Quicksilver

"Nate Kramer? Signe Sperlin." She sounded coherent. "I'll get to the point. Geoff played me a tape of the song you cut in his sound booth, a song about a holiday. Is that yours?"

"Yes it is; just finished it recently for my girlfriend."

"And that's you on the fancy guitar work?"

"That's me. Not my guitar yet, I usually fingerpick a twelve-string Dobro for tourists around the Cannery and the wharves. It's loud enough to be heard over traffic. Why so curious?"

"You in a band? Got any plans with the song?"

"Well, when I was younger, I was with Wizardry but they didn't need a dulcimer player or student guitarist and I guess they got better because that hit was after I left. I'm out of the business. And my only plan for the song is to add a couple silly verses for my niece and nephew. Again, why the curiosity?"

"Holy shit, you missed the big time by inches, didn't you? What do you do now besides sing on sidewalks? Tell me that, and I'll tell you why."

"I just quit my job as a bike courier downtown. I'll hopefully be in an electronics engineering program at SF State next semester. Right now I help my girlfriend with her art."

"Sounds like you're on a speakerphone. Is she there?"

"I'm here," I said, "and he's more help than you can imagine, so I'm keeping him."

"Whoaah, easy there! That's your voice on the machine message. Can I call you by a name?"

"Nate's young kinfolk call us 'Unca Natey' and 'Anty Lidee' but I usually go by Lydia."

"Mucho gusto, glad to know you, Lydia. Okay, the why. Nate, your song is a winner and your finger-picking is sweet. I told the rest of the band about what I heard but they know nothing else yet. I'd like to get you with us so they can hear you 'cause I think we should record it. I loved the words; it sounds like a song for all holidays. Have you published it?"

"I hadn't thought about that because I've avoided being commercial. You think it has potential?"

"I think if we go folk-rocky with vocals stacked behind me and strong guitar, like your old band — and they were our inspiration! — we WILL have a hit for all seasons, with years and years of sales. Would you work with our publisher?"

"Hi, Signe," I said. "I just quit my job running a law office; we handle some intellectual property issues. You think this could be big? I should run this past my ex-boss. Who are your publisher, agent, and lawyer?"

"You quit law for art? I admire your guts. But before we go on, I want the band to hear Nate."

"I hope you, your band, and anyone in the vicinity won't mind signing non-disclosure agreements. Not that I don't trust you, but..."

"But you don't trust me, have no reason to, and the world can be a dirty place; I grok it, Lydia. Okay, print your NDAs. You might want Geoff to sign one also. He may not have played the tape for anyone else, but then again, he sure could have."

"I signed an agreement to cut that record," Nate said, "and it's supposed to be my property alone. It sure couldn't hurt to wander by and see if I can take the original tape home."

"You do that. Sooner is probably better. Now, when and where can I have the band sign NDAs and hear you?"

"I'll suggest," Nate said, "tomorrow afternoon about three, right here in our home. I'll do a quick living room concert. We can go downtown in the morning for NDAs, m'lady, and I do want to buy that Martin D-18 at GuitarWorld. A mountain dulcimer, too; I've missed my old one. Sound possible?"

"Works for me," I said.

"Me too," Signe said; "I will make sure the guys are awake."

I gave her our address and warned her to call before coming over. We said our goodbyes. I poured fruit juices for Nate and I and set him on the sofa.

"Okay, tell me. Why here?"

"I have an oscillator that emits signals that totally fucks with tape recording. If one of them has anything like a little Nagra SN tape deck, they'll pirate nothing. And they'll see your art and figure out who you are. Don't stop at just selling paintings and sketches. Think about painting album covers — and collecting royalties — and spiking demand and prices for your work.

"They'll come down the hallway with the blacklight on and our cutout figures glowing. How much do you think a popular band will want strong show designs? Have your signature prominent and take a percentage of ticket sales."

"Hmmm," I hummed, "I think we may hire S&J LLC for some legal work. I'll call Teresa so NDAs will be ready. In fact, let's drive down as soon as I hang up, grab your tape, buy your guitar and dulcimer, and double-park at S&J for the paperwork. That'll leave our morning free. Oh yeah, and when we're back here, I am going to strip my marketing genius — that's you — I'll strip him buck-naked and fuck him till his eyes fall out."

"My eyes! My eyes!" Nate wailed piteously, arm flung across his face. "Not my eyes!"

"Awaken your inner eyes. What do you see?"

"I see my lady, my Valentine, my love."

"Right answer. Get naked or I'll go for scissors."

