Page 13 of Born Into Trouble (Occupy Yourself)
Seven
25 years old
“Fuck!” Blake shouted, flinging his bottle of beer sidearm into the wall. Foam and glass exploded everywhere as liquid lashed across the dirty alley. “What do you mean, they’ve cut us loose?”
Paper rustling in her shaking grip, Benita raised her hands so she could read the letter again. Delivered by courier during their set, she had waited to open it until the band was together. Ben had wondered several times over the past six months if things were souring between the record company and them, but couldn’t put his finger on what he was feeling. Nothing specific, just royalties paid more slowly than they had been, less help with the promotion side, not that the label had been much help there, anyway. Then last week they received notification the single from their upcoming CD wouldn’t be the original tune the band wanted, but a regurgitation of an at best B-side 70s song to which the label owned rights.
Ben called Katherine when Benita hadn’t gotten anywhere with the band’s handler at the label, but Katherine said her hands were tied. Scouring the contract revealed the clause giving the label the right to make those decisions. In fact, a thorough evaluation revealed a number of terms they hadn’t paid a lot of attention to at first, all seeming so out of reach nearly three years ago that their inclusion in the obviously canned contract language was laughable.
Now, however, Occupy Yourself had worked their asses off and was gaining traction fast. They had been touring steadily during the last eighteen months, and not just the I-70 corridor. Their van had seen miles in more than thirty states, only the far northeast and western states not yet visited. They had opened for more than twenty-five different bands, blending their sounds with whatever options were available, sometimes going from rockabilly one night to metal the next, and landing into acoustic the following. All bands called it the grind, and Ben understood exactly what they meant. It could wear you down if you didn’t have something you were working towards.
The label organized studio time whenever they decided it made sense, seldom giving the band more than a week’s notice. The studio usually wound up being booked in the middle of a string of shows, which meant Ben had to hustle to find stolen moments in which to write. Something that had seemed effortless since he started jotting lines and words in a notebook rapidly became a chore. No less fulfilling when it flowed, but that roll became harder and harder to initiate. Oblivious to what was around him, Benny wrote in diners, in the back of the van, sitting on the floor behind stages in a hundred different venues with bands and staff strolling past, his head in the lyrics, fingers fixed to the frets and strings. He learned to capitalize on those golden times when the words came easy, writing as fast as the pen would move across the page. Between times was enough to go back and polish, tweak, change word order, find other words, develop the pacing, and find the music.
Sometimes the music came first, and he’d pick out a tune on his six-string, an instrument of torture that, these days, seemed surgically attached. Chance phrases, half-heard conversations, hell, sometimes even road noise—these things would set up residence in his head, and the only way to get it out was to write it. When it was good, when the sound was tight and right, that was when Danny would join him, heads down, eyes closed, picking out and following the tune. A chorus of “What did you just do?” and “Rock it, do that again” would surround them. Listening to the music, feeling it in his gut, Benny loved those moments when you held the crystal of a newborn tune in your hands.
The label organized their online presence, getting them hooked up into all the various platforms by which music consumers found their tunes, something Benita then took over and managed. Made easier by their process, but still something that fell to the band to keep going.
One thing, the only thing the label had done that he knew the band would have never accomplished, was get airtime. Radio stations across North America were adding Occupy Yourself songs into their rotation, and those songs—Benny’s songs—were winning fan-voted contests. There were three online fan groups that he knew of, and Benita engaged with the members regularly, usually posing as him or Danny.
Their career was starting to gain traction, finally. It felt good to see the hours and days and weeks of work coming to fruition.
And now the label was dropping them.Fuck.
“Why?” At his question, eyes all around their little circle swung to him. Blake, Danny, and Benita. “Why are they cutting us loose, Benita?” Her gaze went to Blake.Fuck.
“What does that mean? That look.” Blake’s face twisted in anger and Ben shifted. “You sayin’ it’s my fault? Always Blake’s fault. Blake’s always fucking up.”No, that’s my job. Ben shook his head. “No, Benny, she looked at me. You saw it.”
