“Hey!”
A new voice, commanding and authoritative, freezes Todd in his tracks. Cue dramatic trumpet sound. Cue my savior, Kent, his golden mane backlit by the sun as he crests the rise on his trusty steed, a Simplicity Cobalt 32 hp riding mower.
“What are you doing!” he shouts down to us. “Get back to work!”
Todd goes to retrieve the shears. Brad fires up his weed whip. I head back to my mower, which requires me to walk right past Todd.
“You’re gonna quit,” he says.
I point to my headphones and Brad’s weed whip.
“What?” I say. “Can’t hear you.”
∗ ∗ ∗
“Can I help you?”
“Uh . . . I think I must have the wrong house.”
It’s the next morning. I’m standing at the front entrance of a massive mansion in west Edina. I think—thought—it’s Josephine’s house, but the person who answered the door and is standing here judging me is an insanely beautiful girl. I recognize her now—she was a senior and on the cheerleading squad when I was a freshman, and we all harbored impure thoughts about her. What was her name . . . ? Jacqueline. Jacqueline . . . Lindahl. Holy smokes, goddess-level hot Jacqueline Lindahl might be Josephine Lindahl’s older sister.
“Okay, well, bye,” she says, and starts to close the door.
“Wait,” I say. “Is this Josephine Lindahl’s house?”
She pauses, then reappraises me with amused curiosity, a literal head-to-foot, foot-to-head sweep—with special attention given to what I’m holding in my hands—and in that moment I think I understand something about Josephine.
“Are you a friend of hers?” she says, and there it is again, that amused disdain. A boy, she’s thinking. There’s an actual boy here to see my uggo sister.
“Yes,” I say. And then add, “I’m her boyfriend.”
You know how girls make that little disgusted OMG sound, a short exhalation like a cough, packaged together with raised eyebrows and an open-mouthed sneer? I earn one of those, plus a repeat of the full-length sweep.
“Is she home?”
“Hold on.”
I fidget on their front porch, waiting. It’s probably a waste of time coming here, but I figured it was worth one last-ditch in-person effort.
I should not have said the boyfriend thing. It was just going to piss Josephine off, torpedoing my efforts to convince her to tutor me. I don’t know why I did it. No, not true. I did it because of the way Jacqueline was looking at me, because of what her expression revealed about her and her sister.
I look around. There’s a shiny new Ford pickup truck parked in the driveway, I guess for all the hauling they have to do on the back forty. On the side of the truck is a vinyl campaign sign with a photo of a handsome, smiling, silver-haired gent, the sort who looks like an actor who would play a handsome, smiling, silver-haired politician in a TV series. GERALD LINDAHL FOR STATE SENATE says the sign. Aha. Mental note added.
It’s taking too long for Josephine to appear. I’ve screwed myself with my unclever cleverness. Then, from somewhere inside the house: “He’s not my boyfriend!”
So I did piss her off, but at least the sound of her voice is getting louder, meaning she’s coming toward me. And then, yes, a few seconds later she jerks open the door.
“Why did you tell her that?” she demands.
“Tell her what?” Pure innocence. Am I lying here? No.
“That you’re my b—” She cuts herself off, unwilling to even repeat it. She looks back over her shoulder, annoyed. She must think her sister made it up to tease her.
She turns back to me. Then, not even in the ballpark of delight: “Oh, God. What is that?”
That being the bouquet in my hands, a special assortment chosen with great care from one of the decorative planters at a retirement home.
“Um, I think these are irises, and these are snapdragons, and I’m not sure what—”
“Austin—”
“Josephine, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I was late, and an asshole, and I’m sorry, and I’m here to say I’m sorry and ask you—beg you, be seech you—to please be my tutor again.”
“Austin, I don’t think we’re a good match,” says Josephine. “I think you should contact the school and get a different tutor.”
“There’s no one available. And we’re a great match! You’re smart, I’m stupid—it’s perfect!”
“You see? Everything is a joke to you.”
“I’ll be serious! I’ll be the best tutor subject, tutoree, whatever, in the world, ever. I swear. Here. Smell this.”
I pull my shirt collar toward her. She looks at me funny.
“I haven’t had a single cigarette today, Josephine. It’s killing me. I gave up nicotine for several hours just for you.”
“I appreciate it. I have to get ready for work.”
Starts to close the door.
“Hold on. Where do you work? You never told me.”
“Someplace mind-numbingly boring. Where I have to go. Now.”
Door starts to close again.
“Wait!”
She waits. I try to think of something. “Uh . . . that was your sister, huh?”
“Wow. You figured that right out.”
“All by myself. See? There’s hope for me. I have to say, your sister, she’s—”
Josephine scowls.
“Hot,” she says, exactly as I say, “Awful.”
“I get it,” she rolls on. “I know she’s hot, everyone knows—What?”
“I said, she’s awful. She’s terrifying. I mean, yes, she’s hot, but yeeesh. It must be like five nightmares at once to live with her.”
There’s two seconds when she softens, like I might get a smile out of her.
“I don’t know about five, but it’s at least three,” she says.
“I bet. So . . .” I say, “wanna be my tutor again?”
