The Bad Decisions Playlist (19 page)

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When we reach the truck, Josephine sees Todd in the front seat and stops dead, then looks at me.

“Yeah,” says Todd. “This is pretty weird for me, too.”

∗  ∗  ∗

Here's what's killing me not to say while I'm driving:
WTF happened last night?!
But of course Todd is sitting here and I can't say anything, so all I do is give them both the barest minimum of a rundown: Shane needs​—​

“Shane's the famous guy?”

“Yes, Shane's the famous guy.”

Shane needs help recording one song, just one song, and he's got to send it off to the big producer in LA tonight, because, you gotta understand, that's just how this stuff works (like I have even the slightest clue what I'm talking about, and it sounds a hundred percent ridiculous, but I present it with so much confidence and authority that even
I
sort of believe me).

It's hard to come up with a worse formula for casual chitchat than Josephine + Todd + me, so besides my brief primer on what our mission is, any talking that occurs in the vehicle remains inside our respective skulls.

We park. A short walk, me moving fast and keeping ahead of them so I don't have to talk.

When we get to the studio, we file right past Rocker Dude, who's playing some sort of computer game and doesn't spare us a single one of his five brain cells' worth of attention. I have a brief fantasy of renting several llamas and parading them by, just to see if he'd notice.

Ed is slouched in his chair in the control room, texting. He looks up when we come in. The recording studio appears to be empty.

“He leave?” I ask.

“He's still in there,” says Ed. “Sort of.”

Todd is taking in all the glowing buttons and slider controls and monitors.

“Whoa,” he says.

“I told you,” I say. “It's real.”

Ed is still in his slouching position, his eyes going back and forth between Josephine and Todd.

“Uh . . . hi?” he says.

“You know Josephine, right?” I say. “From the other night. The party.”

“Hi,” says Josephine, giving a little wave.

“Right. Hi.”

“And this is Todd.”

“Oookaaay,” says Ed. He still hasn't moved. “So . . . ?”

“They're with the band. C'mon,” I say to Josephine and Todd, moving them toward the recording-room entrance, catching in my peripheral vision Ed reaching a hand up to massage the bridge of his nose.

“What is this? No one's in here,” says Todd when we enter, squinting to peer into the dimly lit space. Then we hear it: a distinct snort, coming from the far end of the room. There's a pause, somewhat unsettling in its length, and then another snort followed by more regularly paced wood sawing.

“I think there's someone sticking out of the drum set,” says Josephine.

There is. Shane is sticking out of the drum set. He's lying on the floor, his head inside the bass drum, resting on the pillow that's inside there to dampen the sound. The snores we hear are his.

We walk across the room and form a triangle, peering down at him.

“That's the famous guy, huh?” says Todd.

I ignore him. “Shane,” I say. “Shane.” He keeps snoring.

Before I can move closer to him, Todd does, squatting down a bit to take a better look.

“He okay?” says Josephine.

“Famous guy looks drunk,” says Todd.

“He's just asleep,” I say, even though I know Todd's right.

“Smells drunk too.”

“He's been working really hard.”

Todd looks at me. “Uh-huh. This is what you got me fired for?”

“Shane,” I say again. “Shane!”

“Maybe we should go,” says Josephine. “I mean, look at him.”

I do. It's not pretty. His mouth is open, his T-shirt riding up enough to reveal a few inches of thirty-seven-year-old belly. I'm burning with shame and embarrassment, both for him and for me.

I note that there's a large and disordered pile of papers nearby, many of them crumpled up into balls. It's the sort of mess I'm very familiar with, the aftermath of an
aw, screw it
moment. Or many, many such moments.

Todd, meanwhile, has circled around to the back of the set. He steps lightly on the bass pedal. Muted thud.

“Mmmrr,” says Shane.

Todd takes a seat on the drum throne, picking up the drumsticks from atop the snare, and stomps on the pedal again, louder.
Thud.

“Gwuuuh,” says Shane.

BIDDA-BIDDA BADDA-BADDA BUDDA-BUDDA
PISHHHHH!

“GAAAAH!” says Shane, sitting up abruptly and hitting his head on the inner surface of the top of the drum. “OW!”

Obscenities issue forth from the finely crafted wooden frame of a Gretsch bass drum.

“I think he's awake,” says Todd.

Shane groans. Then we wait as he laboriously extricates himself, grunting, swearing a few more times, finally rolling to his side and propping himself up on an elbow. He rubs his face, blinks at me.

“What is going on?” he says.

“I got us a drummer.”

Shane manages to sit up. He looks at Todd. Todd looks back at him.

“Him?” says Shane.

“Dude,” says Todd, “you're lying on the floor, messed up, and you're disappointed in
me?
”

Shane looks at Todd again, then back at me. “Well,” he says, “he certainly
acts
like a drummer.”

Then he struggles to his feet, a multistage undertaking with pauses for short breaks: first while he's on his hands and knees, then sitting back on his heels, then up on one knee, then finally straightening. I avoid looking at Todd or Josephine during the process.

It's only when he's on his feet and has finished rubbing his face with both hands that he notices Josephine.

“Oh, jeez,” he says, embarrassed. “Hey. Hi.”

“Hi,” she says.

“You remember Josephine, right?”

“Of course. Hey.”

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“What? Yeah, of course. Great to . . . see you. Jeez.” He awkwardly brushes off the front of his shirt and his jeans. He darts a look at me, part rebuke, part question.

“You said you needed a girl, too.”

“Did I?”

“Yes. For harmony. I got a drummer and a singer, and figured I could play bass and sing, too. So we can do the song.”

He looks at the three of us in turn, like it has taken this long for the needle on the sobriety meter to reach the point where he actually comprehends what I'm suggesting.