“Let’s hear what the letter says.” She shoved the paper towards him, and he took it grudgingly as if it were a viper ready to strike.Fan-fucking-tastic. Now Blake would associate bad news—and they already knew it was bad news because of Blake—with him instead of Benita.Fuck.Scanning the paragraphs, he focused in on one section, reading it again and again, feeling the rage build inside him. “Fuck.” That one escaped into the air, surprising him.
Eyes to Blake, he took a step forwards, fist clenching around the papers. “Paternity suit. Lawsuit. Drunk and disorderly. Venue cancelation. They have all kinds of shit here, Blake.” His bandmate had the wisdom to look contrite instead of angry, thank God. Ben didn’t know if he could have controlled himself if the man—boy—tried to pass this off as not his fault. “Looks like you’ve been keeping secrets.”
Blake had never graduated from the initial rush of recognition. Every show was a chance for him to get his nut off. Every girl a conquest to bury the pain of high school rejections.
“Fuck it.” Ben shoved the papers back at Benita. He stared at the van, seeing the peeling paint of their logo, the sweeping lines of OY falling in pieces to the pavement at every venue.It’s all shit. “I’m not feelin’ it tonight. Isn’t it what you usually say, Blake? Not feelin’ it, meaning you’re so fucked-up you can’t play. Well,” he leaned far into Blake, his voice a barely-restrained hiss, “I’mnot feelin’ ittonight. Y’all go on without me.”
“What the fuck?” Danny said in a guarded tone, knowing the band could pull off a drummerless show. They’d done it often enough, having to swap over to acoustic about once a week because Blake “wasn’t feelin’ it,” which pissed them off, but they made it work. A show without a lead singer, however? Not as possible.
“No, he’s been drunk or stoned for three years, fucking his way through whichever state we’re in. It’s time for Benny to have some fun.” Benita drew an audible breath, and he twisted to look at her, denying her the chance to interrupt and soothe things over. “No. It’s my time to fuck off since we’re—”—he swung back to Blake, this time unable to control his shout—“fucked straight up the ass.”
“Dude.” Blake shook his head. “We can’t play without you.”
“Oh, but we can play without you?”
“Fuck, man. Chill. Y’all do fine without me.” Death knell but Blake didn’t know it yet.
“You’re right. We do fine without you.” He grabbed the papers again, shaking them in Blake’s face. “We’d dobetterwithout you, evidently.” Moving deliberately, he took a disciplined step back, breaking their circle. “I’m done with you.” Another step, distancing himself from them. “My band.” Danny’s head lifted at those words, but it was the truth. They’d signed papers detailing Ben’s portion as 53 percent. Majority stakeholder starting this year, since he’d fronted the money for equipment, vehicles, union fees.Stolen money. He winced, remembering the lies he’d told GeeMa, then focused and hissed, “And I sayyou’re out.”
Now the uproar bursting from all three mouths was guaranteed to bring security running.Not my gig. Ben turned on his heel and walked away from the only good thing in his life. The music.
***
I want to forget. He heard the words in his head, knew how to form the sounds, but activating his voice seemed like an impossibility. His own muscles foreign, unknown. “Jus wana feget.” He tried to swallow, succeeding only in choking himself, his tongue seeming far too large to exist inside his mouth. “Wan feget.”
“Oh, I know, baby.” The woman’s voice sounded close to his head. Strains of her drawl echoing down his ear and setting up residence inside his mind. Colors and warmth accompanied those words, the stretching of the tones discordant and painful. “You won’t remember anything, baby.”
“Goo.” Ben barely got the sound out before a narrow prick of pain in his arm surrendered to the broad rush of heat in his blood. That wave picked him up and carried him out to sea, out of sight from land, adrift and blessedly, blessedly alone. No shouting. No demands. No clamoring of people to tear him apart. Just the music in his head, playing sweetly.
