Different Circles

Jake and Laura spent the weekend doing absolutely nothing of consequence. They played no music. They did not leave the house a single time except to go out on the back deck or out to the hot tub on the cliff to watch the sunsets. Jake thawed out some baby back ribs from the local meat market and spent all day Saturday smoking them out on the Weber barbeque. They ate them with canned baked beans on Saturday and Sunday night. Jake had a few beers while they were smoking, a few glasses of white wine with the meals, and scotch on the rocks before retiring each night, but otherwise drank no alcohol. It just wasn’t fun to drink when there was no one able to drink with him. He smoked no marijuana for the same reason.

On Monday morning, it was back to the routine. They woke up at 6:45 AM, showered, got dressed, and then went to the kitchen for coffee and the breakfast that Elsa had prepared for them (it was eggs benedict, Laura’s favorite). At 7:25, they left the house in Jake’s BMW and drove to San Luis Obispo Regional Airport, arriving there at 7:45 AM and parking the car in the hangar after using the electric tug to pull the Avanti out. The aircraft was preflighted and the flight plan filed by 8:00. They roared into the sky at 8:10 and landed at Whiteman Airport at 8:35, parking in the general aviation tie-down area and then retrieving the Ford F-150 from the hangar by 8:42. Jake then drove to KVA’s studio and dropped Laura off out front, watching to make sure she made it safely inside before beginning his drive out to Stonehurst and the rented warehouse where Matt and his band had been rehearsing. He arrived there at 8:55 and nodded in satisfaction that the timetable he had worked out for the days he would working with Matt had got him there on time.

Now the only thing left was to see if the two of them could actually work together.

Jake secured his car and walked to the man entrance that was guarded by a uniformed private security officer sitting in a chair and drinking coffee. The young guard looked at Jake in awe as he approached.

“Hey,” Jake greeted. “Matt is expecting me.”

The guard nodded rapidly. “He said you would be here today,” he said. “Does this mean ... uh ... you know ... that Intemp is getting back together?”

“No,” Jake said simply. “It doesn’t mean that at all.”

The guard’s face fell a bit. “That’s a bummer, dude,” he said.

“I suppose,” Jake said. “Is the door unlocked?”

“Oh ... yeah, go right in, Mr. Kingsley.”

“Thanks,” Jake said. “And call me Jake, if you don’t mind.”

“Right ... Jake,” the guard said.

“And ... you are?” Jake enquired.

“Huh? Oh, I’m Aaron,” the guard said. “Aaron Jackson.”

“Nice to meet you, Aaron,” Jake said, holding out his hand for a shake. “I appreciate the work you’re doing here.”

“Oh ... thanks, Mr. K—uh ... Jake.” They shook hands. Aaron seemed to be pleased by the gesture and by Jake’s expressed appreciation for what he was doing.

Jake opened the steel door and stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The band’s equipment was still sitting in the same place it had been in when they had set everything up last month. The band itself was present but Matt was not here yet. Jake walked over and greeted Steve Calhoun, the drummer; Austin Jefferson, the bass player; and Corban Slate, the young rhythm guitarist. It was only his second time meeting them. All shook hands politely with him and treated him respectfully and with perhaps a bit of awe of their own.

“What time does Matt usually roll in?” Jake asked them.

“Nine o’clock on the button,” Steve said. “You can set your fuckin’ watch by him.”

“Fair enough,” Jake said. “How’s everything going with you guys? You getting by on the advance money okay?” KVA had fronted Matt and his band two hundred thousand dollars in advance money, which would be their only recoupable expense under the contract. Matt, of course, had not divided that up equally, but had given each of them twenty thousand to live on until such time as actual KVA royalty checks started rolling in.

“So far, so good,” said Austin. “I haven’t had to spend much of it yet. We’re still getting pretty good royalty checks from National—at least in our eyes.”

“Yeah,” said Corban, “we don’t have to give half of it to the IRS like Matt.”

“We also don’t live in mansions that have huge fuckin’ tax bills due every quarter,” added Steve.

“Good points,” Jake said.

The door opened a minute later and Matt stepped inside. He was dressed in a pair of denim shorts that hung to just above his knees and a faded Corona t-shirt that had its sleeves cut off. Jake glanced at his watch and saw that Steve had been right. It was nine o’clock, right on the button.

“Wassup, motherfuckers!” Matt greeted his bandmembers. They all returned the wassups with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Matt then looked at Jake. “Jake,” he said softly.

“Matt,” Jake returned. “Where’s Jim?”

“He doesn’t come in every day,” Matt said. “Usually only when we plan to go out and score some gash after the session.”

“I see,” Jake said.