“Fine,” I tell her.
“You seem to have dug in with both hands.”
“And feet.” We laugh.
“I can see you’ve already made a few changes. The living room, the hall. Looks good.”
“And the den and pool room today. A little at a time, I think. There’s a lot that needs to be done, at least for now.”
“Do you need any help?”
“No, no, I have all the help I need. The cleaning people can be top notch if they have a little direction. The gardener’s coming today. We have to figure out something for the dogs. They seem to have had the run of the place, which is Mr. M’s prerogative, but they’re killing some of the bushes out in the yard, and they’ve really destroyed the floors.”
“Mr. M?” She laughs out loud and shakes her head.
“I know, I know, Alex, A.J., whoever he might be today. I just don’t know him that well to call him that.” I don’t, even with the bit of headway we seem to have made. I’ve been here for four days, and even though it might seem like a lifetime, and it does, it’s not.
“Mr. M. He must love that,” Juliette says, but she’s saying it to herself.
I go to the cabinet I’ve earmarked for my own use and pull out the accordion file I’ve put all my paperwork in. Then I sit down again and take it out to give to Juliette, explaining every expense, outlining each receipt. She’s patient, doesn’t interrupt me once, and when I’m done, she smiles.
“Thank you, you’re very thorough.”
“I just didn’t want anyone to think that I was being frivolous with funds.”
“That’s the last thing anyone’s going to think. Have you gone over these with Alex?”
“He didn’t, he was, he told me that you handled these things.”
Juliette burst out laughing, and I had to laugh along with her.
“I think you’re getting to know him rather well,” she tells me. I get up and put my folder away. Juliette helps herself to more coffee, and my boss comes wandering into the kitchen with his typical morning ‘lost’ look.
“Why are you here so goddamn early?” he greets Juliette.
“Why are you still in bed so goddamn late?” is her reply.
“Because it’s my goddamn va... va... vacation,” he stutters.
“A little extended on that, aren’t we?” They give each other a look and I intervene with the suggestion of breakfast.
“Pancakes?” I don’t even wait for an answer, I’ve had the batter made, and sitting for over an hour and all I need to do is heat up the griddle. I found one in my kitchen reorganization.
Today Mr. M gets his own coffee. I don’t know why, if it’s because I’m busy with the griddle, if it’s because Juliette is here, or maybe because of yesterday evening, but he pours his own, gets his own milk, and sits down.
“Is there anything urgent?” he asks.
“Not really, just the usual, although Kelly called me and would like you to PLEASE return her call about the Make-A-Wish event. There are several things happening in May and June that she and Denise would like you to consider.”
“Ah, man, do I have to?” he whines.
I would like to hit him with the spatula in my hand. Instead, I whip the batter in the bowl with a vengeance. Whining. I can’t stand whining. A part of my brain is repeating a mantra: don’t make me hate you, please, don’t make me hate you. It’s so much more difficult working with someone you can’t stand. I would prefer it if Mr. M would be one of those people that I can get along with, that I don’t dread seeing, because I do not, DO NOT, want to have to be forced into looking for a different job when this one is just fine.
I throw a handful of ripe blueberries into the batter and start pouring it out onto the hot griddle. Nice little circles. I like to make pancakes that are thin. A little larger than a crepe, but not as thick or big as a standard pancake. They start to bubble on impact.
“Yes, you have to. I’m not going to remind you again,” Juliette tells him in a voice that I would love to use on him. Mr. M lights a cigarette and ignores her comment, while she ignores him. “There’s one other odd bit today, do you want to do a small gig? It wouldn’t be until summer, nothing over the top, you just have to show for one rehearsal besides the actual show. Band provided.”
“Where?”
“Right here in LA.”
“Another benefit?”
“No, just a random gig.”
“There ARE no random gigs, what’s the catch?”
“You do it with Nick.”
“Fuck no.”
“Just a walk on at the House of Blues, just...”
“No, I’m not doin’ it.”
