by Neil Plakcy
Gavin worked steadily for the next half hour, but then things slowed down and he looked at the sheet of vocal exercises. The first instruction read, Blow air through a small stirring straw while phonating glides up and down through your range.
He was baffled. He got the part about blowing air through a stirring straw; there were plenty of those at Java Joe’s. But he had no idea what “phonating glides” meant. He skipped ahead to number two. Gently blow air through closed lips, keeping them relaxed, and sing an uh vowel underneath. Your lips should start to trill.
That he could manage, though it felt silly to do it as he moved over to cleanup duty, sweeping the tile floor, refilling the napkin dispensers, and emptying the trash. By the time his shift ended, he’d mastered that and moved on to making an “ng” sound, which was supposed to make the transition between his head voice and his chest voice easier.
Once again, he didn’t know what that meant. Was this what Erica had studied in school? He’d have to e-mail her that night. It could be that Miles was just blowing smoke, and Gavin didn’t want to waste time on something that might not be worthwhile.
He had a couple of minutes to chill in the back room before his shift was over, and he used his phone to find a definition of “phonating glides.” He got the phonating part just fine; it meant to speak. Well, why couldn’t they just say that? The gliding part was harder, and he had to wait for Miles to explain that.
He stuck to the shady side of Lincoln Road, dodging small dogs and moms with strollers that cost as much as a small car. It was brutally hot, and he was excited about getting back to the cooler summer in Wisconsin. The address on Miles’s card was a drab stone building with a bank in the lobby, and he rode the elevator up to the fourth floor, then walked down a long hallway.
He knocked on the door but got no answer. So he tried the knob, and it opened.
Miles sat behind a massive instrument panel, headphones on, intent on what he was doing. A picture window to the right looked onto a small room with a standing mike in the center.
Gavin closed the door quietly behind him and leaned against the wall, watching Miles. With his head bent, the bright green strips on the top of his glasses gave him a cool, funky vibe. Yeah, he was losing his hair, but it wasn’t like he was trying to cover it up. He had a tiny scar at the edge of his hairline and a diamond stud in his left ear.
Miles looked up, saw Gavin, and pulled his headphones off. “Hey, sorry. Didn’t hear you come in.”
“I didn’t want to disturb you. You looked totally into what you were doing.”
“Nothing that great. A track for a computer game.” He leaned back in his chair and motioned Gavin to one across from him. “You get a chance to look at those exercises?”
Gavin nodded. “But some of them read like Greek. Like I said, I never studied music.”
Miles wheeled his chair out from behind the board and slid next to Gavin. “Let me see.”
Gavin pulled the sheet of paper from his jeans, liking the feel of Miles so close to him. “I don’t understand this,” Gavin said, pointing to the line about phonating glides.
Miles made a quick sound, starting low and letting his voice rise to a higher note. “Now you try it.”
Gavin tried, though it sounded a lot worse than what Miles had sung. They worked through a bunch of the exercises, first Miles demonstrating, then Gavin trying. Miles put his fingers on Gavin’s throat, just below his Adam’s apple, and said, “Feel it here.”
Gavin loved the touch of Miles’s fingers against his skin. Without even thinking about it, he took hold of Miles’s fingers and put them in his mouth.
Miles pulled back as if scalded. “Look, if you’re not serious about this, I’m not wasting my time with you.” He scooted his chair back to his board.
“My bad,” Gavin said. “Please. Forgive me. I really do want to learn.”
Miles picked up his headphones. “Then practice those exercises for a couple of days. When you come back, I want to hear you sing.”
He slipped the headphones back on and flipped a couple of switches on his board. Gavin stood up, waved good-bye, and walked back out to the long corridor.
Man, he had fucked up. Was the dude straight after all? Or just not into Gavin? He had seemed interested enough. Not just by being nice and smiling. Gavin was pretty sure he’d seen a hard-on in Miles’s shorts.
But maybe he was just actually serious about his music. Gavin thought he could do with a dose of that seriousness himself.
