Hallelujah Ch. 06

I blink. "Uh," I try to picture him in my mind, but it's been a while. "I'm not sure?"

"He turned sixty last month."

"Oh."

"'Oh' is right. Now here's the thing: a guy like Walter is steeped in music history. He's a living, breathing connection to our roots. When he was coming up he engineered sessions for Mac Davis, Charley Pride, and Jeannie Riley. His first big assist was for Area Code 615. He's been working in this industry since before you were born, he's been a part of some of the finest albums ever made. And financially, he doesn't have a thing to show for it. Why is that? You'll start to find out soon enough. Every new year brings more new talent, and every new year you get older. Hell, what are you now? Thirty? In the music industry?" He scoffs. "Eventually, you will get to where Walter is. You're well on your way already. And this is where that is: he's produced a lot of below-ground classics...some of them, you'd probably like...and he's worked with a few major names when their careers were dipping low. But he's like the majority of people in this industry: he hasn't got any gold records on his wall. He hasn't got a huge bank account to fall back on. There is no giant hit in his future. Christ, the man doesn't have health insurance, Jacob. Do you even get what that means, at his age? When you young guys, you and Teddy, take a piss on Walter Russell, you're pissing on your own cultural history. You're pissing on the guy who got you here. He's going to leave this business with nothing and you'll still be laughing."

He looks at me sadly. I suddenly realize my mouth is hanging open. "I had no idea."

"You never thought twice about him."

"I didn't."

He leans back. "Tell me, Jacob, how do you think I got started in recording?"

I shrug. "I guess I assumed it was be selling gear or promoting. That's how a lot of studio guys start off."

He shakes his head. "I was a recording engineer. I wasn't good enough at it, not at all." He smiles and shakes his head. "I had to find some other way to be a part of the magic, or else I had to walk away." He looks around the room as if it were lined with his dreams. "How could I do something like that?"

I am fully aware, now, that I've totally fucked up. I misread the whole thing. I never saw Bennie Rich or Walter Russell as people, just as living, breathing caricatures. They didn't have a history, they were just ideas...the idea of the guy who 'doesn't get it.' Who doesn't have a clue.

Turns out that was me.

"Do you know," he asks me, "how old I am?"

I look at him closely, and I start to get nervous. "Are you..."

He nods. "Sixty. The same age as Walter. Now, I am a relatively rich man, Jacob. My name suits me, as it happens. And I have health insurance. These things make me the exception in this business. But I first met Walter Russell when we were both brand new engineers fighting to get into the business. That was 1969, if you're keeping score. He had the ears and vision, and I didn't. He could do it...I mean, just DO it. You understand me? Walter Russell achieved my dream. And I...couldn't. He had the talent I lacked. And what does he get for it? He'll die poor, his achievements forgotten and his records out of print. The last thing he'll have done in this business is be a whipping post for Jacob Currie, Teddy Fields, and all of their jackoff friends." He shakes his head. "When you look at him and me, you see two old men who don't understand anymore. We're cut off from the modern era. I know that. But when I look at you, I see someone who doesn't care to know anything else. Oh, I'm sure you listen to old records. You probably rank many of them among your favorites. But it's not the same, and it's not really what we're talking about here, is it?"

I open my mouth. Nothing. I think I might just deflate right here in front of him.

He's watching me intensely. "Go ahead, Jake. It's your show now. Tell me why I'm wrong. Tell me why I should look at how you cuckolded Walter Russell in his own home and be okay with it. I'm listening."

He's right. I did it again. Didn't even need a gymrat accomplice this time. I can't think of a thing. "I think you're right," I tell him. "I think you did the right thing. And I'm sorry. I should go."

He doesn't say a word as I walk out the door.

I sit in my car for a long time, sweating in the stagnant air and staring out at traffic. I think back to the work I was doing in New York, to the life I had there, and I almost wish I hadn't come to Nashville. But I also know that it was easier there because I was surrounded by like-minded people. Everybody agreed about everything, and that made us really certain of our righteous perfection. I think of Jasmine, sitting on my porch with a wine bottle in her hand and her skirt dipping between her legs, and I know that my insulation reached further than I am comfortable admitting. I never invested myself emotionally in any other relationship, because I was certain of what I needed, and I became part of a social circle where that was just expected. There had never been another Jasmine because I had never allowed for one. I had put up defenses for the sake of preventing anybody else ever getting that far in.

