Hallelujah Ch. 08

He fights another coughing fit. "You know I'd love to help you, Jake, but truth is I don't know much about much. Certainly, I never had the gift for music that you have. Anyway, I'm pretty tired just now. Been trying to get over this cough, you know."

"I know."

"You think you might..." he pulls the phone away and hacks away for a moment, "...you think you might be coming up to visit sometime soon? Your birthday's coming up. I'd sure like to spend it with you."

"I'll see what I can do," I say. "I'd really like to see you, too."

There's a pause while we both wait for the other to say something more. "I think I need to go lay down, Jake. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"I don't suppose you've got it in you to tell me a story?"

He laughs, but it turns into a cough. "Not today. Sorry. Maybe when you come up?"

"Definitely." I feel like there's a lot of important things I should be saying right now, but I can't make any of them stand out on the page enough for me to read. "I...uh...I'm gonna try and get up there real soon, Grandpa."

"Good. That's good." He sounds exhausted. "Jake?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry I couldn't help you. I'm just so tired."

"I understand. You've helped me plenty, over the years. I love you, Grandpa."

"I love you, too, son. Call me again soon, okay? Just to tell me when you're coming."

"I promise. Goodbye."

He hangs up. Something about it all was so...unsaid...that I want to cry. August Cooper is the only family I have left. Six more days of recording and two days of mixing, and then...no matter what happens...I'm going up there. I swear it.

I wipe my eyes, start the car, and head for home.

-

Jasmine is sitting on the couch when I get there, wearing sweats and a t-shirt. Her hair is messy, like she hasn't showered all day, but it's a good look on her. She's got the remote on her thigh, and she's watching some discussion panel on CNN. Good as I know her, I think that means she's just bored.

"Hey," she smiles weakly, "I hope you felt better today than I did."

"Well, I probably did. At first anyway," I shrug, moving into the kitchen to scrounge for food.

"And then what happened?"

"We had another slow day in the studio. I totally fucked it up again."

"Oh," her smile fades, "I'm sorry."

"Nobody to blame but myself. We got one song done, so at least there's that. But at the pace we're going, I'd need about twenty-four more days of recording time to finish the record, and that's an unrealistic scenario."

"Would the label extend your time if you needed it? I mean, rather than just scrap it all?"

"Yeah, they would," I say, giving up on the food search and just pulling a slice of white bread out. "But going over budget on your first project is a bad move...especially when you've been so high maintenance to start with." I shove the unadorned bread in my face. "We'd have to sell a million just for it not to be the end of my career."

"Maybe you will."

I chuckle. "No chance. Anymore, if fifteen records in a twelve month period top a million copies then everybody calls it an up year. Teddy Fields has a shot right now at breaking through, and I really believe he could be a great artist, but 'breaking through' for his type means selling three or four hundred thousand records. Not enough to save my ass."

"Oh." She turns off the TV. "What will you do?"

"I guess just keep trying. I might try and find someone to talk to about it, down at the studio."

"That's a good idea," she nods. "Or, you could call Grandpa Cooper. He's always got good ideas about what to do."

"Tried that," I admit. "He was...tired."

"Oh."

"Yeah." There's an awkward pause, and I kind of wish she hadn't turned off the TV.

"Listen, Jake," she says, studying the floor, "about last night...I'm really sorry about that. I was just drunk...and probably a little scared. I didn't want you to think that I..."

"Stop," I wave my hand. "Don't bother. I feel the same way. It was dumb, but it was nothing."

"Good." She seems genuinely relieved. She leans back into the couch a little more, her features relaxing.

"So did you find anything good on?" I ask, plopping down into the recliner.

"Not really. Reality TV night." Her stomach gurgles noisily, and she blushes. "I guess I'm hungry, though."

"What have you eaten today?"

"Not much. I was scared to. But I'll risk it now, if you're still hungry."

I don't even ask her. I remember just what Jasmine used to like when recovering from a hangover, and even if age has changed her mind I don't give a shit. I want some fucking pizza.

Her eyes light up as I order, so I guess she's still into it. She turns the tube back on, flipping distractedly across the channels and finally stopping at HGTV. It's one of those shows where couples are buying condos in Japan, or someplace like that. We sit and talk about the show, making fun of the people and arguing about their decisions, until the pizza comes. It's easily the most relaxed, pleasant part of my day. Nothing about last night is clouding any of our interactions...there's no tension or fear there, just two friends watching television together. We eat too much pizza in silence and watch a little of Forrest Gump on The History Channel, even though neither of us cares for it. After the movie ends, we say our goodnights and head off to bed. As I drift off to sleep, I can see the moon peaking in from behind the curtains, but I don't have any idea what he's thinking.

And maybe I don't care.

-

An hour into the next day's session, Teddy asks to take a break. I knew this was coming. There've been a lot of shared looks and muted whispers amongst the band, and so far we're on track for another complete failure of a day. Still, I'm a little pissed off. The band hasn't even been close to playing at their best, and I think they came in here having already decided that fucking Jake was the fucking problem, and that they were better off rid of him. Brian must have seen it too, because he announces a smoke break and vanishes before they've even come up the stairs to the control room.

