Flipping the Record

“Hello? Do you mind?” an impatient voice grumbles beside me.

Looking down at my magazine on top of the reception desk, I pay no attention.

He claps twice and I lift my gaze to be greeted with glassy blue eyes amid a very stern expression. “Yeah, hi. So, do people just stand around here waiting for assistance or…?” He snaps and I smell the alcohol on his breath.

I realize he’s speaking to me after glancing into the empty lobby of the recording studio. “Excuse me?”

“Ah-sis-tance,” he enunciates with a hint of a Southern twang.

He’s on such an ego trip, I’ll be surprised if he doesn’t need a TWA flight to get back from it. No wonder the receptionist is MIA. He stretches his neck forward, keeping his gaze on me, and snaps again, swaying as he reaches out to grab the reception desk to steady himself. His eyes are such an incredible blue, I’m almost distracted until he opens his mouth again. “Do you want to keep your job?”

Crinkling my forehead, I drop my chin, trying not to snort. “My… job?” I’m three weeks in working with Country-Rock legend Curt Parents on his fifth album as a session musician. I don’t think this guy has a say over whether I keep my job, even if he is friends with Curt. “Look, I get enough sass from the guys I work with,” I begin.

He squints, probably trying to get me in focus, and interrupts. “Do you know who I am?”

Wow, the ‘do you know who I am’ line? Seriously? Yeah, bub, I know precisely who you are. Everyone in the music industry knows who Jeff Kingston is.

“All I’m doing is trying to take a break.” I press the air between us with a flat palm. “I think you’re confused…”

Before I have a chance to explain, the receptionist returns, hurrying to her desk with a string of apologies. I step aside to let her sit and blink at Blue Eyes before I open my palm and turn to her. “Oh, he’s very important and needs ah-sis-tance immediately.”

He presses his lips together and blinks in my direction before turning his attention to her and mutters something about takeout menus. Instead of the attitude, though, he’s almost flirty with a playful smile and reaches over the counter to tug an end of one of her long blonde pigtails. When he finishes, he nods, looking back and forth between us with his gaze landing on me. “Do you work here?”

“She’s in Studio B with Curt,” the receptionist answers for me. “Remember? I told you yesterday.”

Why would she tell him where I was working? Why would he care?

Walking past the reception desk, he stops to squint at me, poking my International Musician and Recording World magazine. “Ignore page thirty-two—band’s crap.”

As he wanders down the hallway, cowboy boots with worn heels scuffing as he goes, I flip the magazine to page thirty-two. His face, with the rest of his band, Expedition, stares up at me. Even in black and white, I can see how blue his eyes are. From down the hall, he looks over his shoulder, setting wire-rimmed sunglasses over his eyes. He’s a mess, quite frankly, but I don’t know if I’ve ever seen anything, or anyone, more rock-n-roll.

Later that night, I’m the only one left in the studio, ready to lay this guitar in traffic and be done with it. Ages ago my guitar teacher told me, “if you can sing it, you can play it,” since the brain controls both functions. This week, I doubt him. I’ve been singing what’s in my head for days. I can hear it, but there’s one section where my fingers refuse to play it. Curt loves what I’ve done, so he doesn’t care what I hear in my head. I’m the one that’s not satisfied.

The studio door opens, and I don’t think twice about it, figuring it’s one of the other session guys. They know how focused I’ve been, so I appreciate that they don’t interrupt. I keep working, running through the section a few more times. After the third attempt, I glance up to see who came in, intending to bitch about this riff still not working.

Instead, it’s Rude Blue Eyes, looking much more sober, wearing threadbare light denim jeans with a slightly fraying flair at the bottom.

“Do you need another menu?” I ask.

“You’re good,” he says, ignoring my comment and pushing away from the wall.

I fiddle with one of my strings, tightening it back into tune. “Thanks,” I mumble, and I lift my head. “Did you need something?”

“I heard you playing and wanted to check it out.”

“How did you hear me playing? I’m in a soundproof room.”

“I was looking for one of the techs in there.” He motions to the booth with his chin. “We’re just down the hall.”

“I know. I bumped into you earlier, remember?”

