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I'D JUST FINALIZED the band roster for the next month and was about to start calling bands when Chuck came into my office.
He sat on the shonky sofa but didn't say anything. That was pretty unusual for Chuck. Normally he talked my ear off in the most annoying way possible. Chuck suffered from short man complex – and probably a lot of other complexes as well – always acting like he had something to prove but never channeling that into anything productive.
I chewed on my nail, waiting for him to start but he kept staring ahead.
Then he looked up as though he wanted to say something. I focused on him but no words came out. He hung his head again.
Okay, it was becoming really uncomfortable. I glanced at the paperwork on my desk, wondering if I should ignore him and keep working or if I should just wait for him to get started.
Actually, he did look a bit ashen in the face and that pulsating vein in his neck was a worry. I hoped he wasn't about to have a heart attack in my office. Chuck was a total jerk but I'd much rather him alive than a corpse on my sofa.
What would be so hard for him to discuss with me anyway? I was pretty sure I hadn’t done anything wrong recently. Well, nothing he'd find out about. And he'd never had an issue screaming his head off at any of the staff before.
He ran his hand through his hair and slowly raised his head.
"I've got some pretty shit news," he said.
"What's up?"
Knowing Chuck, this was all for dramatic effect and he was just going to bitch about some minor bit of shit. Like how the bar staff gave away too many free drinks or that some band nicked something from backstage. I don't even know why he came to me about that kind of stuff. I was the band booker, not the bar manager. My responsibility started and ended with the bands. I guess if they were pinching stuff from the club, I had some responsibility for that, but not over the rest of it.
"I saw my accountant yesterday. There's been a huge fuck up with the taxes. I'm in debt. In big debt." Chuck gulped.
"So? You can pay it off, right?"
All this fuss because he had to pay some taxes. His tax problems weren't my concern. I hoped he didn't want a loan because he should seriously know better than to ask that with what he paid me.
“It’s not that simple...”
“Huh?” Then, the words sunk in. This wasn’t just about him. “How does this affect the club?”
He didn't answer. I had no idea what Chuck's finances were like but he drove a pretty swish car and never seemed to worry about throwing money around on useless things like bimbos and flashy suits.
He shook his head and didn't look at me again.
I shuffled to the edge of my chair. "Chuck, this is the part where you reassure me that everything will okay."
"I'm not sure I can do that, Violet. I'm not sure..."
His hands shook and he'd gone even whiter. What would happen if Chuck went broke? Would he sell the club? He couldn't sell the club. That wasn’t possible. Surely, he was just stressed because he'd have to cut back on his stupid expenses.
"You can sell your car. That's got to be worth a bit."
He scowled. "I don't own that. It's leased through the business."
Wow, you could do that? I had no idea how these things worked. But then I had no idea about any of the financial workings of the club. All I knew was booking bands. I bet those bimbos he drove were leased too.
This was too big for me to comprehend. That throbbing neck vein seemed to have transferred itself from Chuck to me as though he'd handed me his burden. But I didn't want it.
He sat there, hunched over and staring at his hands for long enough that panic set in. He could say something instead of just looking defeated. Surely, he'd know I had a zillion questions. Everyone would. That was a massive bombshell to drop.
My heart sunk like a drowning man. I couldn't get my mouth to work. I had the functionality and facial expressions of a goldfish.
"Is the club going to survive? Should I be looking for another job?"
"I don't know, Violet. I really don't know. He’s running numbers now and trying to figure out how long we have to pay this back. Maybe we can pay installments or something. It does mean that this place has to start making serious money. Enough to cover my tax bill."
I wanted to ask how big the tax bill was but was afraid of the answer. Even though Trouble wasn't anything fancy, it must cost a heap to run, with wages and all that.
We had to pay the bands plus we needed at least two staff in the downstairs bar plus two upstairs on a regular night. Then there was security and cleaning and bussing. I had no idea how much money the club made. Of course, I knew how much the door takings were for the bands and how much we paid them but then there was the bar as well. It wasn't like the place didn't make money.
"We have to make serious cuts. No more bar tabs, no more free drinks. No more having half a crowd on a Saturday night. We need to get bands that will bring in people, paying customers."
Well, there went all of my work. I could tear next month's roster into pieces. This place had never been like that. That's why I loved my job. It wasn't some ritzy club just out to make money. We gave bands a chance to prove themselves and all the misfits somewhere to gather. Even if Chuck was a jerk, this place worked. It worked as a family and a refuge from the shitty world.
"Will that do the trick?"
"It might, I can't really say at the moment. It's all a mess."
He was right about that. Things were going to change and I hated change. It seemed bloody stupid to me that just because Chuck or his accountant had screwed up, we all had to suffer. The moment of pity I'd had for him passed quickly to be replaced by rage at his incompetence. I knew this was his club but in some ways, it was mine. I booked the bands. That wasn't as easy as you'd think. It wasn't just picking up the phone and telling some bozos to come in and play. It was an art, a special blending of the right sounds and the right people to create something magical. Sometimes that meant seeing the promise in a young band and letting them play a few times to get their confidence. Nurturing them until it all clicked. I’d built it all up and that’s what made it special.
Now Chuck had screwed that all up.
I'd given everything to my job. I had no life outside of work. No other friends, no hobbies. I didn't even do family.
Hell, for my last birthday, my family had given me a gift card to some swanky department store. It still sat in my drawer. I’d never use it. The guys at the club had given me a caramel peanut cheesecake and a vintage pair of Docs. Shit, I really needed.
My hands shook worse than Chuck's and the icky feelings took over my stomach. I stood up. I had to get out.
If Chuck sold the club, I'd be screwed. No job, no money, no friends. People say they'll keep in touch but that's easier said than done. Half the guys who hung out here didn’t even have phones.
First thing, I needed to get Chuck out of my space.
“Well, thanks for telling me, Chuck. Now I have some calls to make so I’ll let you go tell the rest of the staff.”
Wow, I could sound so professional and in control but really, I screamed inside. I wasn’t sure how I’d cope with this. This club was my life.