Hallelujah Ch. 05

Fuck. Sundown and Firefly. No Blackbird studios. No full point on anything. Fuck.

And as if that wasn't enough to ruin my day, there's Jasmine Knox and her little breakdown. Crying on me like I'm supposed to be the one to hold her. Like I'm supposed to care. What is going on with that woman? She keeps reaching out to me, telling me she needs a friend, but every time I get a little comfortable with it she starts fucking with my brain. Is something wrong between her and AJ? Is it something else? And what does any of it have to do with me? Jesus.

For some reason, I think of the gymrat. Samantha, the cuckolding cougar. I wonder what happened to her and her husband, Eric. What becomes of a couple of people like them? Are they patching things up? Are they getting divorced? Is she at it again?

Why do I care?

I go back out to drink with Buck, but he's gone inside for the day. He won't be back. So instead, I go for a walk. It's late enough in the year now that the evenings are pleasantly cool. I try to keep my attention on the world around me, but all I can think about are these people who are screwing with my brain. Really, the problems are very base. Most male problems are. Jasmine and Samantha would never have been my problem if it weren't for pussy. Bennie Rich, Teddy Fields, John Kennedy, and a half-dozen label executives wouldn't matter if it weren't for money.

And there it is. Money and pussy. So many blues songs about those two things, so many rock and roll songs inspired by them, and pretty much every country song known to man. Maybe I need to start listening to more rap. At least when they write songs about that stuff, it's all celebratory. Maybe those guys are the only ones who really understand.

So why is it Big Bill Broonzy's 'I Can't Be Satisfied' that I find myself singing as I head for home?

The sun's gone by the time I get back to my apartment. My friend the moon is having his laugh. I put on Phil Ochs In Concert on a whim. I don't know why I'm drawn to Phil all of the sudden, but he's got an interesting story. It's the kind of Shakespearean tragedy you just can't make up. Phil Ochs came out of the same 60's folk scene as Bob Dylan, even hung out with the man on occasion, and made some beautiful and increasingly strange records that never sold. He had a few small novelty hits, 'Draft Dodger Rag' and 'Outside of a Small Circle of Friends,' and fell into obscurity. Whether it was the way sixties idealism collapsed into excess and indifference, or whether it was his own subsequent slide into irrelevance, Ochs just never recovered from the loss of hope for his career and country. The last song on his last album is called 'No More Songs,' and it will break your heart in two. He hung himself, and died young.

Still in his youth and not yet immersed in alcohol, Ochs offers his finest vocal performances on the live album. They're strong, emotive, nuanced, smart-assed, and indignant. If the stories are true, then that's partially because he replaced his vocals on the recordings in the studio a few weeks later. It doesn't matter to me...it's a fabulous sounding live record for 1965, and 'There But For Fortune' is an especially powerful moment on it.

There's a poet's sick romanticism to Phil's story, so maybe that's why I'm suddenly eager to hear his voice. It's a great thing, recorded sound. Phil Ochs is long dead, but his music keeps him in this world anyway. Hell, I wasn't born until after he passed on. I discovered him through a cover Ani Difranco did before her own inevitable slide into obscurity. It was an EP of covers, if I remember right. Or maybe just a lengthy single.

I bought it for Jasmine, once upon a time. It was a surprise.

Remember, Jake. She's not your problem.

Say it with me.

Around the time Phil is wrapping up his performance, I fall asleep on the couch.

--

The phone rings, making me suddenly very, very awake.

I jump up and answer it, checking the oven clock on my way by. Eleven. Fuck. How did I sleep for, like, thirteen hours?

"Hello?" I say, hoping it's John Kennedy.

"Jake. What's up?" It's Buck. Why would he be calling from next door?

Oh. Shit. He's not. "I'm supposed to be at work." I say it as I realize it.

"You are. You should have been here three hours ago. I tried calling at nine, but you didn't answer. Want me to tell them you're sick?"

"No. I need the money. Just tell them the truth: I overslept. I'm on my way."

"Got it. But hurry...you know they're looking to cut a shift, and they don't need a lot of reason."

"I know. Thanks."

I turn on the kitchen sink and dip my head under it. Then I grab a washcloth and wet it, running it under my pits. That'll have to do. I grab the jar of peanut butter and take it with me into the bedroom, unscrewing the cap and dipping my finger into it as I walk. Two scoops later, breakfast is done. I leave the jar sitting on the nightstand. I'm dressed and almost to the door when the phone rings again.

Shit. I can't not answer it. If it's about the contract...

"Hello?"

"Jake!" This time it is John Kennedy. "How are you this morning?"

"Not great. I'm leaving for work right now."

"Do you have a minute? The label faxed over a new proposal."

No. Not really. "Sure. How does it look?"

"A little better. They'll give you two grand up front, half a point on the album proper, and ten days at Sundown. I'm not supposed to know this, but Bennie Rich has told them that under no circumstances are you or Fields welcome back at Blackbird. The label just can't give you that one, even if they want to."

"Shit. Bennie sure knows how to hold a grudge."

"Why is it so important to record there, anyway?"

"There isn't one big reason so much as a million small ones. It's a great studio, with fantastic rooms and equipment, and really that's probably reason number one. It was the place we first found our groove, and I'd like to try and keep things consistent. I grew up in Nashville, dreaming of making records here, and Blackbird is like all of my childhood fantasies come to life. And, last of all, Bennie kicked me out for making a good record, and now it's successful, and I want that rubbed in his face. I know how to hold a grudge too."

John Kennedy grunts. "Well, none of those are terrible reasons, but none of them are great. It's not worth losing the ship over."

"Look, just hold off responding to them for one day. Maybe if I can get Bennie to listen to reason..."

"Not gonna happen. That man is unmovable."

I swear in frustration. "I've got to try. Maybe if I eat crow..."

"Then all you'll do is shit crow. Bennie will not listen."

"Give me one day. Alright? One day."

An annoyed breathy sound is all the response I get. Then the phone beeps.

"Listen, I have to go. Call me tomorrow at about five. I'll know by then, okay?"

"Okay, kid. It's your show." He hangs up and I click over.

"Hello?"

"Hi," Jasmine's voice is quiet, almost to the point of making me strain to hear her. I fight the urge to hang up. Now what the fuck does she want?

"Oh. Hi." I need to get going. "Listen, I was just leaving for work. I'm already late. Are you doing any better than last night?"

A sob. Fuck me, I don't have time for this right now. Why am I even involved? I can say the words over and over again, but it doesn't change the fact that Jasmine Knox is inexplicably becoming my problem.

"Jasmine? Whats-"

"He hit me, Jake." She's crying now. "AJ hit me. My face...I...I can't go home."

I'm suddenly very cold. "Where are you?"

"At the restaurant. I didn't...I don't know where to go."

"Come here. Come to my place. You can..." I trail off. What? Stay here? Hide for a while? AJ Knox is a lot bigger than Eric Greenwood was, and I kind of feel like I've met my quota for angry husband beatings this year. Fuck, what am I doing? Jasmine Knox just became your problem, Jake. Say it with me. She is your problem. "You can come stay here for...for as long as you'd like. I'll be at work when you arrive, but I'll leave the key under the mat."

"I don't think I can drive anymore. My eye...Jacob, please, help me." The last two words devolve into incoherent sobbing.

What else can I do?

"I'm on my way."

I hang up, pick up, and dial. Come on, Buck, answer your cell.

"I could really use a friend," she'd said.

Huh.