Hallelujah Ch. 05

El Puente hasn't aged a day.

It still looks exactly like it did more than a decade ago. It's a mystery to me how some restaurants manage to look brand new no matter how old they are. It just seems like it would be expensive to maintain that. But the white exterior is spotless, the windows are all translucently clean, and even the fucking entryway rugs are without marks. So there it is.

I've arrive late on purpose, parking along the street about a block down so she will be less likely to see my car. I don't have any intention of lying to her about my shitty financial situation. I just don't want it evidenced so...blatantly.

Yeah, I'd pretty much convinced myself that I wouldn't be going at all. Why should I? Jasmine Knox doesn't have anything to offer me anymore. I was real locked in on that idea until about two hours ago. And then, I just wasn't. I suppose it's like an alcoholic trying to avoid drinking for a couple of days...instead of dismissing the whole thing and going about my business, I found myself constantly running over scenarios in my mind. What would she say to me? How would I react? What mysterious reason for the whole thing might pop up? I guess by losing the battle with my imagination, I pretty much lost the fight.

I had my IPod on shuffle on the way over, but I had to turn it off a few blocks back when it came to John Lennon's How Do You Sleep?. Given recent events, it's just not the song I want to hear when I'm driving to meet another man's wife for lunch. And for more reasons than the title alone might reveal. Supposedly, the song was written as an attack on Paul McCartney...in response to some songs on his second solo album that John felt were digs at HIM. However, at least a few of the lines seem to apply to John more than Paul. "So Sergeant Pepper took you by surprise." Well, John was the one who hated Pepper and was taken "by surprise" when it got as big as it did. "Jump when your mother tell you anything." John was far more obsessed with the loss of his mother than Paul and, in point of fact, Mother was his pet name for Yoko. So if the song is a biting attack that ultimately asks "How do you sleep at night," but some of the lines sound like the singer is referring to himself, what the fuck does that mean? It makes it too close to the way I feel right now. I'm mad at other people...the gymrat, the gymrat's husband, Bennie, Jasmine, even John Kennedy. But in each case, far too much of the anger ultimately stems from problems I have with myself.

For example, I'm mad at Jasmine for forcing herself back into my life, but I can't help turning the spotlight on myself because I'm here. Hell, I'm even letting this meeting become important to me in some strange way.

Which, by the way, is not going well, either. Me dressing for this occasion was a sight that would probably make any person over the age of seventeen laugh their ass off. There I am, in front of a wardrobe that was clearly purchased by someone who has never had to dress up for work, never intends to, and couldn't afford to anyway, attempting to accomplish a look that is slightly dressy in a nonchalant "This? Oh, it's nothing, really," kind of way.

I didn't accomplish that. But I do look like someone who might say "Right this way," and lead you to a table. Or who might ask you if you need any help at a fucking electronics store. Or who is desperately hiding the fact that they're broke and lonely while meeting with their ex.

Basically, I feel like an idiot. More importantly, I feel like an idiot who stood in front of his sorry closet and attempted a look. I find myself tugging at the foreskin-like wrinkles of my polo shirt as I'm led to the table where Jasmine sits waiting. Someday, I'm going to have supper here with a girl and not look like a total asshole. This to the uncaring universe I do vow.

Jasmine and I, in comparison to the restaurant, both show signs of the twelve years that have passed. We're more mature and a little more tired than the teenagers who first sat down across from each other more than a decade past. I know that I've started to show the first signs of smile lines, and my face is rounder than it used to be. For her part, Jasmine is a little heavier and a lot less confident, even in her body language. Heavier, I assure you, is in this case a good thing. When you're eighteen, thin seems so sexy and slick. When you look back at thirty-plus, it just looks skinny. The fifteen pounds of so that she's put on has been good for her face and arms; it's a healthy-looking addition. It's also increased her bust size a bit, which in spite of the order I'm telling you about all this in is, I promise, the very first thing I noticed.

She says "Hi," as I sit down. Her look is a less disastrous match to my own: hair not done up quite so fancy as when I saw her downtown, but carefully styled into gentle waves that cascade down her shoulders and frame her face. Top shoving her breasts together but not revealing enough to be flirty. Light make-up. Very light. I know her well enough to be able to read what all that means: she is carefully trying to avoid giving me the impression that she's interested, but she also wants to show enough of her femininity to make sure she stays on my mind.

