a day in the life
[lennon solo ;; finally]
With a shove of his legs, he pushed off against the wall once again, careening about and bumping into the million-dollar recording console a couple of times before the stool wheeled itself to a stop.
What the hell happened? Something must've gone wrong...only an idiot would choose to waste studio time they already paid for. And they're throwing away time with a big name.
Ooh, Mr. Bigshot now, huh? Gonna get a separate limo for your ego, too?
Bickering with himself to pass the time ranked slightly below rereading the Engrish manual for the equipment (“the trebel nob is for trebel ajustments only!!”)--though, to be fair, it did rank above playing five-finger fillet with his utility knife.
He had managed to spell out “ASS” on the rows of LEDs at the top of the console; proud of his handiwork, he slid the cellphone out of his pocket and, with a dramatic beep, captured the moment for posterity.
Now, who to send to?
Jordan? Nah, he was a bit uptight. Busy, too. He might not appreciate the level of humor boredom brings one to. Who was that girl he was usually with? Felice?...But I don't know her number.
Arun? No, classically-trained musicians always have classically-trained senses of humor, most of which either involve esoteric puns or sniping other musicians behind their back.
...and I don't know Liam or Raleigh well enough to be inviting them into his immature jokes, and Misha and Corin seemed above it.
Ha. Maybe I can send it to the manager of those deadbeat bastards and tell him that'll cost him about $500 plus penalties. Might not leave too good an impression, though.
Thinking better of it, he decided to ring the manager up instead-there better be a damn good reason to drive him to “ASS.”
-----
“Yeah?”
“Hey, this is Lennon...you scheduled some studio time with me, and it's been almost two hours with no sign of them, nobody's called to cancel...what's up?”
“Nobody told you?”
“Well, that goes with nobody calling me.”
“'Artistic differences.' With fists, mostly.”
“Mmm,” he murmured indifferently.
“Everyone but the bassist quit, and he didn't feel he could carry on their legacy, so they agreed to split and left me with the paperwork.”
“Ah. Well, you have my condolences, as well as the fee for breaking the contract and the wasted studio time.”
“No, I don't think so.”
Lennon could feel the hairs rise on his neck; no matter where you worked, that phrase never prefaced good news. “It's in writing. Why do you not 'think so'?”
“The contract states that the time was scheduled under the band's name, but we never specified the individuals who made up the band. The band dissolved prior to the studio time, and you can't lay blame on any individual since you didn't specify who they were. The band is no more, and you can't squeeze blood from a stone. I'm sorry, but that's the way it works.”
“No, you're not, and no, it's not,” he was almost tempted to say. “We both know that's bullshit,” he also wanted to add. “Quit insulting my intelligence, quit fucking around, and just pay the damn fee,” he would have continued. But he knew the value of having the higher ground in these situations, and that any judge sympathetic to 'the little guy' was not going to smile upon coercive statements from an almost-famous big name.
So, with a well-practiced sigh, he uttered the magic words: “Fine, you'll be hearing from my lawyer about this.” The line went dead without so much as a “goodbye,” and he closed his phone with a derisive snort. Time to call in the cavalry.
“Is...uh, Wilson there?”
“Lennon? Is that you? Nice interview in Spin! At this rate, you'll be big in Germany in no time.”
“Ha. Who says I'm not already? I produced that guy...ah, whatsisname. Farber.”
“True, true. The one who thought he could get away with dodging the bill 'cos he figured we wouldn't want to fiddle around internationally over a few hundred bucks.”
“Speaking of which, I've got a similar situation...”
“Oh?”
“You know the band I had you draw up a studio time contract for? Yeah, they just split up a couple days ago and no one called me. Their manager is trying to stiff us...says that we didn't specify who the members of the band was in the contract, and since they no longer exist as a band, we can't fine a non-existent business entity or something...ugh. I know the fucker's just trying to dodge the bill, but...well, this is your field.”
A heavy pause hung in the air as he could her faint mumbling on the other end of the phone. Wilson broke it chuckling, and Lennon sighed in relief; when a lawyer laughs, it means someone is going to get screwed, and better them than him.
