Lo Fi

Chapter 6

6.

Gasping for air, I come to. Six in the morning after the show, and my body pulses in a panic, as though I’m late for a flight, as though the SATs are already happening across town and I’ve missed them, fucking my whole fucking future. And then, milky dawn—daylight.

Tuesday, water. Last memories: The alley between Robert’s and the Ryman, the stink of Second Avenue, the vomit of tourists. Shots of whiskey with Sloane at the back bar of Robert’s, last call. Colt’s hand up my shirt in the bathroom. Spinny city lights off Broadway and the cowboy boot stores and the arena and then the traffic lights in the wind on Twenty-First, screaming along to a late-nineties rock song on the radio.

A cheese quesadilla, all the water in the house, any liquid available. Sloane dancing in her underwear and an old Def Leppard T-shirt, drunk and delirious. I remember Julien too—something sunny there—but then the nausea nicks at the back of my throat and I peel myself from my pillow, fumble desperately in my nightstand drawer for one of Colt’s benzos. Chew, swallow, cough, swallow. Lou Reed barks at nothing, my head pulses. In the bathroom I dry-heave and press my forehead against the toilet seat, waiting for the Xanax to kick in. When it does, I slide back into bed and touch myself, picturing Nick, picturing Colt, picturing Nick again, until I come.

What I know: It shouldn’t take this long. It shouldn’t be this hard. Half of this town is supposedly doing it, right? Most of Dylan’s songs were only three chords, and there are only twelve tones in the chromatic scale. Even my favorite song of Nick’s is just two chords over and over, the melody as simple as a schoolyard rhyme.

Could I trace the roots of my songwriting block back to somewhere useful? It started before the Incident, certainly. I’ve written lyrics—ones I like, even; some I love. The trouble is, none of these words have a tune, not these days. They just hang there silent, saved in my Notes app, staring at me mockingly. Now and then I pull one up, strum through a different chord progression, tack on a diminished seventh to see if it sparks any inspiration. But it just sounds like one of Nick’s songs. I end up singing the opening lines of it instead.

The bar lights are up, baby it’s last call. I wish I had a river. Justin Wilson’s Disappearance: What We Know. Wilson Family Not Available for Comment. Flirtation Device Has a New Video for “Last Call” and It’s Absolutely Perfect. Justin, We Know You’re Out There. A Timeline of Justin Wilson and Esther Wainwright’s Relationship. We clung on like barnacles on a boat / Even though the ship sinks you know you can’t let go.

I’m avoiding Colt at The Venue, which means I have to talk to Eddie.

It’s just as well, because ever since Colt and I actually hooked up, his interest has been steadily waning—the same old cliché. This is why I’m usually more careful. Not because I have some perfectly clear moral compass, but because everybody wants what they can’t have. Everybody always wants something more, so long as you leave something more on the table. I’m nursing one of Julien’s secret Yuenglings, swearing off Colt while Eddie rambles.

—I wouldn’t touch a studio Gibson, Eddie says over my shoulder. I’m on Andy’s computer, taking ten, looking at a guitar I can’t afford. Trying to be alone before the second wave of people comes in.

—Overpriced, he continues. And I got a guy who works in the factory. Hates it, Eddie says. Bad brand. Bad instruments. But he can get you set up if you need it. Good guy.

—Are you even working tonight? I ask, shutting the computer and leaving the room.

Back down at the door, Julien’s stamping the hand of a guy in bell-bottoms and sunglasses—even though it’s dark out, even though we’re inside.

—I’m going to push Eddie off the balcony, I say.

Julien lets out a short laugh, his whole face brightening for a moment.

—Let me know if you need a hand, he says. We share a long, conspiratorial look.

A few minutes later, the door swings open again.

—There you are, Sloane says, cutoff Tennessee football shirt barely reaching the waist of her jean shorts. Upstairs, Julien’s already off dealing with a persistent promoter who’s been waiting for his ear all night.

—Where else would I be? I ask.

Her evening looks well underway, her body pulsing with an undercurrent of energy—joy—that seems far removed from the night I’m having.

—I don’t know, aren’t you off yet? Who’s on tonight? God, I just went to the most bizarre showcase.

She puckers her lips and I give her my cheek.

—Where at? I ask.

—Twelfth and Porter, she says. This guy was fucking wasted. He practically rolled off the stage during his set. And the head of Sony’s A it’s midnight on a Friday. It’s the hub of a low-key residential neighborhood—a mash-up of bungalows and body shops that bleed into an intersection of several dive bars. The kind of places you sink into to smoke and play foosball and get hit on by jaded old session musicians.

