Hallelujah
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Hallelujah Ch. 07 free porn video
Part III: The Baffled King
CHAPTER SEVEN
The gurgling of a coffee pot ripples across my dream, pulling me awake. I allow myself a groan as I lift my head off the pillow to look at the clock on the wall. Just after seven-thirty.
Yeah. Alright.
I push myself up into a sitting position, dropping my feet to the ground, and scratch at my shoulders. Now, I’m not really interested in waking up yet…another two or three hours sounds heavenly…but needs must when the devil drives. If I stay in bed any longer I’ll be in trouble.
She must have known that. That’s why she’s making coffee.
Anyway, rested or not, the truth is I want to be up. The last thing I would want to do is miss my first day of recording with Teddy Fields.
My knees pop as I stand, effectively announcing my conscious state, and I hear the sound of a cup being set down. I look over my shoulder at the kitchenette. Jasmine gives me a timid smile and waves. She’s got a pair of loose and casual pajamas on, with her hair mussed from sleeping, and it turns me on enough to make me look away.
She doesn’t say anything, just pours each of us a cup of coffee. I shuffle into the bathroom and yawn. She makes a point of studying some imperfection on the table as I pass by in my boxer shorts. We’ve made a lot of progress on our little arrangement, but it’s still a little bit on the awkward side.
It’s been six weeks now, since I learned that the reason for her crumbling marriage was an affair between herself and a man from work. When she’d said those words, admitting to that terrible act, it was like a torch was being lit for me…like I’d been in a cave, living blind. Suddenly I realized that I was standing in my apartment with a woman who was married. A woman who had betrayed the man who loved her. And while I wasn’t directly involved, this time, I was certainly making myself a part of her sorry little storyline. She’d cheated…JASMINE had cheated. Over and over, for nearly two months. She had thrown AJ’s love away and ruined his life. Just like she’d done to me.
I wasn’t hot about it. I was direct. There wasn’t any question about what needed to happen. I simply shook my head and asked her to leave. She cried, but she didn’t try and defend herself. She just took her things and was gone. I don’t know how she got back to her car. At the time, I didn’t much care. To be honest, I was back to hoping that I never heard from the fucking woman again in my life.
Two weeks later I asked her to move in with me.
Funny, I know. Or stupid, depending on how you feel about it. But, see, with all the drama unfolding around me I had managed to protect myself from doing much thinking on a few key points:
1. I didn’t have a job, any savings, or much in the way of credit. I had two grand from the label. That’s it.
2. The economy was taking a nose-dive, and I’m not qualified to do very much. I also couldn’t afford to not be as available as possible when recording time came.
3. Jasmine Knox had a job. A good job, that paid well. AJ doesn’t want her coming back home, so she needed someplace to stay.
4. My rent was past due.
Needless to say, these unpleasant little realities did a pretty good job of dictating my life to me in the short term.
Now maybe you’d think that a recording contract with a vanity label owned by a major, with plenty of capital and clout, ought to be enough to secure a loan. Maybe you’d figure that contracted work of that nature is relevant to banks…especially in a music hub like Nashville, Tennessee. But you’d be wrong. In truth, the business is fluid and unpredictable enough that most banks want nothing to do with it. There’s just no way to know how a project will sell, so there’s no way to know if a contract is really going to produce any kind of substantial income. Even after the fact, if you turn up successful, everybody knows that it’s probably fleeting so they’re often wary. Today’s wealthy guitarist is tomorrow’s Burger King night manager, and there are always stories bouncing around the industry about some musician with a gold record being turned down for a loan. Some of them are gross exaggerations. Many are not.
Believe me, though, moving Jasmine in here wasn’t my first choice even then. My first thought was to consider relocating (not that I could afford anyplace, anywhere) or to advertise for a roomie. Never mind how short on time I was…inviting a married woman into my apartment was not going to be a recurring trick. I was determined to the point of being stubborn.
It was Buck Nelson, winemaker extraordinaire, who ultimately pointed out to me that I knew someone who needed a place to stay. And they had the money to pay the rent, so why didn’t I just bite the goddamn bullet and get it over with? I reminded him of my history with Jasmine and the potential for another angry husband, and he made a joke about wine bottle weapons. I asked him if he was trying to get me killed, he asked me where the best place to put a door between our two apartments would be when I was gone and he expanded. Basically, the smartass was avoiding arguing because he understood, in a way I didn’t, that there wasn’t a lot in the way of alternatives.
