A Song For Julia Part 28

Blue Ginger (Crank) You're not really going to wear that are you?

When Julia asked me the question, I looked down at myself. I guess I hadn't really thought about it. I was wearing my Dirty Rotten Imbeciles t-s.h.i.+rt, which I happen to love, though it was faded and worn from wearing it for too many years. And my dungarees, faded and torn, were what I always wore. But my brain clicked into place that Julia was wearing a formal dress.

I coughed. "Um ... I guess I hadn't thought of it. Where exactly are we going?"

"Blue Ginger ... it's, um ... French Asian restaurant. In Wellesley."

Wellesley? Where the h.e.l.l was that?

"Um ... why?"

She rolled her eyes. "My father made reservations. Apparently the chef is famous or something, they won a bunch of awards."

"All right," I said, "in that case, we need to go shopping."

"What?"

"Right ... Thanksgiving morning. Everything's going to be closed. Hold on."

So I went to Sean. We were about the same size. He loaned me a pair of plain black slacks and a b.u.t.ton down black s.h.i.+rt. After I changed, I looked in the mirror. I hardly recognized myself. I took out several of my earrings, left just one in each ear, and dumped the rest in the pocket of my s.h.i.+rt.

I drew the line at my boots. I wasn't wearing Sean's loafers, no matter if her father was the President of the United States. Besides, Sean's feet were huge.

I got back downstairs, s.h.i.+rt all tucked in and wearing a belt and everything. So, of course, my dad had to make smart-aleck comments, but I ignored that. We hugged everyone and got out of there. Julia was driving a rental car, and the second we got in, I lit a cigarette and rolled down the window a little to let the smoke out, then asked, "Mind if I smoke?"

She gave me a wry look and said, "No, go ahead."

We were on our way. No sooner had we pulled out of the driveway before I was saying, "So ... we haven't had a chance to talk. What happened with Ron Murray?"

"Okay," she said. "Here's the thing. They're trying to lock you into a really bad contract. They want to pay two thousand up front, which probably isn't that bad, but they want a five-year contract. And no guarantee that you'll get a recording contract for an alb.u.m."

"d.a.m.n," I muttered. "But they want the song?"

"Yeah, they want to release a single. I told him the deal wasn't good enough and made a counteroffer, which was far more than you're going to get. But I wanted to start outrageous and work our way down."

What the h.e.l.l? Didn't she know they could shut us down? This was the biggest chance we'd had yet, and she was demanding outrageous terms?

"I wish you'd told me that before you made the counteroffer."

"Well, we were on the phone, and I had to say something then. I'm meeting them for lunch on Wednesday. But I'll be honest with you ... I've got doubts about Division Records."

"What kind of doubts?"

"You may end up in a five-year contract with a bankrupt company. Murray's being investigated by the IRS."

"Oh, s.h.i.+t," I said. "Then we should move immediately. Get the single out while we can."

She frowned. "You'd be stuck after that. Give me a chance to work this, okay? It might take a few days, but ..."

"But nothing," I said, starting to get angry. "This is the best chance we've ever had, and you're turning your nose up at it?"

Her response was quick, and her voice had a hard edge to it. "No. I'm negotiating. Which you and the band asked me to do."

"Julia," I said. "Please don't-"

"Stop," she interrupted. "Either you trust me to do this, or you don't. What I said to the rest of the band applies to you. If you want me to manage this thing, then let me manage it. You're not going to control every little step just because we're ... whatever we are."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what I said, Crank. I'm trying to get you a much better deal than you'd get otherwise. You can't just jump at the first offer, especially when it's an insulting one. They think you're so desperate that you'll take anything."

"We are!"

"No. We're not. You've got real talent, Crank. You've got one h.e.l.l of a song there. Don't sell yourself short."

I tossed my cigarette out the window and immediately lit another one. She was turning on to the Ma.s.s Pike. It would take us twenty minutes or so to get out toward Wellesley from here.

"Julia, I need you to hear me. This isn't a game for me. This is my life."

"I know that," she replied. "And you're so close to it, you're so tied up in it emotionally, that you're not being rational."

All kinds of thoughts ran through my head when she said that. I'm not being rational? Who the h.e.l.l was she to say that? And why would I want to be rational about something this important, anyway?

"For Christ's sake, Julia. I asked you to negotiate a contract with the record company, not take over my life!"

Her eyes narrowed, and she squeezed the steering wheel, her hands compressing into fists, and she said. "No. You asked me to manage the band. Now will you let me do that?"

I furiously took a drag from my cigarette and looked out the window. Then I said, "Maybe it's a bad idea to mix up our personal life and the band."

"Little late for that," she said. "Though if you want to get the band together and fire me, feel free."

Her voice was shaking as she said it. I didn't know if it was anger or sadness. I replied, "What I want is for you to listen to me. Some bands spend years-many years-without ever getting an opportunity like this. This is everything I've ever dreamed of."

She shouted, "I know that, Crank! I know that! And I'm doing everything I can to make it work! I need you to back off and have some confidence in me, all right? Unless you were planning on doing this yourself and having me as window dressing, in which case you can take this thing and shove it up your a.s.s!"

Her phone rang. Christ. I tossed my cigarette and lit another one. I was p.i.s.sed. She fumbled with the phone for a second then flipped it open and snarled, "h.e.l.lo?"

A moment later, she said, "Sorry ... I was having a moment there."

Pause. Then, in an excited voice, she said, "Oh, my G.o.d, you did? What did he think?"

I glanced over at her. Her face was animated, excited. It was ... it was how I always wanted to see her.