Interesting.

What I still don't get is her motivation. What is she up to? Who is she trying to impress? Why does she want to make sure I'll be thinking about her later? Is it some stupid self-esteem thing? Is she having second thoughts about AJ? Isn't it way late for that?

It just doesn't strike me as the approach a happily married woman just wanting to be friends would take, to this little luncheon. Of course, the luncheon itself still seems questionable as well.

I toss her "Hi," back to her. "You know, if we were four booths down I'd be getting some real déjà vu right now."

"Yeah." She takes a sip of water, then looks around the room. "It's hard to believe it's been so long. It feels like it was just yesterday."

"Really? If anything, I think it feels like longer than it actually has been. A lifetime."

She sighs. "In some ways, I guess." She seems about to say something more, but just takes another sip. What's she so nervous about?

"So," I try starting again, "tell me about your big fancy life. Where do you work, where do you live?" I lean forward on my elbows. "Inquiring minds want to know."

She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Life is good. I work out at the hospital as a medical technologist. We have a pretty big lab there, and I'm hoping to be lab manager in the next couple of years when the current guy retires."

"Wait. What? You didn't go on to nursing?" I'm genuinely surprised.

"No," she waves her hand, shooing the idea like some pesky insect. "When I moved back, I guess I was just eager to start making money. Then I discovered I really loved the work. I know that if I'd gone on to nursing I would make more, but the more nurses I meet the less interested I am in becoming one."

"Uh-oh. Are they mean to you?" I tease.

"No, they're just so...stupid."

"Woah. Time out. Look, I'm a layman...and I'm young, yet, but I'm sure I have my share of hospital experiences in my future. If you're going to start telling stories about all the horrible ways doctors and nurses fuck up, I'm gonna get moody."

She smiles. "No, I don't mean that. Nurses just don't get to do very much. They don't make many decisions, they don't do the legwork. They just...save the doctor some time, I guess. They draw your blood, or have you pee in a cup, or ask you a few basic questions, and not a ton more than that. We in the lab are the ones who get all the data out of the specimens, and the doctors are the ones who evaluate you based on all of this. People who leave the lab and become nurses, when I run into them a year later, they've forgotten half of what they learned. They don't get to use it."

"Weird. But they get paid more?"

"Yeah."

"Huh. Still...I never saw you as the type to give up on a dream."

"It wasn't that," she says defensively. "I didn't do that."

I just shrug, rather than ask her why she looked so sad when she said it. "And AJ? What's AJ doing these days?"

"AJ runs his dad's car lot, now. He's doing really well."

Don't you mean 'we?' WE'RE doing really well? "Didn't he work there in high school?"

"Off and on. He went full-time after graduation, and his dad finally retired three years ago, so..."

"Huh."

"Yeah."

After a short, awkward silence, wherein Jasmine takes yet another nervous sip from her water glass, the waiter arrives and we order. I'm actually starting to relax and enjoy this a bit in spite of her discomfort. Or maybe I'm enjoying myself because of it. Either way, it's not nearly as hard as I had thought it was going to be. I just have to not care about her strange behaviors, is all. And why should I? Whatever's going on in her life is her business.

Remember, Jake, she's not your problem. Say it with me.

"So, tell me about your life," she says. "I want to hear everything."

"I wouldn't know where to even begin."

"Well, how about Grandpa Cooper? How is he doing?"

"Okay. Not great. He's been getting weaker." I shake my head. "The last time I saw him was when I told him I was coming back down here. That was...almost four months ago, now. I've talked to him a few times, but he didn't have much to say." And neither did I...I couldn't bring myself to tell him anything, other than a cleaned up version of how I became a producer in a Nashville studio.

"What about music?" She squints and clicks her tongue. "Let's see...the last I knew, you were getting ready to spend some time at that mixing place."

I nod. "The Cutting Room. Yeah, I remember."

"So? What's happened since then?"

"You want all of it?"

For the first time, she seems genuinely comfortable. "I do."

