, trying to cut the other person off. “Sir?” she says. “Yes, I understand you have a son. I heard you. Okay, that's​—​Sir, please. What?! Okay, you know what? I HOPE YOUR SON MARRIES A BLACK MAN AND THEY ADOPT FIVE BIRACIAL BABIES.”

“Josey!” says Dan, horrified.

“It's
JOSEPHINE!
” she bellows, then tears off her headset and hurls it across the room to rebound off the wall. Everyone is silent, gaping at her. Including me.

“So?” she says to me. “Let's
go
already!”

I have to hurry to keep up with her, Josephine out the door before I'm even halfway across the room. As I pass Dan I lean over slightly and murmur, “She
really
prefers Josephine.”