August and Everything After

by Jennifer Salvato Doktorski

  “The drum tracks will serve as the foundation. The first layer to the entire recording session,” Ricky says.

  “You’re like the noodle foundation for a lasagna made of sound,” Liam explains to me like I’m three.

  “I guess that would make you the cheese,” I joke.

  Ricky bursts out laughing. “I love Jersey girls.”

  Ten minutes later, I’m ensconced behind the studio’s drum kit in a room by myself with a rectangular window that looks out onto an additional recording space for the vocalist and rest of the band. Beyond that room is the control room, where Ricky, Liam, and Malcolm are standing behind the soundproof glass. They seem very far away with a whole room between us. I’ve got on headphones so I can hear Malcolm’s songs—the same recordings I’ve been practicing to since the beginning of August. That’s what I’ll be playing along to.

  I adjust my glasses, crack my neck and knuckles, and shake out my arms like an Olympic swimmer about to dive into a pool. Ricky switches on the mic in the booth and I hear him in my headphones.

  “Ready?”

  I give him a thumbs-up.

  Malcolm leans into the mic, and I hear him in my head before Ricky cues up the music.

  “You got this.”

  Do I? I feel so isolated and lonely, yet at the same time, on display, like a penguin at the aquarium. My nerves get the best of me on the first track, and we do at least five takes of that one before I get it close to right. I can’t seem to get in the pocket. Oddly, it’s advice from Liam that finally gets my head in the game.

  “Don’t look at us,” Liam says through the mic. “Close your eyes and pretend you’re in the garage.”

  Normally, I hate it when Liam’s right, but in this case I’m too relieved to care. His advice works, and I get through the rest of the tracks pretty smoothly. But it still takes forever and there are a few bumps here and there. Ricky tells me not to worry about minor changes in tempo and volume. He can go back and fix them later.

  After we get the drum parts down, I hang in the control room with Ricky while Malcolm and Liam go into the main recording room. Ricky is as easy to talk to as he is to listen to.

  “I’m focusing mainly on getting Malcolm’s bass parts right now, but we’ll record Liam and some scratch vocals at the same time. Every once in a while you get lucky, and the guitarist will be okay with the scratch recording, but most of the time? Guitarists and vocalists are—”

  “Perfectionists?” I offer.

  “I was going to say OCD divas, but yeah, perfectionists. Your way is nicer.”

  Sitting behind the soundboard with Ricky is fascinating. It’s five times the size of what we use at Keegan’s. The weird part is, even though there are all these levers and knobs to make adjustments to the sound, Ricky watches the pulsing levels on the screens and uses a laptop to make all the changes.

  “Sometimes I do sound at the club where I work,” I tell Ricky.

  “A drummer and a sound gal. Way to play against type, Quinn Gallo.”

  I never thought about it that way. “I guess there aren’t many female sound engineers?”

  “Nope. Women in the music production business are like unicorns. In all my years doing this, I’ve met exactly two.”

  “Women or unicorns?”

  Ricky laughs. “You’re all right, Quinn Gallo.”

  I stay pretty quiet for the rest of the recording session, taking in what I can and asking an occasional question. Weirdly, the whole recording process has me spending more time with Ricky than anyone else. Malcolm and I are quite literally isolated from each other most of the time and more than that, he seems distant. Or maybe focused is a better word. Whatever it is, no one would ever guess we’ve been spending every night together by the way he’s been interacting with me here. I get it. I think. Here I’m Quinn the Drummer, not Quinn the whatever it is I am to Malcolm. This is more than a recording project for him—it’s his future. His second chance to get back what he lost. Still, I wouldn’t mind a hand squeeze or a hug every now and then.

  Shortly before we break for food, I feel compelled to warn Ricky that Auntsie will be arriving soon with baked ziti.

  “She’s kind of a rabid fan. She interviewed you once, for her zine, a long time ago.”

  “Well, all right! What’s not to love about a rabid fan? Especially one who comes bearing Italian food.”