Part of the problem is that they're right. We're further away today from getting 'Open it Up' right than we were yesterday...I was even considering moving on to the next song just to try and fake some forward momentum...and it's my show to run. I haven't a clue about how to fix this thing. I swallowed my pride and tried to find Walter Russell this morning, but he wasn't around. And the more I hear the band play, the harder it is for me to figure out what I need to do with this song.

"So what the fuck, Jake?" Mickey snaps as the band assembles around the control room. Teddy throws him a warning look, but he's got his arms folded and his brow knit just the same.

"Cut it out, Mick." He turns to me. "We all know something's up," he observes, "so let's just have out with it and make it something we can talk about." He blinks, slowly, and his face relaxes a bit. "What's going on? Is it us or is it something else?"

"It's me," I admit. "'As Long As I'm Here' came out so easy, I never even had to think about it. These songs, I listen and I listen but nothing happens...and I don't know what to do about that."

Brooke Meadows, the usually-quiet bassist, snorts. "So what's the fucking problem? Just hit record and we play the song. Like before."

I don't understand what he means. "What do you think I'm doing?"

He leans forward. "Throwing up roadblocks. That's what I think you're doing. Doing exactly what you didn't do before: trying to change us. Why are you suddenly getting in our way, Jake?"

Mickey English nods, and even Paul Spears inclines his head a bit. Teddy just watches me. And suddenly I realize: these guys don't think I did a fucking thing. They think they just sat down, played 'As Long As I'm Here,' and I stayed out of the way. I pushed record, nothing more. In their mind, my leg up on people like Walter Russell is that, like him, I have nothing to offer, but unlike him I know it. Their understanding of that day in the studio when we cut the single is simple: they found some kid who was willing to let them do as they pleased, and it worked out great. They didn't want me to come back and work with them because they understood what I had accomplished, or because they felt like we were a good team. They wanted me back because they thought it was all them. And they thought I would let it be all them. No wonder they're frustrated with me now. They think all I have to do is hit record, and they'll make the magic happen, but instead I'm fucking it up by having opinions and trying to change things. They have no idea how incomplete these songs sound. They have no idea what it takes to make a good album. They don't have a clue.

I don't know what to say. I stare blankly at them. "You're fucking kidding me," I half mutter to myself.

"Excuse me?" Brooke thinks I'm insulting them. "Fucking kidding you about what?"

I feel the heat in my face. Fuck these guys. "About everything!" I yell. "You've got to be kidding me about all of it! It has to be a fucking joke! But it isn't, is it? So fuck you, Brooke! And you, Mickey! Fuck all of you!

Teddy clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Jake," he says, "you need to cool down. Let's just all of us take a little smoke break and then we'll come back. We'll play the song, you can cut it, problem solved."

I want to laugh. Problem solved? Is he fucking kidding me? "I can't believe this," I spit. "Just play the song and record it, eh? You really don't get it, do you?"

"Enlighten us," Mickey English looks amused, which I'm sure is the way he always looks when he's angry.

"You think I'm not worth a thing. You really don't think I had anything to do with 'As Long As I'm Here.' That's how clueless you are."

"And did you?" Mickey asks lightly, antagonizing me. But I'm too mad to care.

"Fucking right I did!" I'm so pissed I don't know what to do with my hands, so I clasp them. "You had a great song...a really great song...but having a great song doesn't automatically get you a great recording. Having a great song doesn't guarantee you'll end up on the radio. Who changed the key? Who turned those drums into a pounding timpani? Who worked the EQ and the reverb and the levels, and accentuated the moody swirl of the track? Who heard everything that made that song moving, made it matter, and brought it to the front? It was me. Me, you assholes. You made the song great, but I made the recording great. So don't come in here, and...and look at me, like I'm just in your way. And don't talk to me like the only thing I had to offer you that day was to stand aside and let your awe-inspiring greatness shine through. Because fuck you. Fuck you. 'As Long As I'm Here' was a fluke...it was a song that happened to be clear, and distinct, and obvious in its needs. Most songs aren't like that. Most songs need work, and thought, to become great tracks. That's what I've spent the last week trying to give you, that's what I'm worrying myself sick over, and you don't even know." I shake my head, exhausted and defeated. "I can't believe it. You don't even know."

"I'll tell you what I know," Brooke says slowly, deliberately. "I know that I'm standing here listening to a fucking gearhead take credit for our music. I'm listening to a dumb fuck who apparently wants to believe that the only thing standing between us and failure is himself."

"That's not even remotely what I'm saying." Looking around the room, I see a row of skeptic disapproval.

"You know," Teddy says quietly, "we really thought you were different, Jake."

"I guess I thought the same thing about you," I return his sad look.

He shakes his head and turns to the band. "Let's get our shit and get out of here."

"Wait," I snap, realizing that I've gone too far. "What? Friends or not, we've got a record to make."

"Is that what we've been doing here?" Mickey sneers. "I was beginning to think that this was rehearsal."

When they've all gone, Brian comes back in. "Now what?" he asks.

