by Cooper West
“Ready to go?” Tally asked, ignoring Chuck completely and not helping dispel the idea that he was Gary’s boyfriend inanyway.
“Yousober?”
Tally nodded. “Yep. A hard run like that always clears my mind. Anyway, I stopped with the beer two bottles ago.” He grinned, reaching for his coat on the spare chair. Chuck stood up, nodded at both of them, and walked away.
“Asshole,” Tally whispered into Gary’s ear as they walked out. Gary wanted to agree. In fact, he did agree, but that did not change the bone-deep sense of disappointment he felt about that.
ChapterTen
Thenext day was a repeat of the one before, with
Tally playing drill sergeant to get Gary whipped into shape. Gary was taking the songs into experimental territory, incorporating elements of “world” music that he had picked up playing backup for several fusion jazz bands in Chicago. He had always admired Afro Celt Sound System for fusing dance rhythms with traditional Irish and West African music, and Béla Fleck for bringing the banjo out of the country ghetto by incorporating jazz into his work. But those kinds of fusions had not been an idea that Gary ever considered for his own compositions or arrangements. Now it seemed glaringly evident to him that he had a unique perspective about the music at his fingertips, with his eclectic background and classical training. He wove in and out of songs, and Tally was constantly shoving music paper under his nose to write out his ideas.
Around three in the afternoon, his brain turned off, and he distracted Tally with a rousing chorus of “Three Blind Mice.”
“Oh my god, no more AM radio for you,” Tally groaned, stretchingas he stood up.
Gary rubbed his hands together, massaging his tendons. “How about a beer instead?”
“You are as a god to me. Yes.” Tally collapsed onthe hideous sofa.
“You could keep playing for another four hours, you bastard, and I know it.” Gary stumbled toward the kitchen.
“Yes, but the point is I don’t want to!” Tally yelled at his back. Gary rolled his eyes and came back with two bottles of the beer he had bought earlier in the week. It was hardly microbrew, but neither of them complained as they sprawled out comfortably to rest. After a few moments, Tally retrieved his phone and started checking his connections and e-mail, something Gary was familiar enough with that he ignored it completely, despite Tally waving the phone around at random intervals, tryingto pick up a stronger signal.
Instead Garywatched in fascinated dread through the front window as Chuck ambled over the front yard toward the porch. After a few seconds he knocked on the door. Garystared at it for a longmoment.
“S’open! Come in!” He waved his beer at the door, which creaked open. Chuck peered around the edge, his expression narrowing when he saw the two men lazy on the couch. Gary realized that, with their exhausted demeanors and casual, relaxed beer drinking in the middle of the afternoon, it could look like they had just finished up an afternoon tryst. He glared back at Chuck, who locked eyes withhimaccusingly.
“AmI interrupting?”
“No. We just got done workingonsome music.” Tally nodded absently, too absorbed in his phone
to pay much attention outside of giving Chuck a polite “hello”as he walked in.
“Hm.”
Garyrolled his eyes. “What’s up?”
Chuck squinted at him, then shrugged. “We’re
done. Rollingup and headingout.”
“Oh, hey. Okay. Thanks.” Gary took a swig of
his beer, knowing that to Chuck at least, his lack of
offering hima drink of some kind or even a chair was a
veryloud rebuke.
“Damn it, I’mgoing to have to go wander around
with my phone in the air to get this e-mail finished,”
Tallybitched as he got up, stilllookingat his phone, and
walked out. Chuck looked after him.
“Bad reception?”
“I guess. He’s been complaining about it since he
pulled up.”Garyshrugged.
Chuck shoved his hands in his pockets, staring at the ground. Gary let him stew, not very interested in
tryingto keep up appearances.
“Youand Tally?”Chuck asked.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but no. He’s
got a fiancé back in Chicago, and she’s more than a bit
territorial.”
Chuck’s eyebrows shot up at the pronoun. “Oh.” “Anything else you wanted?” Gary asked, going
for casualand disinterested.
Chuck looked at him directly, his eyes crystal
clear and focused. “Yes.”
Gary stalled for a second, caught in the crosshairs
of Chuck’s interest, knowing exactly what Chuck was
saying and trying to decide between “I’m not that kind
of girl” and “yes, please” when Chuck turned and
walked out.
Gary let out a slow breath. The interest was
definitely mutual, but it was not as if anything had
changed over the course of a week to make Chuck
suddenly available or for Gary to be willing to be his
boytoyonthe side.
Tally came back in, frowning in the general
direction that Chuck had walked away. “So what was
that about?”
“I think he was just verifying whether you and I
are a couple or not.”
“And you told him that you can’t get enough of
myred-hot loving, right?”
“No, but huma few bars and I’llfake it.” Tally rolled his eyes. “Anyway, that was Gina.
She’s threatening to run away with the pool boy if I
don’t give her a date for myreturn.”
“The poolboy?”
Tally shook his head. “Totally not worried about
it. Our poolboyis queer as a three dollar bill.” “Now you tell me…,” Gary sighed dramatically.
Tally laughed loudly, and Gary wondered if Chuck
could hear theminthe orchard.
