Manage me, I'm a mess
Turn a page, I'm a book half unread
I wanna be laughed at, laughed with just because
I wanna feel weightless and that should be enough

Chapter 24 – How to Make Your D.I.Y. Band

Of course Dad was stark-raving furious about me leaving without his permission. He’d been clear about that when he called me this morning. And if it wasn’t for his precious Nate, he’d probably taken the first flight to LA to teach me some kick-butt lessons. I’d expected that. After some time, I’d made some effort to think ahead, scheme hard and hope for the best. That, I learned from my brother.

Speaking of the devil, my only consolation was that he was sly enough, cold enough, merciless enough, capable enough to look after Sarah for me. I knew he’d never hesitate to break Megan’s neck if she so much as ventured fifty feet near Sarah. Well, that was both comforting and disturbing at the same time. But it wasn’t like I had any choice.

“Sorry. Can we do that again?” I said on the mic, glancing up at Riley, my musical director. Tiredly, I pulled down the headphones from my ears and paced across the vocal booth.

Riley shifted on his seat behind the digital audio workstation in the control room. “Okay. Take five, Leon,” he replied from the other side of the glass panel. “Take five, guys,” he repeated on his microphone to the band in another stall adjacent to mine.

I breathed out and stretched. Focus, Leon. You have to do this.

In the live room, Jobs—CEO of Sonnet Records, a pale, skinny man in gray pin-striped suit and a military haircut—eyed at me coldly, crossing his thin arms over his chest. He’d given up to a lot of my demands. The grand press con and its all-out TV promotions. My request to have the world tour moved to October, instead of this month.  It had cost him much. Now I’d have to do my part of the bargain and record my carrier single—Insane. But it felt like something was missing. The more I listened to Nathan’s demo, the more I saw why.

The beat was too lively for the theme of the song which was well, about someone going insane about his unrequited love. The piano arrangement, unlike Freddy’s was too simple, too predictable. And the lead guitarist seemed like he was having a delusion that he was playing for Papa Roach. All of them were handpicked by Jobs to torture me and they were doing a great job.

Impatiently, Jobs tapped a finger on his Timex watch. Riley just sighed seeing that. It had just been a couple of minutes, nonetheless, the director was forced to call our attention. Jobs was God in this lair. And his time was too precious to waste on me. Time. That was exactly what I needed but couldn’t afford. I needed more time with Sarah, to tell her everything. Everything… About who I really am. Who I was. What was really happening. To break it to her gently.

“Positions, guys,” Riley half-heartedly barked, fumbling with the mixing console, giving a quick glance at the monitors. Again, the red recording light on top of the door frame flickered on and we were back on air.

The long-haired guitar dude did the intro, eventually accompanied by piano-geek. Drummer boy started a bit too excitedly. I closed my eyes and focused on my part. Focus.

I held your hands a thousand times before,

Had your smile but I wanted more…

Exasperatedly, I yanked the headphones away. “This isn’t working at all. Sorry, guys,” I turned to the band. The sound was so wrong. It wasn’t what how I envisioned everything. I could tell that Jobs and Riley weren’t pleased at all.

Jobs’ long skinny face turned a deep hue of scarlet. As he barged into the control room and virtually yanked the mic off the console. He looked like he was having a heart attack. “Keep going! Damn it! What’s your problem now? I lose millions of dollars every single second you waste in here, Leon.”

I took my time to think for a while, making him even more ballistic. “I have one more condition.”

Jobs huffed, loosening his tie. “What now? You want a pony?”

I stared at the floor for a while, feeling an involuntary smile coming. I just found out the solution for my problem. “Ha, very funny,” I humored him. “I want my own band.”

“What?!”

“My own band. I want my own band.” I smirked.

“Leon, are you blind?” he said in a fake friendly tone.  He pointed a shaking finger to the dudes in the next booth. “There’s your band. I personally handpicked them. The best of the best.”

“Yeah… I see them,” I chuckled. “But I already have people in mind. And I want them here first thing tomorrow.”