This time she does smile, just a suggestion of one, shaking her head.
“Never mind,” I say. Then, before she can disconnect, I gesture at the truck with its garish sign. “Your dad’s running for the state senate, huh?”
She glances at it, makes a face, does a bad job of hiding it. “You figured that one out too.”
“Amazing, right? My mom’s psychic says I’m very intuitive.”
“Her psychic. Your mom has a psychic.”
“Well, strictly speaking she calls herself a shaman. Lots of herbs, turquoise, that sort of thing. You know.”
“Not so experienced with shamans, but I get the idea.”
“I could probably hook you up with a dream catcher, if you want.”
“I think I’m good.”
“Sure. How many can one person have, right?”
“Yeah, my room is pretty full.”
I indicate the truck again. “The pickup truck’s a nice touch. Jes’ folks. Man of the people. Proletariat.”
She looks mildly surprised.
“What? ‘Proletariat’? I’m not good at math. I like to read. I read Pynchon,” I say. “That’s supposed to impress you.”
“I’m impressed. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine. You’re right to think I’m dumb. I told you so myself.”
I’m not sure why I’m working to keep her here, not giving up. Maybe just to overwrite our first two conversations, the real one in the classroom and the virtual one while I was mowing.
“I suppose the pickup’s probably useful for all the hauling you have to do on this here farm, milk the chickens and whatnot.”
“I’m pretty certain you don’t milk chickens.”
“Pigs?”
“That sounds closer. Look, you think it was my choice to get the truck? Or live in this house?”
“I didn’t say it was. And let’s be honest—this is really more of a mansion, right?”
“It’s got six bathrooms, so yeah, I think that’s fair.” Now she checks her wa
tch again.
“What’s it like?” I say quickly.
“Having six bathrooms? There’s never a line.”
I laugh. I have a flash of her deadpanning jokes in that manner at the family dinner table, dry as dust, offhanding them for no one’s entertainment but her own. “I mean,” I say, “your dad running for senate and all. Is it . . . fun?”
She regards me for a moment, then twists around, double-checking to make sure no one is listening. Then steps out onto the front porch and lets the door close behind her.
“Is it ‘fun’? You mean, being a prop in campaign appearances? That? Standing next to my parents and my sister and smiling and pretending that I’m happy to be there, when I’d rather someone just lit me on fire? Yeah, I adore it. That’s what I am to them, a prop so that my dad can get his prize, because he got rich firing people and that means he deserves to be a senator.”
“So . . . pretty fun.”
“Yeah, it’s great. And you wanted to know where I work? I’m going to campaign headquarters to spend all day calling really unpleasant people to ask them for money. For him.”
“I’m guessing candidate Lindahl shouldn’t depend on your vote.”
“If I were old enough, I’d vote against him twice.” Then she says, “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
“Do you love him?”
She looks at me oddly.
“What kind of question is that?”
“I don’t know. A bad one. I forgot we’re not really friends. You might have noticed that stuff just comes out of my mouth now and then.”
She leaves that one alone.
“So . . . do you?”
“Love him?” She shrugs. “He’s my dad. Can it be the thing where I love him without liking him?”
“Yeah, sure. That counts.”
“Do you love your dad?”
“I don’t know. I love my mom. I like her too, ’cept when she’s moody. Which is usually my fault, so . . . But my dad, he was dead when I was born.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay—he got better,” I say, and start to laugh again.
She watches me. “You going to expand on that?”
“Ah, it’s complicated.”
“Sounds like it.”
There’s another space where neither of us says anything, and she doesn’t seem to be trying to flee. Like we are, sort of, friends.
“I find it hard to believe this is your family,” I say.
“You and me both,” she breathes. “I’m sort of counting the days until I can go to college.”
“Where do you want to go?”
“Columbia. That’s my top choice.”
“That’s New York, right? That’s where I’ll be. We should hang out. I mean,” I add, “if we were actually friends.”
“Right.”
One more glance at her watch.
“I really do have to go,” she says.
“Okay. You want the flowers at least?” I say.
“Um . . .”
“Don’t tell me. You’re allergic.”
“I forgot to mention that one.”
“Of course,” I say. “So, tobacco, gluten . . . and flowers.”
“Flowers. Yes.”
“And assholes.”
“That too.”
“Right. Never mind, then.”
I toss the flowers over my shoulder, hear the soft sound as they land scattered on the grass behind me. This earns a sort of weary sigh from her. But also another ghost of a smile.
“Don’t worry. I’ll clean them up. Lawn-care professional.”
“Great.”
“I guess I’ll see you at school. Or New York.”
“Why are you going to New York?”
“You know.” I mime playing a guitar and singing.
“Oh. Right. Your big music career.”
Another pause, this one very different.
“What?” she says.
“You know, you were right the other day,” I say. “This would never work.”
I turn and take the three steps down to the pathway that leads from her door to the street where my motorcycle is parked, not bothering with the scattered flowers, not bothering to look and see if she’s still watching me.
I said goodbye before you ever said hello /
so now I’ll never have to watch you go
Your big music career.
Just a reminder about what this girl really thinks of me.