Beneath the streetlights: frat bros and third dates and early twentysomethings drinking heavily, eyes unsubtle as they stare at us. Sloane starts to say something and I shake my head. Her exhalation is low, stretching down the block like a song.

He’s back.

—How long have you lived here? he asks.

—A year.

—You’ll need to update those Michigan plates, he says. And get that taillight fixed first thing, okay?

—Yes. I will. Yes.

Confusing John Hiatt with John Prine. Not knowing the tune to any John Prine songs. Not knowing enough about Dolly Parton. Not worshipping Dolly Parton, patron saint of Nashville. Not fully understanding diminished and augmented chords, even though I can play some of them. Losing my capo. Forgetting the chords to the first song I wrote. Saying I’ve heard of a band while not having any clue—any effing clue—who they are. Not recognizing a Merle Haggard song, an Emmylou Harris song, a Hank Williams song. Not being able to come up with my own melody for almost an entire year.

At some point, though it’s hard to say when, I start feeling less like a fraud.

A few days later, the AC at The Venue is broken.

—Of course it never breaks in February, I say. Nobody’s ever sitting at their house on the coldest day of the year saying, Holy shit, seems like the AC’s broken.

Technically Colt’s in the room, but it’s like I’m speaking to no one. He’s hungover in an obvious, dramatic kind of way: lying horizontal on the couch, eyes closed, his palms across his eyelids. I can’t believe how good he still manages to look. Sweat drips down the small of my back as I sit at Andy’s desktop, scrolling through more headlines about Justin Wilson: Nashville Rocker Still Unaccounted For: Band and Family Tight-Lipped. Esther Wainwright: On Writing Behind the Scenes.

I click on the link but it’s just a piece from a few years back—Esther talking about her time as a hired-gun songwriter, nothing about her process with Wilson. I look to see if the story’s gained national traction and I only see one headline, Consequence of Sound, echoing the original story. I wonder how famous you have to be for people beyond this town to care.

—You wanna come by tonight? Colt asks, without opening his eyes. We can—

It’s the first time he’s invited me over in a couple of weeks.

Just then Julien walks in, with something metallic sticking out of his flimsy messenger bag: the brassy bell of a trumpet. The instrument is loose, without a case, like he just picked it up while he was walking down Eighth. He looks at Colt and then at me and then at Colt again. Hot air presses down on me. Colt’s right eye opens slowly, registers Julien, shuts again.

—Maybe, I say to Colt. Like I won’t. Like I’m above a pretty face, an easy hookup.

Now Eddie is standing at the door, in loose Levi’s and no shirt. A pearl-snap button-down is slung over his shoulder.

—Jesus, dude, Colt says, his eyes fully open now. Put on a fucking shirt.

—Too hot.

—Everyone else has their clothes on, I say.

—In a minute, he says. Need to cool off.

—Cool off somewhere else, Julien says.

—Anybody got any Advil? Colt asks.

—I might have something better.

—Or coffee.

—Put on your clothes.

—Fine, Eddie says, pulling his shirt off his shoulder.

—Or both, Colt says.

—You’re early, Julien says. All of you.

—My AC was broken, I say. But apparently it’s broken everywhere. Apparently nobody in this city has AC.

—I got a guy, Eddie says. He mostly does plumbing but he fucks with AC too. You can let him know Eddie sent—

—Someone’s already coming, Julien says. Has Andy been by?

—Negative, Colt groans.

Julien turns around, steps out into the main space. I follow him. It’s fractionally cooler out here, but the whole place is still sticky. My first summer in the South, and already I understand why things—time, people, traffic, melodies—move slower down here. It’s hard to be urgent when it’s ninety-five degrees and the humidity is pressing you back into the earth. Even Lou Reed is on a heat strike. For the past week, Sloane has had to carry him down to the curb every day to pee.

—Where are you going? I ask Julien.

—You don’t have to come.

I try to ignore the shimmer of irritation in his voice. He glances back at the office, something he wants to say about Colt but doesn’t. A distant car door slamming, the dull roar of a low brass instrument rehearsing at one of the studios on Cannery.

—I’m going to try to find the circuit breaker upstairs. And if that doesn’t work I’m going to call our electrician, and if that doesn’t work I’m going to call Andy and ask him what we need to do to cancel.

—You’re gonna cancel a show because of no AC? We didn’t even cancel a show when a guy went missing. Which, by the way, he still is.

—It’s, like, a hundred degrees. People will be miserable.

—At least the whole band will be here, I say.

Julien shakes his head and turns up the stairs. His sneakers are light on the wood as his bag bounces against his hip, loose trumpet and all. In his hand he cradles the mouthpiece of the instrument.

—You’re not gonna call Eddie’s guy? I ask.

