Same time next week, p.2
Same Time Next Week, page 2
"Oh yeah! He seems awful since they broke up. Drinking heavily, partying with a weird, really rough Hollywood crowd. The last pictures we saw of him, remember, he looked an absolute mess−"
The radio alarm clock busted into pieces on impact, moments after it was yanked from the wall and hurled across the room, sending sharp plastic chunks in a spray across the carpet. He stared at the mess for a few seconds, finding it hard to believe he’d actually done that.
“Guess I’ll add replace that clock to my list of shit to do today,” he mumbled to himself, headed toward the bathroom, where hopefully a hot shower would give him some energy and drive.
A long list of errands preceded any music work–change of address form, picking up boxes and other luggage he’d had shipped, arranging for furniture and other items to be delivered to storage. Basic settling in tasks that Jackson wouldn't necessarily enjoy, but they wouldn't bother him as much if he could come to grips with the fact that he was back in Orlando.
4PM was music time. With a lift in his step, Jackson hurried up a winding sidewalk from the circular driveway to Rod’s home studio. The massive addition was nearly the size of his home, and for good reason. Rod and the band wrote, rehearsed and recorded there. There were smaller rooms for lounging and a rehearsal room where they played live and worked out songs real time. The band needed space for equipment as well as clashing egos and feelings of self-importance.
Just off the recording studio was a small room, more like a closet where the furniture was not plush and there were no comforts of home like a television or a refrigerator or a microwave, only a square folding table pushed against a wall, a few folding chairs scattered around the room and a stockpile of pens, paper, and sheet music. The room was barely powered, dimly lit by a single lamp. It wasn’t intended to be comfortable, but quiet and efficient. That was where Jackson did his writing, plotting, planning, piecing together. That room was home.
Some of the band members were already likely huddled in the side rooms and worn out from partying the night before. Jackson shuffled past one room, ever-present leather satchel on his shoulder.
“Ay, Jackson!” Sam, a heavyset black man made women swoon with his soulful saxophone. Three years ago, he'd been struggling on the club circuit, trying to stay afloat. An offhand comment to Rod one night while they shared a few beers started the wheels turning and soon Sam was adding flavor and depth to plain old pop—a combination that often surprised people. Jackson liked surprising people with things they wouldn’t think they’d like.
Jackson doubled back and poked his head into the room. A ball game was on the TV and two open cans of beer sat on the table in front of them. Duke appeared to be passed out on half of the couch. Sam took up the other half, an arm casually laid across the top of the cushions.
“Hey, Sam. How’s it going? How’s the new baby?”
“The new baby is fine,” Sam answered, his grin wide. “Got her all shined up, She’s ready to work.” Jackson laughed. The only baby in Sam’s life was a shiny new tenor saxophone.
“That’s what I like to hear. She’s getting a workout. I need to get set up back there, but I’ll have some changes for you on Evil Side of Me and Can’t Get Enough. They’ll be different than the original notes, but not too much. I want to slow it down a little, give the new baby a chance to shine.”
“Sounds good. We’ll be ready.”
Duke let out a long snore, loud enough to compete with the sound of the TV. Both men stared in his direction, gave each other a look and a shrug, and laughed.
“I don’t know how you put up with that. I can’t imagine him on a tour bus.”
“You tune it out, after a while. You can pretty much live your life around him. He sleeps through everything.”
“Thankfully, so do I.”
Jackson ducked out of the room and ambled further down the hall toward Rod’s office. It was almost as big as the recording room and more decadent than any of the others. Rod could, and sometimes did live there. One side was every cubicle worker’s dream—spacious wood desk with matching credenza, leather executive chair, multi-line phone system, carpet that gave the illusion of walking on air.
The other side of the room satisfied Rod’s sleep all day, party all night side. A mini-bar was built into one wall, alongside a soda dispenser and one of those expensive, shiny, silver coffee machines with all the buttons and knobs that somehow, if you pressed the right combination, would give you a latte or a cappuccino, or some fancy coffee thing. Rod didn’t even drink coffee, but Rod liked girls and girls liked coffee and girls loved that machine.