So I tell her everything. I tell stories about working with musicians in New York after she left, about visits to other studios around the country, about meeting Eddie Vedder and cutting demos with Steve Earle, about watching Maynard James Keenan do a line of coke as long as my arm, and all of it. I tell her about coming to Nashville and accidentally becoming a producer. I tell her about Teddy Fields and Bennie Rich, about Buck Nelson and the gymrat, everything. I make her laugh a few times, she asks questions, we eat, and everything is going great.

"So you're really a producer now? In Nashville? That's incredible!" She smiles, looking almost...proud.

"It may yet fall out from under me, but yeah...I guess I produced a track in Nashville, and it's on the radio and everything."

"Wow. That's incredible. I'm so happy for you."

"Thanks."

The bill arrives and we split it. As soon as I quit dominating the conversation the silence returns, and I don't really have anything else to throw out there, so we just walk out in silence.

She stops just before reaching the parking lot, so I stop with her. I guess this will be goodbye. Strange: in it's way, this night was really good for me. I feel like, somehow, this has really helped me put Jasmine in my past. Maybe seeing her as a real, aging person, who has gone through changes and is no longer the girl I knew, is helping me finally stop loving her. Maybe I'm learning that I was loving a shadow, and that there's nothing left there to hold on to after all.

I look up at the midday sky and smile.

"Jake," she says, "I had a really nice time."

"Me too," I tell her, and I mean it.

"Can we...can we get together again? Maybe soon?"

I glance over. "How soon is soon?"

"I can make almost any time work, if you'll meet me."

I run my tongue over my teeth. "I guess so, yeah. But only if you'll tell me what's wrong."

She takes a small step back, her face falling a bit. "Wrong? What do you mean? Why would something be wrong?" The guards have all come up again. I turn and face her head-on.

"I mean that you're acting weird as all hell. I don't believe that any amount of time could make the Jasmine I knew act so ...afraid. Something is going on, and I think it's part of why you called me. I want to know what it is."

Suddenly, she's crying. I mean, like sobbing and making a lot of noise. She turns away, one hand over her mouth, shoulders quaking. At this point I become immediately aware of three things: I was more right than I could have guessed, I'm a complete asshole, and there are other people coming out of the restaurant. They're looking at me because I made a beautiful woman cry, and I'm only making it worse by wearing a guilty look on my face, and I don't understand what is even going on, and son of a BITCH!

I reach out to put a hand on her upper arm, to tell her I'm sorry, and she rushes into me like a scared child. It's a little jarring, to suddenly have such unexpected and intimate physical contact. I look over at an elderly couple walking into the entryway. The woman is pretending not to notice, but the old man smiles at me and winks. Don't worry, kid. It'll be okay. He thinks he's been there. He has no idea.

I look up again. The moon's still out there, somewhere...probably looking forward to a long night of hanging overhead, laughing at me.

What to do, now? I'm standing in the parking lot of El Puente holding Jasmine Knox as she cries her eyes out, and there are at least ten reasons I shouldn't be here.

"Hey," I say quietly as she starts to calm down. "Do we need to go somewhere? Do you need to talk?"

She shakes her head, pulling away from me and sniffling. "I'm sorry about that. I...I need to get home. It's almost three."

"You're just going to cry all over my shirt and then leave? Jasmine, I..."

But she's gone, scurrying to her car and yelling "I'm sorry," over her shoulder as she goes.

I suppose I should go after her, try and find out what's going on that has her so upset. But my car's in the other direction, and I'm expecting a call. And remember, Jake, she's not your problem. Say it with me.

I watch her fumble with her keys, climb in the car, and put her head to the stirring wheel. She doesn't go anywhere, just sits there. It's maybe forty feet from where I stand. It would be so easy...

Remember, Jake, she's not your problem.

Say it with me.

I go home. There's an hour to kill, so I have a drink with Buck before going inside. He's in a good mood, telling me animatedly about how his dentist friend might be able to bring a third person into their little basement winery club.

"Does that mean you'll be back to buying grapes?" I ask, happy not to be talking about my day.

"Hell yes. In fact, we may be buying more than we used to. This guy's a novice, but he's a dentist and he's single. Imagine! A single dentist! He probably wipes his ass with twenties."

I snort. "Keep dreaming."

He laughs and toasts me, taking a sip. He's red-eyed drunk. Good for him. "You wait and see. Won't be long before we'll need the Cricova cellars to hold the stuff."