I load two plates with blueberry pancakes, put them, and some syrup on the table and excuse myself. This is not something I want or need to hear. Obstinacy doesn’t play well with me, either. Besides, I have work to do.
The den is another large room that I consider to be on this ‘level’ of the house. There are so many stairs here and there, so many ups and downs that it’s hard to really say that there’s a ground floor, or a top floor. So it’s just me and my trash bags as far aways from the kitchen as I need to be.
The accumulation in this room is more extensive. There are DVD’s and CD’s and bits of this and that. Some attempt at decorating has been done in here, too, but there’s only so much atmosphere that can be had from a handful of dusty, limp scarves and some brass Buddha’s. The way the decor comes together in here is like some retro seventies nightmare. I think it just needs a beaded curtain and a lava lamp to capture the real feel.
Sorting through things doesn’t take as long as putting things in places I think they belong. Yes, I could just shove the movies and music into their respective catchalls, but that goes against something ingrained in my very being. So I take the time to separate them into piles, to alphabetize by title, if it’s a film, or artist, if it’s a CD, and then place them in their respective racks. Which are behind closed doors. There is some beautiful Spanish style cabinetry in this room. Built ins, that either came with the house or have been put here. I believe it’s the latter, because there’s nothing else in the house that hints of this kind of taste, at least nothing permanent like this. There’s shelving, too, that surrounds the flat screen TV and the stereo equipment that’s too complicated for me to figure out at the moment. Some other day, when there aren’t two people having a screaming argument that’s carrying through the halls.
How many times can a person say ‘fuck’ in one sentence? Apparently a lot.
I do as much as I can until I can’t take the yelling, then decide it might be an excellent time to make the bed and pull down a few more drapes.
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I don’t even believe I’m having this argument with Juliette, she fucking well knows better. Fucking well.
Nick. Sing with Nick. My ass I’m gonna get on a stage with that prick anytime soon. Maybe not again in this lifetime.
I know that’s not true, but if I get to have a choice right now, my choice is no.
“You can’t keep hiding out in this house, A.J.,” Juliette tells me. And even though I know what she’s telling me is true, I don’t want to hear it. Not now, not later, not today, not any time in the near or distant future.
“I can hide out here for as long as I d... d... damn well want to,” I tell her, my stutter in full force. Pisses me off that stutter. I’ve had it forever. I’ve had speech therapy for it since I was a kid, and a few times after, too. I can control it, I CAN control it, unless I’m really angry or upset. I guess I’m both right now. I’m angry AND upset.
“No, you can’t. And you can’t avoid me, or Nick, or anyone else. This isn’t a good thing for you,” Juliette says.
“If I don’t have to deal with them, I’m not gonna deal with them.”
“Okay, forget them, how about you. When are you going to start dealing with you, and your career? You have a studio right in this house, and you don’t use it. There’s no good reason why you shouldn’t be taking advantage of the opportunity you’re being handed, Alex. The others are.”
“I don’t give a fuck what the other’s are doing.” That’s a lie. Maybe the biggest lie to fall outta my mouth in a long, long time.
I give a very BIG fuck what the ‘others’ are doing. I know about Nick, and his CD, that sucked, if you ask me, and that bombed, the way it should have. I know about Brian and his deal, and Howie and HIS deal, and Kevin and the deal he’s still working on. I know about what ALL of them are doing, all those guys who used to be a part of something bigger than all of this solo shit.
And I don’t need this chick telling me what I’m not doing, because I’m up on that, too. I’m NOT taking the deal. I’m NOT making a solo album. I’m NOT writing and recording songs right now. And I have no plan to do any of that, either. I don’t want to, I have no desire to, and God, am I EVER going to stop lying?
I’m afraid. I’m afraid to write. I’m afraid to record. I’m afraid that I’M gonna suck, that I’M gonna bomb, that I’M gonna be the next national failure.
I’m so fucking afraid. Of everything.
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© 2003 Chandrah, Inc.
© 2003 (*> Baby Bird Productions, Inc.
