Travis Starnes
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From the Top - Chapter 3
🕑 Added 2023-10-07 16:17:01 +0000 UTCBy Wednesday I was starting to get a little antsy. Warren still didn’t have any news for us about our next gig, although he said he was working on it. I was still holding out some hope for a summer tour, but if we needed to put time into smaller clubs locally before we could book a full tour and we would have to be done touring by mid-August, we were running out of time to get it done.
What made it worse was that I had nothing to do. Kat was off at practice and Mrs. Phillips was working, leaving me at home alone. I still had band practice that afternoon, but even that felt like we were going in circles. The last new stuff we worked on was before Christmas, and we’d practiced everything else to death. If we had a show to get ready for, at least we could be working on set lists, trying to tailor it to that specific crowd, but we didn’t. The Blue Ridge shows were all but on autopilot at this point, and treating it like something else just made the fact that we didn’t have any other gigs all the more noticeable.
I flipped through channels on the TV, tried listening to an album, skimmed through books on the shelf, but nothing held my attention. I was finding it difficult to be patient and needed something to get my mind off worrying about our next gig. Finally, I grabbed my guitar. When I’d been sitting in prison a song had started brewing in the back of my head, but I’d been avoiding letting it out because I knew it would be difficult for me to confront.
I even had a name for it already. “Ashes and Sand.” I didn’t have any lyrics or anything beyond that, but I knew it was going to be about my parents and it felt like it was probably going to focus on my father. I hadn’t been ready, at the time, to face that and still wasn’t sure I was ready now. But it wasn’t going away, and I knew the more it percolated, the more I’d think about it. Better to start working on it now, see if I couldn’t get some of it out of my system.
I started strumming, just to see what came out as I thought through things. I found that when I was starting a new song, it was best to let my hands kind of wander on their own and see what came out. What came out was kind of melancholic, slow, and haunting.
As I played, I let my mind wander, going through old memories. Late nights in the Winnebago with Mom while Dad was still in the club, drinking. She’d whisper stories to me, trying to lull me to sleep while people were yelling in the parking lot, scaring me. Waking up when Dad stumbled his way back to us and fumbled around in a drunken stupor.
Was it really like that, though? I tried to pull an actual memory from that time, but it was more of a feeling than a memory. Mom always said Dad’s drinking didn’t get bad until I was older, about a year before he ended up in jail, when I was fourteen or so. And yet, in my hazy memories, I was really little, closer to the time when he first started teaching me to play, my arms barely wrapping around the guitar.
Was I letting my memory of the later years, when things got bad, color my earlier memories? How much of remembering him coming back drunk was just remembering how he was after he got out of jail? Was I writing about how things were then, or how things ended?
Maybe that’s why I’d landed on the title. Memories could be like that, shifting, flowing around until they got all jumbled up. Was that the point? To address how I felt now and make sense of the two lives I knew. The fuzzy memory of love and hate, living out of the Winnebago, and the crystal clear one of those last moments, Mom on the floor, Dad coming at me. Reconciling those memories, I stopped playing and wrote in my notebook.
Mom’s stories, whispers at night.
Dad’s blurry gaze, spoiling for a fight.
That last line was definitely from the end. Or not the end. The time before that, when he went to Mom’s trailer, stumbling around drunk outside. I remember that look in his eyes. The hatred he had for me. Blaming me for everything wrong in his life, regardless of the fact that I was barely past being a pre-teen when he went to jail, and I was barely a kid when his dreams fell apart.
The booze always made it easier for him to find someone else to blame his problems on. Let the paranoia and rage take over. I knew there was a time, before he’d beaten the will out of Mom, when she’d actually chosen him. When she’d fallen in love with him. I wondered what he was like then.
Mom didn’t really talk about that time, at least not that I could remember. By the time I was old enough to hear those stories, the shine had definitely been rubbed off their marriage. The fact that she never talked about the man she’d fallen in love with, and only about the abuser who controlled her every moment, suggested that she knew how wrong everything was, even when she wasn’t able to get away from him.
I didn’t even have pictures from that time. I don’t know if they’d never taken any or if Mom had burned them after Dad went to prison and she’d finally been able to address her feelings toward him. The only pictures I had were from the times I could remember, after we’d come to Wellsville.
I set the pen down and picked up my guitar again, strumming a few more experimental chords, frowning as they didn’t seem to fit what I was feeling. I wasn’t trying to go for just somber.
It wasn’t just about my past and the things I’d lost. It was an acknowledgment of where I came from and how it made me who I am today. It was about the dichotomy of love and hate, warmth and cold, safety and danger. It was about recognizing that every experience, good or bad, contributes to one’s identity.