And yet, the feel of Miles’s hand against his throat had certainly been hashtag awesome.
Miles Away
That evening, an e-mail came in from Archie. We’re almost famous, dude, his cousin wrote, including a link to the concert’s website.
The site had been revamped since Gavin had seen it a few days before, and now the Singing Sweethearts were one of the headline acts. In small letters, he read, SPECIAL APPEARANCE BY THE SWEETHEARTS’ GRANDCHILDREN.
Not exactly top billing, he thought ruefully. Couldn’t they at least have added “Gavin, Erica, and Archie,” like they were some soon-to-be-discovered trio?
Gavin usually took the morning shift at Java Joe’s, unless he had a modeling gig, and then worked out at the gym every other afternoon. He didn’t see Miles for a couple of days and worried that he might have scared the Music Dude off. But he was determined not to let the guy slip away that easily—Gavin had a feeling that his future was tied to Miles.
He delayed going back to Miles’s studio because he was worried about how he sounded and that Miles would think he was a dilettante loser and send him on his way. He wanted Miles to respect him, and maybe that would make up for his dumb move trying to suck on the Music Dude’s fingers. So he practiced those exercises Miles had given him, almost as relentlessly as he worked out.
He only saw Miles once at Java Joe’s, and because he was on the register and there was a huge line, he couldn’t speak except to say that he’d been practicing, and Miles nodded and said that was good. Gavin was relieved that the guy was still talking to him.
He exchanged e-mails regularly with Erica, and in one of them, she mentioned that Archie had sung in college with an a cappella group called the MadHatters. Saturday night, Gavin was in the living room with his roommates, and Larry was surfing videos. “Hey, can you find anything by a group called the MadHatters?” Gavin asked him. “It’s a group my cousin used to sing with.”
Larry typed for a few seconds. “Yeah, here they are singing Billy Joel’s ‘The River of Dreams.’” There was Archie, in the back row, making weird noises. “I love this song,” Larry said. He jumped up and started to dance, holding his arms close to his body and waving them like some kind of boxing kangaroo.
“Christ, Larry, you dance like shit,” Manny said. He stood up. “Watch me.” He started to sway his hips in time to the music, and Larry followed him clumsily. “Come on, Gavin. Don’t make me be the only one with any coordination.”
Gavin had never done the kind of sexy Latin dancing that Manny did, but he was willing to give it a try. He followed Manny’s lead, moving his feet in small steps and swiveling his hips.
“Now your arms,” Manny said. “Do what I’m doing.” He had some kind of complicated thing going with his wrists and his elbows, and Gavin bumped into Larry as they were trying to imitate him, but they were all having fun, and when the song ended, they collapsed in laughter.
“You think you could teach me some of your moves?” Gavin asked. “For when I have to be up on stage?”
“I don’t think they do Latin dances in Wisconsin,” Manny said.
“Don’t care. I’d rather have people laugh at my dancing than my singing.”
“We’d better use music like you’re going to be singing. Larry, find us something.”
“Are there any clips of your grandma singing?” Larry asked Gavin.
Gavin directed him to look for the Singing Sweethearts, and the familiar refrain of “Apple Cider Time” began
to pour out of the laptop’s speakers.
“Not exactly a conga,” Manny said drily. “But we can make it work.”
He positioned Larry to one side, Gavin to the other. “Now this is a slower beat, so you’ve got to move more, you know, lazily.” He began to sway, tapping his right foot to the rhythm of the song, and Gavin and Larry imitated him.
It was weird, dancing to his grandmother’s voice, but that was something he’d have to get over. By the end of the song, he was starting to get into it. Larry hit replay on the video, and they kept dancing, laughing when one of them stumbled, teasing each other.
If he could manage this on stage, Gavin thought, he might have a hope of…he didn’t know what. Daydreams could come later; now it was time to work.
All Business
When Miles showed up for coffee Tuesday morning, Gavin summoned up the courage to say, “I’ve been practicing those exercises and ‘Apple Cider Time.’ You think I could come over to your studio sometime? I need a lot of help to get ready for this concert.”