A moment later, she said, "Yes, of course. When?"

She frowned. "I don't know if I'll be able to get a flight on that short of notice. I'll try."

A flight? Where was she going?

She listened, a crease appearing in her forehead, and then she said, "Okay. Okay. Yeah, all right. I'll call you back in a few minutes."

She hung up the phone, then said, "I need you to drive," and swerved across all three lanes and into the breakdown lane.

"What the h.e.l.l?" I asked.

"Just ... switch with me, all right? I have to do this right now."

Without another word, she shut off the car and jumped out. By the time I got my seatbelt off and started to s.h.i.+ft out of my seat, she was already around the car. I was mystified. I didn't say a word, just walked back around and got in, then started driving.

She was already dialing the phone. At least this was better than arguing with her.

"Hi ... I need to buy two tickets. Boston to Los Angeles, round trip ... tomorrow, your earliest flight."

What the h.e.l.l? We'd planned on spending the day together tomorrow. It was the first Friday in weeks where I didn't have work or rehearsal.

She grabbed a small notebook out of her purse and started writing. "Coach if you've got it ... otherwise, whatever."

She frowned. "First cla.s.s is all you have? What's that going to run?"

Jesus. First cla.s.s on a flight tomorrow? That was going to cost a fortune. She winced. They must have told her the price.

"All right, that's fine." She gave them her name, then said, "Crank ... does your driver's license really say Crank?"

"Yeah," I said, still confused.

"Okay ... the other pa.s.senger is Crank Wilson. C-R-A-N-K. Yes, really. "

Okay. Now I was ... completely gobsmacked. She was buying tickets for both of us. To fly to LA. For reasons I didn't know. What the h.e.l.l was she up to?

"Okay, let me verify. 6:45 out of Boston. Return flight leaves LAX at 9:35 PM, arriving at Boston 9:30 Sat.u.r.day morning?"

She paused, then said, "Visa," and read off a credit card number.

A moment later, she said, "Thanks! Happy Thanksgiving!" and hung up the phone.

I drove in silence. A second later, she said, "Oh, my G.o.d. Almost four thousand dollars. My father's going to kill me when he sees the bill. The band is going to have to reimburse me after we get the advance."

I coughed and said, "What was that all about?"

"Oh, c.r.a.p," she said. "Hold on." And then she started dialing again. Oh, for G.o.d's sake. Was I at the absolute bottom of her list of people to talk with today?

"Mitch? Hey, it's Julia. Okay ... we're on American Airlines. Flight gets in at 10:05 A.M. Should we cab to the office? Oh! Great. Well, I guess we'll see you tomorrow then! And Mitch? Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. You have no idea how much I owe you."

She listened for a second then laughed. "All right. Happy Thanksgiving to you, too."

She hung up the phone, then sat back and smiled.

I was gritting my teeth by this time. I lit another cigarette. I don't normally smoke this much, but she was p.i.s.sing me off.

"Spill," I said.

She smiled. "Allen Roark is taking us to meet the president of White Dog Records tomorrow."

I caught my breath, trying to process what she'd just said. "Allen Roark ... the Allen Roark?"

She nodded.

"Mitch played the song for him this morning. And so Roark called the President of White Dog, told him we had to meet right away ... and ... so you and I are flying to LA in the morning."

I drove. And took a drag off my cigarette. And drove some more. She looked at me, waiting for me to respond. I took another drag off my cigarette and then spoke.

"Is this the part where I say I'm sorry? I should never have doubted you?"

She looked thoughtful then said, "Why don't we save that for when you really p.i.s.s me off."

I burst into a laugh and shook my head. "I can't believe we're meeting Allen Roark tomorrow."

"And the president of White Dog Records," she said. Rubbing it in.

"He really liked the song?"

"Would he set up a meeting on this short notice if he didn't? On Thanksgiving day, of all days?"

"I guess not. Can I tell Serena?"

She looked over at me, raising her eyebrows. "Serena doesn't doubt me."

"Oh s.h.i.+t," I said. "I'm sorry. I really am."

"I'll forgive you eventually."

"Do we have to go eat with your parents? Let's shack up in a hotel and have wild mad makeup s.e.x instead."

She grinned at me. "We have to be up early tomorrow."

"You're killing me."

And so, she navigated from her MapQuest directions, and I drove us into the wilds of the suburbs of Boston, where I'd spent exactly no time at all during my life. I was a pit rat, and spent too many years hanging with the punks and homeless kids around Cambridge and Somerville to ever be comfortable out in the pristine, upper middle cla.s.s suburbs. I kept expecting to get run over by a horde of soccer moms driving SUVs. But here we were, driving up to a five-star restaurant with an award winning chef and her parents. I hoped we could keep it short. She could use the excuse of the early flight. Of course, her father would then wonder how she paid for first cla.s.s tickets to LA. Better not mention the flight, I thought, if he was the one getting the bill.

Even that was hard to get my mind around. Who gives their kids credit cards? Especially one with a limit high enough you could just buy four thousand-dollar airplane tickets at the drop of a hat? That was crazy. And how had she arranged the meeting with Allen Roark, or even gotten him to listen to our song? He must have a thousand bands a week sending him demos. Julia had been the band's manager for exactly two days. And she'd already arranged that. In some ways, it didn't even seem fair. Was it really all about who you knew?

No. Maybe getting us to Roark this quickly was about who she knew. But him to like the song? That was all about the music. And I could own that.

We finally got there. And I spied a family going in. The men were in suits and ties. The ladies were in dresses.

I looked down at myself. "I'm really not dressed right for this, am I?"