He reaches behind his head and rubs his neck, his eyes narrowing as he winces—possibly with embarrassment. “Shit,” he mumbles, and a Southern twang trying to break free makes me snicker. “I’m a belligerent asshole when I drink tequila.”

Smirking, I arch an eyebrow. “Just tequila?”

He tilts his head side to side, pursing his lips and wincing again. “You may have a point, but tequila makes me particularly crotchety. Sorry if I was an asshole.”

“Apologize to the actual receptionist.” I turn my head to glance at my guitar. I’m using my sunburst Gibson Les Paul and notice a new scratch on the back with a sigh. Choosing one guitar is like choosing your favorite sunset, but this one is well-loved and well-worn and by far my favorite at the moment.

“Oh, trust me, I’ve kissed Jackie’s ass several times over. Unfortunately, she knows me well,” he says with a playful grin, like that’s enough to get him out of trouble. Stepping across the studio with a long stride, he stretches his hand to me. “Jeff Kingston, by the way.”

“Cassandra Taylor.” Shaking his hand, I notice it’s as torn up and calloused as mine.

“Curt’s told us all about y’all. He’s impressed with his new crew. You been a session player long?”

“Long enough.” I don’t mind being a session player. It’s long, weird hours, and you need to be up for and ready to play whatever music they hand you. The pay is decent when I get the gigs. Competition is crazy, though. I mean, there are only two or three other females in the pool, but we’re wrestling against guys going for the same jobs. Working with Curt adds to my credibility and experience, however, being the only girl in the band means I need to play twice as well at half the price while they expect me to clean up after them and take the lunch orders.

I want to do my own material, maybe even have my own band someday, like Linda Ronstadt, only with my songs. There are boxes of material stored under my bed waiting for me.

“My name’s finally out on the circuit enough that I’m getting actual paying-something-worthwhile rock gigs.” I run a finger along one of the scratches on my guitar before looking back at him. “I lose a lot of jobs because they think girls can only play that acoustic folksy-type stuff.”

“Well, Joni Mitchell’s done okay,” he says with a chuckle, crossing his arms over his chest before rubbing the back of his hand over the stubble on his chin.

“Yeah, Joni Mitchell is cool. So are Judy Collins and Carole King, but who wants to be compared to them constantly? Do you want to have people ask you to be more like REO Speedwagon or the Stones all the time?”

“Well…” He lifts a shoulder. “We aren’t quite the same kind of band.”

“Joni Mitchell isn’t quite the stuff I’m interested in playing, either—but I am thankful she’s at least got the doors cracked open for the rest of us to try to squeeze ourselves through.”

“Well, you keep playing like that?” He lifts his chin and grins. “I don’t think you’ll have anything to worry about.”

“For the time being.” I shrug. “Unless I can’t get this damn line down.”

“Sounds pretty good to me.”

“It’s not where I want it to be.” I lift my hand. “There’re a bunch of notes in there that don’t want to come out here.” I wiggle my fingers as if that’s supposed to help break up the logjam.

“Well, I’ll leave you alone then to work it out,” he says, taking a few steps back offering a smile. His entire demeanor changes when he smiles. He looks approachable with eyes that crinkle at the sides. “Feel free to come hang out later if you want a break or something.” Tugging his sunglasses from his hair, he points over his shoulder. “Studio C.”

I nod before I return to my guitar, but lift my chin when I don’t hear him leaving. He’s paused by the doorway, listening again. I arch an eyebrow at him, and he sticks his sunglasses over those beautiful faded denim eyes before ducking out of the room.

“So, you’ll never guess who came into the studio today.” I laugh, dumping some veggies into a strainer. “Jeff Kingston.”

Leo, my boyfriend, stops melting the butter in a different pan and blinks at me; his eyebrows arched. “Jeff Kingston? Expedition’s Jeff Kingston? Stopped into your guys’ studio? He’s friends with Curt, right?”

“Well,” I shrug, “it was just me by then. He said I was good.” I shake the string beans to drain them.

“Wait, Kingston said you were good?”

I step over, adding the beans to the butter, curling the corner of my mouth. “Yeah. So?”

“Babe, that’s a big deal!”

“He’s a rude, obnoxious asshole.” I take up the stirring as I nudge Leo out of the way.

“He’s allowed to be an asshole,” he tells me, folding his arms over his chest. “You know who he is, right?”