They also loved the long sofa that pulled out into a queen size bed. Few girls actually made it past the studio and into the private living quarters. Rod liked to say he never learned their names because he wouldn’t know them long enough to care.
Rod was in his office, feet propped up, showing off tan, muscular legs. The phone had been pulled across the desk, the receiver tucked between an ear and a shoulder while he flipped through a stack of pages. His stare was intense, like he was in the middle of an important conversation, so Jackson hadn’t intended to stop and talk. The sooner he got to his room, the sooner he could get to work.
“Yeah, hold on one second,” Rod said, covering the mouthpiece with his palm. “Hey Jackson! Hang out for a second, will you? I’m about off of this call.” He pointed toward one of the chairs in front of the desk and went back to his phone call.
Jackson ambled into the room and plopped into a chair, probably looking every ounce as bored as he actually was.
“Listen, I don't care. We agreed on three percent. I’m seeing seven percent all over this contract and I’ll be goddamned if I’m giving up an extra four percent, so fix it! I want to see a revision by 5 o’ clock.”
Rod slammed the phone back into its cradle and dumped the stack of pages onto the desk. He propped his elbows on the surface and buried his head in his hands, letting out a long moan.
“Rough day?”
“I wish I could trust people to keep these details straight. I have to comb every contract like I’m looking for something to be wrong. I always find something. Someone’s always trying to get over. Like this thing?”
He picked up the stack and tossed it to the edge of the desk. "I'll endorse anything; I don't care. Put my name on it, make some money. My agent gets a cut of that? Okay, cool. But when that weasel tries to take twenty five grand more than his contract says he gets?"
Rod shook his head. "I’m tempted to nix this thing right here and now.”
Jackson knew he wouldn’t. Rod liked to see his name on everything. And Rod liked money. He would get his way… one way or another.
Rod took a deep breath and raised his head, fanning his fingers out, releasing the bad energy. “So, how’s it going? You feel better about all this?"
“Yeah. I’ve been… working.”
He didn’t sound convincing and he knew it, but he didn’t want to get cocky about his abilities before he could produce something worth listening to. “I’ve been reworking some stuff. I think you’ll like it, but I want to run it through first. Hear how it sounds in real life, as opposed to how it sounds in my head. You know?”
Rod smiled, nodding his head. Knowing. He and Jackson thought a lot alike. “Good. I can’t wait to get in the studio. I’ve got some more phone calls to make, some more people to yell at. Get to work, why dontcha?”
Finally, he thought, but resisted actually saying it. Instead, he got up and went directly to the studio, passing through a cavernous room with every model and make of recording equipment a musician could ask for. Soon that room would be full of music, the beautiful sounds that never failed him, never made him feel inferior, never made him feel unloved or untalented, was faithful and always gave one hundred percent. Music had been a perfect girlfriend, a consummate lover. His soul mate. Maybe he wasn’t meant for anyone else.
The moment he entered the familiar room and turned on the lamp, he felt at home. His heart was light and a little happier. He sat in the plain folding chair at the table and started to hum, working through the changes to one of Rod’s biggest hits. Adding more soul, mixing in some jazz, extending the song to make it a little longer. For a concert, Rod would want to draw the crowd in and have some time to walk the stage, work the ladies, feel the groove.
He was ready to begin the first of many long days of working magic.
The band had finally called it a night at 4 AM, after Duke passed out. He was stretched out on the futon, hat over his face, snoring up a storm. Duke would wake up and drive himself home or he’d still be there the next day when they arrived.
Jackson was hungry, but like most big little cities, Orlando had nothing open that appealed to him. Winter Park, a ritzy enclave, had even less. LA had places that stayed open all night. He could go down to Kitchen24 and get a burger right this minute, if he was in LA.
