Climbing the Rock

Chapter 3

Heritage, California

October 4, 1981

It was Friday night and D Street West was packed with about as many people as it could physically hold. The air was hot and stale, choked with cigarette smoke, the odor of sweat and beer pervading every corner. The babble of hundreds of conversations and the shouts of drunken voices drowned out the recorded music playing from the overhead speakers. Behind the bar, six bartenders struggled to keep up with the hordes of customers pushing and shoving to get close enough to order another round. Occasionally, a fight would break out although they tended to be brief, mostly harmless struggles that were broken up by bystanders before they could escalate into something more dangerous. There simply wasn't the room to have a good fight. Not on a night that Intemperance was playing.

The opening band had been Airburst, a group that actually displayed something like talent. Jake had spent a few minutes talking to them before their set-something he made a point of doing with each band that opened for them-and had learned that their members were made up of the pick of the litter of three other bands that had been making the second-rate club circuit over the past year. They had a southern blues rock sound, sort of a cross between Lynard Skynard and Molly Hatchet, not exactly original, but not exactly a knock-off either since the lead singer was a woman. The crowd had cheered for them in a manner that seemed considerably more sincere than that displayed for most of the openers in this venue. But they did not ask for an encore. Intemperance remained the only opening act to have ever achieved that distinction.

At ten minutes to showtime Jake and Matt were in the backstage alcove looking out over the crowd. This was something both of them enjoyed doing, Matt so he could scope out likely groupie prospects for after the show, Jake because he never tired of marveling over the fact that so many people had come to see them play. He still felt some stagefright before each performance-some of those nagging, irrational fears refused to go away-but it was nothing like the intensity it had been before that first performance. They were now seasoned performers and they put on a damn good show. A thousand people had told them that a thousand times and they knew it to be true.

There had been a few mishaps of course. When you performed live, things got screwed up every now and then. It was just a fact of life. The most common thing to happen were dropped or broken guitar picks in the middle of a song. Matt and Jake had both done this several dozen times apiece now. There had also been the time that Jake's A string had snapped in the middle of Worship Me, a semi-ballad with lots of finger-picking of that particular string. Coop had broken drumsticks half a dozen times (though he had never, not even once, dropped one, not even while twirling them around or throwing them into the air and catching them). Darren had once stepped on his power cord, ripping it out of his bass and nearly falling to his face before recovering his balance. And Bill had once gone a little overboard while running his hands across his keyboard and had accidentally turned his volume switch all the way up, creating a feedback whine that had been nearly loud enough to shatter glass.

They had learned to recover from these mishaps quickly and professionally. In the case of the lost guitar picks, the band had gotten so good at covering for it that no one in the audience-save other experienced musicians-usually even noticed. Whoever lost it would switch to hitting their strings with their fingers for the remainder of the song. If there was no break planned between the song where the pick had been lost and the next, the band would insert a break, pausing long enough for Jake to throw out a "is everyone havin' a good time" and for a new pick to be produced. In the case of the drumstick, Coop would simply miss a beat with that hand long enough to reach down and grab another from a stash he kept in a pocket between the two bass drums. He had become so proficient at this maneuver that the audience usually never noticed this either.

The things the audience did notice-the volume on the piano, the broken guitar string, the forcible removal of the power cord-the band tried not to dwell on. They simply recovered as quickly and nonchalantly as possible and went on with the show. Jake, as the voice of the band, had discovered a natural talent for making humorous comments when such things occurred.

"That's a new step Darren's working on there," he'd said after the cord tripping incident, while Darren blushed and scrambled to plug himself back in. "As you can see, it needs just a little more work."

The audience had laughed and a moment later Coop banged the sticks together and launched them into the next song.

When Bill created the feedback whine, making everyone in the house wince and cover their ears as 130 decibels washed over them, everything went quiet afterward, the audience stunned and a little shocked at this obvious malfunction of performance. Jake waited until things were at their quietest and then yelled into his mic, "Do we fuckin' rock, or what?"

Once again, laughter had erupted, followed by cheers, followed by resumption of the set as if nothing had happened.

Perhaps the most shining example of covering for a mistake had been when Jake's guitar string had broken. "Looks like I played that one to death," he told the audience-that after nearly two minutes of converting the remaining acoustic portions of the song into a rhythm that did not require the A string to be struck. He patted his Les Paul affectionately. "Can ya'll hang on a sec while I fix this thing up?"

And while he'd gone backstage and hurriedly installed a new A string, the rest of the band kept the crowd entertained with an impromptu jam session in which Matt and Bill played dueling solos while Darren and Coop kept rhythm. Once his string was in place and tuned as well as he could get it by listening without amplification, Jake had gone back out, plugged in, and joined them, inserting his own acoustic solos seamlessly into theirs and adjusting his tuning knob in between them. When he was tuned to his satisfaction, he gave a nod to the rest of the band and they wrapped up the unplanned, unrehearsed performance with an equally unplanned and unrehearsed flourish of instruments. The crowd had cheered wildly and given a standing ovation. When they quieted down, Intemperance fell back into the rest of the set they'd rehearsed, playing it out to perfection.

Such occurrences, however, were very much the exception to the rule. Most of their sets went off flawlessly, the music pouring out of them just as they'd rehearsed it. They changed their sets around every two weeks, usually cycling in new tunes they'd come up with once a month. They now had a bank of thirty-three original songs, all but two of which had been performed at least once before their fans. Tonight was the second night of a new cycle, the first night that It's In The Book would be performed for the D Street West crowd.

"Look at that one right there," Matt told Jake, pointing with his lit cigarette out into the crowd. "That brunette there in the purple blouse."

"Which one?" Jake asked. "There's like five hundred people out there."

"Over there by the bar," Matt said, pointing a little firmer. "Standing next to that fat bitch and that faggy-looking dude with the crew-cut. You see her?"

Jake dutifully turned his attention in that direction and, after a moment of searching, found the girl he was referring to. "I see her," he said. "And I believe that blouse is what the ladies call lavender, not purple."

Matt shook his head in disgust. "Fuckin' lavender? Jesus Christ, Jake. You smokin' dicks now? No dude should know what lavender is."

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," Jake said. "Anyway, what about her?"

"She's my bitch for the night," Matt said. "I'm gonna fuck her."

"Does she know this yet?"

"No, but she will. Look how shy she looks. How innocent. She might even be a cherry."

"Awfully confident, aren't you?" Jake asked. "What if she doesn't stay for the after-gig festivities?"

Matt shrugged. "Then she'll miss out on her golden opportunity to have her furrow plowed by the great and powerful Matt Tisdale. Her loss. I have a Plan B already sighted in just in case." He pointed over at the other end of the barroom. "That blond librarian looking bitch. See her? Standing next to that slut in the red mini-skirt?"

Jake didn't see her but pretended like he did. "Uh huh," he said. "And what if the first chick does stay for the party but doesn't want to boff you? You ever think of that?"

Matt looked genuinely appalled by this suggestion. "No," he said simply. "I never thought of that. Why would I?"

Jake didn't press the point any further. He knew Matt was right. So far, he had never been turned down once he set his sights on a particular female. He had even gone through a period where he and Coop were betting $20 dollars on that very subject, with Coop picking a woman at the after-gig party and Matt having to fuck her before the night was out. Matt had a one hundred percent win rate so far and it had got to the point where he had to offer ten to one odds just to get Coop to take the bet.

"And what about you?" Matt asked. "You gonna get your weenie wet tonight?"

"I don't know," he sighed. "I'm still a little fucked over about the whole Michelle thing."

"That didn't stop you from nailing that Brooke Shields looking bitch on Wednesday. I was proud of you, man. Fucking proud. You finally took advantage of the pussy that's due people of our stature and talent. How was she, anyway? I've seen her at a couple of our shows and thought about giving her a ride myself."

"She was uh... well, very experienced at sexuality," he replied. "But I was drunk and stoned. I wouldn't have done it otherwise."

"You'll be drunk and stoned tonight too," Matt reminded him.

Jake thought that over for a second. "I guess you're right," he said, smiling.