I cock my hip to the side and tilt my head at him with a straight face. “No. Never heard of him or his band’s multi-million-selling albums that’re constantly on the radio. Who is he again?”

Irritation flickers to life in the pit of my stomach. Is he serious? I’m the one who’s bringing in the steady paycheck working in this industry. I’m the one working with dozens of icons and wanna-be’s alike, that’s in the studio listening to what’s being done—and by who—and he’s going to stand there and question my industry knowledge?

Of course, I know who Jeff Kingston is. It kills me he’s allowed to be a jerk just because they’ve made some fantastic albums. I look over to the stack of records by the stereo where Expedition’s first album is displayed, knowing their following three are behind it. Half of the bands in America are trying to sound like them, Leo’s included. And because of my experience, I know it’s why Leo isn’t making any splashes. The industry doesn’t need the copycats when they have the real thing. But, since I’m only some lowly session player, he doesn’t listen to me.

Leo leans over and kisses my nose. “You’re allowed to be an asshole when you’re a member of Expedition.”

I roll my eyes and grab a bowl. “No, you’re not.”

He takes the bowl from me and nods. “Yes, you are. And if he said you were good? Baby, you’re on your way!”

“Not if I can’t get that damn riff down.” Irritation ignites a little more as I serve a portion of rice and string beans over some chicken for myself. “And I don’t need some arrogant drunk’s opinion making my reputation.”

Leo laughs and drops onto the couch, pulling his dirty bare feet up and crossing his ankles. “I’m sure he was a lot more than drunk.” He chuckles. “He probably thought you were cute, but that isn’t gonna hurt you any, that’s for damn sure.” In his eyes, I’m just some chick who ‘gets it’ and ‘plays guitar’ but I’m the one who’s making connections and getting the steady work with it while he bartends and plays in local dives with his friends.

I sit at the little table tucked in the corner of the living room. This place is tiny, but we’ve managed to make it work. Half the time, only one of us is home to use it. “So, you’re saying I should have taken him up on his offer to drop by his studio?”

“Seriously? Are you insane? Go! Put that down, put on something slinky, and go. Now!”

I know stopping in their studio won’t hurt. Connections are how you make a career in this industry, but I’ve made a point not to make them because I have breasts. “I’ll stop by tomorrow.”

“What time? Maybe I can meet you at the studio,” he asks over a mouthful of food as I shake my head. “What? Why not?”

“Because you know the rules. You made them, remember?”

“Yeah, but that was different,” he says with a lift of his shoulder.

“Why? Because it was you meeting the famous people at trendy bars?”

“It was more that the famous people I met would want to steal you away from me, babe.” He gives me a soft smile and cocks his head. “And I didn’t know if you’d run off with them. I mean, you can’t run off with Jeff…”

“Oh, Jeff, is it now?”

He crinkles his nose at me. “He’s got a girlfriend.”

“I know. There was a picture in the paper a few days ago. Someone doodled all over his face. Gave him devil horns, pitchfork, and a tail. Put a halo around her head with wings, and stuck it up at the reception desk. Everyone got a huge kick out of it.”

“My point is, I don’t think Jeff would care if I was in the room or not. But you already got his attention because you’re cute.”

But it’s my playing he complimented, not my looks. I stir the rice around in my bowl with my fork and literally bite my tongue.

“Let’s go by tonight. Say you forgot something in the studio.”

“Leo, no. I’ve had a really long day, and I just want to eat dinner and go to bed. Stop, okay?”

“He’s probably not there anyway,” he says with a dismissive sigh. “Probably at some party you don’t know about because you didn’t stop into his studio for him to ask you to it.”

“I’d still be here if he told me about it.” I lean back into my chair.

“You could have come home to tell me we were going to some really exclusive Hollywood party and we could have gone together.”

“You weren’t supposed to be home. You were supposed to be working tonight. Besides, he was an asshole. He’ll be an asshole to you, too.”

“You don’t know that. Maybe he’d like me. I’m likable.” He gives me a wide, goofy grin, looking like he’s twelve. With his blond curls and summer tan, he makes me think of a kid hanging out at the beach. It makes me miss the days we’d spent all day on the beach, playing in the surf and kissing on the blanket.

