Losing Our Edge

by Jeff Gomez

  Finally, the light in the room changes. It’s darker now.

  “Party?”

  “Yeah. For the merger. It’s sort of a meet and greet thing. Some of our people, some of theirs. I have to go.”

  “Yes, but I don’t have to go.”

  “That’s what I missed, Ash. Your sense of humor.”

  “Don’t call me Ash.”

  “So then, will you?”

  “Will I what?”

  “Go with me to the party?”

  She considers this.

  “Fine,” she says. “I’ll see you on Saturday.”

  As he pulls up to Dave’s, Mark sees the white Chrysler with the zombie bumper sticker. He parks behind it, gets out, walks to the front door. The letters and fliers scattered on the ground from the other day have multiplied since his visit last week. Mark knocks on the door and, when he answers, Dave doesn’t look happy.

  “Mark, uh. Hey.”

  “Dave, sorry to drop by unannounced, but I just wanted to talk to you about the show. Got a second?”

  Without waiting to be asked in, Mark enters the house. He finds Gary standing in front of the dining room table. Gary turns when he sees Mark, his arms spreading out, fast, like he’s trying to hide something.

  “What are you doing here?” Gary says.

  “I just came by for a quick chat with Dave before tomorrow. What are you doing here?”

  Gary doesn’t answer. He just looks at Dave. Dave just looks at the floor.

  “Can someone please tell me what’s going on?”

  When neither of them answers, Mark approaches the table. Gary makes a half-hearted attempt stop him, but Mark just pushes him aside. On Dave’s table there’s a glossy color print out of the artwork for Bottlecap’s final record. The one the guys finished without Mark. But something’s different. On the front, at the top, it says REMASTERED. At the bottom, in a font meant to look like handwritten scrawl, it says SPECIAL ’90s SLACKER EDITION.

  “What the hell is this?”

  When Gary speaks there’s wariness in his voice, as if he’d really rather not be speaking. “Next year’s the twentieth anniversary of the Bottlecap record. The major label one.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So, a label bought the rights to it a few years ago. They got in touch with me last year, and I’ve been working with them to put out a deluxe edition.”

  “Deluxe edition, what do you mean?”

  “You know, remastered. Digital, CD, even vinyl. And with B-sides, some live tracks. Stuff like that.”

  “You can’t do this, Gary. You can’t just put out our record again. Without my—”

  “It was never our record to begin with, remember? It wasn’t exactly a great deal you signed. The label owned everything we ever did.”

  As Mark stands there, trying to process what’s being said, Gary adds, “We’re also going on tour.”

  “As what, one of your shitty bands?”

  “No.” Gary says this calmly, not taking the bait of Mark’s insult. “As Bottlecap.”

  For a few seconds, there’s nothing but silence.

  “You can’t do that. Bottlecap was my band. I started it.”

  “It’s not yours anymore, Mark.”

  “What’s not mine?”

  “The band. The name, I mean. Bottlecap. I own it.”

  “How did—when did that happen?”

  “Last year. I got a lawyer. Remember when you signed some stuff for the digital release of the early singles?”

  Mark remembers getting a bunch of contracts in the mail from Dave. It was a huge stack of paper, with plastic arrows stuck every other page showing where to sign. Mark signed.

  “That was from Dave. That wasn’t from you.”

  Mark looks at Dave. Dave’s still staring at the ground.

  “I’m sorry, Mark. I wish there’d been another way.”

  “Fuck you, Dave.” Gary’s voice now has that edge to it, the same as from the other day. “This is going to be good for both of us.”

  “Gary, what did I sign?”

  “You no longer have any legal right to the name Bottlecap. I told you, I own it.”

  Mark shakes his head.

  “Yeah, but they’re my songs.”

  “They are your songs, Mark. Which means you’re going to get a slice of all this. There’ll be royalties and, who knows, we may even license a song to a TV show or a commercial. We’re doing a bunch of European festivals, there’s an indie rock reunion cruise, and we have three weeks of dates scheduled in the UK. The NME’s talking about making us their ‘retro band of the week.’”