"That's my fuckin' brother," Jake said, slapping him on the back. "I knew you were a man. You oughtta call up that Catholic bitch while you're fucking some slut tonight and put the phone down by her pussy so she can hear the squishing while you laugh at her. That'll show her she's been replaced."

"That would show her all right," Jake said, knowing he would never do such a thing no matter how drunk or how mad he was, also knowing that Matt would do it even if he were sober and only mildly peeved.

That sat in silence for a bit, Matt smoking, Jake drinking from his ice water. Finally Jake brought up the subject that had been bothering both of them. "Darren is stoned out of his mind," he said.

"I know," Matt said. "I can smell it all over him for one thing, but that's not even it. I can tell just by looking at him. I mean, Jesus fucking Christ, we've gotten stoned together a thousand times. We know what he acts like, what he fuckin' looks like when he's flyin'. Does he really think he's fooling us?"

"Yeah, I think he does," Jake said.

"Moron," Matt said, shaking his head.

Throughout their year of playing together onstage, the members of Intemperance had changed and evolved in many ways. Their wardrobe, their playing styles, their onstage antics, the between-song banter, even their music itself had all undergone a shift as they gained experience performing. One thing that had not changed, however, was the rule about using intoxicating substances before rehearsing or performing. Matt and Jake both liked to think of this as a sacred decree. But over the past six weeks or so, they had noticed that Darren seemed to be throwing this rule to the wayside. He would show up for rehearsals higher than a kite, claiming that he had smoked some hours before but was fine now. Worse, he was now starting to slip out somewhere before their live performances and come back reeking of pot, his eyes half-lidded, his speech thick and slow in the way it only got when he was stoned. Tonight had been the first night that Matt-as the leader of the group-had actually called him on it. Darren had simply denied it absolutely and unwaveringly.

"Dude, I'm not stoned," he said. "I wouldn't burn before a show. You know that."

"I can smell it all over you, asshole!" Matt yelled back, exasperated and pissed.

"That doesn't mean I've been smoking it," Darren protested. "Jesus, man. I walked by some people out back that were toking up and the smoke got on me."

They had gone round and round about this for almost ten minutes before Matt had finally walked away in frustration-an emotion that was almost foreign to him.

"What are we gonna do about it?" Jake asked now. "I mean, this can't go on. I'm pretty sure he was lit when he tripped over his power cord."

"Yeah," Matt said. "He was."

"And if this keeps up, he's gonna have Coop smoking out with him before long. You know how close those two are. You know how Darren's the fuckin epitome of peer pressure."

"I know," Matt agreed, dropping his cigarette into a soda can. "I've known Darren since we were freshmen in high school so I know what he's like and what he's capable of. This isn't going to continue. Mark my word."

"What are you going to do?"

"He's an old friend and I hate to do it, but I'm gonna have to lay down the law with him. I'll take him aside tonight and let him know that if he shows up stoned for either a rehearsal or a performance one more time... if we even think he might be stoned at a rehearsal or a performance, then he's out of the band."

Jake thought this was very harsh, but he didn't disagree. They couldn't afford to have anyone giving less than their all. "Do you think he'll believe you?"

"If he wants to push the issue, I'll let him know where he really stands. He's a fuckin' bass player. He's pretty good but he isn't outstanding or anything. He can easily be replaced. If we put an ad in the paper asking for a bass player to perform with Intemperance, we'll have two hundred applications the next day and I guarantee you that at least one out of every ten of them will be both better and more reliable than Darren."

"And what if he tries to get Coop to go with him if we kick him out?"

Another shrug. "If you were Coop, would you go with him?"

"No," Jake said immediately. "I wouldn't."

"And I don't think Coop will either. And even if he does, the same thing applies to him. Coop is better at drumming than Darren is at bass, but he's not Jon Bonham or anything. If we put an ad out for a drummer, we'd have five hundred applications and one out of every twenty would be as good or better than Coop. When you come right down to it, those two positions in the band are nothing but support. Its you, me, and Nerdly that make this band what it is. Agree?"

"Yeah," Jake said. "I think that's a fair assessment."

"So if the fuckin' rhythm section is having a problem with the buds, then we can kick their asses out of here if they don't stay in line. And right now, that's the situation we face. I'll tell Darren how it is tonight, you support me, and this thing will work itself out. Trust me."

Jake nodded. "I'll support you," he said.

O'Donnel appeared a moment later, his signature cocaine glint firmly affixed upon his face. Darren, Coop, and Bill trailed behind him, Darren still looking sullen and hurt from the argument with Matt.

"You ready to do it, boys?" O'Donnel asked, putting his chubby arms around Jake and Matt's shoulders.

"We're ready," Matt said, casting an evil glare at Darren. "Aren't we?"

Darren refused to meet his eyes. Yeah," he muttered. "Ready for Freddie."

O'Donnell's smile faded a bit as he picked up on some of the tension. He seemed to debate saying something and then decided not to. "All right then," he said instead. "Let's get the show on."

The crowd cheered as he walked out on the stage, quieted while he made a lengthy and almost syrupy introduction, and then erupted into out and out pandemonium when the name Intemperance was spoken. The band did their now customary hands on hands symbol of camaraderie and then hit the stage. The cheers, whistles, and shouts intensified as they picked up their instruments and took their places.

"You ready to rock and roll?" Jake asked the crowd, serving the dual purpose of riling them up and performing a level check on his microphone. Since they were the headliner band they had no opportunity for a sound check prior to the show. They had to rely on pre-setting all of the equipment beforehand.

The crowd was ready to rock and roll. Intemperance obliged them. Coop did a four count with the drumsticks and they began to bang out their opening number for this cycle, Waste Not, Want Not-one of Matt's hard-driving tunes that dealt with the subject of never turning down sex or drugs when they were offered.

Jake's fingers picked out the backing riff with ease, moving from fret to fret. When the cue came around, his voice burst out of his mouth, the words flowing freely, effortlessly, the volume and timbre shaped to perfection. The crowd settled down a bit and enjoyed the music, most of them swaying to the beat and tapping their feet, more than a few actually singing along. When Matt played the first guitar solo of the night-a fast and furious finger-tapping number-the crowd stood and cheered, raising their arms and pumping them.

They ended the song as they did all of them-with a tremendous concerto of drums, guitars, piano, and bass chords. After a brief pause to let the crowd cheer in appreciation, there was another four count and they launched into Descent Into Nothing, a tried and true favorite at D Street West.

Matt, Jake, and Darren all moved around much more than they used to. In their earlier gigs they had tended to stay near their respective microphone stands, shuffling back and forth a little, but only shifting position during the guitar solos, when Jake would step back near Darren and Matt would step forward. These days both Matt and Darren kept their animation levels high while Jake sang, moving back and forth behind him, occasionally playing back to back or shoulder to shoulder. Jake did the same when his mouth was not required on the microphone, stepping back and joining the other two, occasionally doing a little spin maneuver. When it was time for a guitar solo, Matt would bend backward, or forward, or would force the neck of his instrument up or down, making it look as if the act of producing the music was a painful, difficult endeavor. This showmanship added an element of spontaneity to each performance, especially since Matt forbid them from choreographing or rehearsing such maneuvers in advance. They never went overboard-there was no dropping to the floor and scooting along on their buttocks, no licking of the guitar strings, no leaps from the amplifier stacks-instead, they simply let the rhythm and their instincts guide them. In this way, each Intemperance concert was unique.

As Jake performed, looking out over the crowd and making eye contact with person after person, the lyrics coming out of his mouth and transmitting through the amplifier, his hands moving up and down on his guitar, bending and pressing the steel strings with his left, his pick or his fingers hitting them in a series of complex rhythms with his right, all was copasetic in his world. Playing music for a crowd was what he loved doing most of all, making even sex pale in comparison. It was a difficult job-keeping his lyrics straight, keeping his riffs in time-but it was one he was good at and he thrilled with each song that went off without a hitch. The high it gave him was more powerful, more satisfying than even the best weed, the most potent cocaine, the smoothest booze. Thoughts of Michelle and their break-up, the sense of loss, pain, and incomprehension that had run through him constantly, they were gone while he played, as were thoughts of how he was going to make his next rent payment, how he was going to afford new tires for his car, whether or not his parents were right and he should start trying to put his talent to better use. There was no room in his mind for anything but the show, anything but the crowd he was playing for, for the music he was helping to make. Like a fighter pilot on a mission, an athlete in the middle of a game, he was in the bubble, and nothing else mattered.