With his bony face crumpling, he snatched a cell phone from his assistant and poked the dials with a grudge. It was almost fun to watch. Did I ever mention that I so liked this guy? Not. The mousy middle-aged lady—the assistant—frantically scribbled on her notepad, mechanically recording whatever her boss was fuming about over the phone. When the CEO was done badmouthing probably one or more of his subordinates, he slammed a hand on the equalizers.

“You better record something decent,” he threatened, grinding the words through his grayish, nicotine-stained teeth. “Tomorrow.”

I glanced at my wrist watch. Fifteen past three. If they don’t arrive in forty-five minutes I’d be toast. Jobs would surely love to rub it in. I paced the glassy gray and white-tiled floor in the lobby of the recording studio’s building. Why weren’t they coming? Nate said he’d talk to them. It was his fault they got mad at me anyway. Okay. It was my fault too. Partially.

Maybe Jobs’ assistant screwed up with the flight schedules. Or maybe, the guys didn’t listen to Nathan. Couldn’t blame them. My brother can be a total ass at times—meaning all the time.

After nearly half an hour of waiting, I saw the company’s service van stop by the lobby entrance. The door slid open spewing Chuck and Reed. They nudged each other as they hauled themselves out of the vehicle. Ricky came next, looking around uneasily, slinging a laptop bag over his shoulder.

Some things never change.

“Hey,” I said as they came in, which sounded pretty lame. Awkward. But that was all I could think of. “How’s the flight?” Yeah. Like I really cared about that.

The blondes looked at each other meaningfully. That’s some telepathic thing they had going on. Ricky’s eyes darted left and right. He was breathing so fast, looking like he was going to faint anytime now. Jitters, I guessed.

“Look, guys,” I sighed deeply, sorting out the words in my head. “I know we—“

“Do we really have time for that?” Reed muttered giving me a look.

Chuck glanced at his wrist and pretended to look at the time even though he didn’t have a watch. “I thought we have to be here at four?” He grinned.

“Yeah,” Reed agreed, snorting as he forced back a smile. “Nate said it was a matter of life and death. We thought it’d be fun.”

Ricky squirmed. “Fun? Gran’s totally going to kill me. This can be considered kidnapping, you know?” he grumbled, smiling wryly with the guys.

Reed slapped him hard on the back, laughing. “We both know you went as far as drug Gran just to make it here, Ricky. What Gran doesn’t know won’t hurt her. Probably. She’d just think you got locked up in the public library after closing time or something. If… I mean, when she wakes up.”

I grinned back at them. I knew I could count on these guys. We cut back on the chit-chat and hurried to the elevator, to the fourth floor of the building to get to the studio. We ran like hell along the sleek corridor and arrived at the last few minutes of my deadline. I barely caught my breath before shouldering the glass doors. When we got in, the guys gaped at the posters of past and present artists made famous by Sonnet. Hurriedly, I rallied the guys to Studio 2, pushing and yanking them away from staring at the pictures on the walls.

We literally burst through Studio 2’s entrance. As we did, I saw the toothy sneer disappear from Jobs’ face. Classic. He managed to contort his rubbery face—too much Botox, I guessed—to glower at us before wordlessly waving us off. Riley, on the other hand, was suppressing a smile as he tilted his thumb to the booth, giving us the signal to get in. That told me Riley must be a member of the Secret Anti-Jobs Movement.

Like hungry wolves, the guys raced to the door of the recording booth and dropped their backpacks on the floor. I could tell by the way their eyes widened and shined that they were somehow amazed by the instruments I (meaning Moira) prepped for them. A Fender American Standard Strat for Reed. The latest model of Korg stage piano for nerdy Ricky. And a Tama Starclassic for Chuck.

“Okay,” I said, clearing my throat. For the first time in many years, there were butterflies in my stomach. “Just like Freddy’s arrangement.”

“What?” Chuck groaned irritably. “Now? Where are the groupies? The first class hotel suite? The designer shades? The paparazzi!” he lamented pretentiously.

I shot him a look that said, seriously?

“Kidding,” he chuckled, practically hurling himself behind the drum set, making a quick roll.