The following day, Tally forced Gary to record
two full songs and snippets of another three he was still hammeringout arrangements for. Tallyput copies onhis mega-GB thumb drive that he always had on him, then sat down to try to work out a time frame for an album. Gary agreed to take on the job of finding suitable backup players and studio space, wondering if going to Chuck for help was tacky, while Tally would work on sussing out the progressive fusion scene and making some contacts through other managers he networked with. They hoped to get a “name” to do a guest spot, but Gary was adamant about keeping costs low, despite Tally’s willingness to put forward money as a producer, something he rarely did and something that
made Garyveryuncomfortable.
“I’llthink about it.”
“I backed Joe Steiner’s first album. This isn’t new
to me.”
“Really? Wow.” Steiner was a rude prima donna
saxophonist who was the current darling of the easylistening jazz scene, well on his way to iconic status on
radio stations all over the world. He was a particularly
big hit in Australia, which even Tally found confusing.
“Okay, as longas the investment isn’t too much.” “You’re hiring local musicians and will probably
score a small recording studio in downtown Charlotte
that usually handles hip-hop artists and garage bands.
Right now I’m not really concerned about you going
over budget. What I want is four perfect songs that we
can record and get up online to start your solo press kit
with. I think revamping your website is going to be
more expensive thanthe recordingcosts, to be perfectly
honest,” Tally sighed. “Anyway, four perfect songs first,
and then you can do another six to eight to fill out
an
album with. I’m giving you a month to get four perfect
songs—”
“Yes, I get it: four perfect songs,” Gary said,
holdinghis hands up insurrender.
“Exactly. A month. Then another month to
arrange practice sessions and set up recording, while
you arrange the other songs, getting them ready to go.
Keep sending me copies of trial recordings you make
here… although your equipment is for shit. You know
that, right?”
“Usually I’m in a studio being paid by someone
else to record my work. I never saw the need to invest
innewer microphones.”
“Well, buy some new ones. If you need an
advance….”
“I’lllet youknow.”
“Good. Okay. Now… touring.”
“No.”
“I’mjust saying… think about it.”
“WhenI think about it, I hyperventilate.” “I know, I’ve been there. And yes, we can do a
lot online, but the moneyis intouring, and youknow it.” “Tally….”
“No, youcan’t argue withme anymore. You’re at
the make-or-break point here, Gary, and I’m backing
you with my own damn money so you have to fucking
meet me halfway.”
Gary sat back a little, surprised at Tally’s cursing.
After a second, he let out the breath he was holding. “I
just don’t know what to do. We tried a lot ofthings that
didn’t work.”
“If you need a therapist, get one. Do whatever it
takes, but at the very least I need you able to play for
smallcrowds.”
Garyfrowned. “Bywhen?”
Tally looked thoughtful. “Six months. Sooner if
possible, but really it’s going to be six months before
we can get anything of decent size set up, although I
might pull strings to get a small regional tour before
then. If you can trip up to Chicago in the meantime, I’ll
get you into a few small venues at the last minute, but a
big splash? That’s going to take the marketing team a
while.”
“You weren’t this determined about things in
Chicago.”Garytried not to pout.
“In Chicago, you were a good studio musician
who pulled in regular gigs and never caused me trouble.
Now you’re a soloist with a unique flair and lots of
talent and skillwho is onthe verge ofmakingme—us—
a lot ofmoney.” Tally leaned across the breakfast table.
“I don’t back losers, because I really love my money. Gina loves my money. I’mnot sinking it into you out of pity. If I think you’ve got a chance, then by god you have a chance. Don’t throw it away.”
Thedays after Tally drove away to the airport in
Braedon were long and exhausting for Gary. He decided since he was not actually employed or trying to be employed or crashing uncomfortably on a friend’s spare bed or couch, he should follow his muse however hard she ran. It turned out that he had forgotten that his muse was a bastard bitchofa marathoner.
Tally’s encouragement and hands-on coaching pulled Gary’s creativity up from where it had been hiding, and now Gary was focusing on letting it run free. He played for hours, poking through songs he found in Aunt Harriet’s album collection and rearranging them first one way, then another. He found the other two songs he wanted to be part of the “Perfect Four” and five more that held promise. Playing songs over and over again, he sometimes felt like an obsessive savant and soon realized he had skipped lunch and was late on dinner.
At some point, and he could not specify when because afterward it was as if the bare bones of the songjust suddenlyappeared onpaper one day, he even wrote a songhimself. He titled it “Dawninthe Orchard” and decided it would go on the album too, whatever Tally might say about it. But Gary thought his manager wouldn't fight it, because it was a good song. Maybe not a great one, not one of the “Perfect Four,” but it was interesting and sounded like something Gary would write, which was not even something he would say about the two songs he had scratched out as part of his finalproject for his masters, so he felt proud ofit.
Eventually the quiet of the house and surrounding farmland, as well as his general isolation, got the best of him. It was Saturday. He had missed the Thursday jam at the Lower Forty and was not in the mood to hang out at any bar, so he drove into town instead. He took an early supper at the diner where he and Chuck had eaten, then picked up a latte (extra large with caramel and whipped cream, because he decided he deserved a reward on general principles) and then went to wander downthe mainstreet and look inthe store windows like any self-respecting gay man would once he got his hands ona large caramellatte.