By the halfway point of the set, after a solid thirty minutes of playing under the hot stage lights, Jake was dripping with sweat. His long hair was damp with it. His white, button-up shirt was sticking to his chest and back. He was not breathless, however. Not even close to it. After a year of dancing and jumping and singing and playing three nights a week for sixty to seventy minutes at a time, his body was actually in the best shape it had ever been in. Being a rock music performer was the equivalent of taking a high-impact aerobics class, complete with the endorphin rush that came when things really got smoking.

The endorphins were flowing freely as they did their last song of the set, Who Needs Love?-one of their most popular numbers. They ended the song with a longer and more potent flourish, drawing it out and then finally hitting the last chords. They let the last hums of the instruments slowly fade away as the crowd erupted into cheers and applause once again.

"Thank you," Jake said, tossing his guitar pick into the crowd. "Thank you very much and goodnight."

The band gathered together, linked arms, and took a bow. They walked back to the alcove and the cheering continued, growing louder even. This was followed by the stomping feet and the cries of more, more, more.

All five of them drank mightily from their water glasses, alleviating a little of their thirst. They allowed themselves two minutes to rest and to hear the glorious sound of the crowd calling for their return and then Matt said, "Let's do it." They hit the stage again.

Jake did a brief introduction of their new song-It's In The Book-and they launched into it, the fast-paced riff from Matt's guitar getting everyone's hands clapping and waving even before Jake began to sing. They then did their final number of the night, one of their raunchier and hard-driving tunes, Matt's The Thrill of Doing Business. Another drawn out, carefully rehearsed ending, another group bow, and they left the stage for good this time. There were shouts for another encore-there always were-but they died reluctantly away when O'Donnell turned up the houselights and took the stage himself.

"Intemperance everybody!" he shouted. "Let's hear it for them one more time!"

The crowd gave it up once more, as requested.

The band gathered backstage and sat down near their equipment cases. This was the cool down period, when they let their heartbeats return to normal, when they let some of the sweat dry up. They talked about how the show had gone-all thought it had gone exceptionally well tonight-while they guzzled water and smoked cigarettes (all except for Bill, who still hadn't picked up that particular habit).

"Well," Matt said after fifteen minutes, "let's go get it done."

"Yep," Coop said with a sigh. "This is the fun part."

They trudged back to the stage to clean up their mess. The crowd had thinned considerably with the end of the show but there was still upwards of three hundred people out there, smoking, drinking, and dancing to the jukebox music. As always, those remaining gave a cheer as the band reappeared. They all waved back casually, acknowledging it, and then went about the task of breaking down their show.

As part of his closing remarks each night, O'Donnell always asked the crowd to please refrain from disturbing the musicians during the stage clearing process. As a result, they were pretty much left alone as they disassembled the drum set and hefted amps and wound up electrical cable. Occasionally a fan near the stage would tell them "great show" or "you guys rocked tonight", but no one seemed to expect an extended conversation at this point in the evening.

Once all the equipment was packed into the two vans and secured, they went back inside through the backstage door. Adjacent to the bar supply storage room was a small locker room for the performing bands' use. Since it only contained two showerheads the five of them matched quarters for bathing order. Jake and Coop came out first and second tonight so they stripped off their sweaty stage clothes and fired up the nozzles.

Jake, who had never been a fan of the locker room environment, showered quickly, running a bar off soap over his skin, dumping some shampoo and conditioner on his hair, rinsing, and then vacating for Matt, who had drawn third place. He dried off and put on a fresh pair of jeans and a tattered black T-shirt. He combed out his long hair and then slipped back into the tennis shoes he had worn on stage.

As he was heading for the door Matt passed him, fresh out of the shower now, completely naked except for a towel slung over his shoulders. "We're gonna get us some fuckin' cherry pussy tonight," he said. "How's that sound?"

Jake didn't answer him. He knew Matt wasn't talking to him. He was talking to his own penis-an instrument he conversed with almost as much as his guitar. Jake shook his head, told his bandmates he would see them out there, and then slipped out the door and into the hallway.

When he walked through the service door that led from the backstage area into the main lounge, there was the usual crowd of people loitering around. Dozens of females and about half as many males made a point of staking out this location after the show in the hopes of being among the first to socialize with a band member. This used to overwhelm Jake in the early days-how everyone wanted to talk to him, to touch him, to be near him-but he was used to it now.

No less than twenty people called out his name in asynchronous harmony. Hands descended on his shoulders to pat him. He was told it had been a great show in a dozen different ways. They pressed all around him, mostly the girls, vying for his attention. Several of the closer girls made a point to "accidentally" rub their breasts on his arm or on his back. He acknowledged as many people as he could, shaking a few hands, throwing out a few words of thanks and a few other small commentaries. He kept a slight smile on his face-the signature shy smile people had come to love about him. As he walked towards his first priority-a stiff drink-the gathering moved with him. As he approached the bar, those in front of him and those who were not part of the gathering but were merely waiting at the bar for their own drinks, parted to either side, leaving him a clear path.

"Wassup, brother?" asked Mohammad Hazim, a full-time bartender for D Street West and a part-time struggling guitarist whom Jake had taken under his wing over the last few months. Mohammad's parents had come to Heritage from Iran in 1962, when he was just two years old. They were devout Muslims who still wore the dress of their native land and were quite horrified by their only son, who had gone to school in the Heritage Public School system and had become fully Americanized by the age of thirteen.

"Wassup, Mo?" Jake asked, holding out his right hand and exchanging a soul brother shake. "You comin' to the party tonight?" Mohammad was one of the select few who fell into the personal friend of the band category in regards to Matt's parties. As such, he had an open invite for every one and he did not need to bring an intoxicating substance along for admission (although he often did anyway).

"Bet your ass," he said, taking a water glass down from above the bar and filling it with ice. He poured a triple shot of 151 proof rum into it, filled the rest up with Coke, and then handed it over to Jake, not asking for payment on a drink that would've cost anyone else four bucks. "Here ya go. You good on smokes?"

"For the moment," Jake assured him.

"Yell me down if you need anything."

"I will," Jake said. "Thanks, Mo."

Mo moved off down the bar to serve some of the paying customers and Jake pulled out one of his cigarettes. Two of the guys moved forward to light it for him, both whipping out Zippos. The larger of the two-a blonde, surfer type in a Van Halen T-shirt-got his up and ignited first. Jake accepted the light from him and spent a few moments conversing with him. It turned out the guy was a guitarist as well-probably a hopeless hacker-and wanted to know details on several chords that Jake had played. Jake remained polite and cordial as he answered his questions.

"Thanks, dude," the surfer told him about halfway through the smoke. "Good fuckin' gig tonight. You guys rock."

"Thanks," Jake said. "We try."

The surfer had a laugh at that and disappeared into the crowd. He was instantly replaced by one of the girls, who wanted to know just how one went about securing an invitation to the after-gig party.

Over the next thirty minutes, Jake was promised sex ten times by ten different girls-one of whom had offered to take him out to her car right at that moment and fuck him in the backseat. During this time he consumed two and a half of Mo's potent drinks and as the alcohol began to surge into his brain he went from politely deflecting each offer to seriously considering which one of the girls he was going to take to Matt's. After all, he'd done it the other night and had enjoyed it immensely, hadn't he? Why shouldn't he enjoy it tonight as well? It wasn't like he had a girlfriend any longer.

It was as he was working on his fourth drink and debating between Allison, the naughty looking short girl in the red mini-skirt, and Cindy, the exotic looking Asian in the Calvin Kleins, that a blonde woman worked her way through the throng and stood before him. She was wearing a conservative, businesslike dress, complete with nylons and high-heels. Her make-up was lightly applied and her eyes were a striking shade of blue. She seemed to be considerably classier than the average female who patronized this establishment.