  Auntsie arrives about ten minutes after Kiki. She’s surprisingly restrained when I reintroduce her to Ricky about an hour later in the kitchen/break room. She is, however, wearing more makeup then usual and a black, sleeveless dress that accentuates her ink. They shake hands, she tells him she’s a longtime fan of his work as a songwriter and producer, then wastes no time doling out heaping portions of baked ziti and garlic bread to everyone gathered around the table.

  “Eat it while it’s still warm,” she says. She made two huge trays, enough for seconds and then some. (The Gallo women aren’t happy unless everyone is stuffed, and there’s still tons of leftovers.) Although with the way Liam is scarfing down Auntsie’s signature pasta dish, there may be none left.

  “Aunt of Q, this sauce may be better than my dad’s,” Liam says through a mouthful. Then he points his fork in her direction. “Please don’t tell him I said that.”

  Auntsie pretends to lock her lips and throw away the key, then plops another spoonful on Liam’s plate.

  “Here, have some more.” Then she turns to Kiki with a full serving spoon. “You too, hon. Love the hair, by the way.”

  Kiki reaches for her blue bangs.

  “Thanks, did it myself.” Kiki wants to be a hairstylist and is already taking classes at beauty school. She wants to do some kind of balayage to my long, dark hair. I keep telling her I’ll think about it even though I have no idea what the heck she’s talking about or what that is.

  Satisfied that everyone’s full, Auntsie stands to leave. “So I’ll be back with your sister and her friends tomorrow. Any idea of the timing?” Evie’s driving down from North Jersey in the morning with her two choir friends.

  Ricky answers. “Probably not before ten at night. We need time to rehearse before we record. Be prepared to pull an all-nighter.”

  Auntsie looks shocked, but tries to play it cool as she walks out the door. “I’ll tell them to pack their toothbrushes. Ciao!”

  After we eat, Malcolm and Liam return to the recording booth and I hang with Keeks for a bit. She decided to stay until Liam is finished.

  “Let’s go for coffee,” she says. “I know a place on the boardwalk.”

  Outside, daylight is fading but there’s plenty of time before sunset.

  “I expected it to be dark already,” I tell Kiki as we walk along sipping our lattes. I lost all track of time in the windowless studio.

  I watch some beachgoers packing it in for the day while others arrive with volleyballs and beach chairs to enjoy the twilight hours by the ocean. Music drifts from one of the patio bars, an interesting mix of drums and pan flute. I breathe in the familiar boardwalk smells—onions, peppers, suntan lotion, the ocean—and I’m struck once again with the feeling that I’m missing out.

  “Soooo,” Keeks says. “You and Malcolm.”

  I smile in spite of myself. Because even though I never expected it, I like the sound of it.

  “Yeah, me and Malcolm.”

  “Are things getting serious? Are you officially boyfriend and girlfriend?”

  Is this what it feels like to be someone’s girlfriend? I’m an expert in unrequited love, but for whatever Malcolm and I are, I have no reference point.

  “I’m not sure. We spend a lot of time together, but it’s still kind of new and, well, after Labor Day, he’s leaving and my own existence post-summer is still up in the air.”

  I explain that I’d like to move in permanently with my aunt, but I’m not sure it will ha
ppen.

  “Well, selfishly, I hope you stay. Liam and all our friends are leaving for college soon and I’ll be stuck in Seaside, alone. It will be nice to know you’re only one town over. The off-season is going to be lonelier than usual.”

  “Rutgers isn’t that far. You’ll see Liam on weekends, right?”

  Kiki nods slowly. “Yes, but it won’t be the same. We’ve lived in the same tiny town our whole lives. Known each other since pre-K. Don’t tell him, but I think I’ve loved him since then too.” Kiki laughs, and I’m touched by her honesty. “Soon Liam will be meeting all these new people and having all these college experiences. What if he decides I don’t fit in with his new life?”

  I guess it’s possible college will break up Keeks and Liam. What if it’s like Malcolm said, and some people are only meant to be together for a certain amount of time? What if that time together is also contingent upon being in the same place? I don’t share this with Kiki, mostly because I don’t want to believe it. I’m feeling very protective of her all of a sudden.

