CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
I’m sitting in the club outside of Chicago — Devil’s Lounge, I think the name is, though they all run together after a few weeks on the road and I’d have to peek outside to be sure — when Freddy comes up and hands me a package. It’s wrapped in gold foil but has no bow, so it’s unclear at first if he’s giving me a present or a heat-and-serve dinner.
“What is this?” I ask.
Freddy looks at Abigail, so I look at Abigail, too.
“What is it?” I repeat, this time to her.
“You could open it and see,” she says.
I heft the thing in my hands. It feels heavy, with sharp corners under the paper. Something made of wood? Metal? Something tells me it’s not plastic. It’s not a box; whatever this is, the only thing between me and it is the foil. I can feel beveled edges. It’s rectangular, a bit bigger than a computer tablet and several times heavier.
I shake it.
“Just open it already,” Freddy says. His eyes dart to Abigail again, and I can tell they’re both nervous.
I reach to tear off the paper, but I’m interrupted when Alicia comes to the table. I can tell she won’t join us. She has a cigarette in her hand, so she must be on her way outside to light it. The club doesn’t allow smoking, and Alicia finds this offensive. She has an abrasive edge and all those tattoos and purple hair make her look scary, but I still like her a lot. She’s a perfect drummer: loud, brash, and great at breaking things. So far, she fits this ensemble well.
“Any of you have a lighter?” she asks.
“Sorry,” Freddy says. “I considered smoking once but decided I’d rather live.”
Alicia’s eyes go to Abigail and to me. We both raise our hands.
“Fuckers,” she says then leaves.
“She’s such a delicate flower,” I say.
“I like the way she talks,” Abigail says. “She’s like a Lisa patch.”
I give Abigail a smile. I’ve asked her if she misses home these past few weeks of touring, but she keeps telling me that while Inferno Falls is home, it also kind of isn’t. We’ll be back there soon, but all she’s missing for now is the two jobs she doesn’t need because of the flash sale Freddy did online before we left. Who knew there were that many fans out there ready to snatch up something I released? But I guess that’s why we need Freddy. He doesn’t just sell. He parlays. The income from the sale went into more studio time and a rerecording of some of the old songs to go with the new ones we’d already released. Gavin Adams had a lot of fans, but Firecracker Confession had a whole lot more.
Abigail’s home is with her parents. I’ll have to point that out to her someday, but we’re taking this one revelation at a time. First, she shows me something obvious. I’ll return the favor, maybe after the tour is over.
Freddy actually laughs. When our little ensemble first formed and we hired Alicia as our drummer, Abigail told Lisa, and Lisa became our first groupie. She was as loud and obnoxious as any groupie should be, likely because she was high. I had plenty of my own groupies at the time, but Forbidden Muse was still nothing before it grew from Lisa to leagues. Freddy got the tour bookings on the strength of my name, but by the next go-round it’s on Forbidden Muse’s. There’s no question Freddy is earning his percentage. Even when the assets were all mine instead of the common assets we now share as a band, Freddy’s brain and hustle made it all work. He didn’t just book shows; he booked signings and meetups using the social networks I still don’t understand. Freddy called it the rule of small numbers, meaning that if we had enough smaller events, they’d add up to a lot. I call it magic. Some shows only have a dozen fans. Others have hundreds, but few are in traditional clubs so we’re not even spending much. Freddy’s tour is more like an organized network of flash mob sessions than anything. We’re hit and run — guerrilla indies in the strictest sense.
“You’ll see her soon, won’t you?” Freddy asks.
Abigail shakes her head. We discussed it this morning while lying in bed. Our lyrics are all written for now, so it’s not like we need a writer permanently on call the way politicians need speechwriters. Her plan was to hang with us for a while to get the feel for what our songs created, then bail around the halfway point. But rather than feeling like a long, plodding journey, our tour has gained momentum, with more fans at each stop. Thanks to Freddy’s creative spending, we’re netting a huge percentage of everything we do, and her cut of our profits are more than she’d make waitressing. Staying onboard means she’s not banking much, but Abigail doesn’t care. She says she’d rather stay. And when I point out that the band will be okay without her for now if she chooses to go back, she clarifies: She’d rather stay with me. And because I’m used to touring with my songwriter and girlfriend anyway, it only feels natural.
“I’m going to finish the tour.”
Freddy smiles wider. I’m kind of a business dullard, but Freddy and Abigail both have the gift. Freddy’s been hoping she’d stay. It makes sense. We’re like a little family. Alicia is our profane black sheep cousin.
Freddy’s eyes flick back toward the package. I almost forgot I was holding it.
“I guess I should open this.”
But both of them, again, look nervous. I say, “What?” but neither responds.
When I pull the foil from the package, I find myself looking at a shiny wooden plaque with a vinyl record affixed to it. Gold, like the foil.
“What is this?” We don’t have a gold record. Not even close. I’m not even sure you can have an official gold record as an independent artist; that sounds to me like something conferred by industry bigwigs to industry superstars.
“It was her idea,” says Freddy.
I turn to Abigail. “No it wasn’t. It was Freddy’s.”
“It was Abigail.”
“It was both of us.” Abigail smiles.
They’re looking at me as if awaiting judgment. Their eyes are wide. I get the feeling of a big risk taken, and this is the limbo period where everyone waits to see if it’s paid off or flopped.
There are no answers on Freddy’s or Abigail’s faces, so I turn to the plaque. I’ve never seen a real gold record up close, but to my eyes, this could easily be the real thing.
The tiny brass engraving below the record says, Firecracker Confession. Below that: Brutal Design.
My eyebrows bunch up. A sense of vague melancholy descends, thick like a curtain.
One last time, I say, “What is this, you guys?”
“A symbol,” Freddy says. “You know. In tribute.”
I look from Freddy to Abigail. Then back to Freddy.
“It’s a real record. I took the digital tracks we rerecorded, and I found a place that does single pressings like this. You could play it if you wanted. All the old songs you used to play with … with them.”
My breath feels short. I can’t stop blinking, as if there’s too much dust in the air.
“You would have got it, Bro. You know you would have, if … ” He trails off.
My gaze again goes to Abigail.
“Say something,” Abigail says, watching me, watching Freddy. “Should we have not done it? Are you mad, or … ?”
I set the record on the table. Then I put one arm around Abigail and another around Freddy. I tug them close, and for a moment we sit just like that.
“Thank you both,” I say, my voice thick.
Deep down, I hear Grace and Charlie, telling me I’m welcome.