And I had felt bad for myself, because I was so alone.

In a way, this was all easier to take than the lesson I'd just learned, because at least this was something I was telling myself. Schooling yourself is, ultimately, a bit euphoric and therefore much less devastating than being schooled by others. Even if you fucked it up before, you can comfort yourself with the knowledge that you've just figured out the answer, and you did it all by yourself. Having someone you looked down on pull back the curtains and show you that you were only able to look down on them because you were totally upside down was...well, it was heartbreaking. Not only had I been wrong, but I'd been cruel and stupid about it. And I had been clueless enough that I never even considered any version of the story other than the one I'd created.

The heat in the car is oppressive, but I don't want to go home. I don't want to face Jasmine and her problems any more today; I'm knee deep in the swamp of my own self-loathing, and I didn't bring any hip waders. So I start the engine and start driving. I'm not headed anywhere in particular, but I guess I know what I'm looking for because I head almost directly for Shelby Park.

I'd like to say that the three hours I spend walking alone help me reach an understanding with myself, but that would be too easy.

I eventually go home, but I'm lost.

-=-

"You were gone a long time," she says.

I'm standing in the doorway, deciding how to feel about what I'm seeing.

As if coming home to Jasmine, and having her greet me so casually, wasn't a surreal enough twist on my life, then the state of my apartment certainly amplifies it. She's gone and cleaned the whole thing. Even the kitchen area is bright as the day it was shown to me. Wrappers and dust mites, molds and stains, they all must have died together. A non-recyclable genocide. It must have been horrific.

What little remains of my CD collection is in a large carrying case that I've never seen before. I suppose she bought it as a 'thank you' present. It rests on the kitchen countertop where a stack of pizza boxes once congregated. Vinyl, previously stacked into teetering piles that would have offended any self-respecting audiophile, is organized into three plastic bins that she must have purchased. She's labeled them "50's-60's," "70's-80's," and "90's onward."

"Just like home," I mutter to myself, but more than loud enough for her to hear it.

"I wasn't sure if you still organized that way. I hope it's okay."

"It is," I lie. Up until she left me, I always organized music by era rather than artist. In the years since, though, I've learned to keep my personal life as messy and disorganized as my love life. There is an order, it must be adhered to, and it's guiding principal is that there is no order. Looking into the bins feels like looking at an old photograph of the two of us together, happy and innocent in our once-upon-a-time. It makes me sick.

"I bought a few things," she says. "I hope you don't mind, I...I'd like to spend the night on the couch. The idea of being alone in a hotel room right now is still too much."

"What will your husband say to that?"

She looks away. "I don't think there's much hope that he'll take me back anyway. But if he does ask, then I won't lie."

"That sounds like you're playing with fire."

"It feels that way, too." She starts. "Oh! I almost forgot! A man came to the door a little bit ago. Said his name was Buck, and to tell you he'd stopped by. I assume it was your friend? He seemed upset about something."

"Fuck!" I blurt out. "You answered my door?"

She winces. "I didn't think-"

"No shit!" Damn it. "Did you have your wedding ring on when you answered the door?"

A frown. "Why wouldn't I? Jake, I never take it off." She sort of trails off on the last part, like she's remembering something.

"Great," I groan. "You probably just cost me the last friend I had."

"I did? How? Oh!" she jolts, as if realizing for the first time what it must look like from Buck's perspective. "But...I mean, he saw my face. I'm all bruised and swollen. If you can tell him the whole story, he'll understand. Won't he?"

"That's debatable. And anyway, after what we went through, a violent husband will only strike him as more reason to stay out of the whole mess." I take a deep breath and rub my temples with my fingers. "Maybe I can talk to him later, after you've gone. He's a fairly understanding guy."

"I'm sorry, Jake. I seem to be radiating disaster."

"More than you know." I hold my hands up. "I didn't mean that. I'm sorry. I'm putting my fuckups on you. And my fuckups are bigger than yours. Yours is mostly somebody else's doing."

