Twenty-Five
TWENTY-FIVE
SHOULD’VE GONE COMMANDO
I screech when I find it. On the lower level of tonight’s venue, just like Mo said, is a fully loaded laundry room. It has fifteen washing machines, fifteen dryers, free detergent, fabric softener, steamers, irons and ironing boards, the works.
I’m frozen, staring at the machines, when when Kick and Miguel roll in with their suitcases.
“A laundry room in the venue is so metal,” Miguel says, opening the lid of a washing machine and dumping the entire contents of his suitcase into it. It’s a heaping pile of black fabric, probably too much for one load, but who am I to judge?
“Every venue should have one of these,” Kick says. He’s more delicate than Miguel, separating items methodically into two machines. I pick two machines next to Kick’s and sort my own piles, my Chop pajama pants the last item to go in.
We’re sitting on the machines, chatting about tonight’s set, when Don Sparrow walks in with a duffle bag slung over his shoulder.
“Mind if I join y’all?”
Miguel claps his hands together. “As long as I can tell my mom I’m doing laundry with a Sparrow brother. She won’t believe it. Mostly the laundry part. ”
“Even rockstars need clean clothes,” Don jokes.
He works to get his laundry started while Kick, Miguel and I exchange glances. It’s surreal for Don to be here, doing laundry with us. As much as I’ve wanted to talk to Don and Deacon and find out more about my father, they’re never around, always off at a radio event or interview or whatever else they do all day. The guitar tech mentioned they find a golf course and play a round of golf most afternoons.
Don leans against the whirring machine with his arms crossed over his chest. “I’ve been enjoying your set every night. You’d never know you two didn’t get together until this tour.”
“Wow, thank you,” I say, shocked. “It means so much that you’d check us out. I know you have a lot going on every night.”
Don shrugs. “Never too busy to watch great music. Your alcove songs are really good. You two should think about writing more songs together.”
“We didn’t write those together,” I say. “It was a…happy accident that we both wrote about the same night.”
“The night you met, right?” Don asks. I’m surprised he knows so much, has paid attention. “I still think you should work on some songs together. Your chemistry on stage is really special. I bet that energy would translate into some killer new tunes. And you’ve both proven you’re talented songwriters.”
“I don’t know if one song counts,” Kick says.
His neck is tinged red and he’s squeezing his thumbs into his palms. He catches my eye and I think back to our conversation before the first show, how he’s never written anything but his alcove song.
“Is that what you had with John?” I ask, hoping to redirect the conversation. Don gives me a surprised look so I say, “You mentioned him the first night of the tour. At catering?”
“That’s right, I did. John and I had great chemistry when it came to songwriting. He and I wrote ‘Calm and Slow’ together. If you’re looking for advice, the biggest thing you need when writing a song with someone is trust. You have to trust your partner, be open to their input as well as their criticism.”
“You should see the way these two argue,” Miguel says, jamming his thumb in our direction. “I’d bet they’d write some bangers together.”
“What about you,” Don asks Miguel. “You ever write any songs?”
“Nah, not me. I’m all about the beat. I’m living my best life playing the low end for these two.”
“What about after the tour?” Don asks. “Will y’all keep doing this together, the four of you?”
Kick and I stare at each other like Don just asked if we’re planning on getting married after tonight’s show. So far, after the tour hasn’t existed between us. We haven’t allowed ourselves to think that far. The tour is the only reality, a reality with no end as far as we’re concerned.
“I think it would be rad if we stayed together,” Miguel says. “We could keep the good times going.”
“You should think about recording your alcove songs,” Don says.
Kick nods. “Fans mention that every night in the signing line. They keep asking when the songs will be available to stream.”
The washing machine I’m sitting on ends its cycle. I hop off to transfer my clothes into a dryer, grateful to have something to do. This conversation is teetering into territory I’m not ready to deal with yet.
“We have a few days off at home before the Nashville show,” Don says, casual, like every word he’s saying isn’t raising my body temperature by ten degrees. “I have a studio at my house down in Franklin. I’d love for you to come check it out and record some demos. I’d be happy to produce.”
Miguel lets out a loud whoop. “Seriously?”
“It’s partly a selfish request,” Don says. “I just built the studio and I’m dying to break it in.”
A silent conversation passes between me and Kick. If we do this, if we record our songs and put them out there, we’ll be tied together for longer than this tour. A lot longer. We will no longer be a tour duo but an actual duo.
“Of course,” Don says, “an added bonus is, if you have demos of your songs, you’ll be able to shop them around town. I’m sure there are more than a few labels who’d love to work with you.”
“Labels?” Miguel says excitedly.
Kick swallows, his eyes wide. He obviously hasn’t thought about after the tour any more than I have. Recording our songs together? Labels? There are too many unanswered questions we’d have to face before ever getting to that level of commitment.
“What’s your band name?” Don asks.
“We’re not a band,” I say.
Don looks surprised. “I know you weren’t originally, but you’re so great together.”
“I’m down to be a band,” Miguel says. “I know Mateo would be too.” He raises his eyebrows at me and Kick. “Genre Explosion?”
“My advice,” Don says, “capitalize on what works. And what works is the four of you together. Get some more songs under your belt and you’ll really have something.”
Kick’s washing machine beeps. He starts to unload it and then Miguel’s beeps. It’s a welcome pause in conversation.
Kick and Miguel load their clothes into dryers and come back to our little huddle.
“It’s a really generous offer, Don,” Kick says, “and we can’t thank you enough. Seriously. But,” he looks at me, “can we think about it and get back to you?”
I’m sure he’s mostly worried about having to write new songs, but I’m glad he’s not eagerly accepting Don’s offer. Even though Don didn’t mention any strings attached, there will be strings. My mother taught me that. Right now, the most obvious one is the decision for the four of us to move forward as a band. Miguel and Mateo are all in, but am I? Is Kick?
Don smiles, not at all worried. “Even if you decide to do it after the tour, my offer stands. I’d be happy to produce some songs for you whenever you’re ready.”
“That’s so incredibly kind,” I say.
“We wouldn’t be where we are today if others hadn’t offered us a hand when we were starting out,” he says. “If you decide you wanna record your songs, you know where to find me.”
“Don’t worry, Don,” Miguel says. “I’ll talk them into it. I can be a very persuasive person when I need to be. Just ask my mom.”
Don laughs and he and Miguel start chatting about Miguel’s mother. I can’t hear them over the sounds of my heart pounding in my ears. Kick’s looking at me like he’s hearing the same thing. We’ve been thriving in the little tour world we’ve built for ourselves. The outside world hasn’t existed. But Don’s right, the tour won’t last forever. Sooner or later, we’ll have to decide how, and if, we’re moving forward together.