—God, Eddie always has to have a guy, doesn’t he? Julien says.

I laugh lightly.

—I bet you’re one of his guys and you don’t even know it.

—Oh yeah? What would I be his guy for?

—His trumpet guy, I say. Why didn’t I know you play the trumpet?

—Why didn’t I know you were actually friends with Colt?

—You could be the phone guy. You seem like a guy who always answers his phone.

—Do I?

—Do you play live? I ask.

—No, he says.

—Will you play me “When the Saints Go Marching In”?

He shakes his head, looking at his feet, but there’s a shadow of a smile.

—I don’t know if it’s true, I press on, but you do give off an I answer my phone when people call vibe, I say.

—How so? Like I’m always available?

—No, not that. Like you’d—I don’t know. Like you’d pick up in case somebody needed you. Like you’d show up.

—You’ve never called me, though. How would you know?

—Well, I don’t have your fucking phone number, I say.

He laughs, eyes going squinty, like it’s actually unexpected, like somebody jumping an octave in a song. I follow him up the stairs.

—I saw your—I saw Flirtation Device on Late Night last night, he says at the top of the stairs, turning back toward me.

The sun is blocked by the buildings just south of downtown, and the hallway is suddenly dark, midday midnight shadows. He stops abruptly, looking at me. I’m too close to him. My body wants to tumble back to the next stair, but I reach out and steady myself against the wall.

—How’d they do? I ask, like it was a sport of some kind, like they could win or lose playing their new single on Late Night.

—You didn’t watch? he asks.

I hate the thought of everyone else having all this access to Nick—everybody getting to see the same version of him on the screen that I do. Julien’s face is still obscured in gray, and then: shards of light piercing through. He reaches to cover his eyes. I won’t lie and say I didn’t watch it; of course I did.

Julien takes a right, toward a door that leads to a large space we sometimes rent out for weddings. Instead, though, he turns in the opposite direction, unlocking a door to another hallway.

—Where are we?

He flicks on an overhead light. The heat is overwhelming up here, like I’m wearing it. Pricks of sweat on my wrists, between my fingers, the edges of my hip bones. I’ve never been in this part of the building.

—Trying to find the…

He trails off and turns on another light. We’re in a tight hallway now, another door to our right, more exposed red brick at our backs. The air is still suffocating.

—They were good, Julien says now. I dig the song they played. I think it’s on the album that’s coming out in the fall?

He squats down in front of a steel circuit board that’s set low on the wall. I pull out my phone and flick on the flashlight for him, holding it over his shoulder. Sweat trickles over my upper lip, my shoulder blades, my breastbone.

—How do you know them? Julien asks. Or I guess how do you know him?

In the low light it feels like we’re underground, even though I know we’re upstairs. A twinge of panic starts to creep up my sternum, like sound inching to the threshold of an amp’s capacity, noise threatening to blow the boards.

—I met Nick at a show in Michigan. At the Blind Pig. I used to work there? I think I told you that. Shit, it’s hot in here. Don’t you—God, don’t you feel like you’re suffocating a little bit?

I run a hand up the back of my neck, then over my throat. It’s dark, but I can see Julien’s eyes narrowing at me.

—You okay? he asks.

—I’m fine—I just…You don’t have any—is there any, uh, water? Is the air kind of thick up here, or is it me?

My head spins around, right and left. I’m disoriented, dizzy from the heat and the hallway and the rows and rows of brick stretching out down the dark corridor. Julien’s keys clink together as he reaches to my right and unlocks a dark red door, swinging it open behind me.

I spill into the room as the door opens. Air rushes toward me. Not cold, but fresher, thinner—something much closer to oxygen. Julien is quiet beside me. The silence holds. What were we talking about?

—You good? he asks, looking at me as I stand up straight. A little claustrophobic?

His hand is light on my shoulder, and I’m not sure how long it’s been there. As soon as I look at him, though, he drops it, slides it into his pocket. It’s only then that I see where we actually are. The room is a little smaller than the main space downstairs—it would probably fit a hundred people or so—but it has the same wall of big windows facing south, the same gorgeous exposed brick. The ductwork above is more chaotic, and the ceiling is supported by ugly steel columns. The floor isn’t fully finished. Cheap black chairs are stacked randomly throughout the space, covered with dust, like the scattered remains of a bar mitzvah ten years ago. Beams of sunlight illuminate flecks of dust in the air, like clouds of glitter. Maybe it’s just that I can actually breathe now, that I’m no longer convinced I’m about to die standing in front of a circuit board with my coworker and his loose trumpet—but it really is a beautiful room.

—What is this? I ask.

Julien passes me his phone. New Contact, says the screen.

—Storage, he says, shrugging.

I type in my phone number.