Needless to say, his certainty caused me to reevaluate. Buck had every reason to try to talk me OUT of inviting some guy’s estranged wife to my pad. My problems seem to become his problems, and this particular one seems like it has the potential to be disastrous. So when he argued in favor of moving her in, I took notice.
I did insist on a little reflection time, first, to make absolutely sure that I was no longer interested in her. And you know what? I really feel like finding out what she did has evaporated any remaining emotions I had for her.
In retrospect, I sure am glad I didn’t freak out when she admitted to the affair. If I had screamed at her, or called her names, I doubt she would have come back. As it is, it only took a little convincing, and I think she held back more out of concern for me than for herself.
You know what’s stupid, though? What’s just unbelievably ridiculous? As mad as I was to find out that Jasmine was a cheater…that when she abandoned my love she had done so for a man who wasn’t even special enough to bother staying faithful to…as angry as that made me, I also had a little sense of hurt that she hadn’t chosen me. I mean, I wouldn’t WANT to be a part of another marriage going up in flames. Really, I wouldn’t. And I’d like to believe that I would have told her no. But part of me couldn’t help but ask that…I mean, what? I’m not good enough?
I noticed, when we talked about her moving in here, that she never worried about how it might affect her chances of saving her marriage. Or, if she did, it never showed. I haven’t asked any questions about any of that, yet. I don’t imagine I probably ever will. It’s simply not my business, and it feels particularly important that I keep it that way. Still, you do find yourself picking up details and trying to use them to build an understanding. For example, I know she dresses up real professionally every evening and disappears, for hours. When she gets back, she’s usually quiet, but it’s not like she’s weepy or anything. She doesn’t volunteer where she goes, and I don’t ask. Maybe she’s meeting AJ, hoping to work things out. Maybe she’s trying to win over the few friends who haven’t picked sides yet. Maybe she’s continuing her affair.
No. I doubt that. I also doubt that she has any hope of salvaging her marriage, just based on the fact that she’s willing to stay here. Even the way she shuffles around most of the time, or sits staring at the television no matter what I decide to watch. These are all signs of a depressed Jasmine. I did ask, before she brought all her stuff, if I should be worried about AJ. She promised me that I shouldn’t, that he knew the whole truth about what she’d done and was finished with her.
‘
And he knows,’ she promised, ‘that is wasn’t you.’
‘But does he know where you’re living?’ I asked her, and she just shrugged.
‘It doesn’t matter, Jake,’ she muttered. ‘I’m the one he hates.’ And then she walked away.
There’s still no question in my mind that it’s stupid of me to have her here, but until I’m getting paid or can find a place to stay for free, I don’t know what to do. Maybe I should just call AJ and talk to him, let him know where I stand on all of this. Let him know how disgusted I am by Jasmine’s actions. That might help.
Anyway, those are questions for later. After four weeks of sleeping on a hideaway mattress and moping around the apartment, I am ready to make a record. Also, my back is killing me.
Yeah. I gave her the bedroom. She’s paying the fucking rent, isn’t she? Plus, she had a lot more stuff to bring in the second time around, so she needed a defined space for storing it all. I guess she must have gone back to the house and grabbed her more treasured belongings. Seems like a lot of them were clothes. I don’t know.
Boredom has really stretched this whole thing out, too. You wouldn’t figure that anything about my little unfolding drama would be classified as boring, but it sure feels that way to me. We sit around, we don’t talk very much, we watch a lot of TV. Jasmine makes sure the place is cleaner than I ever would. We live on small talk, evaluating food and disagreeing about sitcoms. More and more often, I find myself double-checking the calender in case another day has slipped passed in the last few hours and I just didn’t notice it. I should have gotten myself an advent calender…at least then I would get a piece of chocolate for every damn day I had to count down to green light.
Too late, now. The counting’s done, the light’s green, and today’s the day.
