Different Circles

“It would be a shitshow,” Jake agreed.

They talked a little more about inconsequential things and then said they loved each other. As always, Jake did not promise to call her tomorrow, though he probably would.

He went back to the kitchen and pulled his dinner out of the microwave. He ate it slowly, waiting after each bite to make sure his stomach was going to accept the offering. It did so on a trial basis.

After eating, he went to bed without bothering to clean up his mess. He sincerely and whole-heartedly hoped he would feel better in the morning.

As it turned out, he did feel better. He got up just past nine o’clock with only a mild headache, a bit of stomach queasiness, and a vague feeling of disconnect. He took a few antacid pills and some Tylenol, washing them down with the rest of the Gatorade from last night’s bottle. He then made himself a little breakfast, scrambling three eggs and adding some shredded cheese and some peppers to it. He felt even better after eating. Not quite all the way back to normal, but better.

He called Pauline’s personal number and she answered on the second ring.

“Hey, sis,” he said. “It’s me. I’m back in town.”

“Thank God,” she said, an audible tone of relief in her voice.

Jake raised his eyebrows. “Why do you say that?” he asked. “Did some shit hit the fan?”

“No, not that I know of,” she said, “but I was worried about you being at that party in Detroit.”

“How do you know about that?” he asked, surprised.

“The whole fucking world knows about that party,” she said. “It went out on the AP wire. Did they really have to send in a SWAT team?”

“Only that one time,” Jake said with a shrug. “It wasn’t really that big of a deal. A few people tried to crash it and things got a little out of hand, I guess. The SWAT team stayed outside.”

“They’re reporting that fourteen people were arrested,” she said.

“Not all at one time,” he said. “And it was mostly just marijuana charges ... oh, and a few resisting arrests. You know how it is.”

“No,” she said, “I really don’t. You were not one of the people arrested?”

“I was not,” he said. “I got a really vicious hangover though. I’m thinking about not drinking anymore.”

She laughed as if that was the funniest thing she had ever heard. “Anyway,” she said. “I’m glad you’re safely home.”

“Me too,” he said. “I’m gonna be flying home to Oceano in a little bit. Just wanted to check in with you and let you know I was back. Also, I wanted to talk to you about the TSF.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I think it’s time to start looking for some musicians. I’m going to fly to Bangor when Laura is on her tour break and spend some time with her. After I get back, I want to hit the ground running if I can. My hope is that we can at least do some auditions and pin down the primary positions before I leave.”

“Interesting that you should bring that up,” she said.

“Is it?”

“Yes, because I wanted to talk to you about that very subject.”

“Oh ... okay. Let’s talk then.”

“Not over the phone,” she said. “I’m going to head to my office in the studio in about half an hour. Can you meet me there?”

“Sure,” he said. “No problem.”

“All right then,” she said. “I’ll see you there.”

He hung up the phone and then went into the master suite. There, he shaved four days worth of stubble off of his face, brushed his teeth, and then showered. He dressed in a fresh pair of jeans and a simple pullover t-shirt. All of this made him feel almost human again.

He packed up his travel bag and made sure he had the keys to the Oceano house. He then went out to his truck and made the drive to Santa Clarita. When he arrived at KVA’s studio building, he saw that, in addition to Pauline’s Lexus, there were several other vehicles parked in front of the entrance. He puzzled over this for a moment and then remembered it was Sunday. Lighthouse, the band consisting of Ben Ping, Ted Duncan, Phil Genkins and Lenny Harris—the first three of whom had been instrumental in the recording of Jake and Celia’s first solo albums—were here for rehearsal of their material. They were represented by Pauline, who helped get them gigs all over southern California, and were allowed to use the studio when Jake or Celia or Brainwash were not using it because they had helped Jake and Celia work up the tunes for their second albums.

Jake opened the front door using the code box and stepped inside. The receptionist’s desk was empty as it was her day off. Faintly, from the direction of the soundproof studio, he could hear the rhythmic thumping of Ben Ping’s bass guitar but little else. He put it out of his mind and walked down the hallway to Pauline’s office. She was sitting behind her desk, her hair down, wearing a blouse and a pair of jeans.

“Hey, Paulie,” he greeted. “Where’s Tabby?”

“Obie’s in town for a few weeks,” she said. “She’s with him.”

“Oh, that’s cool.” He walked over to the chair in front of her desk.

“Before you sit down,” Pauline said, “and before we talk, I want you to do something for me.”

“What’s that?”