“You’re so dopey,” I chuckle with a shake of my head. “I’ll see if I can give you a heads-up tomorrow and have you meet me or something. No promises.” I take a bite of food and roll my eyes at him as he grins wider. “Since when are you such a huge fan of Jeff Kingston, anyway?”

“It’s more Teddy Derricks. If Kingston is around, Derricks can’t be far behind.” He glances over at me after finishing his dinner. “You know who Teddy Derricks is, right?”

“Can you please stop treating me like I live under a rock? You do know what I do for a living, right?”

“Yes, and you’d probably get a lot more gigs if you played up those tits a little more. Man, if I had tits like that, you could be sure every guy in the studio saw them so I could get the job.”

My head drops to the side and I stare at him. “Nice. Thanks.”

He furrows his eyebrows and shakes his head. “What? That’s a compliment.”

“My tits getting me work is a compliment?” I do my best to keep my voice even and calm.

“Having them doesn’t really hurt you.”

“Hang on, you know how hard I have to fight to prove myself. Do you really think it’s my tits getting me work?”

“Oh, babe, no, that’s not what I meant. Sure, you can play.” He’s saying the words, but I don’t hear the conviction behind them, accented by his shrug and nonchalant tilt of his head. “Besides, you don’t get excited by your gigs. You just treat everything like a job.”

“That’s not true!” My mouth drops with an exasperated breath. “I don’t drool and become some teeny-bopper fan that needs to squeal about it. If I’m going to keep my job, I need to act accordingly. Believe me, I am plenty excited to work with Curt. I have every album he ever wrote. I’m not going to blow this by being stupid and giddy. And besides having all of Expedition’s albums, Derricks’ guitar solo in ‘Rushing Water’ was the first thing I taught myself on guitar. I’m as much a fan as you are. You used to know that about me.”

“Oh, I do, babe.” He reaches over to rest his hand on my knee. “It’s just you don’t seem to be all that excited by it anymore. All the people you meet, the places you get to play. I’d give my eyeteeth to play in some of the venues you’ve been to. I mean, sure, it’s not like you’re part of the band or anything.”

Enough of the band to play the venues, I want to say. Enough of the band to be asked to be part of it when they take it on the road sometimes, but I say no because you don’t like it when I’m gone for long stretches.

“You’re closer to the life than I am right now even if you kind of sold out”

“I what?”

“… and, you know, he’s not really my bag, so I’m not as impressed by him as you are,” he finishes.

“Yeah, I can see how being successful could hurt your credibility.” I stand up and put my bowl on the counter. “And I haven’t sold out. I’m paying our bills. I’m going to bed.”

“Are you mad at me or something?”

I lean over to give him a quick kiss and shake my head. “Just been insulted enough for one evening.”

“What do you mean, insulted? Who insulted you?”

I’m too tired to explain it to him.

The phone ringing jars me awake. It takes me a second to reach over, but I lift the receiver, on the verge of speaking, when I hear him say, ‘I told you not to call me here, Sandy.’ I open my eyes, cover the mouthpiece, and hold my breath. My heart beats faster as I listen, my brain unable to keep up with my thoughts. What’s happening? Who’s Sandy?

She responds in that annoying girly whine. “You were supposed to meet me. What happened?”

“I got her schedule messed up, babe. She’s home,” he whispers. “I couldn’t get out. Wish I could have, though.” His voice becomes silky. “I’d be having a lot more fun with you, foxy lady.”

“Don’t let me stop you,” I say into the receiver before slamming it down and kicking the blankets off. By the time I get into the living room, adrenaline floods my brain. I’m shaking with anger. “Get out.”

“Oh, now, baby….”

“Get the hell out.” I point to the doorway.

He stands up and puts his palms out to me, patting the air between us. “I can explain, Cass.”

“You can leave, is what you can do.” I open the front door for him. Picking up one of his shoes, I toss it onto the grassy lawn. I pick up the next one and throw it at him. “Go!”

“Come on, now, Cass,” he says, fumbling with catching the shoe, “let me explain.”

“Out!” My heart pounds against my chest. My hands shake, gripping the open door.

Pointing down the hallway to our bedroom, he starts, “what about my stuff?”