I shrug. "I don't suppose you know how I could find Walter Russell."

"I know his engineer. Lemme text him, see what I can find out." He messes with his phone for a bit. "He's down in F doing some mixing, but they're taking a break. Tony says you can find him up in the Birdhouse."

"Thanks, Brian," I say. "I'm going to go see if I can get some wizened advice."

"Sure thing," he says with that ever-present half-smile. "Good luck."

The Birdhouse is a huge rooftop deck area that can hold a hundred people or more. It's usually rented out for release parties and the like, but bands often head up there for a smoke when they break from recording. Today, I climb up the spiral staircase and find Walter Russell all by himself, leaning on the railing and looking out at the surrounding neighborhood.

"Walter," I call out as I approach. "I was wondering if you had a minute."

"Fuck you," he says, without turning around and without much emotion. "Go away."

I stop about ten feet back from where he stands. "I need to apologize to you."

"I said fuck you. And I believe I said go away."

"Walter, please. I know I was an-"

"FUCK YOU, I SAID," he turns on me, face a mask of hatred. "GO AWAY."

I stare at him for a moment. I don't know what to say to this kind of stonewalling. "Please. I'm fucking up," I admit. "Bad."

He looks me up and down, sighs, and turns back to his view. "Fuck you," he says. "Go away."

What can I do?

I go away.

-

It's not even noon yet when I get home. Coming up the stairs, I peer through the sun's blinding light and see Buck sitting outside on the deck. He's got a brown-bagged bottle of something not wine, and he's slouched low. I need a drinking buddy right now, but his presence is confusing to me.

"Hey, man," I call out. "Aren't you supposed to be at work?"

"Well, now," comes the drawled reply, "that sounds like Jake Currie."

I freeze about eight steps from the top.

That's not Buck.

That's AJ.

"Uh, yeah," I say slowly. "That's me. What's going on?"

He attempts to stand up, but it doesn't go well, so he just falls back into the chair. "Don't worry," he waves his hand dramatically, drunkenly. "I'm not gonna fight you."

"That's good," I say, still speaking slowly and carefully. "I'm trying to cut back on that kind of thing."

He laughs, kicking a leg out and half-turning in his chair. Then he sits up straighter and peers over at me. "You comin' up?"

"I'm still scared."

He shrugs. "Okay. She's not home right now."

"She's not. And I don't like thinking of this as her home."

"She prolly does."

"I don't think so. We're not..." I'm totally at a loss on how to phrase this. 'Fucking' seems like the wrong word to use.

"Not yet," he tilts his mystery bottle at me. "But that one always gets her way. That's what Jasmine does best...look out for Jasmine."

"She knows how to break a heart," I admit. "Hard to want a woman who makes that a hobby."

"But I shouldn't have hit her." Suddenly he's on the verge of tears. His face is all scrunched up like a kid who just skinned his knee and is trying to look tough. "I hit my wife! That was wrong."

"It was. But she was wrong, too. What the fuck was she even thinking? Do you know?"

"Like you don't."

"Like, I don't. Really."

He sighs. "Then you're as fucked as the rest of us." He thinks that's funny, and the tears are gone now. "Maybe I am gonna fight you, Currie." He stands up. "Yeah. Yeah, I think I am."

Alcohol again comes to my rescue, as it takes him almost as long to stagger over to the stairs as it does for me to reach my car and start it up. I'm gone before he even negotiates the top step. He didn't seem too serious...in fact, the whole conversation had a surreal humorous quality that I don't get...but I'm not about to stick around and find out what kind of bullshit a man that emotional and drunk might start.

Driving around town, I'm stuck with two thoughts: first, I have probably just ended my recording career, and second, Jasmine Knox has got to go.

Speaking of, I should probably call her and warn her about our possible visitor...and have Buck call me when he gets home to let me know if AJ has moved on.

Opening my phone, I'm surprised to discover that I have six missed calls. Checking the log, they're all from the same place.

I almost don't call back. I almost can't.

The number on the log is the facility where Grandpa Cooper lives. I push the little green button.

"Hello?" It's Santa's wife again.

"Hi. This is Jake Currie, I had some missed calls?"

"Oh, honey," she's so full of sympathy that I immediately know.

"When?" I ask.

"Last night," she's dripping with pity, "in his sleep. You know he-"

I hang up. It's all that I can do to pull into a Harris Teeter lot and park before I'm blinded by tears. I cry and cry and cry. For all the warning signs, clear and unmistakable, it still feels sudden. It still feels brutal and cold. My grandfather, the only living relative I had, has died in his sleep. I never got back up there to see him. I barely even called, near the end.

Here am I, the last of my tribe. The only remaining branch on a bent and rotting tree.

Here am I, lost as the night. Alone as any dreamer.

Friends and family have all gone before. There's nobody else left to grieve for August Cooper, who sold newspapers to the troops on the trains during World War II. Who rode those same rails home from Korea. Who always gave and never asked for anything in return.

There's nobody left but me, sitting here alone in a grocery store parking lot, and I grieve all the harder for it.