But he wasn’t. Even the bars were closed and the only places open served shit food that he wasn’t in the mood to eat.
Jackson wandered the streets aimlessly, sort of avoiding going to another big, empty house where Kim wasn’t. She wouldn’t be on the couch, where she would have fallen asleep waiting up for him, because she couldn’t sleep alone. She wouldn’t offer to make him something to eat before they climbed the stairs and crawled into bed and enjoyed each other for a few minutes before sleep sounded better than anything. More important than Kim not being there, there was no food there.
He could buy food. It was the perfect time—he was less likely to run into a gaggle of screaming teenage girls. The most he’d get was a smile and a double take from the clerk that rang up his groceries.
Yeah. Food would be a good idea.
Chapter 4
Shelby
Shelby had dropped her mom off at the airport that evening and Evelyn had called to say she made it back to Miami. The sounds of her father's raspy grumbling in the background brought a tear to her eye; Shelby made an excuse to get off the phone quickly so she could throw herself onto the couch and let the tears flow with abandon.
She missed her mom already. And her dad. They were all she had in this mixed up mess. The last year had been… hell would be a good word to use to describe it. Running away from Miami and people she thought she could call friends, people she was about to call family, people who said they cared was a last resort. The expression went that the world was a cold, lonely place. At 92 degrees, it was far from cold, but lonely fit the bill.
The few minutes that she was going to give herself to wallow in self-pity turned into hours laying on the couch, on her back, staring at the ceiling, listening to the TV drone while tears rolled down the side of her face, into her ears, into her hair. The sun set, and the house grew dark and the late night shows began.
Time to play out this farce I call going to bed, she'd thought, pulling herself up from the couch. She stumbled toward the bedroom and rolled into bed, surprisingly falling asleep almost right away.
But now it was 3 AM and she was wide awake. Tired as sin, grumpy, almost in pain, she wanted to sleep so badly, but it wasn’t happening. Heaving a defeated sigh, she sat up and began her nightly ritual of wandering.
She toured every square foot of the house, from her bedroom to the two spare rooms down the hall, to the den and the formal living room and dining room, to the kitchen and out to the garage, around the back of the house. She ended up outside in one of the patio chairs near the pool, gazing up at the stars, wondering what the hell she was doing up? And what was she supposed to be doing with this time? How was life better when she was three hours away from the only people who had proven they loved her by sticking by her side?
“I need to get out of this house. That’s what I need."
That idea sounded good, better every second she considered it. A little drive, maybe to the 24 hour grocery store, down the street. No one would be there. No one would think it was odd to see someone picking up a few items at… she checked her watch… four o'clock in the morning.
It was a time of day. Middle of the day, middle of the night, who could tell anymore? She hadn’t slept more than a few hours at a time in months. Around this time of morning, she was fidgeting from cabin fever, having wandered every inch of wherever she was staying—hotel room, condo, house in the hills, or this new home in Orlando. As beautiful as the fantastic view of the surrounding forest could be, she felt closed in, claustrophobic, a little trapped. Fresh air always did her some good and there was something about the air at the edge of night that she much preferred.
Energized and feeling like she had a purpose, Shelby stepped through the sliding glass doors off of the den, back into the house. Made a mental grocery list. Almost ducked into the bathroom to check her hair, but who would be at Publix at that early? Stock boys and random people that would look as harried and tired and disheveled as she did.
A little early morning shopping trip. It seemed like a good idea.
Chapter 5
Jackson
The best thing about shopping before sunrise was that no one was there to hear him talk to himself. Or argue with himself. Or sing along to the 80’s hits coming out of the speakers overhead.
