Chapter Three
Three
This Monday begins the same as a dozen Mondays before it. Same eight o’clock alarm, same cup of coffee dressed the exact same way—one splash of oat milk and two packets of sweetener. Same as how Dad used to drink it, minus the bourbon.
Routine was a dirty word back in my Cold Sweat days.
Any touring musician would tell you the same—it’s all late nights and last-minute gigs, breakfast beers and gas station dinners between cities with names you forget.
The Alice Pierce of Cold Sweat was a tornado of a person, touching down without warning, but the Alice Pierce of Gentle Giant Studios is a convert to the church of routines.
I pop in an earbud and file onto the bus, snagging my preferred seat near the middle. As usual, I check my email, but the same-old ends there: A surprise in my inbox earns an honest guffaw.
FROM: Renee Roberts
TO: Christina Amato, Alice Pierce
SUBJECT: following up :)
Good morning, ladies! Just making sure everyone received the bachelorette party survey I sent over last night!
I’ve already received a few responses, and the sooner we have everyone’s schedules and ideas, the sooner we can get this celebration on the calendar!
Maybe we can have a wine night next week to iron out all the details? How’s Thursday?
XO, Renee
I read through it twice, laughing both times, and my seatmate glares at me for expressing joy on the CTA.
Joy is far from what I’m feeling, though.
Disbelief, maybe? Shock? Highly concentrated irritation?
It hasn’t been twenty-four hours since Renee sent out the questionnaire.
Did she really already need to “follow up :)”?
And what does she mean she’s received “a few responses” already? Aren’t there only three of us?
My fingers leap to grab a screenshot of the offending email, but the bus lurches and my gut twists when reality catches up with my instincts. I have no one to send this to. Gin obviously isn’t an option, and Mom would probably take Renee’s side and compliment her on being organized.
If Dad were still around, though, he’d drag Renee through the mud with me. I take the screenshot, then drop it into my Notes app.
Following up on an email you sent less than 24 hours ago? No law against that, I guess. XO, the bummer bridesmaid
I smirk at my own joke and try to imagine what Dad might’ve said in response.
Something witty and mean spirited, no doubt.
Whenever I had a bad word to say about anyone, Dad stood ready with three more.
It didn’t matter if he actually knew the person; anyone who so much as inconvenienced his daughter was fair game when our conversations devolved into roasts.
In retrospect, I was often the one we should’ve been roasting, but had I been looking for accountability, I would’ve gone to Mom.
My next notification is a more welcome surprise: a text from Gin with her availability for dinner the next few weeks. I call dibs on her Friday night and, in a fleeting moment of overconfidence, offer to host. An incentive to clean the apartment, I decide.
Once I’m off the bus, it’s a five-minute walk to the unassuming home of Gentle Giant Studios.
If you blink, you might miss the only proof you’re in the right place—a small gold plaque hangs on the door, engraved with two thin letters: GG.
Apart from this one clue, this building could be any place that’s no place in the city, an enormous brick fortress your eyes are meant to gloss over on their way to something more exciting.
A few of us lucky ones know better; there is no place in Chicago more magical than the studio where platinum records are born.
Through the glass of studio A, I spot Aidan by the patch bay, looking sleepy in the same faded A Tribe Called Quest sweatshirt he wears on the daily. I rap on the glass, and he tips his cleft chin and waves with a cable in his fist, his silent request for another XLR.
Even after two years assisting at Gentle Giant, stepping into the storage closet makes me feel like a kid in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory.
The wall-to-wall wire shelves house every mic, monitor, and synth under the sun, every piece of recording equipment you could dream up, plus a half dozen barely different alternatives to suit the pickiest musicians.
I’m only here three days a week, but if I had it my way, I’d never go home.
I run Aidan his cable and lend a hand with the inputs; then the studio phone rumbles in my pocket, and I step out to buzz in our guests. Two flannel-wearing men, one tall and one short. In my head, I dub the tall one “Big” and the small, nervous-looking one “Rich.”
“Welcome to Gentle Giant,” I watch myself say in the reflection of Rich’s aviators. “Can I grab you anything? Tea? Coffee?”
“Beer?” Rich’s push broom mustache twitches with a hint of a smile. It’s 11:00 a.m., not that he or any other rock star I know would give a shit. I swing by the fridge and tug one can free from a six-pack, and Aidan slouches out of the live room just as Rich pops the top.
“Whaddup,” Aidan ribbits, and sticks out his hand.
“Aidan Davis, right?” Big straightens and claps his tattooed hand into Aidan’s, pumping it twice. “It’s an honor to meet you, man. Truly. Love your work.”