She bites her lip. "Jake, I should tell you-"

The phone rings, interrupting her. I grab it. "Hello?"

"I don't know what you did, son," the thick voice comes down the line dripping with honey, "but don't tell me. I want to let my imagination run wild on this one."

"Oh, hey," I say, my heart sinking. I know what this is. The label is tired of waiting on the would-be producer, and they're moving on. I put my mouth over the receiver and whisper to Jasmine, "Give me one second. It's John Kennedy." She rolls her eyes at me like I'm kidding. Whatever. "I assume this call is to tell me I'm out?"

"Are you kidding me?" He laughs. "I just got off the phone with a mister Bennie Rich, who called to assure me that he would be contacting the label tomorrow morning and telling them he is prepared to green light a Teddy Fields production with you at the helm."

I open my mouth to start several sentences before settling with: "Huh?"

"That's right, boy. Now, Bennie Rich is not what you'd call a forgiving or pliant man, so I have to assume that you had a hand in this turn of events. Spill the beans. No. Don't spill the beans." He laughs, and it's a big thing. "Don't even tell anybody. Let them guess. I think maybe you're gonna become an urban legend in this town, Jake."

"I didn't...I...it wasn't anything. Don't be impressed. I went down there, ready to offer a few apologies, but really I wanted to make him realize that he was being childish. As it turns out, he made it very clear to me just how big of a bastard I am and I apologized and left. Basically, it comes down to Teddy and I don't have any respect for anybody who looks older than us, and I'm a super big asshole."

Kennedy hums as he reflects on my story. "And you agreed with him? That you're an asshole, and so is Teddy?"

"I guess I did. I do."

"Well, do me a favor and tell Teddy. He won't believe it if I tell him." We share a laugh. "I'll have to get back to you when I know for sure," he continues, "but I'll wager this clears the last major hurtle for getting things rolling."

"Thank god for that. I lost my job today."

"Sorry. Are you going to find another one, or try and survive off the advance and some loans until the record comes out?"

"That's a long time. We may start recording real soon here, but it'll still be six months or longer without income. I don't know for sure. Getting a job will damage my ability to commit time and energy to the album."

"Agreed."

"I'll think about it. Maybe I can live in a cardboard box."

"If you need one let me know. I just bought a refrigerator."

He promises to call when he hears back from the label, and we hang up. I can't help it: I do a little jump and dance right there in the living room, as Jasmine watches with that "oh, man, are you embarrassing yourself right now" look on her face.

Well, fuck her.

"What's that all about?" she asks.

"Music," I tell her. "It was about music."

"No wonder you're so happy then," she says, but her eyes look sad. "Listen, Jake. I've been thinking, and there's something you need to know about what happened with me and AJ."

"Go on," I say, only half listening. I open the fridge, hoping that she replaced my wine when she went to the store. Sure enough, there's a bottle there. Two points for the little lady. I grab the corkscrew off the counter and start opening it.

"Well," she kind of wrings her hands together, "I know how all of this has looked. And I know you aren't the biggest fan of AJ in the world."

"How it all looked. Jesus, Jasmine, he hit you."

"I know, but-"

"Jasmine, he HIT YOU!"

"I know! But, Jake...oh, this is harder than I thought. Listen," she sits down heavily on the couch, "I really need you to be my friend, okay? I know this is going to sound...er...just, please, try to be understanding, okay?"

I get the wine bottle open, and pour two glasses. "That just happens to be my new personal goal in life, actually."

"Good. The thing is, before I...before you and I reconnected, things were going kind of poorly for AJ and I. He was getting more and more angry about work stuff, and he was tired all of the time. He was so quiet and withdrawn. I felt like we were slipping away from each other, and when I tried to talk to him about it, he just got angry."

"Angry, yeah. I can see that."

"No, Jake," her chin wrinkles up and she sniffs back a sob, "you don't understand."

And just like that, I know what's coming. I open my mouth to stop her, to keep her from saying it. To keep it from being true.

But I'm too slow.

"I cheated on him," she says, and breaks down. Tears start pouring down her cheeks. "I cheated on my husband."

Son of a bitch.