  “But—I was the singer.”

  “Past tense. Hanes is going to be the singer. Again.”

  “That guy from Los Angeles?”

  Gary nods and says, “We did two tours with him after you walked out on us. I looked him up a while ago and he’s still—”

  “Wait a second.” Mark laughs. “Is that what this is all about? You’re still mad about LA?”

  “I told you before, I’m tired of opening for other bands. I’m tired of watching it happen to everyone else but me.” Gary makes a ball with his left fist and pounds his chest with it. “This is my chance. You fucked it up last time. I won’t let you fuck it up again.”

  Mark looks around the room. He can’t believe any of this is happening.

  “You can’t do this, Gary.”

  “It’s done, Mark.” Gary points to the artwork on the table. “The rerelease is ready to go. The tour’s booked. Hell, we even got our T-shirts early.”

  Mark notices a huge pile of Bottlecap T-shirts in the corner.

  “I thought those were just for Saturday.”

  Gary just grins.

  “For fuck’s sake,” Mark says. “When were you going to tell me all of this?”

  “I don’t know,” Gary says. “Any time after tomorrow tonight, I suppose.”

  Mark now turns to Dave. “Were you in on this, too? Is the entire benefit some big lie?”

  Dave finally looks up.

  “It’s like I said. It’s for the label. But it’s not for new bands or new records. I’m going to use the money to repress your early stuff to coincide with the reissue and the tour.” Dave stops for a second and grins, like he’s impressed with himself. “They’re taking me with them. To sell the merch.”

  “Merch?” Mark spits out the word. “Dave, you’re over forty. People your age shouldn’t use words like ‘merch.’” Mark turns back to Gary. “And Steve’s in on this, too?”

  “Steve’s a businessman. He knows it’ll be good publicity for the dealership.”

  “And he knew about all this? The reissue? Buying the name?”

  “It was his lawyer who drew up all the papers.”

  Mark begins to pace back and forth. He’s trying to put the various facts in some sort of order so they make sense. “But if this is all set in motion,” he says, “and I can’t stop it, why did you even need me to come back to Kitty? What’s this weekend even for?”

  “I had a feeling Steve would be rusty as shit,” Gary says, the edge still in his voice. “And Hanes can’t get here until June. I figured this would be a good way to get me and Steve back in sync, not to mention test the waters a bit. See what the reaction would be. I’m sorry you had to find out this way, but now that the cat’s out of the bag, let’s just move on. We don’t need to let any of this affect the show tomorrow.”

  “The show?” Mark says. “You think that’s still going to happen?”

  Gary looks at Dave, who looks scared.

  “There’s no way in hell I’m going to play with you pricks after you’ve been doing this shit behind my back.”

  Gary’s calm when he speaks.

  “Of course you will, Mark.”

  “And why would I do that?”

  “Because half the town’s going to be there tomorrow. To see us. To see you. All of our old friends. Reporters. Your parents.” He pauses. “She might even be there.”
>
  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Mark, don’t play dumb. Why the hell else would you come down here again? Lord knows it wasn’t for us.”

  “You think I came to Kitty for Laura?”

  “Bull’s-eye.”

  Mark steps forward. He wants to take a swing at Gary, but doesn’t. Instead, he balls up his fists so tight his nails dig into his palms.

  “Mark,” Gary says. “It doesn’t really matter what happens tomorrow. Walk out if you want to, but everything else is still happening. It’s going to be twenty years since the record came out, no matter what you do. The reissue, the tour, you can’t stop any of it.”

  “I can get a lawyer. I can try.”

  Gary laughs.

  “You do that. The press will help.”

  Mark begins walking backward. His hands, reaching behind him, find the doorknob. He gives it a twist and then a pull. He feels the breeze from outside on his cheek.

  “You guys can both go fuck yourselves.”

