Different Circles

“Sounded like it,” Jake said. “As it turned out though, I should have talked to Bob and Neil and Stevie and Joe before I brought him onboard. He only lasted a week and a half and then I had to fire him.”

“What happened?”

“He’s a fuckin’ alky. And I mean a hard-core alky. He missed two sessions completely and was drunk at all the others. And even if I didn’t have a rule against that sort of shit, his skill on his instrument decreases proportionately with his intake.”

Gordon shook his head sadly. “That’s a damn shame,” he said. “Far be it from me to judge someone for their drinking—I’m pretty much a functional alcoholic myself—but to let it fuck up your livelihood? I just don’t get that shit.”

“Me either,” Jake said. “And I’m a man who spent a good portion of 1990 and early ‘91 drunk and wallowing in self-pity.”

“The South Island Blur,” G said. He was one of the few people on Earth who realized that Jake’s most popular solo tune was not about partying in the tropics, as was commonly believed.

“Fuckin’ A,” Jake said. “So, anyway, I still need to find a keyboard player who can lay down the piano and the synthesizer tracks, or one of each. And the TSF just keeps getting closer and closer. Hopefully, Pauline will have some auditions for me this week.”

“You know something, homey,” Gordon said, “I’m a little disappointed in you.”

“Why is that?”

“Why the fuck didn’t you ask me to lay down the keyboards for you?”

“You?” Jake asked, surprised.

“Me,” he confirmed, grinning slyly. “Is it the color of my skin or something?”

“What?”

“Don’t want no darkie playin’ on your stage and making the rest of y’all look bad?”

Jake looked at him and then shook his head in amusement. “Yeah, that’s exactly what it was,” he said.

They shared a laugh. “Seriously though, homey,” G said. “Why didn’t you ask? You know I play a mean piano and you know I do all the synthesizer tracks on my cuts.”

“I guess it never occurred to me,” Jake said. “Are you offering?”

“Fuckin’ A, I’m offering. I owe you big for all the work you’ve done with me on Step and Signed and my tour. Least I can do is help you out with the TSF. Besides, I ain’t got much going on these days. Neesh is gonna be working sixty-hour weeks for a while so I need something to occupy my days.”

“Well ... all right then,” Jake said. “Why don’t we give it a shot?”

“Let’s do it,” G said. “Monday morning, nine o’clock, KVA Records?”

“That’s where we’ll be. How much money you want for this gig?”

“Not a dime,” G said. “I’m just helpin’ a brother out.”

“Bullshit,” Jake said. “I’ll at least pay you the same as I pay the other musicians—fifty an hour for the rehearsals and your cut of a hundred grand for the TSF itself.”

“If it makes you feel better to do that, I won’t argue about it.”

“It would make me feel better,” Jake confirmed. “And what about doing some of your material? We should probably at least do Step and Signed, right?”

Gordon was shaking his head. “I don’t think we should do any of my shit,” he said. “It’s your show, not mine. In fact, I don’t think you should even introduce me. No sense distracting their attention away from you. I’ll just come out with a hat and a pair of sunglasses on and play my part and let everyone wonder who that nigger on the keyboards is. It’ll be fun.”

“You sure about this?” Jake asked.

“As sure as scoring with a groupie,” G said.

“That’s pretty sure,” Jake said.

“Yep.”

They watched the sun disappear over the horizon and the first few stars come out. They then picked up the cooler and the empty bottles and headed back to the house. After throwing away what needed to be thrown away and then stowing everything else, they each opened a fresh beer and headed for the entertainment room.

“Hey,” Gordon suddenly said, “remember that talk box I gave you?”

“Of course,” Jake said. “I have it in my composition room.”

“Did you ever figure out how to make music with it?”

“Hell yeah,” Jake said. “You were right when you said it adds a whole separate layer to making notes, but I took it up to Oregon with me when we were recording the last albums and played around with it quite a lot in one of the empty iso rooms when I wasn’t needed on a track in progress. I got to be pretty good with it, actually—not quite Frampton level or anything, but I can do solos and riffs that don’t sound like somebody strangling a chicken.”

“No shit?”

“No shit,” Jake confirmed. “I might even find a way to lay down a track or two with it on my next album.”

“Bust it out, homey,” Gordon said. “Let me hear you play it.”

“Uh ... sure, okay,” Jake said. “Just help me carry the shit in here.”