Miles smiled, and Gavin’s heart gave a little leap. “Sure. How about this afternoon?”
“Great. I’ll come over after my shift.”
He was anxious for the rest of the morning and volunteered for all the crap jobs—sweeping the floor, emptying the trash, packing up the coffee grounds for amateur gardeners. Anything to keep his mind busy and keep him from worrying about what Miles would think.
When he was finally able to clock out, he hurried out to Lincoln Road, only to find that it had started to pour. He scurried past a mom pushing a baby stroller so laden down with toys and bags that it could have been stolen from a homeless person, darting under store canopies whenever he could.
The rain was coming down in sheets, and the wind was high, bending palm trees, knocking over restaurant tables, and sending the contents of trash cans rushing ahead of him. He was soaked by the time he got to Miles’s office building. He stood in the lobby and squeezed out the excess water from his T-shirt, then took the elevator upstairs.
He knocked on the door to Miles’s studio, and this time, the man himself opened it. “You look like a drowned rat,” Miles said.
“Sorry,” Gavin said, rubbing his upper arms in the air-conditioned chill. “I can come back another time if you want.”
“You have to get out of those wet clothes,” Miles said, ushering him inside. He closed the door behind him and walked across the room to a closet. “I keep some clean clothes here in case I work too late to go home. I’m sure I have something that will fit you.”
Gavin stepped out of his wet Crocs. At least they’d dry fast. Miles turned back to him holding a T-shirt, a pair of sweat pants, and a very small, thin towel. “Is there a men’s room somewhere?” Gavin asked. His teeth had started to chatter.
“I’ll turn my back,” Miles said.
Gavin shucked his sopping T-shirt and cargo shorts. Even his boxer briefs were soaked, so he pulled them down too and dried himself as best he could with the towel. True to his word, Miles had turned his back, though Gavin wished he was looking. He couldn’t figure the dude out—was he interested or not?
He stepped into the sweatpants. They were pretty loose, but he was able to pull the drawstring tight. Then he put on the T-shirt—an old, well-worn one from a concert by the Stray Cats. It molded to his body, and when he tried to tuck it in, he discovered it was a bit too short, displaying a band of his flat stomach.
“I’m good,” he said, and Miles turned around. Gavin was looking directly into his eyes, searching for something, but Miles just sat down behind the panel.
“I downloaded an instrumental track for ‘Apple Cider Time.’” He nodded toward the room with the microphone. “Why don’t you go in there and give it a try.”
Gavin felt like a poser. Who was he kidding? He wasn’t a real singer, and Miles was going to figure that out and send him on his way.
He didn’t even know how to stand around the microphone. He stood awkwardly behind it and leaned down. The feedback was shrill, and he jumped back.
Miles opened the door and stepped in. “Let me show you. First of all, you have to adjust the mike to your height. You’re taller than I am.” He moved closer to Gavin and raised the mike. “You should be able to sing into it without bending over like a pretzel.”
He looked over at Gavin. “And you have to stand closer.” He put his arm around Gavin’s waist and pulled him closer, and Gavin felt electric zings race through his body. “Come on. The microphone won’t bite.” He looked at Gavin and added, “And neither will I. Unless you want me to.”
Then he stepped abruptly back from the mike and handed the headphones to Gavin. “Put these on,” he said and then went back to his desk, closing the door behind him.
Gavin watched Miles flip a few switches, and then he heard the opening guitar licks to “Apple Cider Time.” He closed his eyes and pretended he was back on the porch at Starlit Lake with Uncle Jim playing, and he began to sing.
He couldn’t reach the really high notes, but he didn’t try. Instead he focused on the words, trying to infuse them with meaning instead of just imitating the way the Sweethearts had done the song.
He lingered on the last notes as the music faded, then opened his eyes. Miles was watching him through the window, but Gavin couldn’t read his expression. He took the headphones off and walked back out to the main room. “Did I suck?” he asked.