"$4.59 for Cheerios? Highway robbery…. I can’t remember if $1.99 a pound is good for chicken or not…”
The cage of the grocery cart rattled on wobbly wheels as he slowly pushed it up one aisle and down another. Jackson wasn’t much of a cook but he could make easy dishes if the directions were clear. He loved those one box meals– pour it in a pan, shove it in the oven. Warm up some rolls and there you have it. It was nothing fancy, but it was dinner. And if he couldn’t stop by a Taqueria in the middle of the night and get a burrito, the least he could do was have something easy to make and warm up when he got home.
It was going to be a long year.
The store was virtually empty; a few cashiers, an overnight manager who didn’t even look up when he walked past the Customer Service counter, stock boys refilling shelves and maintenance gliding over the floors with dust mops, emptying garbage cans, washing windows. It seemed like a peaceful job, if you were a night owl. Not a lot of people around to bug you, pretty much the same deal, night after night after night. Maybe, when he was done with all of this music industry business, he could retire and work at a grocery store, and work overnights, and make it his job to see that the windows sparkled, and the floors were clean, and the shelves were stocked.
Yeah, right.
Jackson heard the front doors slide open and then close again. Someone else liked shopping at 4 AM, it seemed. He’d made his way around most of the store, his cart only half full of boxed food, cereal, milk and bottled water. He stopped at the vitamin section, overwhelmed with all of his choices—One-A-Day for Men, One-A-Day for Energy, Vitamins added C, D, and E…
He pushed his cart, steering it toward the next aisle. With a loud rattle and the vibrant clang of steel on steel, he collided with something he couldn’t see around the bend.
“Sorry, sorry. My fault.”
“It’s okay,” said a female voice from around the corner. “I’m sort of not paying attention, either.”
His cart wouldn’t pull back for some reason, no matter how hard he pulled, so he had to walk around and inspect the wheels. As he expected, he’d rammed the other cart so hard that the wheels rode up and got caught in the rungs at the bottom of the other cart. The harder he pulled, the more he was melding them together.
“Uhm. Our carts seem to be uh… intertwined, here.” Jackson bent and pushed and pulled and tipped and twisted, and finally they came apart, rolling away like they couldn’t stand to be near each other.
“Thanks. Sorry, I guess I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
Jackson stood, wiping oil and dirt off of his hands onto his jeans, reaching out for his cart before it knocked boxes off of the shelves. He redirected it and lifted raised his face to hers. “No problem. It was my fault, anyway.”
She smiled back and for a millisecond everything was fine. And then he saw it, in her eyes. Recognition. That look that women got when they realized who was standing in front of them, that split second of trying to decide if they should freak out or play it cool, say something or let it go, ask for a picture or an autograph and a serenade, or respect his privacy.
“Well, it was nice running into you,” she said, her smile a little wider. She had a dimple. It was cute. She was cute, despite a half up, half down messy pony tail and an inside out t-shirt. Her eyes were red-rimmed, though and she looked tired. "Maybe we’ll do it again sometime.” She was going with playing it cool. Good choice.
“Sure,” he said with a chuckle. “Anytime you’re out shopping at five in the morning, I’m game.”
“It’s a date. Well… I’ll let you get back to your… shopping.”
He watched her back up and steer her cart around him, on her own trek through the store. He might be missing Kim but he was still a man with a libido and still knew what a pretty woman looked like. He could only imagine how she looked when she tried.
He poked his head around an end cap that boasted 50% off of Flintstone Vitamins, Bayer Aspirin, and Calamine lotion and watched her walk toward the frozen food section. His eyes fixed on two perfectly formed cheeks, hugged and outlined by the fabric of her yoga pants as they moved with her slow, sexy sway across the dull linoleum. His eyes roved up her body quickly before she could move out of his line of sight to her thin waist, slight shoulders and long neck. He wished he’d paid more attention to the front of her, but the back of her wasn’t a bad view at all.
She turned her head as she was about to go down an aisle. He quickly ducked back behind the end cap. Flushed and embarrassed, he pulled his cart down his own aisle and headed toward checkout. Praying she hadn’t seen him leering at her like a creepy old man.
But afraid that she had.
