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Authors: Michael Rubens

The Bad Decisions Playlist (9 page)

BOOK: The Bad Decisions Playlist
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I said goodbye before you ever said hello /

so now I'll never have to watch you go

 

Your big music career.

Just a reminder about what this girl really thinks of me.

A reminder of who I really am.

What was I playing at there? Even if I
was
attracted to her, she'd never lower herself to be with someone like me.

Forget about all of it. Forget about the contract, forget about mowing lawns, forget about tutors and math and Todd. Forget Josephine forever. Because I have a Mission, and my Mission is giving me something I haven't had in a long time. Hope.

I'm downtown. I came here on my motorcycle, right after my futile attempts with Josephine. No lawn mowing this afternoon, which leaves me free to complete my mission. I'm going to find Shane.

I'm going to find my father.

I don't know downtown Minneapolis very well, and I don't know the warehouse district at all, so I get a bit confused by the numbered avenues and streets, some of which start and stop and get interrupted by railroad tracks. I finally locate the building, then search the exterior for several minutes before I notice a door with a small acid-treated metal sign no larger than a hardcover book, letters cut through the steel announcing the name of the studio. The door is beat up and industrial and locked. There's an intercom button, so I push it, and after the second push I hear a faint buzzing and the door clicks.

There aren't that many recording studios in the city. I started calling them. “Hey, the label is sending a package to Shane Tyler​—​he going to be there tomorrow?”

Twice I got a “Who?”; another two times I got a “Shane Tyler? He's not recording here,” and on the fifth call I got a bored “Yep.” That's the studio I'm at now.

The hallway is exposed brick and wide-plank wood floors, warehouse-y. It leads to a modern-looking reception desk, plopped incongruously in the midst of what looks like an unfinished renovation project. It doesn't appear that there's anyone behind the desk, until I get a little closer and see a rocker dude leaning way back in a chair, his legs stretched out in front of him. He goes more with the warehouse look than with the clean lines of the desk. He's got long hair and a scruffy beard and is wearing a vintage Thin Lizzy tour shirt. He's reading a copy of
Guitar Player
and keeps reading when I reach the desk and stand across from him.

“Hi,” I say.

He glances up at me. After a moment, he gives me the universal eyebrow raise and head movement that signifies,
Yeah? Spit it out already.

“I'm supposed to meet Shane,” I say.

I'd thought about what would be the best approach. I could have said, “Is Shane here?” but that would likely have inspired suspicion. “I'm here to see Shane” could also have raised questions. “I'm
supposed
to meet Shane” indicates that someone else made the decision, that I'm only here to carry out my assignment. At least that's how I hoped it would be perceived.

Rocker Dude stares at me. I'm guessing he was the bored voice who answered the phone before. I hold my breath. Then he makes another exasperated eyebrow raise/head movement that's the universal gesture for
So why are you just standing here and distracting me from my “Five Yngwie Malmsteen Solos You HAVE to Know” article?
and goes back to reading.

“Thanks,” I say, and walk past him down the hall. I'm not sure exactly where I'm going, but I don't want to pause, in case Rocker Dude finishes his research and decides maybe he should actually do his job. The hall is sloppy drywall, lined with framed articles and band posters and the occasional gold record. I get to the end and take a left. The hallway extends another twenty feet or so and then dead-ends into a closed unpainted metal door. When I get to it, I pause, unsure what to do, and then hear voices. Loud voices. Loud, angry, shouting voices. Getting louder.

I step back from the door, and it's lucky I do, because in that instant the door bursts open toward me like it's been kicked and slams into the doorstop, rebounding halfway closed, and gets kicked open again. Then I have to flatten myself against the wall to avoid being speared in the stomach by a hard-shell bass guitar case, carried by a guy who is talking over his shoulder as he storms directly at me.

“Yeah, well, guess what?” he's saying at someone behind him, “
I
don't need this crap either!” Then he marches past me without as much as a glance in my direction.

“Rob! Rob, c'mon!” says a woman, and she emerges from the doorway in pursuit. She's maybe in her early twenties, and very pretty, sandy brown hair, in jeans and a T-shirt. Rob stops and turns to her.

“Amy, I'm sorry, I can't. I love you to death, but I just can't,” he says.

“Rob, c'mon, we can work through this.”

“No, I don't think we can.”

“We
can.

“No, we
can't,
” says a new voice, and then there's Shane, who has tromped out of the doorway and planted himself right in front of me, not registering my presence. “We
can't
work through it, because you don't know how, because you don't know how to be a professional!” he says, jabbing a finger at Rob.

“Oh,
I
don't know how to be a professional?” says Rob, putting down his bass and stalking back toward Shane, ignoring Amy as she pulls at him and says, “Rob, c'mon, just leave it!”

“Let me tell you about being a professional!” says Rob, reaching Shane, and then the two of them do that thing where you stand too close to each other and point fingers in each other's faces and shout angry sentences simultaneously with barely a pause to breathe, while Amy does her best to interject and split them apart. I'm right there. I'm so close, I could put a hand on each of the disputants' shoulders without straightening my arm, but I'm invisible.

This is a totally different Shane from the one the day before, the cautious, needy supplicant. I note that he has a bandage similar to mine on his forehead, which I'm assuming covers a wound caused by a Renaissance festival mug.

“I can get another bass player in an hour!” Shane is shouting.

“Yeah? And, what, your third drummer? Your fifth guitarist? It's been
weeks
of this crap!”