“If that's all he has in court, he won't have a leg to stand on. This shouldn't be a problem. I'll take care of it. Now take your newfound free time and do something. You sound down and I'm worried about you.”
Lennon gave a snort of laughter. “Gee, thanks, mom.”
-----
The pungent scent of cooking oils, sauces and spices swirled about the air in a sweltering miasma, while Lennon chewed irately on an ice cube. At least twenty minutes had passed since he came in, got a cola and the customary glass of water, and been informed that someone would be “right there” to take his order. The place hardly seemed busy enough to justify the wait.
“Are you ready to order yet, sir?”
I've been waiting for a quarter of an hour, and they're the impatient ones. They can't even offer an apology or lame excuse?
“Yeah. In fact, I have been for about fifteen minutes, without so much as an a refill,” he hissed curtly. “Odd, considering that I swear saw someone come in and get take-out while I've been sitting here, waiting.”
“I'm sorry, sir,” she mumbled, wholly failing to sound apologetic. “What would you like, sir?”
“Ahh...sweet and sour chicken with steamed rice, and the stir-fried spring vegetables. Shouldn't take too long should it?,” he mused, louder than necessary. “And a refill of Coke, please,” he added in a bitterly saccharine tone, ice clinking around in his glass as he shook it. It may have been the schadenfreude within him, but he thought he heard her utter something nasty under her breath as she stalked off stiffly.
And so he waited, through twenty more minutes of plates clanging, of unending prattle filling the air, of giggles and smooching and the exact same kind of public affection that ...she...used to cover up the morass of manipulation and abuse she had put him through.
Hell. What if she was here?She'd probably be doing the same thing. Then the food would arrive, and she would tell me to try a piece. I would refuse. She would badger me about it. I would say that I don't like spicy stuff, and that I didn't want to try a piece of it. She would start to sulk. I would ask what the problem was, and she would complain that I never do anything for her and I'm missing out on a lot of life. So I'd try a piece and spit it into the napkin, and she'd whine about how she can't take me anywhere...yeah. So instead, here I am, prime of my life, nice job, good pay, and all I have to show for it is a table for one.
The gurgling of his stomach brought his attention back to reality, and the food which hadn't arrived yet. The table next to him had been filled five minutes ago and a waitress was taking orders already. He'd seen no fewer than three takeout orders had been completed while he waited, at least one of them for a party of three-Goddamn, what the hell is taking so long? Ah, there she is!
The waitress had returned, and she wasted no time with niceties, flinging his dishes onto the table. “Finally. Thank you,” he called, voice devoid of gratitude. As she shuffled away irately once more, he frowned as he noticed how the food failed to steam. Unlike the rest of the restaurant, it also failed to smell like...well, like Chinese food. He stabbed a piece of chicken, dipping it in the sauce and raising it to his mouth-and resisting the urge to gag as soon as it touched his tongue. He hurried it down with a large swig of Coke, slamming the glass on table in frustration. “Bastards,” he grunted. Perhaps he was being paranoid, but it was almost as if they had waited those forty minutes to ensure his meal would be a chewy, soggy lump of congealed chicken and spring vegetables.
Determined not to be outdicked, he tapped his foot against the tile floor impatiently. Whenever a server approached, he rattled the ice in his glass obnoxiously-no avail. So he cleared his throat rather unnecessarily, drawing the bemused stares of the other patrons. Still no progress. He was nearly ready to dump the plate on the floor when the waitress finally gave heed to his clamor.
“Excuse me? Hello?”
“Yes, sir?” came the brusque reply.
“Can I get my check now, or will that take a half-hour and come out cold and soggy, too?” A smug little smirk crept across his face at his own wit-he'd have to tell someone about that rejoinder, too.
After she flung the bill indifferently towards him, he dumped the heap of lukewarm mediocrity onto the tablecloth and cautiously set the empty plate upon the glass, and with a deft turn, flipped the two. Pausing for a moment to admire his handiwork and savor the inevitable mess, he stood up gingerly, taking care not to bump the table. He strode up to the register, giving a quick glance at the check-$11.97, was it?-and pulling out a ten and two ones.