  As he slams the door, he hears Dave call out something. Mark walks briskly to his car. He gets in, starts up the engine. As he pulls away from the curb, he clips the rear of Gary’s Chrysler with his front bumper. The white car’s pushed first onto the sidewalk and then Dave’s lawn. Bits of broken glass from both cars scatter everywhere. Mark heads for the freeway.

  Randy’s holding a bag of groceries in one hand and digging into his back pocket, looking for his keys with the other. When he enters the house, he sees Cody and Hunter sitting at their usual spots at opposite ends of the kitchen table. But they’re not typing, they’re just sitting there. Music, for once, is not coming out of either of their laptops. When Randy places the bags of groceries onto the floor, a package of hot dogs falls out and hits the tile with a wet slap.

  “Hey guys,” Randy says.

  Not looking up, Cody says, “We need to talk.”

  “Okay, shoot.”

  “Randy, we think you should move out.”

  “What, why? Because of the rent?”

  “Because of a whole lot of reasons.” Cody speaks slowly, his words sounding rehearsed. “You know this isn’t a great situation—it never has been—so let’s just end it now with no hard feelings.”

  Randy just stands there. He doesn’t know if he should sit, stomp out of the house, or do what he was planning to do when he got home: put his groceries away.

  “If this is about money, you know I got laid off.” His voice has the same shake it had last week when he was in Bill’s office at Bookstorage. “How am I supposed to pay rent with no job?”

  “That’s not really our problem, is it?”

  “But you’re both doing well. Couldn’t you cover me for a while?”

  “We could, but we won’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “That wouldn’t be fair to either one of us. Or, quite frankly, to you.” Cody finally looks up. When he does, Randy wishes he’d go back to staring straight ahead. “Look, I realize this has always been a bit of a weird situation. We weren’t expecting someone like, well, you when we were looking for a housemate.”

  “You mean someone my age? God, you act like it’s a handicap or something.”

  “A handicap would have been better.” Hunter speaks for the first time. “Put in a ramp and, boom, you’re done.”

  “I’m sorry, guys. I’m in a bit of a rough patch right now, that’s all.”

  “This is a rough patch?” Cody laughs. “It’s been rough ever since you moved in.”

  Randy wants to defend himself, to tell Cody and Hunter that they’re wrong, but he doesn’t know what to say. They’re right.

  “Please, guys. Please. Just a little more time.”

  Cody’s shaking his head.

  “No, Randy.”

  “I’m going to get another job, I promise. I’ve been applying to places all over town and I think—”

  Cody cuts him off.

  “For God’s sake, Randy, you stole from us.”

  He says, weakly, “What, me? Never.” He knows it’s not convincing.

  Cody grabs his phone and checks it. “Look, today’s the seventeenth. Why don’t we make a clean break of it and have you out by the first, okay? You paid your last month’s rent when you moved in, so let’s just say that’s the rent you owe for this month.”

  Randy says quietly, “What about my security deposit?”

  “I’m afraid I’m going to need that to cover all the money I’ve lent you since you’ve been here.”

  “Guys, you can’t just throw me out on the street. I don’t have a job. Where am I supposed to go?”

  “That’s not really our problem, now is it?”

  “Please.”

  Neither Cody nor Hunter respond.

  As Randy stands there, shell-shocked, his stomach grumbles. Since being laid off, he’s only been eating two meals a day. He looks at the clock. 3:46. He had half a bowl of Apple Jacks when he woke up, and nothing since then.

  “Okay,” he says. “I’ll go.”

  Cody and Hunter sort of nod and stand up, taking their laptops into their respective rooms. Randy feels the grumbling again, his stomach empty, wanting food.

  He looks at the clock.

  3:47. Still no word from Tom. After going through Dylan’s files at home on Monday night, holed up in his office for hours while Grace and Maddie wondered what he was doing, Charles didn’t find anything incriminating. Panicking and needing something to send to Tom, he created dozens of incriminating documents. Inflated expense reports, damning email chains where Dylan and Sharon trashed O’Brien, and a series of notes that implied they were sleeping together. Charles dropped off everything at Tom’s office on Tuesday morning, but hasn’t heard anything since.