That was the backbone of the song. The heart and soul of it. It wasn’t just about the pain or the memories, but also about the understanding and acceptance of my journey. My hand stilled, and I put the guitar down beside me. A weight on my chest, one I hadn’t even realized I’d been carrying, felt like it lifted a little bit.
Ever since the end of the school year, I’d been carrying around a lot of feelings about Mom and Dad, about Sydney and her father, about Aaron’s father. It was all packed in tight, and now I’d added my feelings about Willie and his illness on top of it. I hadn’t realized how pent-up I’d felt. Finally giving an outlet to those emotions, even if it was through the lens of my parents, made me feel a little better.
Of course, not everything could be fixed by a single song. Thursday came and still we’d heard no news of a new gig being scheduled. It had been almost a week, and considering we were talking about smaller clubs, I’d hoped we would have heard something by now.
Seth and Lyla showed up in the early afternoon for our normal practice session. The house we had been using had been rented in Marco’s name, since he’d had the best credit of the three of them, and when Seth and Lyla decided to stick with me, it was obvious we weren’t going to be able to use it to practice anymore. Worse, Marco had kicked Seth out. For now, he’d managed to find someone who needed a temporary roommate, but that would become a problem at some point too.
To keep the peace with the neighbors, who weren’t terribly happy that we were playing in the garage, we practiced on weekday afternoons and tried to finish before five. That was going to be a bigger issue when I was back in school, but I wasn’t playing baseball anymore, so at least I wouldn’t have those conflicts with practicing. Still, we needed to figure out something less temporary, which was another thing we weren’t going to be able to do until we started getting gigs.
“Hey guys,” I said, coming out of the house and opening the garage door.
Lyla was using Tabitha’s truck and was picking Seth up, since the van had also been Marco’s, so they always arrived together.
“Tell me you have something new for us to work on,” Lyla said, setting down her case and pulling out her bass.
“Not yet,” I said. “I do have a new song I’m working on, but I’ve only got half the first verse, and none of the actual melody yet. I need some time before I’m ready to let anyone else see it.”
“We could help you work on it,” Seth said.
Both of them were anxious to start working on anything new. I felt their pain. While we loved playing, going over the same song again and again got really old, very fast. I also wasn’t ready for anyone else to touch this song yet.
“No, not this one. It’s kind of personal and I’m using it to work out some stuff, so I want to keep it to myself for a while.”
“At least tell us what it’s called,” Lyla pleaded.
“Ashes and Sand.”
“Ohh, nice,” Seth said. “You need to hurry up with it. I’ve got nothing and I’ve heard what Lyla’s working on and it’s … yikes.”
“You’re working on another song?” I asked.
Even though I considered my roots to be classic rock, she was more hardcore than the rest of us and her song One Night Stand was always a crowd-pleaser. If she could manage another song like that, it would definitely be worth working on.
“Don’t get too excited yet,” Seth said. “It’s called Hard Woman, and it’s a love song to Tabitha. It’s really not our normal thing.”
“She likes old-school country,” Lyla said, almost shyly.
“You’re writing a country song?” I said, shocked.
Lyla hated pure country and especially the old stuff. Anytime we started sounding a little bit country, she tried to pull us back to rock. Her writing a country song, and a classic country ballad at that, was definitely new. And why Seth said not to get my hopes up. That kind of music would clash with our current sound and wouldn’t really fit into any set we played unless we did a ton of covers or completely changed our sound.
“It’s just something I’m messing around with. I’m not planning on ever playing it publicly. Ever. It’s … personal.”
“You’ve heard mine,” I said. “They’re pretty personal.”
“Not like this, though. Trust me, I’m not …” she started to say before stopping as a car pulled into the driveway behind Tabitha’s truck.
Because it was summer and the garage didn’t have air conditioning, we always kept the doors open, which was part of the reason we had to be done before people started getting home from work. With the door open, there wasn’t much to block the noise. A car driving up, in and of itself, wasn’t a reason to stop since Kat sometimes got home around this time. What stopped Lyla was that she recognized Warren behind the wheel.
He still lived in Richmond and didn’t make the long drive out here that often. Since we didn’t have any gigs or anything new to talk about, there wasn’t much of a reason for him to visit. Even when we did have something to talk about, like the previous weekend, he always waited until we were practicing and setting up at the Blue Ridge. He’d fallen in love with Chef’s dumplings, so it always made a good excuse to grab something to eat before he headed back. His making the trip twice in five days was unprecedented.
The concern at, or at least interest in, his arrival was only heightened when we saw his face. He was usually pretty good at keeping his expressions neutral, but he either couldn’t or didn’t want to try to keep the concern and worry off his face. He seemed almost distracted as he got out of the car and started making his way up the driveway toward us.
“This is a surprise,” I said when he got to us.
Instead of responding in his normal, cheerful manner, he said, “I know you guys have been anxiously waiting to hear about new gigs, and I wanted to drive out here and give you an update in person.”