“Oh,” he says. “Austin, I didn't think you'd actually . . .”

“Well, I did.”

More face rubbing. “Austin,” he says, “I appreciate all this, but . . .”

“What?” I say. He looks at Todd and Josephine, then motions for me to join him as he takes several steps away from them. I do. He crouches over a bit, hands on his thighs, like a football huddle. I follow suit. He smells like whiskey.

“Austin, what are you doing.”

“I'm trying to help you.”

“Help me.”

“Yes.”

“How are you helping me.”

“With them! A band!”

He makes a sour, pained sound that almost passes for a chuckle.

“Austin, this is not some kind of old movie musical,” he says. “‘Hey, kids, my dad's got a studio, let's make a band and put on a show.'”

“You said you needed a girl, a drummer, and a bass player. You have a girl, a drummer, and a bass player.”

“Kid,” he says, “c'mon . . .”

“You know Josephine can sing. And you know I can too.”

“Of course. That's not what I'm saying.”

“We could at least
try,
” I say.

“I'm not in any shape to try. I don't
want
to try.”

“Shane . . .”

“Sorry, kid. It's over.” He straightens up and turns to Todd and Josephine. “Sorry, guys​—​thanks for coming, but I just don't have it right now.”

With that he turns to go, and we watch him trudge slowly toward the sound-insulated door on the other side of the studio. None of us says anything. Then,

“Hey!” says Todd. “Hey!”

Shane pauses, turns around to face us again.

“That's it?” says Todd. “You're just leaving?”

Shane sighs. “Listen,” he says, “I appreciate that y'all came out. Josephine, you've got a lovely voice, you really do. And Austin . . . But I've got about two hours to get this thing done, and what I need right now are experienced professionals.”

He starts to turn again.

“Yeah?” says Todd. “Well, guess what. What you have is
us.
And maybe you don't know me,” says Todd, “but I don't know
you,
either, and I friggin' quit a job to come here today. So the least you could do is man up and put your skates on!”

Shane doesn't say anything for a moment. Then, “Put my skates on?”

“Hockey player,” I say.

“What I'm saying is, stop acting like a pussy and let's do this thing!” Todd clarifies.

“Yeah, I got that,” says Shane. “Man. You really are a drummer, aren't you.”

“Yeah. A good one.”

A pause.

“Shane,” I say, “let's just
try.
”

One more big sigh. One more face rub.

“I can't believe I'm doing this,” says Shane. Then he walks back toward the drums, crouches by the pile of paper, and sorts impatiently through it, muttering to himself as he picks up, examines, and discards one sheet after the other. Finally he seems to find what he was looking for and straightens up again.

“Here,” he says, slap-pressing two wrinkled sheets onto my chest as he walks past. “You'll have to share it. Give me a few minutes.” He exits.

I look at the sheets. There are lyrics and chord changes and handwritten musical notation scratched on them, without much to indicate which are the verses and chorus.

“How do you know this guy?” says Todd.

“He doesn't know?” Josephine says.

“No. He's . . . my dad,” I say.

“Huh,” says Todd. He leans over and picks up a half-empty fifth of bourbon that was sitting next to the kick drum. He opens it and gives it a sniff.

“Your dad's a drunk,” he says.

“He's
not
a drunk.”

“Look, it's fine,” he says. “So is mine.”

He holds up the bottle in a toast, takes a shot, then shoves the cork back in and tosses the bottle to Josephine. Then he picks up the sticks and absolutely assaults the drums, an ear-crushing blitz of aggression and anger that has Josephine and me clutching our skulls.

“Man,” says Todd, sweating and panting after about three solid minutes and 120,000 beats. “That feels
great.
”

Love you like my dreams / love you like a ghost story /

love you like the cards looking forward through history

“No. No. No, no, no!”

It's been twenty minutes since we started trying to record, and I now understand why no one will work with Shane.

After he left the studio, it took him nearly half an hour to return. Todd spent the time beating out different rhythms, adjusting the drums and cymbals, playing some more, doing more tweaking. Josephine and I stood by a music stand, and I played the chords on the guitar while she sight-read the notes, and we went through the song a few times, experimenting with different harmonies and trying to decipher Shane's hieroglyphics. All the while pretending that this wasn't all completely bizarre, and that last night didn't happen.

Ed came in and started placing and adjusting the microphones, one for me, one for Shane, and one for Josephine, spacing them far enough apart so that they'd only pick up audio from the person they were in front of. He had the deliberately blank expression of a man trying not to reveal the disapproval he's feeling, but also wanting to signal that, no, he doesn't approve.

“How's that?” he said as he adjusted the height for Josephine.

“Um . . .” said Josephine uncertainly.

“Never mind,” said Ed. “It's good.”

Then Shane came in and said, “No. We're doing this old school​—​one mic, one take. Get the EQM double-wide sixty-five thousand,” or something like that, and Ed did his Ed sigh and disappeared and reappeared with another type of microphone, swapping it out for the one in the center.

Shane said to Todd, “Can you play a train shuffle?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Shucka SHUCKa shucka SHUCKa . . .

Shane held up a hand to stop him. “Can you play a
good
train shuffle?”

And so it went.

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We stop, we start, we do take after take, each time Shane finding something that isn't quite working​—​let's change this harmony, don't come in there, augh, this wording is wrong, let's do it again. It's challenging to fit us all around the mic, me inexpertly plucking at the electric bass, Josephine leaning in for the harmonies, Shane with his guitar and his petulance. I don't look at Todd, but I can feel his frustration growing behind me. Josephine doesn't meet my eyes, but her expression has evolved from confused to concerned to cross.