"Hi," she said, flashing a brief smile. "You're Mr. Kingsley, right?"

"Mr. Kingsley?" he said with a laugh. "That's very formal. You can call me Jake."

She seemed to shrug in a manner that was almost condescending. "As you wish, Jake," she said. "My name is Trina. Trina Allen. I tried to get over to talk to Mr. Tisdale there, but he's got quite the crowd around him."

Jake glanced over in Matt's direction. There was indeed a huge crowd surrounding the lead guitar player. "Yeah, Matt's a friendly guy, all right. Anyway, its nice to meet you, Trina." He held out his hand. "Did you like the show?"

She offered her hand and gave him a brief, businesslike shake. "Yeah," she said analytically. "It was good. Much better than I was expecting, really. But then I'm more of a soft rock fan. Elton John, Billy Joel, stuff like that."

"I see," Jake said slowly. This was certainly not the typical adoring groupie conversation. "Well, I'm glad we were able to keep you entertained."

"So am I," she said. "But anyway, I have a friend that would really like to speak to you and Mr. Tisdale, if that's all right."

"Of course it's all right. We're gonna be getting out of here pretty soon and heading over to Matt's place, but just bring her on over. I'm always happy to talk to a fan."

"Well, in the first place," she said, "she is a he. And in the second place, he's not really a fan, per se."

Jake began to get an uncomfortable sensation. "Really?" he said. "Well, whoever he is, just have him come on over and I'll say hello."

"He would like to speak to you and Mr. Tisdale together," she said. "And he's outside. In his car."

"Uh huh," Jake said. "Well... to tell you the truth, Trina, if he wants to meet us, he's just gonna have to come inside. We don't usually go meet people out in the parking lot."

"I think perhaps you should adjust your policy on that matter," she said. "The gentleman I represent is Ronald Shaver."

"Ronald Shaver?" Jake said, his mind spinning. That name sounded familiar, but he didn't know why.

"We're from Los Angeles, here in Heritage on business," Trina said. "Mr. Shaver is a talent agent whom Mr. Tisdale recently sent a correspondence. He caught your show tonight and would like to speak to the two of you before he goes back to the hotel." She gave him a calculating look. "That is, if you're not too busy engaging in your minor league debauchery preparations?"

Ten seconds later, Jake was forcing himself through the crowd of people surrounding Matt, shouldering scantily dressed girls and drunken men to either side, causing six spilled drinks, two extinguished cigarettes, and one drunken fall. Only the fact that he was Jake Tisdale saved him from getting his ass kicked on general principals. Finally, his target came into view, one hand wrapped around a tall Jack and Coke, the other wrapped around the girl he had vowed to fuck earlier, his fingertips caressing the top of her breast through her blouse.

"Jake!" Matt yelled in his three-quarters drunken voice. "How the hell ya doin', brother?" He turned to the admirers around him. "Do y'all know Jake? He's the singer for the band."

This caused a few laughs among the crowd. Jake ignored them. "I need to talk to you, Matt," he said.

"Well fuckin' talk, homey," Matt said. "What's got a bug up your ass?"

"The same thing that's gonna have a bug up your ass," Jake replied. "Come with me."

Matt responded to the serious tone of his voice. He looked around at his admirers. "If you will all excuse me for a few? It looks like Jake's got some serious shit he needs to talk." He turned to the virginal innocent on his arm. "Don't go nowhere, okay?"

She nodded shyly, blushing furiously and Matt released her. The two of them forced their way back through the crowd until they were standing near the side of the bar.

"What's up?" Matt asked him. "Is Darren fucking something up again?"

"No, nothing bad," Jake said. "Do you remember sending one of your envelopes to a man named Ronald Shaver."

Matt searched his brain for a moment and then nodded. "Yeah, he was one of the ones I sent the demo tape to. He's the agent for Earthstone. What about him?"

"He's here," Jake said. "And he wants to speak to the two of us outside."

"Here?" Matt said, his eyes widening. "You mean, like, here here? Right here, right now, here?"

"Out in his car," Jake confirmed. "His secretary or girlfriend or whatever came up to me. She wants to take us to him."

"Well fuck my sister," Matt said. "Let's go."

Jake led him back over to Trina, who was waiting patiently by the front door. He introduced Matt to her. Matt was too excited to even make a sexist remark.

"Take us to the man," Matt said.

She led them outside, into the parking lot and out to the street. There was a black, stretch limousine parked in front of the fire hydrant there. The tinted windows were all up. A uniformed driver was standing by next to the rear door. As they approached, he mechanically opened it, revealing a plush, well-lit interior equipped with leather couch-like seats. A man in his forties was sitting against the rear of the passenger compartment. He was dressed in a black suit and tie. His hair was brown and professionally styled. A pair of Vuarnet sunglasses covered his eyes. A bottle of Chivas Regal was on the table before him as was a hefty glass filled with ice and the golden brown liquid.

"Gentlemen," he said, his voice rich and cultured. "Come in, please."

Matt and Jake looked at each other for a moment and then stepped inside, one by one. They sat down in extremely comfortable seats against the passenger side wall of the compartment. The driver closed the door after them, leaving Trina outside.

"My name is Ronald Shaver," the man said, holding out his hand to Jake. "You're Jake Kingsley, correct?"

"Yes," Jake said, shaking with him.

Shaver turned to Matt. "And you're the venerable Mr. Tisdale, are you not?" he asked.

"Yeah," Matt said. "I am."

Shaver took a sip from his drink. He did not offer the two musicians any. "I received your demo tape and your resume last week, Mr. Tisdale," he said. "I didn't think too much of it at the time. In fact, I only opened it because an appointment had cancelled on me and I had nothing better to do. But I did listen to your tape."

"Did you like it?" Matt asked.

Shaver frowned. "A very poor quality recording. What did you do, record it in your garage?"

"Something like that," Matt said. That was, in fact, exactly where it had been recorded, with Bill running their instruments through their soundboard into a series of cassette recorders and then mixing the whole thing together onto a master tape, with each volume level carefully adjusted.

"That's about what I figured," Shaver said. "In any case, though the recording was poor, the actual music was... shall we say... not terrible? You have a decent singing voice, Mr. Kingsley, and you seem to know your way around a guitar, Mr. Tisdale. And your piano player... well, he adds a certain uniqueness to the sound of your music. It was enough to keep me listening for a few minutes and to read over what you'd sent. It seems your little band has developed quite the following here in this... uh... city."

"We're the most popular band in Heritage," Matt said proudly. "We sell out every venue we play."

"Well... yeah," Shaver said. "But, unfortunately, that's a little like saying you're the most popular Chinese restaurant in Pocatello, Idaho. It's not really much of an accomplishment now, is it? The rarity of the medium makes for distorted analysis by the inhabitants. When you can say you're the most popular Chinese restaurant in Beijing, then you're getting up there. Right?"

Jake and Matt looked at each other for a moment, both trying to figure out if they'd just been insulted or not.

"Uh... look, Mr. Shaver," Matt said. "Maybe if you'd..."

"So anyway," Shaver interrupted. "I listened to your demo tape and read over your materials and then threw the whole thing in the garbage. That's a step further than most unsolicited demo tapes get, I might add. I forgot completely about you until earlier today. You see, I'm in town on some business and I happened to be leafing through your local newspaper." He said this last with particular disdain. "And there, in the entertainment session, I saw that your band was to perform tonight at this club. That reminded me of your tape. Since there really isn't anything that resembles entertainment in this town, I decided to take my secretary out to see what you were all about live." He took another sip from his drink. "You folks put on a decent show. As I was watching you I was thinking to myself that there might be something there. The crowd does seem to appreciate you."

"They love us," Matt said, a little defensively.

"That is obvious," Shaver agreed. "That's why I sent Ms. Allen in to retrieve you. Now, I'm probably being stupid and maybe I'm getting old and out of touch, but I've got this notion that your band stands a chance of moving beyond this... place. You're decent musicians and, most importantly, your sound is different than everything else out there. If you'd like to talk about my agency representing you, I'll meet with you in my hotel room tomorrow before I leave. We'll see if maybe we can work something out."