  He spent the rest of the week in a cold sweat. He canceled his meetings and, when Brooks stopped him in the hall and asked what was the matter, Charles just pointed to his belly and muttered something about not feeling well. It was the truth. His stomach has been folding in on itself all week. On Wednesday, Dylan and Sharon went missing. They were both there in the morning but, when Charles came back from lunch, they were gone. People asked about them—wondering if they’d be back, asking why they left in such a hurry—but no one had any concrete answers. By Thursday afternoon rumors started flying and, by the end of the day, people were looking at Charles in a strange way. When he walked around the office, conversations stopped. Even Brooks wouldn’t make eye contact. Now it’s almost the weekend, and Charles still doesn’t know what’s happening.

  Most people on the floor have already left. A few offices still have their doors open, but the cubicles are all empty. The photocopier is rhythmically chugging, someone printing out something for Monday morning. Once spring arrives, Fridays are a ghost town. Charles could have left hours ago. He’s only sticking around in case Tom wants to see him.

  When his phone rings, just before five, Charles jumps. It’s Heather.

  “Can you come by for five minutes with Tom?”

  “Of course I can.”

  He gets up and slowly walks to the elevator. Brooks passes him, his arms full of files. When Charles says, “What’s up?” Brooks doesn’t respond.

  Up on sixteen, the floor’s just as empty as downstairs. As Charles approaches Tom’s office, Heather waves him in. Tom’s behind his desk. He motions for Charles to close the door, so he does. When Charles turns back, Tom says, slowly, “So, how’s my new VP?”

  “What? Me?”

  “Don’t act so shocked. I just met with O’Brien, and it’s official. You’re in.” Tom’s grinning from ear to ear. “I thought you’d want to know before the weekend.”

  When Charles sits down, he’s shaking.

  “Wow, Tom, this is great. Thanks. Thanks so much.”

  “Listen, I also wanted to call you up here to go over some of the particulars for the transition, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “Let’s figure on there being a short announcement as part of the
next management meeting—which you’ll now be attending—and we’ll get O’Brien’s assistant to write up a memo, pretending that it’s from O’Brien, of course, welcoming you to the team. And then we’ll put something in next month’s Trust newsletter for the other regional offices. Plus, and this is of course the best part, the new salary will kick in after your next paycheck. Does that all sound like a plan?”

  Charles can’t really believe any of this is happening. He says, “It all sounds great.”

  “Obviously a lot of people—especially down on twelve—already know that something’s up. What with Dylan being, well, gone.”

  “So, he’s gone? As in, out?”

  “I mean gone as in fired.”

  “Dylan’s fired?”

  “Of course, Charles. What did you think was going to happen?”

  “I don’t know. That he wouldn’t get the promotion. That he’d just stay where he was.” Charles knows that he’s speaking fast, that there’s panic in his voice, but he can’t help it. “I thought that he’d get my duties and I’d become a VP, rather than the other way around.”

  “Charles, come on.” Tom leans forward, his hands clasped. “You can’t expect us to keep Dylan after what you dug up on him. He had to go. You showed us that.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. And don’t think that O’Brien will forget that. Of course, since we had to get rid of him immediately, things will be a bit fucked in the interim.”

  “No two weeks’ notice?”

  “Not a chance. We’re talking ‘fired with cause.’ O’Brien actually wanted to bring him up on charges. Said that what he’d done was tantamount to embezzlement. I don’t remember the exact phrase, but he was pissed, let me tell you.” Tom stops, reconsiders. “I think ‘betrayed’ was the word he used.”

  “Betrayed,” Charles says. The word rings in his ears.

  “No severance, either.”

  Charles turns from Tom to the window, except this gives him vertigo, so he just stares at the ground.

  “Anyway, this means you’ll have to do his job, in addition to yours—and all your new duties—until we find a replacement.”

  “Me?” Charles says again, his voice cracking. “What about Sharon? Why can’t she have some of Dylan’s work?”