"Cricova?"

He leans in, face drawn tight and making intense eye contact. Then he burps. "It's big."

"Gotchya. How'd you find another dentist."

"I didn't. Darren did. Maybe dentists all get together at bars and talk about teeth or something. Who knows how he found him. He's not even the same brand. He's...whatever they call the guy who only works with kids' teeth."

"I believe they call them martyrs."

"No doubt." We drink to that.

It isn't long after I go inside that the phone rings. Good. The waiting, so it's said, is the hardest part. I answer it.

"Mr. Currie," John Kennedy's thick-tongued voice greets me. "How are you?"

"That question seems to get harder to answer every day," I admit.

"I know how you feel. I've got a contract faxed to me this morning that's thicker and uglier than a horse's daddy parts, and it's loaded over with bad news for the two of us."

"Uh-oh. What's the word?"

"The word is have a seat, if you haven't already. You're not going to like this. They will pay the up-front amount as requested, and they'll give you half a point on the album proper. They will commit to five days at Sundown Studios, a nice place, with the remaining five being at Firefly."

"Firefly? Never heard of them."

"That's because it's a shithole. But you see where all of this is going."

"They're not negotiating my terms. They're ignoring them."

"That's correct."

"Shit." I hadn't planned for this at all.

"You want my advice?" he asks. And for the first time, I really do. "Resubmit your terms. Don't change a thing. Let them know that this deal isn't moving forward until they start talking about your terms."

"You think that will work?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. I think the terms they just offered you are pretty reasonable, to be honest. But I know that you don't, so that's what I think you should do about it."

"Hmm."

"And listen, Jake. Whatever dreams you've been cooking up, you need to know that after a few more go-rounds they'll just give up on you. One minor success does not make Teddy Fields such a heavy hitter that he can just demand your involvement. They can always get Walter Russell."

"Walter Russell won't work with Fields anymore."

"Don't be so sure. Time heals all wounds. Or money does. Both are factors here."

"You really think they'd go with him, though?!"

"I know they would."

I'm getting mad now. I can feel the warmth in my cheeks. Part of me wonders if Kennedy is just bullshitting me, trying to scare me into not rocking the boat too hard. He has a vested interest in my participation, after all. But it's entirely possible that he's telling the truth, and that bothers the hell out of me."Walter Russell is the fucking reason Teddy Fields's records have all flopped. He's the one who keeps killing those songs! You can't possibly expect me to believe that they'd bring him in again. Especially not after As Long As I'm Here did so well!"

"Record companies are like movie studios: they're in the game, but only for the cash. These are not audiophiles, son. They don't understand the creative side very well at all, truth be told. They're a bunch of blind quarterbacks...they fumble the ball all the damn time trying to run plays that you just can't run. They throw the ball without aim and hope for the best. You can find a dozen movies made every year that show you just how thoroughly Hollywood bases it's assumptions about success on the names of the people involved, nothing else. Record companies aren't any different."

"I know that. But it was MY involvement that made the song a success."

"And that's why they're willing to bother with you at all. But they don't know that it was necessarily you that turned their boy around. Maybe Fields just got it right for a change. Maybe he's had a creative breakthrough, and his new songs are just better than the old ones. Maybe, they can talk a Walter Russell into copycatting your production style. I mean, this is NASHVILLE we're talking about. Recreating successful formulas is what we do. You're their first pick, so hang onto that, but you're not their only pick. Be careful how far you take this, kid. Let me submit your terms again, and then if that doesn't help we'll start negotiating the terms they give you. You don't want to throw your big shot away by being stubborn."

I grumble an okay and we hang up. Kennedy's words are exactly not what I wanted to hear right now. Goddamn it, I made that song a success. Yeah, it was a fantastic bit of songwriting, and the band can play, but do you think it would be on the radio right now if Walter Russell had gotten his way? Not a chance. I brought the atmospherics and mood out and exposed the melody for what it was. The song is on the radio, and I did that. Me.

Right?!

I also wonder about Kennedy's honesty. Right now, my contract negotiations are holding up his artist's new record, and ultimately his own payday. Is he just trying to get me to give in so that the waiting can end? It's his job to look out for Fields, and ultimately himself. Is he really helping me, or just humoring me?