“Oh, your stuff?” I pick up an ashtray and throw it out the door. “That’s yours, right?” It lands on the sidewalk and shatters. “This is yours, too, right?”

I pick up a picture frame from one of the end tables and chuck it at him. “How about that? Yours, right?” I pick up a candle and toss it. There’s a magazine that gets thrown next. “What about that?” I’m becoming one of those crazed women parodied on television, but I pick up another frame. This time, I aim for him. He fumbles again. It hits his chest and drops to the floor, breaking at his feet. “How about this?”

“You’re acting nuts, Cass!” he tries, still trying to pat the air between us, his eyes wide. “Calm down!”

“I’m not even halfway to nuts, Leo!” I scream, hoping the neighbors turn their lights on so it can be even more embarrassing. “Get the fuck out of my house!”

“Babe…”

“My father put my name on the lease! I’ve paid the damn rent for the last six months.”

“Come on, baby…” He steps over the broken frame and reaches his hand out, his head tilted to the side as though he’s going to try and reason with me. As if there’s some reasoning to him being a cheating bastard.

I step forward and pick up a dirty, empty ashtray, ready to take aim. “You haven’t been getting as many hours, huh?” I hurl the ashtray at the curb. “Band practices have been taking up more time?” I cross the room to grab his transistor radio from the table and lodge it. It shatters on the sidewalk next to the ashtray. “How much do I want to bet that both of those things can be called Sandy?” I’m enraged even more and hurl the empty dinner bowl at his head.

By now, he’s in front of the open door and ducks. As he stands erect, I shove his chest to force him to take a step back and slam the door, swiftly locking it. “I’ll let you know when your shit’s on the curb to pick up!” I scream.

As I’m turning off the lights, he begins knocking, trying to talk to me through the door. I go to the bedroom and take several deep breaths, which soon dissolve into sobs as my rage drains. Sitting on the side of the bed, I grab a pillow and bury my face to mute them. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of hearing me cry.

I don’t fall back asleep, of course. All I had to do was look around the bedroom and see his things to work myself up into another fury. I stomp to the kitchen, grab a trash bag, and start tossing his things inside it, tears slipping down my cheek. When I fill a bag, I dump it out on the curb. Once his stuff is out of sight, I rearrange the living room, and follow that by doing the dinner dishes because, of course, Leo didn’t. Then, I take a shower, hoping that might calm me, but instead I spiral, remembering when we first met, how he used to respect me, that he was impressed with my talent and drive.

I knew things weren’t perfect between us. God knows there’s no passion between us after three years, but I figured it was because we got comfortable and our schedules were getting in the way. We’ve just been passing each other in the hallway. We hadn’t even slept in the same bed, much less had sex, in at least a month, but I thought it was a temporary thing. How could I have been so blind? So stupid?

After my shower, I try to eat something, but can’t swallow anything and cry again, staring at one of his shoes sticking out from under the couch. He’s not worth this, damn it! So, I decide to go into the studio to work on that riff to keep my mind busy.

“Good party?” Jeff asks, coming in the opposite direction at the studio. He’s still wearing the same Hawaiian shirt decorated with surfers and palm trees he had on yesterday. His hair looks pretty run-through, too, with over-grown curls pulled into messy waves. He’s playful, and I suppose he meant to be funny, but nothing is funny. I just curl a corner of my mouth up, drop my chin, and keep walking. As I pass, he places a hand on my elbow, and we turn to face each other. “You okay?” His eyebrows furrow and his voice lowers.

“Peachy.” The tears return to my voice, and I shake my head, pulling my arm back. “Thanks.” I swallow and offer a quick nod before I start toward my studio without even glancing back. Once I get to the door, I know he’s still standing there because I haven’t heard the scuff of his boots on the floor. I slip inside and close the door behind me, praying I’ll be left alone for a few more hours so I can get my head together.

Half an hour later, Jeff comes in with a brown paper bag and paper cup. I glance at him, but all he does is nod as he puts the bag and cup on the folding chair next to me without a word. The cup is filled with black, strong coffee. Inside the bag are some little creamers, sugar packets, a stirrer, a chocolate glazed doughnut, and a neatly rolled joint.

I glance over at him by the studio door, a hint of a smile crossing my lips. He nods again, returning my grin, and closes the door behind him.

So rock-n-roll.