“Thank you, sir...that's be three cents change.”
“Oh, no, keep it,” he said, pushing the proffered hand back. As the clerk stared back, wholly nonplussed, he grinned. “It's the tip,” he explained. The register girl gave him a distasteful scowl, but as he left, he could feel his spirit soar with the joy of spreading misery.
-----
Home again, and it wasn't even seven o'clock yet. Somehow, though, being the biggest asshole he'd been in weeks left him feeling a bit hollow once the schadenfruede wore off. But the day wasn't completely wasted yet-still time enough to get something done. Maybe he could clean up this dump. Put on some good, cathartic music, convince himself to get his sorry ass over her, and get to see his bedroom floor once again.
Stepping over the old newspapers and pairs of yellowing socks scattered about the apartment, he made his way to the entertainment center, turning on his flat-screen plasma TV and prodding the MMC* console, searching for something nice and angry. The dull grey box beeped in irritation and a reminder flashed across the screen mentioning that his subscription had expired and he could only listen to previously saved music; dismissing the finer points of the maintenance of fragile electronics, he swore and smacked the front of the box harshly, nearly knocking it out the back of the entertainment center. The machine replied with an insistent beep, flashing who to make the check out to in order to regain service, and he gave a groaning sigh-when the world took a shit on you, it made sure it was never over quickly.
In one fell swoop, the little motivation and momentum the day had given him dissipated. Sure, he gave a couple token attempts at cleaning: consolidating the myriad little piles of his junk into a few large piles, clearing off the coffee table by tearing up any unimportant mail and leaving it in a new pile on the floor-and tossing a couple wrappers and empty cups in the trash. Ultimately, though, melancholia overcame him, and he decided use the newly-cleaned coffee table to house a cool six-pack of whatever cheap swill he had bought just in case of a visit from a friend-which never seemed to happen, oddly enough.
The album began to blur together as the empty bottles piled up, and those memories which had so painstakingly shoved out of his mind for ages emerged once more, demanding to be heard. Intent on drowning them in alcohol, he took a long last swig and drained the bottle, but this only seemed to provoke his demons. He groaned as he stretched out across the couch, clutching the dead soldier to his chest; weariness getting the best of him, he resigned himself to rethinking it all, as if an answer would finally reveal itself in his beer-sodden haze.
It started out so well, too. She wanted to be with me, do nothing but spend her time with me. And she was so spontaneous...you only get one life, make good use of it and all that bullshit. And I loved that-I loved her. At least, that's what it seemed like. Taking a roadtrip through New England, watching the sunset over the ocean, then fogging up the car windows at night, all for the hell of it. And they were the happiest two years of my life; I'd come home and she'd get me a beer and give me a massage while I bitched about work. Tried to cook, too. Not too well, but at least she tried. And god, she was great in bed.
Then she wanted “things.” It seemed alright at first...it's no big deal to show that I love someone. But her tastes got more expensive. She didn't want “cheap crap.” She cried when I got her that cubic zirconia necklace because “only poor people wore imitations.” No matter how nice it was, it “just wasn't the same” if it wasn't in that little blue box; when I yelled at her over pre-ordering a $400 necklace and making me foot the bill, she ran off back to her parents' and made me beg her to come back...should've left her there. But that goddamned $300 bracelet for our one-year anniversary was enough to make her love me again, it seems. I gave her my heart, and she took my wallet with it.
His mind ground irritably to a halt, and not even the sound of the bottle sliding from his hand and hitting the floor with a jarring thud could rouse him from his drunken slumber.
I never would have started if I'd known
That it would end this way
But funny thing, I'm not at all sad
That it stopped this way
*MMC - Multimedia Center. An extension of thegrowing trend of portable music players and subscription musicdownloading services, the MMC acts as a combination MP3 player/stereo system/music browser, with the ability to store uploadedmusic from a computer or personal device, or, for a monthly fee, beplugged into an extensive archive. The unit requires a connection toa television in order to browse the menus.