I did not need to cut his clothes off. Mine vanished just as quickly. Our fuck was hot and heavy. He kept his eyes, but I tried, oh how I tried!

I called Teresa and then drove the Citroën downtown. Nate got the tape without me having to pull out my law office ID, and he bought the meaty guitar and sweet dulcimer for cash, discounted. I pulled up outside the S&J LLC office; Nate ran in and emerged smiling, clutching a manilla folder and a tall paper cup of coffee.

"Everyone says HI; they laughed that I was in for another document pick-up. Teresa was almost as efficient as you at the front desk. Hey, it's about dinnertime. I have a place in mind."

We splurged on a BBQ dinner at Leon's, across from the San Francisco zoo. A sign on his wall announces his agreement with his bank: they don't make food and he don't cash checks. He does prepare BBQ damn well. Nate suggested that Leon either franchise, or put out a line of bottled sauces and/or packaged meats. Leon said he would think about it.

I drove us to a parking spot by Cliff House where we could neck and watch the ocean. Then it was Nate's class time. We spun home through the almost-crazy traffic; Nate carried his new old instruments inside and retrieved his study materials. We made it to the tech school just in time.

I drove back home, tended to Figgy, and sketched and painted in my studio. I did some alternate-view charcoal renderings of Nate's satiated genitals. Those would sell!

I thought of my earlier concern, of being an art factory. If I was going for the most money, does that make me an art whore, or only a savvy businesswoman? Maybe both, or all three. But I am only following my vision. It's ME, dammit! My ambitions are growing. Watch out, world!

I left a message at the school and kept working. Nate bused home, saw me in my art delirium, and studied at the kitchen table with Figgy on his lap, as I saw when I popped out for fruit juice.

"Taking a break?" he asked.

"The business side is like a gallon of coffee but I don't have to pee. Somehow my synapses just snap with raw energy. Album covers and stage sets whiz past my inner eye. What other treasures can you imagine? A laser show on the moon? We're collaborating, y'know. You're my partner, my muse, my life. Oooh, my easel insists on my presence. You'll know when I'm free."

I re-hydrated — art delirium burns me up — and went back to it. Another face, another torso, another angle and emphasis. All very precise and fast. Yes, I *AM* an art machine.

I was manic in bed again. Nate did not whimper.

===== Tuesday, week 11 =====

We were up fashionably early with a fabulus fuck and a good-enough breakfast. We walked to the rental studio and arranged things until noon. Sandwiches and salads for lunch, and then tidy the apartment for visitors. They called a bit before three and were here on time. A working band has to know about schedules, right?

A dark blue passenger van sat out front when I answered the doorbell. Bright blonde Signe was first inside, followed by her bandmates of varied shadings. She introduced short Rolf, tall Dolph, skinny Feeny, and robust Mick. They stopped at the head of the blacklighted glowing hallway.

"Damn cool scene here," Feeny said.

Rolf peered closely at our dancing, throbbing figures. He saw our signatures.

"Hey, it's an L.Barnes original," he said; "super cool!".

Dolph laughed. "Did you see that shit about the painted car that fucked-up traffic on Van Ness?"

"How could I have missed it?" I smiled. "Shoes off here, please."

I led the group to the living room. With a couple kitchen chairs added, there was barely seating for all. Figgy disappeared, of course. Nate went across the room and fine-tuned the Martin.

Rolf looked at my art on the walls. "Hey, these are all L.Barnes. Is 'L' for Lydia? Is that you?"

I only smiled. "Set yourselves down. Anyone want a beer? Anchor Steam okay with you?"

I opened bottles from the fridge and passed them around. I passed the NDAs too. They all signed.

"Here's the song. First, what Signe heard."

He dropped a needle on the 45 disk, my early-or-late Valentine gift. Music filled the room. The band looked stunned. Signe smiled.

Mick recovered first. "That was just you and that guitar in a sound booth?"

"This guitar, which I bought yesterday."

Nate fitted the Martin's strap over his shoulder and played an open chord. His bare fingers worked a ragtime riff. He sang. He played intricate instrumental breaks and repeated the ending:

  ♫   Every day's a holiday with you ♫   Every day's a holiday with you ♫   Every day's a holiday with you   ♫

Signe sang with him. The men built strong, tight chords. Magic happened. Dolph hit a high falsetto note and faded with the last guitar chord. Silence reigned. Figgy watched from the window ledge.

"Holy fuck," Feeny said, his baritone matching Nate. "Just holy fuck."

