This Is Where We Live

by Janelle Brown

  “You know what would be

  Really super special to see?

  The day when you wake up and realize

  You’re as ordinary as me.”

  He wasn’t sure who this song was about, specifically—a bitter diatribe about one of Daniel’s unrequited crushes, probably. Audiophone’s lyrics had always had a cynical bent, a result of Daniel’s chronic relationship frustration, but Jeremy liked that their music had a certain bite. He matched the melancholy of Daniel’s lovelorn words by composing haunting tunes in minor keys, but often gave them a final upward twist and an exultant journey to the finish so that the audience would be left with an indeterminate sense of victory over adversity. He didn’t want their music to be a bummer.

  The band maneuvered through the tricky bridge and launched into the chorus. Stepping forward to bark out the call and response, Jeremy peered out at the audience and realized that they were dancing. That had never happened at a show before. Crowds at these kinds of showcases tended to be jaded hipsters who stayed planted in one position throughout the entire set, too concerned about appearing sincerely enthusiastic to do anything but bob their heads in time. Not tonight. These kids were really dancing: pogoing up and down, waving their hands above their heads, ricocheting off one another like waxed pin-balls in a vintage arcade game. The room smelled like spilled beer and fresh sweat.

  And there was Claudia, in the very front. She looked especially pretty tonight, with her curls all twisted up on the top of her head, wearing a pair of dark jeans that hugged her soft rear in a loving denim embrace. She smiled up at him, her lips mirroring the lyrics coming from his own mouth—You know you’re super special—and for a moment it seemed like he was playing to her and her alone. He liked the way she always wanted to be right at the very front of the stage, as if publicly declaring herself his biggest fan. There was something so unself-conscious about this, such a pure, unadulterated enthusiasm for the music; and such a contrast to the studied cool of Aoki, who had always watched him from backstage, safely removed from the hoi polloi.

  He closed his eyes as he played, forgetting momentarily the foreclosure notice, the appalling new roommate who had moved her trunks in just that afternoon, the negative bank balance, and Claudia’s upsetting recent behavior. He could hear his own music clearly, as if he were one of the kids dancing in the audience; he fell in love with the notes that were spinning, almost on their own volition, off his guitar strings. The stage spotlights burned starbursts into the back of his eyelids, exploding in time to the music.

  And then their set was over, just a quick encore song to squeeze in before the next band was up. As his fingers picked out the virtuosic last solo, a show-offy little line that he’d composed just the day before, he wished Audiophone had enough material to extend their time onstage forever. He reached for the microphone once more.

  “No Assembly Required

  That’s what you promised me

  It was always ‘Buy one, get one free.’

  But now I’ve got this flat-pack box

  That came at an incredible cost

  And the instructions nowhere to be seen.”

  At one point, he’d thought he might never play in a band again. After moving back to Los Angeles, Jeremy couldn’t even look at his guitar without experiencing a wave of physical repulsion: This was the lingering damage from the ugly implosion of This Invisible Spot and the death of his mother. For almost two years, he stoically ignored advances from former music industry acquaintances, let his copy of ProTools grow dusty, and threw all his creative energy into his relationship with Claudia instead. It was his old friend Daniel—now a technology journalist at a daily newspaper but still nostalgic for his glory days onstage—who forced him pick up his guitar again. At first, it had just been the two of them, noodling on their instruments in Jeremy’s living room, but then Jeremy ran into Ben—the former drummer from a group he’d known in New York—and after that Daniel had invited his friend Emerson to jam with them, and suddenly there they were: a band.

  Jeremy had heard their potential right away—the natural swing in Emerson’s bass lines, the quirky charm of Ben’s slightly off-tempo drumming, Daniel’s transformation from self-conscious geek to virtuoso when parked behind the safety of a guitar. Under Jeremy’s tutelage, Daniel began showing up to night practices with notebooks full of surprisingly catchy lyrics, and Emerson cemented the deal by renting a studio space in an industrial neighborhood in the Valley and promising to pay for the expenses of recording the album. It turned out that Audiophone had an easy chemistry in the studio—they were potentially even better, Jeremy thought, than This Invisible Spot had ever been. Less gimmick and more groove. Which was a good thing, especially now that so much was riding on the success of their album. If only they could finish the damn thing.