Amy is facing me directly across the hallway at handshake distance. As she tries to keep the confrontation from escalating past words to fists, her eyes fall on me like I'd just materialized that moment. I look back at her helplessly, apologetically. The shift in her attention makes the other two glance at me, and that breaks the momentum of the argument.

“Ah, screw this,” says Rob, and he turns away, and marches down the hall, picks up his bass, and disappears around the corner.

“Yeah, that's right, just quit!” shouts Shane after him. “You suck, Rob! You
suck!

Then he looks at me again, and I can see the process as he recognizes me.

“Oh, great,” he says, and stomps off through the door and slams it shut behind him.

“Shane!” says Amy, but she doesn't follow him. “Oh, crap.” She closes her eyes and leans against the wall, sighing. Then she opens them and looks at me, seemingly surprised that I'm still there.

“Hi,” she says. “Can I help you with something?”

“Um,” I say, and point toward the closed door, “I think that's my dad.”

∗  ∗  ∗

About fifteen minutes pass before she reemerges from the door, fifteen minutes that I spend rocking back and forth on my feet, then pacing, then leaning against the wall and lightly drumming on it with my knuckles and palms, then finally just sitting on the floor. When she comes out, I clamber to my feet, but I can immediately tell from her expression​—​pained, embarrassed​—​that she's not the bearer of glad tidings.

“I should probably take off,” I say before she speaks, saving her the trouble.

“I'm sorry,” she says. “It's just . . . It's not a great time.”

“Sure. Sure, yeah, no worries.”

“I'm Amy, by the way,” she says, and holds out her hand.

“Yeah, I gathered that during all the excitement,” I say. “I'm Austin.” We shake hands.

“Sorry about all this,” she says.

“No worries.”

“Still, sorry.”

She pauses.

“Are you really, you know . . . ?”

“I don't know. I think so. Or my mom thinks so. I'm kind of new to the whole thing.”

She nods. “Wow.”

“Yeah. So . . . you working on the new album?” I know I should leave, but I'm stretching it out, hoping Shane will change his mind.

“Yeah, moral support, that sort of thing.”

She's very attractive, and I can't help wondering exactly what sort of moral support she's providing.

“How's the recording going?”

She gives me a
What do you think?
look.

“Right,” I say. I do a bit more foot shuffling. “Maybe if I came back some other time,” I say.

She hesitates, looks embarrassed and pained again.

“Uh . . .”

“Or maybe not,” I add quickly. “Okay. Well. Nice to meet you.”

“You too,” she says, and we shake hands again and I turn to go. After a few steps, I stop.

“Hey, Amy?”

She pauses, her hand on the half-open door.

“Can you give him a message from me?”

“Sure.”

“Could you tell him to go screw himself?”

She smiles sadly. “Sure.”

“Thanks.”

Then I leave.

 

It's pretty clear / this beauty here / is gonna turn to ugly /

I'm pretty sure / this pretty girl / will pretty damn near ruin me

 

“You know something? It's actually kind of comfortable lying here,” I say.

“Austin,” says Alex, “seriously, there's one coming. Get up.”

He's about five yards to my right, straightening up after resting his ear on the track. He doesn't need to tell me a train is coming​—​I can feel the vibrations growing stronger through the back of my skull, which is resting on the polished steel surface of the rail, my body parallel with the oil-soaked ties, the opposite rail cool and hard under my calves.

“No, I think this is a perfectly reasonable course of action,” says Devon, who's sitting on the opposite rail. “He failed his math test, Alex.
His math test.
What else can he do?”

It's Monday. Let's summarize the past few days.

Thursday: The narrowly avoided gelding via hedge shears.

Friday: Both Josephine and Shane rejected me.

Saturday: Lawn mowing. During which time
someone
let the air out of both of the tires on my motorcycle. I had to wheel it about a mile to a gas station to fill them up.

Sunday: More lawns.
Someone
decorated the seat and handle-bars of my motorcycle with smears of dog crap.

Sunday evening: I tried to study for my math test. I lasted for approximately ten minutes and one polynomial. I could have asked Rick for help, but, vomit. Then I went to sleep, the music in my head, and dreamed Josephine was telling me I was late for class and I was going to fail my test.

Monday, today: I woke from that dream and realized I had slept through my alarm, was late to summer school, and failed my test.

I have to hand it to Terry the Shaman: she really nailed it regarding this month.

So when I staggered out of my summer school session, with no lawn crew duties today, I called Devon and said, let's go to Mr. Whitmore's house.

Which is where we are now, except there is no house​—​nor is there a Mr. Whitmore. It's what we call this wooded area where the train tracks pass over a creek, because when you like to smoke pot with your friends, you invent clever and hilarious code names for your little meet-up areas.
Want to go to Whitmore's after school today? Sure. Tee hee!
I'm not sure why we settled on that name. But when we want to do some serious weed ingesting​—​which, after the events of the past few days, I really wanted to do​—​we go to Whitmore's, where we like to sit leaning against trees near the creek and smoke and watch the trains go by a few yards away, trying to count the cars as they blur past.

Several hazy minutes ago, I decided that it would be interesting to see what it's like to lie down on train tracks, like in Rhett Miller's song “Fireflies,” or like a damsel in distress.

“You're a friggin' idiot in distress,” said Devon.

Once I was lying down, I started pondering my problems, which seem to be mounting up at an alarming rate, and then started thinking that maybe I could let a train solve those problems.

“Why don't you guys go?” I say. “I'm good here.”

Beneath my skull, the vibrations are getting stronger, and I think I can hear the sound of the train in the distance.

BOOK: The Bad Decisions Playlist
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