"Our lawyers MUST talk to your lawyers," Signe said. "We need to record this." Her bandmates nodded and grunted agreement.

"I have a couple more verses for the kids' version," Nate said, and sang, almost a chant.

  ♫   ♫   Anty Lidee has a message for you   ♫   You ought to know that she loves you, too   ♫   You're the best presents she ever knew   ♫   Even if you neglect to wear a shoe   ♫   Everyday's a holiday when we're with you   ♫   ♫

A slow guitar break with softly ringing harmonics; Nate barely touched the strings. Then more.

  ♫   ♫   Santa don't need to slide down no chimney flue   ♫   Don't need no jingle bells or turkey stew   ♫   Lori and Larry, they just grew and grew   ♫   Anty Lidee sends her love to you   ♫   Everyday's a holiday when we're with you   ♫   ♫

And "Every day's a holiday" repeated and fading out.

Signe giggled and sighed. "That's cute. Nate, will you sit in a session with us? Maybe think of doing shows, too? Your playing is tasty."

"Gotta tell you," Nate said. "I'm out of the business. I know what it takes and my path is elsewhere. I'm a circuitry freak. I'm just about to get FCC-licensed to work on communications electronics, and then I'll be in an electro-engineering program at SF State. No touring. No mania."

Dolph said, "You know audio-spectrum gear? We use some effects boxes that are kinda fucked. You may be interested in improving them? We'll pay, sure. Not as much as your lady makes. That was YOU with that painted car shit?"

I nodded. Dolph looked deep into me.

"You do great visuals, lady. Can we commission a group portrait, maybe a set of paintings? And are you interested in doing album covers and poster art?"

"I love your hallway," Rolf said. "Ever thought of doing set designs? And our band van would look good painted like that Citroën."

Nate laughed. "Even better. What did I tell you, m'lady?"

His question was rhetorical. I shrugged.

"That means we're taking applications for commission work," Nate said. "She has an art agent, Argo Phratos. He gets a cut because that's the contract. I guess we need a music agent, too. The one my old band had... that's better left unsaid. Maybe Mr Salman has some leads."

"I won't mind painting you all as long as you aren't too weird, but I can't paint cars right now," I said. "I have an exclusive for another five months. Can you wait?"

"It's a big van but it can stay ugly for now," Mick said. "I sense concord here. When do we start?"

"The NDAs expire when you record," I said. "Let's get all our leeches to fix the paperwork. Do you need to book studio time?"

"What we've got is fine," Rolf said. "We're in a big old house in the Haight-Ashbury with a basement studio, Two TEAC 4-tracks and a mixer, some effects, enough baffles; we cut our last two albums there, with Grouchy engineering. He's a pain most of the time but he's good. Nate, do you know your way around a sound board?"

"I trained on maintenance and operation but haven't seriously twisted knobs yet, so Grouchy still has a job."

"But you can look at our effects, right?" Dolph sounded a little anxious.

"I don't have a workshop here. That's part of why we're moving to a place nearby soon. We've built a painting studio for Lydia, also not far. I have two weeks of tech school left. And we have to decide on our new home. It might be three weeks before I can check your devices. Can you wait?"

"We can get by with what we have so yeah, a little longer won't matter," Mick said. "But we want to record 'Holiday' soonest. Hey, I'm remembering something... Nate Kramer... you were on TV news a few weeks ago, right? Rescued some starlet bimbo, 'Legs' something-or-other."

"Guilty as charged," Nate admitted. "I used to be a beach lifeguard. It's no big thing."

"So you've got a heroic singer-songwriter-guitarist electro-engineering bike messenger here, right, Lydia?" Signe asked. "Anything else? Can he cook?" She leered at him.

"Only bare necessities," Nate said. "I won't scare you with details. A local Thai place delivers."

"But he thinks up good marketing and money tricks," I said. "Car-painting was his idea. That's worth a lot already. We'll work up other good things, won't we, lover?"

"Sure as shit, m'lady. Let's go for painting airliners. And blimps."

"Holy fuck," Feeny said reverently. "What's next, the moon?"

I smirked, "I already suggested a lunar laser show."

"Up Uranus!" Signe cackled. We all groaned.

A silver chain disappeared in Signe's cleavage. She pulled out a small gold watch, looked at the dial, and dropped it back.

"This has been very productive but we have another meeting scheduled. I'll get our agent busy organizing things. Nate, I love your music. Lydia, I love your art. I love the vibes you both radiate. And your cat is so calm." Figgy had not left his window perch.