Miles shook his head. “You have real talent, Gavin. You gave me chills.”
“Really?” Gavin sat down across from him.
“Really. You still have a lot of work to do, but I can hear something in your voice. It’s hard to put into words. I mean, that’s an old song, and the lyrics are kind of corny, but your voice—you sell it. I could almost hear that song on the radio today.”
“Wow.”
“When do you go up to Wisconsin to practice with your family?”
“The middle of August.”
“You have a studio set up to rehearse?”
Gavin shrugged. “We have this big house out in the country. There’s like ten bedrooms, and I know my uncle has some instruments and stuff. But nothing like a studio.”
“Can you find out for me? If you don’t already have something, I’d like to come up and work with you. I have enough equipment that’s portable—I could set up somewhere and help you all prepare for the gig.”
“I’d have to see if my grandma and her sisters could afford—”
Miles interrupted him. “I wouldn’t charge. I’d just camp out with you, and you all would agree that if you decide to record, you’d hire me to produce.”
“I’ve never gotten involved in the Sweethearts’ business. I’d have to talk to my dad.”
“Can you ask him?”
Gavin loved the excitement he saw in Miles. “Sure. I’ll call home tonight.”
“Cool. Now go back in the recording room, and I’ll play you what you sang. I’ll explain the places where you need to work.”
Every time Miles spoke to him in that smooth, late-night-DJ voice of his, Gavin got chills. But Miles was good at taking things slowly, and he made sure Gavin understood each of his instructions. Gavin had to take his time with one phrase. Stay on key in another. It was all pretty overwhelming.
Eventually Miles said, “It looks like you’ve had enough for today,” and Gavin walked out of the studio and joined Miles at his desk.
“Don’t freak out,” Miles said. “You have a lot of work ahead of you, but I’ll help you. I promise.”
Miles handed Gavin a handwritten list of instructions. Certain exercises to continue, new ones to help with different skills. He also had to find out what other songs they would be singing at the Dells concert.
Gavin’s clothes were still wet, so he kept Miles’s T-shirt and sweats on, adding his Crocs. “I’ll bring these back to you,” he said. “Tomorrow?”
Miles shook his head. “I’ve got a project at a studio in South Miami,” he said. �
�I’ll be there for the rest of the week. I’ll call you when I’m finished. And don’t forget to ask your family if I can come up.”
By the time he got downstairs, Gavin was already daydreaming about spending time at Starlit Lake with Miles Goodwin. Long walks through the countryside, late nights spent practicing. Snuggling together under the covers of one of the big beds, feeling Miles’s lips against his, Miles’s cock in his mouth. He looked down and realized he was hard, his dick pressing against the sweats, and he adjusted himself.
The rain had stopped, and the air was clear and fresh, but his head was muddled. Why was Miles being so good to him? There was a vibe between them, but Miles had backed away when Gavin tried to kiss his fingers. Should he make another move on the Music Dude? Or would that screw everything up? And what would really happen if they were cooped up together at Starlit Lake?
By the time he got back home, he’d managed to push away his thoughts and fantasies about Miles Goodwin to focus on the question Miles had asked. Could he come up to Starlit Lake and help them all rehearse, in exchange for some business option?
He opened up his laptop and searched to see who owned the rights to “Apple Cider Time.” He had to follow a couple of false leads until he landed at the ASCAP site where, using their ACE search, he discovered the name of the guy who’d written the song and that a company called Starlit Productions was listed as the publisher/administrator.
It was the same for all the Sweethearts’ songs that he checked. Clicking on the link for Starlit Productions showed the address for his father’s car dealership, with Richard Kaczmarek—his father—as the president and contact.
His dad was a born salesman, and Gavin knew that he’d inherited that outgoing personality. His dad was also handsome, for an older guy. One of his frat brothers had even called him a DILF—a “dad I’d love to fuck”—which had creeped Gavin out. But if he aged as well as his dad had, he’d be grateful.
He waited until after dinner to call home.
