Maybe tomorrow, he thought as he turned off the television set and grabbed a fresh can of Steinlager out of the refrigerator. Once I get that first workout done, the routine will be established and I'll keep up with it.
He carried his beer with him into his office, where he pulled a notebook and a pen from his desk and his Fender six-string from a rack on the wall. After stopping to get his cigarettes and his lighter, he went out his front door and onto his wraparound porch. A porch swing was installed here. He sat in it, putting the guitar in his lap, the notebook, beer, and smokes down on a wooden table within easy reach. He stared out at the view, smoking and sipping for the better part of fifteen minutes. Finally, he took a pick out of the inlay and began to strum the guitar gently.
Since exiling himself here at the far-reaches of the planet, Jake had written three songs. Two were break-up songs inspired by his parting with Helen. One was a poignantly worded piece about his relationship with Mindy Snow — in particular, his resolve to never have anything to do with her again. He played this song out, strumming and singing quietly. It was called Nothing's Different Now.
You're shrewd, you're strong, and few will ever know how much
Always a step ahead, when trouble comes you stay untouched
Whenever it seems that life has led you astray
It turns out that you planned it that way
You plot, you scheme, come what may
You don't care who has the price to pay
Nothing's different now
You came into my life again
You should take a bow
Didn't think I could be fooled again
No, nothing's different now
You played me like the pawn I am
Nothing's different now
From first to last, another scam
Nothing's different now
"Hmm," Jake said, after reaching this point. He ran through the first verse and the chorus one more time, making it just a bit more up-tempo. Is it too self-deprecating? Is it too whiny? He wasn't sure. He liked the way the lyrics came off his lips, liked the melody he'd composed to accompany it, but was this the sort of material he was after?
He took a few drinks of his beer and then ran through it again, this time continuing onto the second verse, which included another set of unkind words about Mindy Snow, and then the bridge, which contained a declaration of his intent to never have anything to do with her again.
"I don't know," he finally said when he finished it up. This was how he always felt about this song at this point in his daily routine. He just didn't know. Sometimes it seemed like he should scrap it and recycle the melody for something else. Sometimes it seemed like the song that just might get him that elusive Grammy once recorded. Sometimes it seemed like even the melody — a mellow blues progression — sucked ass too.
Jake finished his beer and went back inside for another. He smoked another cigarette. He then went through his two Helen break-up songs. The first one he really liked. It was called Hit The Highway, and was basically an up-tempo liberation song, not quite up-tempo enough to fall into the Intemperance genre, but definitely something that would feature a distorted electric guitar as the main instrument. The lyrics acknowledged that the woman in question had been the one to end the relationship and that the ending of the relationship was not exactly something that the singer wanted, but they also conveyed an easy acceptance of the break-up and a lack of concern for what came next.
The final chorus summed up the general tone of the song:
So hit the highway
Head out, be free
If I don't make you happy
Then that's the way it ought to be
Yeah, hit that highway
I wish you the best
No hard feelings, baby
We just couldn't stand the test
So hit that highway
I'll do the same
Won't throw no stones after you
And I'll even take the blame
The other break-up song, however, Jake was not so sure about. It was titled, Nothing In Common?, which was the main reason Helen had cited for breaking up with him. The lyrics were a reflection that, yes, they really did have nothing in common except for the interest that had brought them together in the first place: flying. The song was long and complex, with four separate verses, two bridges, and each chorus worded differently to support the idea that had been advanced in the verse before it. Jake was still strumming it out entirely on his acoustic (he, in fact, had no other musical instruments at his house to play around with — not a piano, not an electric guitar, not even a harmonica), but he envisioned a complex piece full of multiple tempo changes, several instrumental breaks, and a grinding, almost heavy-metal ending. He worried that the whole thing was simply too complex, that he wouldn't be able to pull it off. He also worried that it was too campy of a subject to match the musical sophistication he was aiming for. His biggest worry, however, was the anticipated length of the tune. It would be damn near eight minutes long the way he was picturing it — much too long for standard radio airplay or single release and about two and a half minutes longer than the average American's attention span for a tune.
Jake played around with Nothing In Common? for a bit — long enough to drink another beer and smoke another cigarette. He didn't accomplish much besides clarifying a few of the tempo changes and dialing in one of the bridges. He had long since passed the point in this tune where it was usually put aside until it could be introduced to the full band. Now, there was no full band to introduce it to. Whenever he started dwelling on that, his enthusiasm for composition faded away.
Jake put his guitar aside and stared out at the harbor for a few minutes. It was after three o'clock now and a few of the fishing boats were making their return. He watched one of them dock and saw the tiny figures of the crew scurrying around on the deck. He was too far away to make out what they were unloading from their cargo hold. Whatever it was though, some of it would make its way to Elizabeth and Kate's shop.
When his beer was empty, he went back inside, carrying his guitar with him. He had a decent buzz going on now, his morning hangover nothing but a memory. He was also a little fatigued. After putting the guitar back on its rack in his office, he went to the couch in his living room and took a two-hour nap while CNN played constant Persian Gulf War coverage in the background.
When he awoke, it was time to start getting ready for this evening's dinner guest. He shaved, brushed his teeth, and took a shower before dressing in a fashionable pair of slacks and a Pierre Cardin shirt.
At precisely 6:30 there was a knock on the front door. He opened it and there stood Samantha Spangle, a thirty-two year old teller from the Sydenham branch of The Bank of New Zealand where Jake kept his local accounts. She was wearing a business dress, dark nylons, and a sultry smile.
"Hi, Jake," she said, stepping inside without being asked.
"Nice to see you again, Sam," he told her. "You look beautiful."
"Thank you," she said.
They ate fresh sushi and sashimi dipped in wasabi and soy sauce. They drank a bottle of sake and then switched to wine. Samantha was not as enthusiastic a drinker as Kate and Elizabeth. As a result, Jake kept his own drinking somewhat restrained. In the course of the evening he only drank half a bottle of sake, nine glasses of white wine, and three mixed drinks. This was enough to make him pleasantly drunk but not enough to trigger a blackout. For this reason he was able to retain the pleasant memory of Samantha's lush body and the things she knew how to do with it.
And such was a typical day in the life of Jake Kingsley in the immediate post-Intemperance phase.
Christchurch International Airport
March 18, 1991
Pauline almost didn't recognize her brother when she and Jill Yamashito emerged from the baggage claim area for the Air New Zealand terminal. He was sitting right where she expected to find him (assuming that he even showed up, something that had never been confirmed) — at the bar, sipping on a tall glass of beer. His hair was still down to his shoulders and he still favored blue jeans and button-up, short-sleeved shirts, but...