A reminder of who I really am.
What was I playing at there? Even if I was attracted to her, she’d never lower herself to be with someone like me.
Forget about all of it. Forget about the contract, forget about mowing lawns, forget about tutors and math and Todd. Forget Josephine forever. Because I have a Mission, and my Mission is giving me something I haven’t had in a long time. Hope.
I’m downtown. I came here on my motorcycle, right after my futile attempts with Josephine. No lawn mowing this afternoon, which leaves me free to complete my mission. I’m going to find Shane.
I’m going to find my father.
I don’t know downtown Minneapolis very well, and I don’t know the warehouse district at all, so I get a bit confused by the numbered avenues and streets, some of which start and stop and get interrupted by railroad tracks. I finally locate the building, then search the exterior for several minutes before I notice a door with a small acid-treated metal sign no larger than a hardcover book, letters cut through the steel announcing the name of the studio. The door is beat up and industrial and locked. There’s an intercom button, so I push it, and after the second push I hear a faint buzzing and the door clicks.
There aren’t that many recording studios in the city. I started calling them. “Hey, the label is sending a package to Shane Tyler—he going to be there tomorrow?”
Twice I got a “Who?”; another two times I got a “Shane Tyler? He’s not recording here,” and on the fifth call I got a bored “Yep.” That’s the studio I’m at now.
The hallway is exposed brick and wide-plank wood floors, warehouse-y. It leads to a modern-looking reception desk, plopped incongruously in the midst of what looks like an unfinished renovation project. It doesn’t appear that there’s anyone behind the desk, until I get a little closer and see a rocker dude leaning way back in a chair, his legs stretched out in front of him. He goes more with the warehouse look than with the clean lines of the desk. He’s got long hair and a scruffy beard and is wearing a vintage Thin Lizzy tour shirt. He’s reading a copy of Guitar Player and keeps reading when I reach the desk and stand across from him.
“Hi,” I say.
He glances up at me. After a moment, he gives me the universal eyebrow raise and head movement that signifies, Yeah? Spit it out already.
“I’m supposed to meet Shane,” I say.
I’d thought about what would be the best approach. I could have said, “Is Shane here?” but that would likely have inspired suspicion. “I’m here to see Shane” could also have raised questions. “I’m supposed to meet Shane” indicates that someone else made the decision, that I’m only here to carry out my assignment. At least that’s how I hoped it would be perceived.
Rocker Dude stares at me. I’m guessing he was the bored voice who answered the phone before. I hold my breath. Then he makes another exasperated eyebrow raise/head movement that’s the universal gesture for So why are you just standing here and distracting me from my “Five Yngwie Malmsteen Solos You HAVE to Know” article? and goes back to reading.
“Thanks,” I say, and walk past him down the hall. I’m not sure exactly where I’m going, but I don’t want to pause, in case Rocker Dude finishes his research and decides maybe he should actually do his job. The hall is sloppy drywall, lined with framed articles and band posters and the occasional gold record. I get to the end and take a left. The hallway extends another twenty feet or so and then dead-ends into a closed unpainted metal door. When I get to it,
I pause, unsure what to do, and then hear voices. Loud voices. Loud, angry, shouting voices. Getting louder.
I step back from the door, and it’s lucky I do, because in that instant the door bursts open toward me like it’s been kicked and slams into the doorstop, rebounding halfway closed, and gets kicked open again. Then I have to flatten myself against the wall to avoid being speared in the stomach by a hard-shell bass guitar case, carried by a guy who is talking over his shoulder as he storms directly at me.
“Yeah, well, guess what?” he’s saying at someone behind him, “I don’t need this crap either!” Then he marches past me without as much as a glance in my direction.
“Rob! Rob, c’mon!” says a woman, and she emerges from the doorway in pursuit. She’s maybe in her early twenties, and very pretty, sandy brown hair, in jeans and a T-shirt. Rob stops and turns to her.
“Amy, I’m sorry, I can’t. I love you to death, but I just can’t,” he says.
“Rob, c’mon, we can work through this.”
“No, I don’t think we can.”
“We can.”
“No, we can’t,” says a new voice, and then there’s Shane, who has tromped out of the doorway and planted himself right in front of me, not registering my presence. “We can’t work through it, because you don’t know how, because you don’t know how to be a professional!” he says, jabbing a finger at Rob.
“Oh, I don’t know how to be a professional?” says Rob, putting down his bass and stalking back toward Shane, ignoring Amy as she pulls at him and says, “Rob, c’mon, just leave it!”
“Let me tell you about being a professional!” says Rob, reaching Shane, and then the two of them do that thing where you stand too close to each other and point fingers in each other’s faces and shout angry sentences simultaneously with barely a pause to breathe, while Amy does her best to interject and split them apart. I’m right there. I’m so close, I could put a hand on each of the disputants’ shoulders without straightening my arm, but I’m invisible.
This is a totally different Shane from the one the day before, the cautious, needy supplicant. I note that he has a bandage similar to mine on his forehead, which I’m assuming covers a wound caused by a Renaissance festival mug.
The Bad Decisions Playlist Page 6