"Fuckin-A," Matt blurted.

Jake gave him a sharp look. "Yes," he interjected quickly. "That sounds like a very good idea."

"Wonderful," Shaver said. "How does eleven o'clock sound?"

"Perfect," Matt said, his composure returning.

"What hotel are you staying at?" Jake asked.

"It's in what passes for your downtown area," Shaver said. "I'll send the limo to come pick you all up. Just give the address to Trina and be waiting there at 10:30. Okay?"

"Yes sir!" Jake said. "We'll be there."

"Thank you, Mr. Shaver," Matt said. "You won't be sorry."

"Oh, I probably will," he muttered. "I probably will. I'll see you gentlemen tomorrow."

They exited the limo a moment later. Matt gave his address to Trina. She didn't write it down on anything, she simply nodded and repeated it back to him. With that, she climbed in the car and the driver shut the door. He then climbed in himself and the long black car drove off into the night.

The limousine pulled up in front of Matt's house at precisely 10:30, gliding to a halt before the driveway. The driver was the same as the previous night, but his demeanor was markedly different. He did not wear his hat or call them sir. He simply knocked on the door and asked-in a rather impatient voice-if they were ready to go, his eyes looking at them with distaste. He did not open the back door for them. He just told them to wipe their feet before they got in and not to touch anything.

"Friendly guy," Jake said sourly as he settled into the rearmost seat.

"Hey, Jeeves!" Matt yelled as he looked at the bar. It was closed tightly and had a combination lock firmly affixed upon it. "What the fuck's up with the bar? I need a drink!"

The partition between front and back slid downward. "The bar is for paying customers," the driver said coldly. "You five most certainly do not fit that category."

The partition slid shut again and the limo took off, accelerating rather abruptly.

After a bouncing, jarring, twenty-minute ride full of centrifugal force and inertial changes, they pulled up before the Royal Gardens Hotel, a sixty year old, sixteen story hotel which was-until the Stovington Suites would be built in five more years-the nicest accommodations in Heritage County.

The partition came down again and the driver-who was munching on a deli sandwich and currently had a mouthful-told them, "Hop out here and go wait by the service entrance. Mr. Shaver's secretary will meet you there." He rolled his eyes a little. "If you tried going in the front looking like that, security would probably mace you."

Before any of them could reply, the partition slid back up.

"Asshole," Matt said, making sure his voice was loud enough to carry through the partition.

Coop fumbled around for a minute and was finally able to get the door open. They piled out one by one and walked towards the side entrance they had been directed to. There they found Trina, who was dressed in a pair of loose-fitting blue jeans and a maroon, sleeveless blouse. She looked tired, as if she might be hung over.

"Hey, guys," she greeted listlessly. "Follow me."

They followed her, entering through a little used door into a corner of the lobby where the security services and the housekeeping staff kept their offices. Matt and Darren both tried to engage her in conversation as they walked but she ignored them both, thoroughly and completely. At last they came to the elevators. They piled inside and rode up to the sixteenth floor. When the doors opened onto a spacious hallway, there was a security guard manning a podium just outside. His eyes widened as he saw who the current passengers were.

"Miss Allen," the guard said slowly, his eyes flitting from one band member to the other. "Is... everything all right?"

"Everything is fine," she assured him with a wave of dismissal. "These are some guests of Mr. Shaver. They won't be staying long."

He looked them up and down again, quite disapprovingly, and then glanced up the hallway, obviously looking to see if any of the other hotel patrons were in sight. Finally, he nodded. "I guess its okay then," he said.

Trina offered him a slight smile and then exited the elevator. "Come on guys," she said. "Almost there."

The band obediently followed. Shortly they came to a door numbered 1605. Trina used a key to open it and they entered the Presidential Suite.

"Holy fuckin' shit," Matt whispered as he took in the opulence.

Jake had to agree that that pretty much summed it up. There was a marble entryway that led into a spacious sitting room full of plush chairs. Beyond this was an oak wet bar. Beyond that, near the balcony door, was a hot tub that was bubbling and steaming. The balcony looked out over the Sacramento River. Off to the sides were closed doors that presumably led to a master bedroom and a bathroom. Sitting in one of the chairs, before an oak table large enough to hold a meeting at, was Ronald Shaver. He was dressed as casually as his secretary-in a pair of jeans and a button-up shirt. His feet were bare and his face was unshaven. A cigar smoldered in an ashtray before him. Next to this was a small serving tray with a silver lid over it. He had a phone pressed against his ear and was talking to someone named "Gary" about those "goddamn contract extension clauses". He looked up as they entered and waved towards the table he was at, inviting them to sit. They trooped over and grabbed seats, Matt and Jake sitting closest to Shaver, the rest spreading out to either side. Trina walked over to one of the seats not against the conference table. She sat down and began examining her manicured nails thoughtfully.

For nearly five minutes, they sat there in silence, listening to Shaver talk about some mysterious entity or entities that had tried to throw one of these mysterious contract extension clauses onto one of his artists. Shaver told Gary this was not even remotely acceptable and that he, Shaver, was going to recommend outright refusal of the contract in question if those fucksticks wanted to play hardball. He exclaimed that they needed to remember who held the power and who would end up sucking someone's asshole if things went to shit. He rounded out the conversation by asking Gary if he understood where he was coming from. Apparently Gary did, as the conversation ended with the slamming down of the phone a few seconds later.

"Goddamn accountants," Shaver said, shaking his head in disgust. "Sometimes I think they're even worse than lawyers." He looked up at his guests, his eyes flitting from one to the next. "How you doing, boys?" he asked. "Glad you could make it."

They all said their various versions of hello and then Shaver introduced himself to Coop, Darren, and Bill, shaking each of their hands in turn. He then turned to Trina, who seemed lost in a world of her own.

"Trina," he said. "Maybe these boys would like a drink. Set us up with some glasses and some Chivas, please."

"Sure," Trina replied with a yawn. She slowly got to her feet and went over to the bar.

"Now then," Shaver said, while she filled glasses with ice, "I understand you boys are looking for an agent. Is that correct?"

"Yes," Matt said. "That is correct."

"Well, I'll tell you, I have a policy against representing unsigned bands and I especially have a policy against unsolicited demo tapes. But, you know, every policy should have an exception clause. You'll go far in life if you just keep that in mind. And in my case, I just might be inclined to invoke my exception clause with you fellows. I like the way you sound. You've got some raw talent among the five of you. I've been wrong before, but I think that with the right coaching, you just might be able to sell a couple of albums."

"Just give us that chance," Matt said. "You won't be sorry."

Shaver shrugged. "That remains to be seen. But before we go any further, do you boys understand exactly what an agent does for you?"

"You use your contacts in the recording industry to get us a contract," Matt said. "Without an agent, its pretty much impossible to heard. With a well-connected agent, such as you, it's almost a given."

Shaver smiled. "That's an oversimplified and somewhat cynical version of what I do, but yes, you have the basic gist of it. I also help you negotiate the most favorable recording contract if and when that time comes. In other words, I make sure you don't end up as poor slaves to the label. My job is to be your advocate. The relationship is mutually beneficial since what I am paid is tied into what you are paid."

Trina brought a tray over and set it down. On it were five crystal glasses with Chivas on the rocks. She distributed each glass, setting them down gently like a waitress.

Matt picked his up and took a small sniff of it. "Do you have any Coke to go with this?" he asked.

Shaver kept his composure only by the sheerest force of will. He swallowed a few times and closed his eyes for a few seconds. Finally he looked up at Trina. "Could you get a few cans of coke for these gentlemen?" he asked slowly.

She chewed her lip for a second and then said, "Sure." She went back to the bar and returned with three red and white cans from the refrigerator. She and Shaver watched with bemused revulsion as the members of Intemperance each poured healthy dollops of cola into their glasses.

"Good hooch," Coop said, after draining half of it at a swallow.

"Fuckin' A," Matt agreed. "Top rate."