Everyone loves Aidan’s work. He’s not just a local legend, either—the Grammys in his office speak for themselves—but I’ve always gotten a kick out of clients who are clearly a little starstruck.
Yes, Aidan is a genius, but he’s also worn that same raggedy sweatshirt every day since I started working here.
Growing up in the industry, I’ve always seen my heroes as human, and humans make mistakes.
Like right now, when Aidan says, “You’ve already met my studio assistant, Alice Pierce.”
Shit.
It’s not that I never use my last name in professional settings, but I prefer not to with people I don’t know, and Rich’s response reminds me why. He tugs off his aviators and squints at me like I can be decoded. “Any relation to Ricky Pierce?”
My chest winds tight, but I can’t bring myself to lie. “His daughter,” I murmur.
Rich whistles over his beer. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
Big chimes in with “Your dad was a legend.”
My smile is neither genuine nor convincing.
I hear this a lot: My dad was an icon, a hero, a legend.
When people think of Chicago music, they think of Ricky Pierce, the man who all but invented the alt-country genre one sold-out show at a time.
It wasn’t just the gritty twang of his vocals or his masterful guitar playing, though.
Dad was a real bottle rocket onstage, it’s true, but he burned even brighter once he could step out of the spotlight and just be a person.
Everyone loved Dad—not just industry folks but strangers, neighbors, cab drivers; my last name alone could’ve landed me a job at just about any studio in the city.
But not Gentle Giant. Aidan vets his studio assistants more thoroughly than the FBI.
If you don’t know your shit, he’ll happily replace you with someone who does, but most clients don’t know that, and when Rich licks his teeth and says, “Betcha don’t need talent with a last name like that,” my skin crawls at the thought that he—or anyone else—assumes I’m only here because of my dad.
Our drunk country duo requests a closed session, so I won’t be shadowing today, and it’s just as well.
Aidan gives me a quick apology and a two-finger salute, and I settle in at the desk, unfolding my laptop and booting up Pro Tools.
On days like this one, I’m free to work on my own mixing and mastering projects, and I run out the clock mixing a folk EP between beer runs for the band in studio A.
My shift ends, and I step out into the sharp winds of early evening.
This morning’s warm weather has given way to a wind advisory, but a lifetime in the Midwest has taught me plenty about dressing for the elements.
Wear layers. Pack extra socks. Never get too attached to a sunny day.
All the weather ever does is change. My hair whips across my face, and I unknot the flannel from my waist and turn against the wind, choosing the two-mile trek home over the bus.
I feel almost pressurized, like a shaken-up can of beer that might burst if I don’t walk it off.
I wish I could blame it on sitting too long, but the dull ache expanding beneath my rib cage knows better.
I miss Dad. I always miss Dad. More than that, I feel guilty for not wanting to be Alice Pierce all the time.
I don’t want to discuss my father with strangers.
I don’t want to put my feet up and lounge in his shadow.
I used to take pride in being a mini Ricky Pierce, but some days I just want to be Alice, not the daughter of some dead legend.
I could choke on that word. Legend. It has one too many definitions for my taste.
Dad was a legend back when he walked the earth and graced the stage, but now that he’s gone, it’s taken on a different meaning.
He has more in common with Atlantis or the Loch Ness Monster.
Legends. Myths. Subjects of discussion that don’t actually exist. Every block closer to home draws me deeper into the ache.
Dad doesn’t exist—not anymore. Now, he’s nothing but a story.
FROM: Christina Amato
TO: Renee Roberts, Alice Pierce
SUBJECT: RE: following up :)
Hi gals!! Loved the survey!!!! I’m literally so excited for this bachelorette trip. Thanks Renee!!!
Next Thursday works great for me, and I’m happy to host a wine night! Does 7:30 pm work??
~*Never stop sparkling*~
Christina Amato
FROM: Renee Roberts
TO: Christina Amato, Alice Pierce
SUBJECT: RE: following up :)
7:30 PM on Thursday works great! Thank you for volunteering to host, Chrissy. I’ll bring the wine!
XO, Renee
FROM: Alice Pierce
TO: Renee Roberts, Christina Amato
SUBJECT: RE: following up :)
Hey guys! Sorry for the delay. Thursday works! I just tried opening the survey, but I think there’s some kind of glitch—it’s not supposed to be almost 50 questions, is it? Thanks!
FROM: Renee Roberts
TO: Christina Amato, Alice Pierce
SUBJECT: RE: following up :)
See you all Thursday at 7:30! Everyone please be sure to have all 48 questions of the survey filled out before we meet.
XO, Renee
Hey Dad, quick question. Actually, 48 of ’em.
Love,
Your Dallas Alice