Gulping, Ricky headed to the keyboard and stood there frozen. He looked like he was counting the keys. Ugh, crud. Reed ran a hand over the sleek surface of the electric guitar before slinging it over his shoulder, intently tweaking the strings to check if it was tuned okay. Heaving a deep breath, I propped my own guitar—a vintage modified Jaguar in custom blue—in front of me and stepped closer to the microphone. In the live room, Jobs, his mousy assistant, Charlie Rudd—a swarthy, dark-haired guy in knee-length shorts and golf shirt, who had something to do with production—Riley, Moira and two other staff fixed their eyes on us.

“Just like Freddy,” Ricky nodded, his fingers shaking as he positioned them on the keys.

Reed let out a grunt like he was choking on his tongue. “Leon, if you got any advice, now would be the right time to give it.”

“Err…” I rummaged in my brain for something encouraging. Something that’d sound cool. “Don’t mess up.” Right… Cool. Pshh.

“Makes perfect sense,” Chuck commented from behind us, shrugging like he’d done this a million times before. At least one of us was relaxed. He tapped one of his drumsticks over the other, chanting, “One, two… one, two, three, four…”

Throwing me a reluctant look, Ricky did his intro. I gave him a nod. Reed and Chuck accompanied him in a silent harmony. It took us three tries to make it through the song. Our small audience looked a bit impatient at first but as the whole track unravelled and with the help of Riley’s outboard effects—which was pure genius, if you’d ask me—the song turned out pretty awesome in my opinion. A bit badass but still tame enough to be easy on the ear. Even better than Nathan’s demo, I bet. Way better. And while I sang, I kept an eye on the people watching us. They seemed to be enjoying the song, nodding their heads a bit to the rhythm as it picked up pace.

Except for Jobs, of course. He was born sour-faced.

I haven’t had much fun recording and performing in years until now. I felt like cracking up just seeing Chuck beat the drums with that funny I’m-in-my-element look on his face. Or Ricky actually looking kind of cool. And Reed. As serious as hell, like he was in an operating room rather than a recording studio.

“And… that’s a wrap,” Riley announced from the other side of the booth. “Good work, guys.”

Chuck and Reed did their secret handshake behind their backs. Beside the producers, Moira excitedly grabbed the clipboard from Jobs’ assistance and wrote something before showing to us what she wrote.

WT!!!

“What does WT mean?” Ricky mumbled.

I grinned widely at the guys, prolonging the suspense. “WT. World tour.”

“That’s awesome, man,” Chuck tapped me on the back, smiling. “Well, I guess… we won’t get to see each other that much from now on.” He looked a bit disappointed.

“On the contrary…” I began, nonchalantly heading to the door. “We’d be stuck together for a long while, maybe I’d just start to get sick of you guys.”

A stunned pause. Then it was Reed who broke the silence. “You’re messing with us…” He blinked, incredulous.

“Nope.” I hunkered to pick up their bags and coaxingly tossed them one by one to their faces.

No one caught anything, so naturally the bags hit them. But since they were all busy either staring or thinking whatever I meant, no one bothered to dodge or flinch in pain. Their jaws just dropped to the carpeted floor.

“And these,” I cocked my head to the instruments. “You can take them home. Except for the drums. It’s too heavy.”

“No. Freaking. Way!” Chuck shouted, jumping back to the drum set. He looked at it like he was trying hard to figure out how exactly to carry it. “You’re not saying—“

I cut him off. “Well, I just fired the other band so the position’s currently available. Anyone brought their resumes?” I said, keeping my face straight.

Chuck and Reed swore the exact same curse word at the exact same time. Ricky didn’t seem bothered that his treasured laptop was on the floor and maybe, well, broken. He’d probably throw a fit about that. But way, way later, I guessed.

“I have got to tell Gran!” he finally said, chuckling like mad.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hi guys! So Life as told by Nerdy was nominated for Best Original Story in the Giggle/Snort awards and I'm hoping you can help me by voting. The links and info are in my profile page. Thanks for your undying support! Next update will be on Tuesday so... til then :)    ~shim