"I'm glad you like it," Shaver said. "Would you boys care for a line to go with your drinks?" He reached over and lifted the top off the serving tray, revealing a large mirror with six fat rails of cocaine laid out side by side. He picked up the mirror and offered it to Matt.

"You are a good host, Mr. Shaver," Matt said, taking the mirror and setting it down before him.

Shaver shrugged, as if to say it was nothing more than putting out a bowl of chips and some salsa. He reached into his pocket and produced a $100 bill, which he quickly rolled into a tube. He passed this over to Matt. "Enjoy," he said.

Matt snorted up the first line and then sniffed loudly, his body shuddering a little. "Wow," he said, his eyes tearing up. "This is some killer blow."

"I'm sure you are used to cocaine that is at least sixty percent cut," Shaver said. "This is pure, uncut Bolivian flake. Perhaps the finest... uh... blow, as you put it, in the world."

"No shit?" Darren asked, grabbing for the mirror. "I gotta check this out." He picked up the bill and snorted noisily. When it was inside him he pounded the side of his head a few times and let out a yelp. "God-fucking-damn!" he declared. "It must be nice to be rich."

"It is," Shaver assured him. "Believe me, it is."

The mirror was passed the rest of the way around the table. When it came to Jake, he hesitated for a few seconds, thinking that maybe this meeting was just as important as a rehearsal or a performance-maybe more so-and that maybe someone should keep a clear head. In the end, however, his curiosity got the better of him. He simply had to see what the finest blow in the world was all about. He snorted, feeling a deep, satisfying burn deep in his nasal passage. The drug started to go to work on his head even before Shaver finished snorting up the last line.

"Now then," Shaver said, once everyone was feeling their finest, "to business."

"Fuckin A," Matt happily agreed. "To business. You gonna be our agent, or what?"

"Well, as I said, I may be willing to make an exception to my usual rules for you gentlemen. I think there may be some potential for commercial success with your music. I'm prepared to offer you a contract for representation. Now the terms..."

He was forced to stop his spiel because Darren and Coop began screaming in triumph and high-fiving each other.

"Darren, Coop," Jake said, shooting them a furious look. "Chill for now."

"Sorry," they mumbled together, but the grins remained on their face.

"As I was saying," Shaver continued, "the terms are that I will attempt to secure a recording contract for you and act as your negotiator with the record company in question. I will act as the representative for this band in all business matters. In return, I will receive thirty percent of all advances, royalties, and other revenue that this band produces. Does that sound like a fair deal?" He looked at Matt as he asked this.

"Thirty percent, huh?" Matt said. He glanced over at Jake and a look passed between the two of them. Both of them well knew that the standard rate for an agent was twenty percent. They had in fact had a lengthy discussion about this the previous night, over beers and cigarettes on Matt's back porch while the rest of the band had engaged in their usual activities. They had agreed that they would hold firm to this figure no matter what, neither one of them really believing that Shaver would really try to deviate from it. After all, he was a respected agent. He knew the game. Only now, deviation was exactly what he was trying to do.

"Is that a problem, gentlemen?" Shaver asked softly, his tone implying that if it were he would be sending them on their way.

The silence stretched out as Jake and Matt continued to hold a telepathic conversation, their eyes and facial expressions sending the messages.

It's only an extra ten percent, Matt's eyes said. If we try to push him, he won't represent us at all.

He's trying to screw us, Jake's eyes shot back. We agreed to twenty percent!

"Matt?" Shaver asked. "Is everything okay here?"

"Yes," Matt said. "Sorry. Thirty percent is not a problem, Mr. Shaver."

"Good," Shaver said with a grin. "I thought you'd be happy with that."

Jake's instinct was to hold his tongue. Matt was the leader of the band and he knew more about how the music industry worked. And, after all, it was only an extra ten percent. That wasn't that much, was it? But that extra ten percent wasn't really the point. If they agreed to this they would be setting the wrong sort of relationship at the beginning, would be sending the wrong message. Someone had to stand firm here. If Matt, as their leader, wouldn't do it, then Jake would.

"No," Jake said, just as Shaver was reaching out to begin shaking hands. "I'm afraid that thirty percent is a problem."

Everyone looked at him with varying degrees of anger on their faces. Matt's version was perhaps the angriest. His eyes glared at the singer, sending not just daggers but tracer bullets dipped in cyanide.

"Jake," he hissed, "thirty percent is a lot, but its fair."

"Yeah," Darren said. "That still leaves like sixty percent for us."

"Seventy percent, you fuckin moron," Coop told him. "And seventy percent is a lot of dough."

"No, it really isn't," Jake said. "Not when you divide it up among the five of us. And don't forget that all of our band expenses will come out of that seventy percent."

"Yeah, but still..." Coop started.

"Twenty percent is the standard cut for an agent," Jake interrupted, his words directed at Shaver.

"That is the industry standard," Shaver admitted, his face remaining expressionless, "but that is for established bands. You folks are a garage band looking to get a break. I can perhaps provide that break for you but I'll be taking a risk. Risky behavior means the reward needs to be bigger."

"Thirty percent is fine," Matt said, casting another evil glare at Jake. "Really. We all agree to that."

Jake shot an angry look back at Matt and held his ground. "No," he said. "We do not agree to that. Twenty percent is the agent's cut. I will not agree to anything more."

Shaver slumped backwards in his chair and sighed. "Look," he said. "I really don't have time for this shit. I brought you here to my room as a favor, because I thought that maybe I could help you boys get heard. I guess maybe you don't want to take a favor from me."

"Jake," Darren said menacingly. "Stop fucking around. You blow this for us and I'll kick your fuckin' ass."

"You're not in high school anymore, Darren," Jake said. "This is the real world. Threatening me is not gonna help." He turned back to Shaver. "And we're not in a whorehouse either, Mr. Shaver. So quit trying to screw us. I'm not asking for anything unreasonable, and you know it. If you thought enough of us to bring us up here and offer to represent us, than you're not going to kick us loose over a ten percent difference in your cut."

Shaver locked eyes with him, his face still blank. "You seem rather sure of yourself on that point, Mr. Kingsley. Are you sure enough to bet your career on it?"

Jake maintained eye contact. "It would seem that is exactly what I'm doing."

They continued to stare at each other for what seemed an eternity. Matt and the rest of the band watched in anxious silence. Even Trina, who had been laying out the supplies for a manicure, had stopped what she was doing to take in the battle of wills.

"Okay," Shaver said. "Maybe I was trying to take a little more than I was due. I'll come down to twenty-five percent."

The band breathed a sigh of relief. All except for Jake. He was shaking his head. "No," he said. "Twenty percent. That's the going rate. I won't accept anything else."

Now Shaver allowed his expression to slip a little. Annoyance filled his face, along with a tinge of anger. "Look, Jake," he said. "I dropped my percentage because I respect someone who has the balls to stand up for himself. But don't push me here. My patience is about at an end."

"How would you feel, Mr. Shaver, if I were telling you that I would give you a fifteen percent cut when the industry standard is twenty? Wouldn't you be inclined to disagree?"

"You're damn right I would if it were you telling me that. You are a nobody and I am a somebody. However, if I were in the position that you are in-if I was an unknown agent negotiating to represent say... Van Halen-then I would accept whatever they offered and be glad they even asked."

"Well, I guess that's where you and I differ then," Jake told him. "I'm not one to nitpick over a few percentage points, but I don't like being treated unfairly. That is what you are attempting to do. There's a principle involved here and I will not be dislodged from my principles. Treat us fairly or count me out of the equation."

The tense silence descended again as the two men stared at each other. It went for a longer period this time, the tension thicker. As before, it was Shaver who broke it.

"Twenty-one percent," he said. "And that's my final offer. Take it or leave it."

"Twenty-one percent," Jake said thoughtfully, mulling that over. He knew exactly why Shaver had named that figure. The one percent was symbolic, meant to indicate that a punk kid had not negotiated him all the way down to nothing. It was a face-saving measure, something important to Shaver's ego and sense of control, and Jake instinctively knew that he would fight to the death over that final percentage point.

"Well?" Shaver said.

Jake nodded. "It sounds like a deal."

