40. Hawk
“Alright, so that’s a confirmation on the venue,” Mick said, ending his call and turning from the window to face us in my living room. “The Hollywood Bowl is ours, boys.”
“Fuck, yes!” Alex cheered, his fist pumping. “That’s what I’m talking about, man.”
“Nice,” Gavin agreed, nodding from his spot on the couch.
It was nice. It was also a fuckin’ relief. In the weeks since I’d come up with the idea of a festival, it had developed into something more along the lines of a showcase than anything else. A sort of large-scale battle of the bands, where us and a few of our friends would get together and help introduce some new and upcoming talent. It would feature short sets with quick turnaround, and at the end of the night, Black Kite would close out the show with a bang.
It was ambitious and more than a little insane, but I had hope that given the window of a couple of months we could pull it off.
“Now, next order of business,” Mick began, returning to his seat and looking over his tablet. The man had taken to the position of VP of Operations for Black Kite Records—a business that technically didn’t even exist yet—like a duck to water. He’d jumped in with both feet, making list after list and generally becoming a complete pain in the ass, but I was glad he was on board.
I sure as fuck didn’t know what to do next.
Once he’d convinced his wife that working for me wasn’t going to be the huge, career-ending decision she thought it would be, Mick had worked some serious magic, getting us sponsors and arranging for marketing and all the other things that went into putting together a show.
Like, seriously. I had no idea what he was doing. I had always just shown up thirty minutes before show time, had a few drinks, and then rocked on stage. Watching him do what was necessary to put this show together was astonishing.
I was so grateful I didn’t have to do it.
“We still need to narrow down our list of participants. Hawk, have you finished going through all the demos that you’ve been sent?”
“I’ve got the list,” I said, nodding and trying to look like I had my shit together. “I’ve been reaching out to the groups all week, but it’s, uh, not going as well as I’d hoped.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Mick asked.
“It means people keep hanging up on him because they think he’s a scam artist,” Alex cackled, clapping his hands and doubling over in laughter.
“It’s not that funny,” I muttered.
“It’s pretty fucking funny, dude.” Alex wiped at his eyes dramatically before continuing. “It’s like one of those celebrity death hoaxes. You’ve been out of the spotlight for so long, people think you’re dead or some shit.”
“Don’t joke about that,” Gavin implored, his eyes wide. “That’s like asking the universe for trouble.”
“Chill out, bro. Our boy Hawk is gonna live forever.”
I didn’t know about that. Every morning my back and shoulder ached a little more. I kept spotting more and more silver popping up at my temples and across my chin, which only reinforced my need to shave my face clean every single morning.
Gray hair at forty-two? That shit was just uncalled for.
“How do you plan on securing the artists, then?” Mick pressed, always business.
I blew out a breath, running a hand through my hair.
“I might have to go in person,” I admitted. “Actually show up on their doorsteps and let them know I mean business.”
“It’s not a bad idea,” Mick said, surprising me. “Actually, it might be a great idea.” Moving quickly, Mick flipped his tablet screen to a blank note, then began typing a mile a minute. “It could all be part of the process. Documenting the journey from band to label. Give people some real insight into why you wanted to do this and what it all means to you.” He was mostly talking to himself at this point, typing and nodding and muttering.
“Wait a second,” I said, worried that the whole situation was about to get way the fuck out of hand. “Documenting the journey how, exactly?”
“By making a documentary, of course.”
He said it like it was a simple answer, but it absolutely was not.
“I don’t know, Mick,” Gavin hedged, and I nodded, pointing at him in agreement. “I like a documentary as much as the next guy, but doesn’t that seem a little over the top? And intrusive?”
“We are trying to do something outside the box, here, boys. Not only that, but we are going to be doing it in direct competition with Castor Records, the biggest name in music. Once Castor gets wind of the fact that he’s lost his golden boys, he’s going to come at us with everything he’s got.” Mick narrowed his eyes at me. “Including his daughter.”
“Fuck.”
“The power of poisonous pussy, my guy,” Alex offered unhelpfully.
“You want to start a label to help the little guy, right?” Mick asked, and we all nodded. “Then it’s the little guy that you’re going to need on your side. You are going to have to get out ahead of Castor and control the narrative. Make sure that everyone knows exactly who you are and what this means to you. To do that, we have to tell the story in your own words. Make sure that the people know exactly who Black Kite Records is and what they will stand for.”
“Well, I don’t know about these two sticks in the mud,” Alex declared. “But I’m all for it.”
“You’d sew your asshole shut if it got you a morsel of attention,” I said, and Alex had the audacity to look offended.
“Hey. That’s not even remotely true.” He considered, then added. “Now, other ass play may be on the table. I’d have to consider my options carefully.”
“Jesus Christ, can we focus, please, guys?” Mick barked. “I swear, it’s like teaching kindergarten sometimes. Now, I’ve got some calls to make to see if I can find a documentary crew willing to work with your demented asses. Hawk, get that list narrowed down and send it to me. If you have to start traveling across the country, I want to make sure we have a plan. This is gonna be a good thing, boys,” he said, looking at us solemnly. “As long as we don’t fuck it up, we can make this the best record company in Los Angeles. The artists will be begging us to sign them. You’ll open so many goddamn doors, it won’t even be funny.”
With that, he gathered his things and headed out, the guys leaving shortly behind him. Gavin was heading downtown to do a studio session he’d booked a few weeks ago and Alex said he was just going home, but he was sketchy as shit when he said it. Something was going on with him, but as long as he didn’t land his ass in jail, I didn’t have the headspace to worry about him at the moment.
Locking the door, I was once again faced with an empty house, the quiet of the vacant rooms seeming to echo back at me in a way I couldn’t seem to get comfortable with anymore.
Had I ever really been comfortable? Or had I just filled the house with groupies and fans and noise so that I didn’t have to think about how empty my life had been?
Suddenly, I found myself in desperate need of some sort of connection, something that I could claim as my own so that I didn’t feel like the last abandoned dog at the pound.
Grabbing a bottle of Maker’s Mark, I skipped the glass all together and headed for my study, needing to immerse myself in everything Wren one more time.
I hadn’t had a chance to look for any new letters lately; there was so much to do if we were going to pull off this concert this summer, and that didn’t even include all the other shit Mick kept coming up with for me to do. If I’d have known how much work I’d be responsible for when I dreamed up my whole start a label idea, I might have reconsidered.
Sitting down at my desk, I pulled open the drawer and removed the stack of letters I’d been collecting for months now. Laying them out, I took a drink as I looked them over, admiring once again the delicate drawings she’d taken the time to decorate the envelopes with. Each feather was different, but looking at them, you could tell they were done by the same artist, even if she had improved every time a new letter arrived.
Starting with the first, I read the letters again, the words as familiar to me now as my own lyrics, Wren’s honesty and openness so refreshing and comforting.
By the time I’d gotten to the longest letter, the one she’d sent the year after she’d graduated, I was well on my way to drunk. This was the letter I had read the most often, not just because it was the longest one, but because it was the one that felt the most raw. That letter was filled with bitterness and resentment and a whole lot of rage.
That was probably why I kept coming back to that one; those emotions most closely resembled my own most days. Filled with angst that after everything I’d done, everything I worked for and sweat for and fuckin’ bled for...I was still here, basically starting all over again.
It might have been the booze, or it might have been the loneliness, but for whatever reason I did something that I’d never done before. Something I’d promised myself that I’d never do.
But I was a weak man, and so it was that shortly after midnight, after half a bottle of whiskey and a whole lot of self-pity, I opened my laptop and I googled Wren.