Oh, there was one bit of excitement I should mention. I’m pretty proud of this one, in the same way a boy might be proud of pulling a girl’s hair. One day, about two weeks ago, Samantha the Gymrat called. I guess she wanted to apologize for everything while at the same time letting me know that the whole mess was all my fault. Seriously. She and her husband were trying to work through this, though, she said in a condescendingly sweet voice, and she hoped that I would understand. Maybe someday I could find someone who made me happy, too. Ha ha. She sounded drunk. And, I mean, hadn’t it been something like three months since our little battle royale? I guess I was feeling a little rebellious, or irritated with all these crazy fucking women, or just drunk myself, but I cut her off and said, ‘Oh, don’t worry about me, babe. I’ve got another married woman already lined up. She’s here right now. She’s a lot younger than you, and she’s spending the night.’ Holding up the phone to Jasmine, who was looking at me with horrified eyes and her mouth hanging open, I loudly said, ‘Say hi, honey!’ She stared at me for a second like I’d just shot her dog, and then got up and ran to the bedroom. I returned the cradle to my ear, but Gymrat’d hung up. I could hear Jasmine crying. She wouldn’t talk to me for two days after that.
Whatever. Neither one is on Santa’s ‘good’ list, I’m sure. It’s not my problem if they don’t have a sense of humor about it all.
Time right now to put them away. Where the sun currently stands, I’m less interested in reading the latest blog entry from the wide world of adulterous women and more concerned in the events that are about to unfold at Blackbird Studios. Events which depend heavily upon myself. I take a quick rinse off, throw on khakis and a button up, and take my cup of coffee. It’s perfect. I like my coffee black, with none of that caloric bullshit added in, but I am kind of a pussy about the temperature. Lukewarm is fine, scalding is not.
‘Getting excited?’ Jasmine asks me. She’s sitting at the table, looking up from the book she was reading, smiling.
‘Hard not to be,’ I admit. ‘You gonna be around tonight?’ I don’t mean anything by it, I’m just making small talk. Still, she gives me this funny inquisitive look that has me reading extra meaning into my own question.
‘Yeah,’ she says, ‘I think I will.’
‘Okay,’ I make a point of expressing my indifference with my tone. ‘It doesn’t matter, either way. But I guess maybe we can see if that wine is done and have a couple of glasses, if you’re around. Otherwise I’ll probably just watch some TV. Doesn’t matter.’
‘I’d like to have a drink,’ her smile grows. ‘I could use to release a little stress.’
‘Yeah…well…’ I grab my keys and wave, ‘bye.’
‘Bye.’
Once I’m outside and the door is closed, I let out a breath. That was as close as we ever get to a normal, comfortable conversation. Some of that is me. Anything that feels too domestic has me scrambling for the door. It makes me uncomfortable. So maybe the wine is a good idea. We’ve both been stressed out. A few glasses of wine could make it easier to talk.
Oh. The wine.
Buck’s way of helping me celebrate my success was to buy me a new kit and help me start it. He’s even walked me through the process so I don’t have to pour this batch down the shower drain like I did the last one. Technically, I think I’m supposed to age it for another three or four days minimum, but…you know, fuck it.
Traffic is light, today, and so is my heart.
I’ve been at the studio for a little over an hour when the band shows up. They’re twenty minutes late, which seems a little less rockstar and a little more frustrating now that I’m the one whose ass is on the line. If I can’t pull a record out of these guys, and in fairly short order, trouble ensues.
It doesn’t help that Teddy has refused to play any of the new songs for me. No demos, no sitting down ahead of time to plan for arrangements, nothing. He left it to John Kennedy to explain his feelings on that, so I will, too:
‘That first song was so in the pocket that it couldn’t be stopped, and it all came about spontaneously. Teddy feels that that kind of combustion is better suited to his artistic nature than normal studio work.’
Right.
My engineer, a man in his late 30’s named Brian Mueller, has the equipment ready and warmed up. He’s got long, shaggy hair and a tendency to smile out one side of his mouth as he talks. He seems like a nice guy. I wonder what his story is. Bennie stopped by to say good luck when we first came in, and he was cordial if not warm. I hadn’t even counted on that much.
We’re in Studio A, the big one, and I can’t stop walking around marveling at it. Am I really here? Am I seriously being handed this incredible space, on someone else’s dime, to make a record? It seems so impossibly ludicrous now that it’s happening.
All I know for sure is that Studio A is a monster. Bigger than you would ever imagine. It has three bathrooms and a kitchen. Seriously. That’s how awesomely huge this place is. The control room looks like a cross between a very expensive home movie theater designed to seat ten and the bridge of the starship Enterprise. Amazing.