A collective sigh of relief was exhaled through the room. The tension began to evaporate almost immediately, like an ice cube on a hot sidewalk. Shaver shook each of their hands and welcomed them aboard.

"Trina," Shaver said. "Can you get one of those pre-printed contracts from my briefcase and bring it in here."

"Sure," she said, standing up. She shot Jake a look as she passed by. It was not a look of disrespect. She disappeared into the bedroom and shut the door behind her.

While she was gone, Shaver took the time to pass a few words with Coop and Bill while Darren sucked down the remainder of his Chivas and Coke. While they were doing that Jake looked over at Matt. Matt was staring at him, letting him know that this matter would be discussed later. Jake nodded slightly, acknowledging the telepathic communication.

They signed a representation contract with Shaver Talent Agency Inc., all of them going over it line by line and initialing the part where Shaver's percentage of thirty percent had been crossed out and twenty-one percent written in instead. The rest of the contract was only two pages in length and had been written in pretty straightforward language. Jake and Matt were both able to satisfy themselves that there were no hidden pitfalls lurking within that collection of words and phrases. The complicated contracts, Shaver told them, were the ones they would sign with a record company, assuming things went that far.

"The very first priority," Shaver said, "is to get a real demo tape made. A professional tape, mixed and edited."

"Where are we going to do that?" Bill asked, speaking for the very first time since the initial introductory handshake.

"There's a studio down in Sacramento," he replied. "They usually use staff musicians to record tunes for local television and radio commercials, theme songs for shows, and stuff like that. Their techs aren't the best in the business but they'll be able to get your music down on tape well enough for me to let the record company execs hear what you sound like. We'll do six songs, a cross-mix of your tunes. Matt, pick your three best and Jake, you do the same. Include one of your ballads in there somewhere too. The execs love ballads because they translate out into singles."

"How much is this going to cost?" Jake asked. They had looked into professional studios before and the average fee was in the neighborhood of fifty dollars for each hour of time. Recording and mixing each song generally took about nine hours. So what they were talking, for six songs, was about $2700. Money that the Intemperance general fund was well short of.

"I have some connections there," Shaver told him. "I can get you sixty hours of studio time for free. Just be sure to get all the tunes recorded in that amount of time, will you? If you go over, you're paying for the extra time."

Sixty hours of studio time for free? Even Jake was impressed by this.

They left the hotel shortly after, each taking a copy of the contract they had signed with them (a room service employee had come up, taken the original, made seven copies, and then brought them all back up-for which Shaver had tipped him ten bucks). The limo was still waiting for them downstairs and as the driver took them back to Matt's house he seemed much more friendly than he had on the inbound trip, actually opening the doors for them and calling them "sir" now.

Coop, Darren, and Bill began to party immediately upon entering the house. The stereo came on, playing Led Zepplin's Houses of the Holy. Darren rolled a fat joint while Coop distributed mixed drinks. Matt and Jake abstained from the festivities, at least for the time being. They had business of their own to attend to.

"Don't get too fucked up," Matt warned the trio as he grabbed two beers out of the refrigerator. "Remember, we still have a gig tonight."

They promised they would maintain composure.

Matt handed one of the beers to Jake. "Come on," he said. "Let's take a walk."

"Right," Jake agreed.

They went outside, following a cement path over towards the main house. They ended up at the pool, which was too cold to swim in but which had not yet been covered for the coming winter and still had all the patio furniture laid out around it. They grabbed seats at one of the tables, both opening their beers and having a drink. Matt took out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Jake. Jake accepted and they both lit up, smoking thoughtfully as they collected their thoughts.

"Jake," Matt said at last, "you ever hear people say that the ends justify the means?"

Jake nodded. "I've heard that a time or two. Can't say that I always agree with it."

"Exactly," Matt said. "The ends that you accomplished there with Shaver turned out to be a good thing. You got him down from thirty percent to twenty-one. I can't argue with that." He took a drag from his smoke, blowing it out thoughtfully. "But the means you utilized to get there, that was pretty fuckin foul, you dig?"

"I dig where you're coming from, Matt, but in this particular instance, I'm afraid that I do agree with the saying. I did what I needed to do there, what you should have done."

Matt's temper flared the smallest bit. He took another drag, calming himself. "I made a decision in there and I expected you to support me. You were putting our relationship with Shaver at risk and you were defying me in front of the rest of the band. Jake, I can't allow that to happen. This band has to have a leader and that leader is me. Don't cock-block one of my decisions like that ever again. Especially not in front of a roomful of people. You have any idea how fuckin embarrassing that was? How much you undermined my authority?"

Jake shook his head. "I'm not gonna promise that," he said.

"What?" Matt asked, his face coloring a little more.

"You pussed out in there. We agreed beforehand that twenty percent is what we would accept. Do you remember that conversation?"

"Yes, but..."

"Ain't no fuckin buts about it," Jake said. "You pussed out. You got overwhelmed because Shaver brought us in there and showed us how rich and powerful he was and how tiny and meaningless we are and he tried to screw us and you fuckin caved. You caved, man! I've never seen you do anything like that before. I did what I did because you didn't have the guts to."

"Hey fuck you!" Matt said, his temper boiling over. He stood up quickly, his chair falling over on his back. He pointed his finger angrily at Jake's chest. "I'm the fuckin founder of this band and I'm in charge of it. I don't give a shit what you think of my decisions or why I make them. I'm in charge and you will support what I do!"

Jake remained calm. "Or what, Matt? You gonna kick my ass? You gonna try to solve your problem with me the way you did with Hathaway? Go ahead. Kick my ass if it'll make you feel better. I won't even fight back. Of course I probably won't be able to go on stage if I'm all bruised up, but maybe you and the rest of the boys can pull off the gig without me."

"Don't you fuckin play that card with me, Jake!"

"Then get the fuck out of my face," Jake told him. "Sit your ass back down and lets discuss this like the professionals we pretend to be. Like I told Darren, this isn't high school. The guy who can kick the other guy's ass doesn't win by default here."

Matt seemed to struggle with himself for a few seconds and Jake began to fear that he really was going to hit him. But finally, he seemed to get himself under something like control. He took a step back and lowered his hand. He picked up his chair and sat back down. "Okay," he said. "I guess you're right. I'm sorry I lost my temper."

"And I'm sorry I embarrassed you in front of everyone," Jake said. "That really was not my intention. I was doing what I thought I had to do. He was trying to screw us, Matt, and I didn't want to start off my music career by being played for a fool. Remember, we agreed to stick to our guns on this twenty percent thing. You were the one who folded without a fight, not me. Why did you do that? Why weren't you supporting me?"

Matt looked disgusted with himself now. He took another drag and then angrily snuffed out his cigarette. "I thought we were gonna lose him if we pushed. It seemed like he was looking for any reason to kick us loose."

"But he didn't," Jake said. "He was the one who caved in. Oh sure, he got his little one percent above standard so he can tell himself he still screwed us, but he caved in nonetheless. Just like I thought he would."

"How did you know?"

"A little deductive reasoning," Jake said. "Everything that happened seemed kind of contrived to me when I put it all together."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, he told us that he was in Heritage on business and that he just happened across our gig in the paper and decided to check it out. That sounds plausible but it really isn't. Did you ever stop to wonder just what sort of business a man like Shaver might have in Heritage?"

It was obvious Matt hadn't. Jake could see it in his face.

"He's a musical agent," Jake said. "There is no music industry in Heritage. There is no recording studio here, no famous band that's moved beyond here. There is no business he could doing here. So, why do you think he's here?"

"You saying he was here specifically to see us play? To sign us up?"

Jake nodded. "That's the only explanation that makes sense. He came here to sign us up. I think that almost everything about our encounters with him and his little woman there has been manufactured and rehearsed in advance. The limo driver was a big clue. I don't care what a limo driver personally thinks of the people he's driving, he wouldn't treat them the way we were treated unless he'd been told to. I mean, the dude was eating a sandwich behind the wheel. He was insulting us. But on the ride back, he was nice as could be."

"Yeah," Matt allowed.