  It wasn’t like the band was stagnating. They’d played a few shows at prestigiously grungy east-side venues and local music festivals, signed with a good manager, received strong write-ups on music blogs. All spring, the songs were materializing out of them like some kind of collective mystical ritual—their practices so intense that Jeremy would come home depleted and sleep for ten hours—but at some critical point this summer they had lost steam. First, it was a business trip that took Emerson to Malaysia for two months, and then Ben the drummer’s epic hangovers took their toll, and now it was Daniel who had canceled their last three practices for suspicious-sounding “personal reasons.” At this rate, it would take another six months to complete the album. Jeremy didn’t have that kind of time; his problems were much more urgent than that.

  Isn’t that a respectable job? He thought of Aoki’s e-mail for the hundredth time this week, and could practically see the snide curl of Aoki’s lip as she typed that line. His first instinct had been to avoid mentioning Claudia entirely in his correspondence with Aoki, as if that might somehow protect her from his ex-girlfriend’s cutting opinions—but then he thought it might appear to Aoki that he was disavowing his wife. So he’d dropped in a careful mention of her, and sure enough, Aoki had managed with one word to dismiss her. What Would Aoki Think? Not much, clearly. But that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst was that when he read Aoki’s dismissive response—Isn’t that respectable?—his lurching first reaction had been an involuntary nod of agreement.

  He didn’t even recognize his wife anymore, this grimly focused woman who put on pumps in the morning and left for work before he’d even woken up and then spent her evenings grading papers instead of drinking margaritas at El Compadre or going to see bands with him or working on the screenplay she’d promised to write. They hadn’t even had sex in weeks—she fell asleep early now, thanks to her 5:30 A.M. wake-up time. Even though he understood that the House Problem had forced this situation; even though he could relate to how defeated she felt by her stalled career; and even though he respected teachers, on principle, for taking on such an important task (educating the leaders of tomorrow and all that)—despite all this, he still couldn’t quite reconcile the fact that the inspiring director he’d married had been replaced seemingly overnight by a home-obsessed, depressingly bourgeois, constantly stressed-out schoolteacher. He watched this strange new Claudia, fussing over curricula and grading systems and mortgage balances and Excel spreadsheets, and couldn’t help thinking that she had overreacted and let go of something critical. Maybe Claudia was saving their house, but her transformation into this new person felt like a different kind of betrayal.

  But Audiophone’s success could save Claudia. Could save both of them. A finished record might set an inspirational example for Claudia, yes, but it might also net them enough cash to let her quit that job and boot out Lucy. Like turning in the pawn ticket to get their lives out of hock. Getting rich off his music had never been the goal, exactly—you were stupid if you thought you’d do that as a musician these days—but it wasn’t unrealistic to think it might make some money. If Audiophone knocked out the album in the next month or two, by the end of the year t
hey’d have something to sell. And who knows? They could get a record deal, go on tour, have a radio hit, lay claim to a miracle. Life could return to the way it used to be, only better.

  Judging by the enthusiastic response of the audience tonight, maybe it wasn’t such a wild fantasy after all. As the crowd’s cheers crescendoed into a frenzied climax, Jeremy lifted the last crowing notes of “No Assembly Required” out over the heads of the audience and then dropped the song, crashing, to a finish. The house lights came up and the DJ put on a Prince song and the audience began to drift away, back toward the bar. The band broke down their instruments in the dark, invisible except to a clutch of friends and acquaintances who lingered near the steps, waiting to greet them. Claudia pushed through the throng and met him at the edge of the stage.

  “You were amazing tonight,” she said. “The best you’ve ever played.” She reached up to grip his hand possessively.