Feeling particularly out and proud, he sighed in defeat to find himself standing in front of Chuck’s shop. He stood there just long enough to be conspicuous before gathering his wits together and walking through the door.
Chuck sat at the counter, an eReader in his hands. He looked up when Gary wandered in, his expressionquicklygoingfrompolite to hostile.
“Afternoon,”Garysaid, tryingto sound formal. This only made Chuck suspicious. He glared at Gary. “What brings youby?” Gary’s resolve to be calmand cool faltered. “I… well… honestly? Business.”
“We’llget youanaccountingofthe harvest just as soon—”
“No, not the pecans.” Gary walked over the counter, leaningagainst it. “Music.”
Chuck closed up his reader. “And?”
“Tally really is my manager. He’s got me working onarranginga few tunes for solo release.”
“You’re good enough for that,” Chuck said generously, but he looked pained to sayit.
“I think so. I hope so.”Garytapped his fingers on the counter. “I need a band.”
Chuck stared at him, his expressionblank. Gary sighed and plowed ahead. “Abanjo player, a fiddler, and a keyboardist. Nothing particularly special, but they need to be willing to expand their horizons beyond the traditional standards. I’m doing some prettycreative arranging, and it’s got as muchjazz init as bluegrass.”
“Withyouonguitar?”
Gary nodded. “Yeah. You and Fran are the only connections I’ve got in this town, outside of Fred George….”
At the name, Chuck snorted with derision but did not comment.
“Right. So, I need help.”
“Youwant me to help you?”
Gary glared back at him. “I think that’s what I just said.”
“Nothinglike it. Youjust said youneed help.”
Garypinched his nose infrustrationand closed his eyes. “I hate this passive-aggressive shit, just so you know. You have a good idea what I’m asking, and I’ll ask plain if you insist, but don’t play these fucking games withme.”
Chuck was silent long enough that Gary opened his eyes to make sure he had not walked off.
“Fran’s quality. Her cousin Jamie is good on the ivories, better thanmost and not as showy.”
“Which leaves me a fiddle player,” Gary said, tryingto sound neutral.
“I’d offer ifI thought you’d agree.”
“Ofcourse I’d agree!”
Chuck looked at himdisbelievingly.
“What’s personal is just that: personal. This is business. I need a good fiddle player who has experience playing in a band. You’re good, and you’ve got the experience. If you can put your bitter self-hating homo issues on the back burner, then we’ve got a deal.”
Chuck looked confused. “I’mnot self-hating.”
“Sure, whatever. Look, can you get everyone over to the house for practice?”
“Fran’s schedule is pretty crazy, but Jamie works from home. I’ll have to see when I can get us all matched up.”
“They have to be willing to practice at least twice a week.”
Chuck nodded. “Agreed. Let me talk to them.” He stopped for a moment. “This involve touring?”
“No, honestly, probably not. Well, Tally thinks so, but I’m not so sure… so, no. But it would involve recording sessions at whatever studio I can get time at, eventually. They—you—would get paid for that, at least. And I’ll get you a fair deal on residuals, if there are any.”
Chuck nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “Alright, then. Give me a couple ofdays to get themlined up.”
Gary stopped, surprised at how easy that had been. “Oh, okay. Well. Okay. I’ll be… leaving.” He picked up his latte and turned to go.
“It’s family, Gary. You got to understand.” There was a plaintive note to his voice.
Gary stopped, his anger welling up, but he refused to turn around to have this selfsame conversationhe had fought over withRoger for years.
“It’s also your life.”Garywalked out.
ChapterEleven
Theirfirst practice session was four days later. Gary
managed to photocopy his working scores and get the copies to Chuck so that the others would have a day or two to look themover.
Gary’s biggest hurdle—or, at least, his first one— was gearing himself up to play in front of Fran and Jamie. Chuck had snuck in, literally, and was now on the list of people Gary could play for and with without problems. Even knowing Fran personally was not quite enough to smother his anxiety, and Jamie was a complete unknown. He tried to act like a professional with Chuck as they set up a practice time, and Gary did not think he looked particularly nervous, but Chuck gave him a slightly worried look. Gary figured the butterflies in his stomach were probably showing on his sleeve, but he did not particularly want to discuss it (ever), so he wrapped up the conversation and left the store.
They all finally met up at Gary’s house to try things out. Jamie was a willowy soft-spoken man in his twenties with the polite demeanor of a Southern gentleman and the fussy habits of a prima donna. He had his own keyboard, of course, and looked narrowly with distaste at the banged-up board that Gary quickly moved out of his way. Fran gave Gary a weary grin about it, clearly used to Jamie’s opinions, as she sat down on one of the kitchen chairs he had dragged out earlier. It was 11 a.m., which was the only time Fran had free before the weekend hit, and Gary spent the morning unsuccessfully trying not to freak out while he rearranged the living room as a “studio annex” in order to accommodate the group, which included shoving the horrific couch out the back door for the sake of space. Not that Gary was too sad about saying goodbye to that couch.