Handshakes and hugs, a slow walk through the blacklight-glowing hallway, and the apartment was ours again.

I pulled Nate to me, quivering. Damn, I was excited!

"I don't feel like cooking. The fog bank is offshore; let's go for the Cliff House lounge for happy hour drinks, snacks, and plotting. But first I need to make a call." I kissed him.

Nate reorganized the living room. Figgy came for kibble. I called Teresa at Salman & Johannes. Yes, a verbal client contract would work; I authorized her to sign for me. I was no longer The Gatekeeper, only another barbarian at the gates. But I got a discounted rate.

Nate broke in on the conversation. "Tell her that when we copyright 'Holiday', the subtitle is 'Lydia's Song', with four creators: Nate Kramer, Lydia Barnes, Lori Neary, and Larry Neary. I hereby split the royalties four ways with my inspirations. I'll write that on the music and lyric sheets we attach to the copyright application. Don't argue," he told me. "It's done."

Nate was paying me from his efforts alone. I was not his sugar mama.

I was not about to quibble. I relayed the names to Teresa. Jeremy the paralegal would get the task of organizing everything for us.

I rolled us in the Citroën to Cliff House. Happy hour snacks and drinks; surf sounds and smells; the sun sinking into the low, distant fog bank. A bit of scheming, then back home for more scheming, and a frozen pizza with thawed wine at midnight after lovemaking, and back to bed for dreamy sleep.

This was yet another good day.

===== Wednesday, week 11 =====

Our handy leeches — lawyers, agents, advisors, all sucking their clients' blood with good intent — reached an accord Wednesday morning, couriered documents (via Quicksilver) among all parties, and had signoffs by the close of business. Sometimes the bloodsuckers ARE useful.

Signe called and asked Nate if he could come to their home studio tomorrow. Yes, they were really in a rush to record.

Our lovemaking was wonderful. Figgy approved.

===== Thursday, week 11 =====

We ate an early lunch and rolled in the Citroën to the Haight-Ashbury. Nate brought both the new Martin and the old Dobro for the session; just in case, he said. The Maxwell's Demon house was a big classic Victorian off the Panhandle. What we saw of the main floor looked tidy but we were quickly hustled downstairs by a harried-looking Latina.

The basement studio looked used. An impatient-looking grey-haired man occupied a small control booth & mdash; Grouchy, I guessed. A big drum set and large amps and speakers were pushed into a corner. Sound baffles marked off areas around mics on stands and electric guitars with small amps. All five of the band huddled together. Mick saw us and broke loose.

"We have an area for you if you play so set your guitars right over there. Electric? No; well then, can you play into a mic?"

"Since before you and I started growing chin hairs, yeah. I've gigged in worse than this."

"Hah! So you left Wizardry, who just about invented folk-rock; and their hit outsold the Beatles; and you think you know shit?"

"If you can play ragas on a mountain dulcimer better than me, I'll bow out. If you can't stand my guitar playing, bite me."

Mick snorted. "Fuck, you'll do. So tell me, mister heroic singer-songwriter-wanker, what do we have to work with? Besides the ending."

Teresa had Xeroxed the music and lyric sheets. Nate passed them out.

"Hey, you wrote chords and tabs as well as notes," Feeny said. "I can work with this."

The band rehearsed 'Holiday' aka 'Lydia's Song' — MY song! — a few times with different pauses and focuses. Signe pointed at Grouchy and I guess he rolled tape. They played a few takes, faster and slower. Rolf waved Nate in to play solos, first on the Martin, then on the Dobro, funkier.

"We done good," Feeny said. "But those kids' verses... any ideas there?"

Rolf said, "A-capella on top of my bass, syncopated quarters, just to keep the beat. They're your niece and nephew, Nate. You want to sing the lead? You wrote it in G-major. That's your vocal range?"

"Yeah," Nate said, "but you guys should try stacking vocals on the chorus a few times. Then we'll have it. Signe, can you join me an octave up, just the last word of each line?"

They rehearsed. It was magic. Then they recorded a few takes, faster and slower. Then, done.

Signe had taken notes while she sang and listened.

"Grouchy, give us takes 3, 6, and 9."

Sounds flowed from the studio monitors. Magical sounds. A fucking heavenly choir, just a few human voices merging. The love in Nate's voice in his lead baritone. My wet eyes.

"Nate, play the first version, not the kids', as a guitar solo," Signe said, "first the Martin straight, then the Dobro, not real complex but a bit funny. You have a slide? Great! Do it right and we'll have our full band take on the single's A side and your instrumental as the B side."