  He jumped down off the stage and grabbed her close to kiss her: He was wound up, flush with adrenaline and a little bit horny. She pressed herself against his sweat-drenched shirt and kissed him back, hard. “And did I mention how devastatingly cute you are up there?”

  “I nominate you president of my fan club,” he murmured, happy to see that the old Claudia had returned.

  “Does that come with special privileges?” She looped her fingers through the belt loop of his jeans and tugged him in toward her.

  He bit his lip in mock consternation. “I could offer you an autographed fan photo?”

  “I had something more personal in mind.” Her hands slipped down into the rear pockets of his jeans, and he wrapped his arms around her waist, locking their pelvises together. She muttered in his ear: “How soon can you get out of here?”

  Jeremy glanced back up at the stage, where the rest of the band was untangling cords and bundling Ben’s drum set away. A rotund middle-aged guy in a faded Velvet Underground T-shirt and baseball hat was lingering a few feet away, watching Claudia and Jeremy hawkishly. “I’ve got to break down,” Jeremy said. “And maybe the guys will want to get a drink afterward. What do you think?”

  Claudia leaned back and pulled her arm around him in order to check her watch. She grimaced. “I shouldn’t. It’s already way past my bedtime for a school night. I need to get up early and correct papers, anyway. But you should go.”

  “You sure?”

  She placed her hand on his chest, pushing him backward. “Go, celebrate. I’ll always be there tomorrow.”

  Velvet Underground moved in closer, breaching their privacy. Jeremy released Claudia reluctantly. “You promise?”

  “I promise.” She kissed him again and moved away, offering Velvet Underground an annoyed glance as she passed by him.

  Velvet Underground immediately stepped forward into the breach, thrusting his hand so close to Jeremy’s sternum that he had no choice but to reach out and instinctively grab it, if only to prevent it from jabbing him in the chest. There was something scratchy and sharp in the man’s palm, and when Jeremy pulled his hand away he realized that he was holding a slightly worn business card. Julian Bragg it said. There was no title below it, no company name, no phone number, just an e-mail address.

  “I’ve been wondering what the hell happened to you,” Julian began. His voice was raspy from too many late nights at loud clubs; bloodshot eyes peered out from below the brim of his faded baseball cap. Julian could use a shower and shave—the bristles growing in uneven patches across his chin were silver—but somehow despite all these handicaps he was a commanding presence in the room. It was something about the way he stood firmly upright, not in the least bit abashed by his graceless physical presence, and Jeremy thought, as he stared at this man, that bothering to look cool was something that only uncool people needed to do. “Jeremy fucking Munger. This Invisible Spot was completely screwed when you left; you were the real talent in that lot. What took you so goddamn long to start something new?”

  Jeremy cleared his throat and glanced up at his bandmates, who had finished breaking down their instruments and were lugging them toward the green room. “Personal issues,” he said.

  “Well, it’s about fucking time. Nothing more depressing than genius going to waste.”

  Jeremy glanced at the card again, the name—Julian Bragg—ringing soft bells somewhere in the back of his hippocampus. “I’m sorry, but do I know you?”

  Julian peered down, looking at his own card as if he were double-checking what was written there. “Julian Bragg. Braggadocio Entertainment,” he repeated. “I do music-licensing deals. That’s where the money is these days, you know.”

  Jeremy smiled, suddenly realizing why he’d recognized this guy’s name. “You license music for all the iPod ads.”

  Julian winked and stepped backward, tugging his cap down. “Indeed I do. Also Nike, Volkswagen, those teenybopper shows on Fox. You want to start making real money, I’m your man. That “Super Special” song, it had laptop commercial written all over it. You have a rep yet?” Jeremy shook his head. “Well, now you do.”

  “We haven’t finished the album yet,” Jeremy said. “We don’t even have a record deal.”

  Julian shrugged. “I’ll get you one. How close are you to being done?”