  “Liam adores you, Keeks. And who else is going to put up with his Liam-ness the way you do?”

  Kiki clinks her plastic cup with mine. “You’re a good person, Quinny. No wonder Liam was so anxious to set you up with Andrew. I’m still worried though. I trust Liam, but girls have been known to throw themselves at him. I should know. I was one of them.”

  While I understand her fears and share her nervousness about being apart from someone you care about, with Malcolm, it’s not the girls I worry about. It’s the drugs. Yes, it would suck if I lost Malcolm to someone else, but that would be inconsequential next to losing him to an accidental overdose. I do not want another friend to die on my watch.

  “I’m thinking I might want to go with Malcolm in the fall.”

  “Quinny, that’s awesome! You two are getting serious. Why didn’t you say so before?”

  Uh, because I just decided right now?

  “Please don’t tell anyone. You’re the only one who knows. My aunt and sister won’t be happy, my mother will be apoplectic, and Malcolm… I’m not sure he even wants me to go.”

  “You’ll never know unless you talk to him about it,” Kiki says.

  We pass by a small blue building, adorned with a mural with mystical images—a giant eye, a crystal ball.

  “Or we could get our palms read? Find out what’s in the cards for you and Malcolm? Liam’s sister, Lucy, went there last year, and this psychic, Madame Ava, practically told her she’d end up with her current boyfriend, Connor. Lucy dated Andrew, you know. And as much as I wanted them to stay together, you could tell there was something missing. They were more like best friends than anything more. Anyway, we should do it.”

  I stop for a second and peer inside the building. The waiting area is full. I check the time, half consider going in, but decide against it.

  “Maybe next time. Looks like there’s a long wait,” I say.

  Really, I’m not sure I’m ready to hear what Madame Ava has to say.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Later that night, or more like during the wee hours of Saturday morning, I’m lying on the couch wrapped in Malcolm. My insecurities about his aloofness while we were at the studio are fading. We’re half dozing, half watching a movie, and I’m relieved to have him so close and all to myself after spending twelve strange hours in the studio.

  Tomorrow will be more of the same. Liam will be recording his guitar parts, Malcolm will do his final vocals, and I’ll try to hold my shit together as I chill with Ricky and wait for my sister and her two friends from chorus to arrive with Auntsie. The cellist, Olivia, is driving herself here.

  “I’m scared,” I say softly.

  “Of?” Malcolm whispers back.

  Everything?

  “Recording tomorrow.”

  “Don’t be. You’re holding your own so far, and the arrangement you worked out for ‘That Last Night’ is awesome. We’ve got time to do a couple of takes and after that, Ricky can fix whatever’s not perfect.”

  “Wouldn’t it be great if we all had producers in real life? Someone to smooth out our rough edges and imperfections, make us better?”

  “The studio isn’t real life.”

  I’m happy to hear him say that, because I don’t like the dynamics between us when we’re there. Here, I feel safe, secure, like the bad stuff that’s already happened and any future disasters that await can’t touch us. In the studio, I was constantly on edge, teetering between greatness and complete disaster. In the final analysis, I’d gladly give up greatness for the predictability of this couch.

  Malcolm continues talking about producers. “Anyway, I like rough edges and imperfections. It’s what makes a person interesting. It’s what makes a guy walk into a bar on a random night, see a girl with a book and ugly glasses and think, Now there’s a girl I could fall I love with.”

  My body freezes. It’s like Malcolm dropped a verbal orangutan into the quarter inch space between us. I sense him (Malcolm, not the orangutan) waiting for response. I turn over and lay one hand on his cheek, then give his whiskers a little tug.

  “You think my glasses are ugly?”

  He nods. “But your eyes are beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

  The way he looks at me, it’s almost more than I can take. I feel naked, exposed, unworthy of his undivided attention. I bite my lip to keep from looking away and lay my forehead against his.

  “I want to go with you,” I blurt out.

  He’s confused at first, then smiles. “You’re serious?” Is he shocked or hopeful by my non sequitur? Should I have said something about love?

  “I’m serious. I want to go with you on tour, even if it’s not as your drummer. I can be your manager, your roadie, your groupie—”

  Malcolm kisses me slow and deep. I arch my back and wrap my arms around his neck.