The main tracking area, where the band will play, is a large, open space modeled after Abbey Road. Other than being heavy on wood and maroons instead of bleached-white, it for all intensive purposes looks just like the room where the Beatles wanted to hold your hand and look at all the lonely people. You could fit a symphony in there. You could play basketball, with spectators. I’ve never seen its like. But even so, it’s only the beginning. There are no fewer than six isolation booths branching off of it as part of a never-ending row of doors, the others being walk-in closets for gear. Each iso booth is a small room designed for isolating an instrument during recording. Usually a little larger than your average master bath, some of them here are almost living room sized. When you record bands using the booths, they play in tandem while wearing headphones so that they can hear each other. I won
‘t be doing that. Track bleed is a wonderful thing. Between hard disk recorders, digital track editors, and bands that record their records locked away in separate rooms, most of what’s on the radio today sounds so lifeless and exact that it puts me to sleep. All that soulless perfection…yuck. I’m just glad it wasn’t done that way when records like Tea for the Tillerman or Songs in the Key of Life were being cut.
The tour I got on my first day here, yonks ago, offered a little surprise that still kills me. One of the isolation booths in Studio A has a door on the opposite wall that leads into yet another large tracking room. This one’s even bigger than the first, with an adjustable ceiling so you can control the amount of natural reverb. I’m serious. They gave me a ceiling remote control. I wanted to ask for sharks with lasers, but I was afraid they might actually have it. This big room would be great for orchestras, but for my small band it would be too big. You wouldn’t get enough room sound.
The whole place is a maze of doors, booths, massive closets, and the occasional huge open space. It feels labyrinthine…like if you could just tear down the interior walls you might be able to play a game of college football. It’s so big that there’s a big screen TV above the window in the control room where you can flip through a series of cameras and be able to look at whoever you’re talking to, no matter what room they’re in.
I have such a music boner right now.
Ironically, given all of this space, I’ll probably be sticking just to the main tracking room. That’s the room I wanted. It’s the whole reason I demanded this studio. Fields’s whole band can play in there together and, while there’ll be some bleed, it won’t be any more than on all those great 60’s or 70’s records. It’ll feel alive. Plus, the sound will be incredible.
The control room is a flight up from the studio floor, with a large plexiglass window overlooking the main tracking room. Looking out, you see down into the recording area. I fog it up with my breath and draw a smiley face on it. I know, real mature. Let me have my fun.
In fact, that’s what I’m doing when the door opens and Fields and crew fumble in. Paul Spears catches me before I can move to stand in front of it, and rolls his eyes. But he’s smiling.
‘Hey hey,’ I wave. ‘Welcome home. How was the tour?’
‘Oh, you know.’ Mickey English shrugs, his bony shoulders looking unnatural even on his stretched-out frame. ‘Typical Midwestern thing. Lots of beautiful sky and flat land, but more cows than people. It gets old pretty quick.’
‘Any highlights?’
‘Not really. Hard to have highlights when you’re playing Brookings, South Dakota.’
‘That’s not true,’ Teddy reprimands him. ‘Lots of good things up in South Dakota. Lots of good people.’
‘Is there?’ I ask. ‘The only things I know of from there are faces made of rock and that crazy religious cult. Doesn’t seem like the place to be.’
‘Both of those are further west than Brookings,’ Fields says matter-of-factly. ‘Woulda been fun to play for a cult, though.’
‘Some other cult, maybe,’ the piano player frowns. ‘But that one seems to have a special dose of crazy in it. That senator from Virginia-‘
‘You go listening to Republican senators,’ Fields smiles, ‘and you’ll start thinking the whole world is full of crazy. Those people, whatever they’re up to, haven’t done nuthin’ to nobody.’
Mickey shrugs again and turns away.
I fake a yawn. ‘So Brookings.’
‘Brookings. We play there every couple of years. It’s a college town, and we set up in this great little place…Skinner’s Pub. We get there every two years or so, so a few people remember us. This year was a bit of a downer, but that’s a matter of chance I suppose.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Roger Clyne and the Peacemakers are regulars, too. You know Roger?’
‘I’ve got a few of his records. He’s from Arizona, isn’t he?’
‘Sure is.’
‘Yeah. Has a lot of Steve Earle in his songwriting. He’s good.’
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