“Hey, Paulie,” he greeted, going over to her and giving her a big hug.
“What’s up, little bro?” she returned. “How goes the session?”
“Like a stream eroding a rock,” he said with a shrug. “It’s the life we choose, huh?”
“I suppose so,” she said.
“How was the flight in?” he asked her.
“The flight from LA to Portland was fine,” she said. “That little puddle jumper they flew me in from Portland to here though, that was a bit disconcerting.”
“It was a Jetstream 31, wasn’t it?” Jake asked.
“How the fuck should I know?” she asked, then blushed. “Sorry, Stan.”
“I’m just the chauffeur,” Stan said with a smile.
“That’s a safe plane,” Jake said. “It’s more than three times the size of mine, and my plane doesn’t scare you.”
“That’s because I know you are flying it,” she said. “I trust you. You know who flies those little twin prop jobs, right? The guys who don’t have enough time in yet to fly the real planes.”
Jake gave her a sad, nostalgic smile.
“What?” she asked.
“You just reminded me of someone I used to know there for a minute,” he said. “Anyway, I’m glad you made it here alive. What’s up?”
“What’s up with what?” she asked.
“You said you had some business to discuss,” he reminded her.
“Oh ... that,” she said dismissively. “It’s nothing terribly important. I just wanted to come check up on how things are going out here, and I’ve got a few things to talk over with Obie about how the expenses are being tracked and handled.”
“Anything I need to be concerned with?”
She shook her head. “In truth,” she said, “I just needed to get out of LA for a few days. A little trip to the Oregon coast seemed like just the thing.”
“Fair enough,” Jake said. “How are things going with Veteran? I hear their song on the radio quite a bit.”
Veteran’s debut album had been released on the same day Jake and the others had entered Blake Studios. Their first song being promoted, Borrowed Time, was receiving heavy airplay all across the nation.
“Aristocrat is promoting the shit out of that album,” she said. “It’s selling like hotcakes. More than fifty thousand sold so far. The tour convoy has already left for Boston. Coop and the boys fly there on Sunday for their first tour date.”
This brought another nostalgic smile to Jake’s face. “I envy them,” he said, thinking of groupies and beer and pot and coke and endless fatigue and abraded genitals and, most of all, the unequaled thrill of playing live in front of thousands of people every night, of hearing those cheers.
She smiled. “I’m sure you do,” she said. “Don’t worry though. You’ll get to experience all that again at some point.”
“Not in the near future,” he said. The simple fact of the matter was that neither Jake nor Celia could afford to tour to promote their albums once they were released. They were already considerably over budget on production alone. Their albums would have to stand on their own.
“You never know what the future might bring,” she said.
“I suppose,” Jake said.
“Have you read the reviews for Veteran’s album?” Pauline asked next.
“I haven’t read anything but the back of a shampoo bottle while I sit on the toilet in a week,” he said.
“Uh ... I see,” she said. “Interesting share there. Anyway, Veteran’s album is loved by those reviewers who think New Kids On the Block are the next coming of Mozart, but universally derided by those publications that actually have musical knowledge, like Spinning Rock and Rolling Stone. They’re being called things like ‘cheesy, recycled pop rock’ and ‘formulistic drivel produced for the unwashed masses’.”
Jake nodded. “I wish I could say I disagreed,” he said.
Pauline simply shrugged. “Hey,” she said. “The unwashed masses have a lot of money in their pockets, apparently. As long as they keep buying those albums, me and the boys are going to rake it in.”
“And that’s what it’s all about, huh?” Jake asked, frowning.
Pauline patted his shoulder. “No,” she said. “That’s not what it’s all about, but that’s what a lot of it’s about, right?”
Jake had to concede that point.
Stan had been placed in charge of procuring groceries and other supplies for the household. Though he was not known for his cooking, several members of the group were, and they rotated daily cooking duty amongst themselves. Jake, Cindy, Ben, and, surprisingly, Ted, were all exceptional food preparers and whoever’s turn it was to cook that night would give Stan a list of ingredients to buy at the store for that evening’s prep.
On this night, it was Jake’s turn. He made chicken enchiladas, Spanish rice, and refried beans, lovingly constructing each enchilada by hand and then covering the two pans full with his homemade white sauce.
“Pretty good shit, bro,” Pauline complimented as they ate at the large formal dining room table at seven o’clock that evening.
“Thanks,” he said modestly. “It’s just something I threw together.”
After the dinner dishes were all cleared away and after the group teamed up to clean everything up—Rule Number 1 was that the house will be completely cleaned by bedtime, no exceptions, and everyone will help—everyone dispersed to do their own things until bedtime. Ted and Ben went to the entertainment room to shoot some pool. Pauline and Celia opened a bottle of wine and retreated to the balcony to drink it while discussing woman things. The Nerdlys settled in front of the computer to open up CompuServe and do whatever it was they did there. The elder Archers went up to their bedroom to watch television—or so they said. Jake went upstairs and changed into his bathing suit and covered himself with a robe. He then came downstairs, grabbed a bottle of beer, and headed out onto the balcony himself.
The balcony ran the length of the rear of the house, sitting atop the pilings that kept it level on the cliffside over the ocean. On one end, where Celia and Pauline were sitting, were a few outdoor tables and chairs and a gas powered barbeque grill. On the other end, where the best view of the ocean could be found, was a large, ten-person hot tub. Jake opened it up and released a cloud of chlorine scented steam into the damp air. He turned on the lights and the jets, dropped his robe on a chair next to the tub, then mounted the steps and climbed in.
“Ahhh, yeah,” he moaned, feeling the soothing, one hundred and two degree water caressing him. He settled himself all the way in, until only his head was sticking out, and enjoyed a few drinks of his beer. If only he could have a smoke to go along with it. Alas, since he would be singing soon, he did not want to damage his voice. He had not had so much as a single drag off a single cigarette in more than a week now.
He listened to the sounds of the jets and the fainter sounds of the ocean waves crashing below, letting his mind drift pleasantly, thinking of nothing in particular. After perhaps ten minutes of this, just as his beer was starting to approach critical emptiness, he heard the balcony door open up.
“Oh ... hey, Jake,” a female voice said, surprised.
It was Laura. He looked over his shoulder and saw she was wearing a robe of her own and had a glass of white wine in her hand.
“Hey, Laura,” he greeted. “Come to join me?”
“Uh ... well ... I didn’t know anyone else was out here,” she said doubtfully.
“I like to have a little soak at night,” he told her. “It relaxes the muscles, gets you unwound for sleep.”
“That’s uh ... kind of what I was thinking,” she said. “We have a hot tub at the apartment complex, but I never use it.”