  “Save the sales pitch, Cat’s Eye,” he says when we separate. “You’re in. You. Me. Twenty-three clubs in twelve weeks.”

  I’m in. I pause for a second, waiting to regret making a life-altering decision in the time it takes most people to select a latte flavor. But all I feel is relief, the kind I haven’t felt since falling asleep while studying for my chemistry final and arriving at school the next day to find out it had been postponed. My “solid life plan” will have to wait, and everyone will be pissed at me, but none of that matters. This is more important. Malcolm’s second chance and sobriety are at stake. I’m not going to be careless with another friend.

  I kiss Malcolm again, then snuggle against him to resume watching the movie. A little while later, I fall into a peaceful, dreamless sleep—the kind I used to have when I was a kid, before my foray into fuckupery made it impossible to sleep soundly again.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The next sixteen hours in the studio feel like we’ve stepped out of the real world and into a Salvador Dalí painting, the one with the melting clocks on a barren landscape. The studio’s fluorescent glow and arctic air-conditioning make it difficult to keep track of hours, days, and seasons. Is it still summer out there? It reminds me of being in bed with the flu—the outside world seems shrouded and far away.

  There are sooo many takes of Liam’s guitar parts and Malcolm’s vocals. Liam corrects every miniscule mistake. Malcolm refuses to be auto-tuned. It’s exhausting for me, and all I’m doing is sitting here with Kiki and Ricky, adding my two cents every now and then.

  “Do you think this take sounded better than the last one?” Kiki asks.

  “My ears have been so corrupted I can’t even tell anymore,” I say.

  I’m restless, but also impressed by Malcolm’s and Liam’s determination to get their parts exactly right, not to mention Ricky’s patience to make it happen. We move around in a sleep-deprived haze, dividing our time between food breaks, cigarette breaks (for Ricky and Malcolm), nap breaks, coffee
breaks, fresh air breaks, and finally, one big break after Liam’s and Malcolm’s parts are officially done. It’s during that break that Ricky listens to a rough recording of “That Last Night,” which Malcolm created based on my arrangement. He sang all the harmonies and played every instrument—using a keyboard to create the upright bass and cello sounds. It sounds exactly like what I constructed in my head.

  “Righteous,” Ricky says, beaming. He’s sitting behind the console in one of the commander chairs. Malcolm, Liam, Kiki, and I are sitting on a red velvet couch behind him. “This might be our single.”

  “I wrote the basic melody and lyrics. Quinn turned it into something better and bigger than I imagined.” He squeezes my hand and I offer a half smile.

  Kiki’s mouth has been hanging open since the song finished. “Quinny! You never told me you could do this!”

  “I better watch it,” Ricky says to me. “You might put me out of a job.”

  Things happen fast after that. Auntsie arrives with Evie, the choir girls, and dessert sometime after ten. Olivia, the cellist, gets there soon after. Shortly before midnight, we’re set up and ready to rehearse our parts, but there’s still no sign of the bassist, so Ricky winds up filling in. This guy is a genius.

  “Take a break,” Ricky says after we’ve run through the song about ten times. “Get some fresh air, clear out the cobwebs, have a Coke and one of these delicious cookies. Are these snickerdoodles?”

  Auntsie nods.

  “Right on,” says Ricky.

  I don’t want a snickerdoodle. What I’d really like is to spend a few minutes alone with Malcolm, to center myself before we record. I’m about to suggest we go someplace quiet when the studio door opens and in walks a lanky guy with sandy blond, tousled hair carrying a six-pack of Bud Light.

  “Travis!” Malcolm says, extending his hand. “What up, bro? I didn’t think you were coming. You know Ricky.”

  Travis? Travis who was riding shotgun with Malcolm when their bandmates were killed? Travis who blew back into town and never bothered to call Malcolm? Travis who knows Malcolm went to rehab and walks in carrying beer? Pff. Travis. I wish I’d known he’s who Malcolm had asked to record this song. It’s a reminder that whatever we may share, this project is all his.