The way he said it was ominous, leaving me with a pit in my stomach. I exchanged a glance with Lyla, who shifted nervously.
“We might have a bit of a problem,” he said.
“What kind of a problem?” I asked.
“I started calling out venues you’ve played at before, places mostly in Asheville, but also some in Nashville and Charlotte. At first, I was getting positive responses, but all of them called me back a few hours after we got something on the books to cancel. That’s not that big of a deal, really, since it happens more than you would think. It’s why I don’t usually tell you about gigs until they’ve paid a deposit and we’ve solidified everything. So I don’t get your hopes up to only shoot them down. But then it kept happening. I’d set something up, and then they’d call back and cancel.”
“How many?” Seth asked.
“More than a dozen so far,” he said.
Lyla’s mouth fell open as she asked, “A dozen? Seriously?”
“Yeah,” Warren said, nodding grimly. “And some of those were pretty small places. One even smaller than the Blue Ridge that I called just so we could get something. They’ve all had legitimate and reasonable explanations, which is why I didn’t think much of it at first, but the sheer number of cancellations is … concerning.”
“So we still have nothing?” I asked.
“Other than the Blue Ridge? No. I’m not done trying, but this has risen to a level that I’m legitimately worried,” he said.
That wasn’t what I wanted to hear, and I wasn’t the only one.
“How are we supposed to make it on just the Blue Ridge gigs?” Lyla said. “Not that I don’t like our shows there, but it doesn’t even hold two hundred people, and Chef keeps the cover low to keep the costs down. His drinks are reasonably priced, too. I get it, but it means we can’t exactly live off it.”
“Worse than that, we aren’t selling any merch,” Seth added. “Our shows are what, seventy-five or eighty percent regulars. The people who aren’t are just passing through and see the sign for live music. Everyone who wants our merch has already bought it, which means we not only don’t have that income coming in, but we’re still sitting on stock we need to get off our hands.”
“I know, I know,” Warren said sympathetically. “Believe me, I’m working on it. I’ve got calls out to every contact I have trying to line something up.”
I felt bad. I trusted Warren and knew he was doing everything he could to get us the shows we needed, but we really needed the shows. I’d be fine, since my bills were all but non-existent and I had the settlement money, but Lyla was left having to live off Tabitha and Seth was basically living hand to mouth. They were both struggling financially, and I’d told them we’d get it back together. Although it had been unfair, I was still responsible for losing the contract and everything that came with it, which meant it was up to me to fix it.
“I still have faith we’ll be able to get something,” I said. “I also know things are tight right now, and it’s only going to keep getting worse. Maybe I can help cover the difference until we get some gigs booked? At least bring you up to the level you’d be making if we had a few additional shows.”
Lyla immediately shook her head, “Absolutely not. We can’t let you do that.”
“Seriously, Charlie, that’s way too much to ask,” Seth agreed.
“Wait,” I said, holding up my hands. “Don’t rush the decision. Who knows how long this dry spell will last. I’ve got the money from the settlements with the County and with MAC to live off of, but you guys don’t have that kind of cushion. I don’t want you struggling because things aren’t going like we thought they would.”
“No,” Lyla said again. “We’ll find a way to manage. We appreciate you wanting to help, but we can’t let you bankroll us. We all agreed you’re the front man here and everything’s in your name, so we don’t run into issues like last time. We all know you’ve got the real talent, so it only makes sense. We, however, signed on to be your bandmates, not your employees. We agreed to take the risks if it meant a chance at getting some of the rewards. If you start paying us out of your pocket, what does that make us?”
“I guess that makes sense, although it doesn’t make me any less worried that you two might put yourselves in real financial trouble on principle. How about this? Until we find some other gigs, I’m going to stop taking my cut of the Blue Ridge shows. You two split it, and I’ll keep covering Warren. Once we get gigs, we’ll go back to how things were, but that will help you stretch things just a little further. I know you’re going to say it’s the same thing, but it isn’t. I’m not paying you, I’m just waiting to take my cut. That’s all.”
“Waiting to take your cut means you’ll eventually get paid that money. If we do this, when things get back on track, we’re going to expect you to take a slightly bigger cut until we’re all even,” Lyla said.
We didn’t have an accountant and none of us were the kind of people who kept those kinds of records, so I doubted we’d ever be able to work that out when we finally got back to having gigs. Not that I cared. If this arrangement kept them from overextending themselves, then it was good enough for me.
“Deal,” I said before turning back to Warren. “I know you’re working on it, but we need something soon.”
“I know. I’m working on it and will hopefully find out something on distribution for your record soon. I’m not giving up.”
“Good,” I said.
Comments
D.J. Clarke
@james Bartling or Marco :)
James Bartling
sounds like MAC is working behind the scene against Charly