  The next band had arrived on stage and were knocking about in the dark, plugging in their amps. The audience surged forward in anticipation, jostling Jeremy and Julian up against the steps. Jeremy drew in closer and spoke quickly. “Two or three more songs. Plus we have to master the album,” he paused. “Maybe six weeks if we really bust our asses.”

  “Well, bustamove, buster,” Julian said, and knocked Jeremy’s shoulder with the edge of his hand. “I’ll be in touch. Audiofuckingphone. Brilliant, really.” He raised a beer—nonalcoholic, judging by the smell of it—in a one-man toast and meandered away. The audience edged aside to let him through as the band onstage slammed into the first song of their set with a squeal of eardrum-popping static. Jeremy raised his own invisible toast to Julian’s disappearing back and turned to go locate his bandmates.

  He found them in the green room backstage, drinking warm Coors Light and sharing Zesty Taco Chipotle Ranch Doritos out of a crumpled bag that looked like it might have been left there for the last decade. The sweat was drying on their faces and their salty foreheads sparkled in the light of the bare bulbs overhead. The dull thump of a bass line from the band onstage pulsed through the floor. The ceiling fan whizzed overhead, spinning hot gusts of air around them. A giant graffiti penis was scrawled on the far wall, just below a panel of chipped soundproofing.

  Jeremy planted himself before them, flush with determination. “We were amazing tonight,” he announced. “Emerson—that opening line you improvised on Super Special? Remember it. Daniel—way to engage the audience, friend. Ben—nice work with that last solo. We should all be proud.” He paused, for dramatic flourish. “We are getting so tight. But guys, we’ve got a lot more work to do, and we have to do it pronto. No more screwing around anymore.”

  Ben flopped down in a battered armchair: “Good playing with you too, killjoy.” He rolled his drumsticks compulsively back and forth in his lap. Ben’s jeans gripped his legs like sausage casings, and his blond hair and beard flowed Jesus-like across his tattooed shoulders; an extreme look that Jeremy knew he should probably be adopting himself if he wanted to fit in with the hipster rock crowd but couldn’t really bear the idea. The amazing thing was how much time and effort Ben spent on looking like he’d made no effort at all.

  “Have we been screwing around? I thought we were doing pretty well, actually,” Emerson said. He licked his thumb and scrubbed at a black smear on the side of his tennis shoe.

  Jeremy turned to Daniel, expectantly. Daniel had always backed him up, ever since they first met in sixth grade, when Jeremy returned to the States after a two-year stay on an Indian ashram with Jillian. When the kids at school made fun of Jeremy’s macrobiotic lunchboxes, Daniel would punch them; when Jeremy wanted to cut school in order
to feel up Maggie Bond, Daniel would forge a doctor’s excuse; when Jeremy returned home from New York and couldn’t handle staying in Jillian’s cancer-ward bungalow, Daniel let him sleep on his couch; when Jeremy got married, Daniel stood up as his best man. Daniel attended Jillian’s memorial service, and hadn’t cringed or made a funny face when the shaman pressed Jillian’s ashes into his forehead and waved sage under his nose. But now Daniel just fidgeted with his watch, as if he hadn’t heard a word Jeremy said.

  “Look.” Jeremy hated being the bad guy. He’d managed to skate through most of his life without ever being forced into this position—the guy in charge, the guy laying down the rules—and it made him uncomfortable to have to be the band leader. He smiled, softened his voice. “We have to pull it together and finish the album. Otherwise, why are we doing this?”

  Ben’s cellphone chimed out the arrival of a text message, which he examined intently. “Because chicks dig it?”

  “Because we love the music,” Emerson said, sincere.

  “Yes,” Jeremy agreed. “Because we love the music. Of course. But also because we want to put out a really great album, get a six-figure licensing deal for a commercial, receive critical acclaim, and headline the Hollywood Bowl. This is what I propose: Let’s recommit to practices. Let’s agree to get together every night—don’t roll your eyes, Ben, I’m serious—every night until we have the album knocked together. I bet we could finish it in, like, a month. Maybe two.”