"I think Shaver told that driver to be rude to us so we'd come up there feeling like losers, like an inconvenience."

"I don't know about that, man. You're starting to sound a little like Coop."

"Maybe," Jake said. "But sometimes paranoid suspicions are correct ones. For instance, there was that whole bit with Shaver being on the phone when we got up there. I don't think he was really talking to anyone at all."

"What?"

"When he called the front desk to get the copies of the contract made, I was able to hear the desk clerk's voice coming out of the speaker. It was low and tinny and I couldn't make out any of the actual words, but I could hear him, and that was with a conversation going on between Darren and Coop about how fuckin nice the hooch was."

"You're right," Matt said, now that he thought about it.

"But when he was talking to that Gary character when we first came in, I didn't hear shit. Not even a peep."

"Why would he make up a phone conversation?" Matt asked.

"To intimidate us," Jake said. "To try to make us believe that his time is valuable and that he was just barely squeezing us in and that, therefore, we should grateful that he was only asking for thirty percent."

"Shit," Matt said, shaking his head in wonder, his anger mostly forgotten.

"He gave us booze and coke when we got up there. Really good coke."

"You got that shit right," Matt said. "I can still feel it a little bit now."

"That was to break down any resistance we might have had. We need to make a vow not to get fucked up during any contract negotiations in the future. Seriously. Anyway, it backfired on him. The coke made me bold and confident. That's what gave me the courage to stand up to him like that. If I would've been straight I never would've done that."

Matt wasn't sure what to say to that. He was feeling a bit overwhelmed.

"You know what the biggest kicker here is though?" Jake asked.

"What's that?"

"The recording studio time. He doesn't have any fucking contacts up here. Those people who run that studio don't have any idea who he even is. And even if they did, there's no way in hell they would give away twenty-seven hundred bucks worth of studio time just to stay on his good side. After all, what could he do for them? What advantage would there be for a studio that makes commercials to do a twenty-seven hundred dollar favor for a talent agent?"

"So what are you saying?" Matt asked.

"He paid for that studio time himself. That's how bad he wants to sign us. That's how confident he is in our music. He heard that demo tape we made and read that resume you put together and he knows how good we are and that people will love us. He knows that, Matt. Especially after he saw us play. He would've taken ten percent if we would've pushed him for it. He just wanted to try to keep the shoe on his foot and get a bigger chunk of us for the future."

Matt had to admit that what Jake was saying made sense.

"Look, man," Jake told him. "We need to make peace with this and come to an understanding, okay? I'm not trying to take over leading this band. I have no fuckin interest in that. But I also know I'm an integral part of this band. You yourself pointed that out last night. I'll let you call the shots. I have no problem with that. But if you're making a bad decision-and you were making a fucking horrible one in there with Shaver-I'm gonna let you know that, and if it means we butt heads, then we butt heads. If it means I need to step in and assert myself, then I'll do it. That's just the way it is. This is my ass, my future we're talking about here too. Do you dig?"

It took a long time before Matt answered. His face contorted into a variety of different positions as he grappled with anger and other negative emotions. Finally, he nodded. "Yeah," he said. "I guess I dig."

"Still friends?" Jake asked, holding out his hand.

Matt scoffed. "Like I was ever friends with a dick smoker like you," he said, slapping his hand down into Jake's.

They shook warmly and then went back up to the house. There was just enough left of the joint Darren had rolled to put them into the celebratory mood.

Glockman Studios was located in the Del Paso Heights section of Sacramento, a neighborhood that was arguably the worst in the entire region. The parking lot of the establishment was surrounded by chain link topped with razor wire. The back of the studio itself looked out over a drainage canal filled with old shopping carts, old tires, and other bits of unidentifiable urban debris. The street outside was suffering a terminal infection of potholes. But inside the studio, all was clean, sterile, and professional.

Over the next three and a half weeks Intemperance used fifty-eight of the sixty hours they had been allotted, recording six of their best tunes-three of Jake's and three of Matt's, as requested. They made the ninety-mile trip from Heritage twice a week, on Mondays and Tuesdays, and worked under the direction of Brad Grotten, one of the sound engineers.

Brad was a skinny, chain-smoking, shorthaired man of thirty-six. He wore long sleeved, button-up shirts with pocket protectors. He seemed ecstatic to have actual rock and roll music to work on instead of advertisement tracks and he gave them his very best for the time he had available to them. He recorded each instrument individually, often making them repeat the song over and over again, dozens of times, until he felt the sound was correct. He recorded the drums first, then the bass, then Jake's rhythm guitar, then Matt's lead, then Bill's piano. He then recorded the back-up singing. Jake's lead singing came last and was the cause of the most numerous re-takes because Brad wanted the exact mix of tempo, pitch, and timbre for the recording. When this was all done, he would mix each individual track, adjusting volume and tone until everything blended together. He then reformatted the entire thing onto a single duel-track stereo magnetic reel-to-reel tape-which he called the "master recording". Once a tune made it to the master, they would start the entire process over with the next tune.

Jake would never forget hearing the first fully mixed copy of their first song. It was Descent Into Nothing, a song they had played perhaps a thousand times since he'd written it sixteen months before. But when Brad turned on the reel-to-reel tape to let them hear how the recording had come out, his mouth dropped as the guitar chords poured out of the speakers, as his own voice began to issue forth.

"You guys are pretty good," Brad said appreciatively.

"We really are," Jake agreed, listening to the near-perfect blending of instruments and voice, to the pounding drive of the backbeat. For the first time he was hearing their music as others heard it, and in a format that was much smoother and more articulate than a live performance. And they really were good. Not just a little bit, but a lot.

"We're gonna make it," said Matt from his seat next to him. Apparently he was having a similar epiphany as he listened to the recording. "I always thought we would, but now I fuckin know. We really do rock."

"Goddamn right," said Bill, whose mouth was open in awe. "Goddamn fucking right."

When the recording sessions came to an end and all six tracks were captured on the master to the best of Brad's abilities, he went about making the actual demo tapes themselves. This was even simpler than pushing the record button on a home tape deck since the studio had extremely high speed dubbing equipment. It took less than thirty seconds to put the six tunes onto a blank high-quality cassette tape. He ran off twenty copies to send to Shaver (Brad had never actually admitted Shaver had paid for the session, but had loosely implied it on more than one occasion) as demo tapes. He ran off another half a dozen for each of the five band members to do with as they pleased and told them that Glockman Studios would store the master recording for them for two years free of charge, but that after that they would have to pay sixty dollars a year to keep it in the vault.

"No problem," Matt told him. "Thanks for everything, Brad."

"You're more than welcome," Brad said. "It was fun working with you. You're good musicians and I think you're gonna go far."

And with that, they left the studio for the last time, leaving a master recording in its vault that would one day-because it contained two songs that Intemperance would never end up recording in any other forum-sell at an auction for almost half a million dollars.

Life, such as it was, returned pretty much to normal in the weeks that followed. Winter came to Heritage and the band continued to play at least three times a week. They went back to working on new material, including a stirring new ballad from Jake entitled The Point of Futility. The crowds seemed to love this song with a passion that had so far been unmatched. It was tale of hopelessness in love, of the pain of letting go of someone, of the helplessness of not being able to change things. Ironically, the subject of the song-Jake's break-up with Michelle-was something he had pretty much gotten over by the time the song was performed before an audience for the first time.

Jake never tried to call Michelle and she, as far as he knew, had never tried to call him. He heard no rumors about her, spoke to none of her friends. It was as if she'd disappeared from the face of the Earth. As more time went by and he had time to put the relationship in perspective, he was able to conclude that it was probably for the best. They were incompatible personalities at the base. She would go on to be a bible-thumping teacher in a private religious school for the rich, and he would go on to whatever his destiny held in store. He stopped feeling guilty about bedding groupies after each show and learned to enjoy it almost as much as Matt and Darren did.

The subject of the demo tape they had made and what Shaver, their agent (it made them feel like rock stars just to say they had an agent) was doing with them, was always in the back of their minds and occasionally, when they were smoking weed prior to a jam session or drinking beer among themselves after a rehearsal, the topic of intense conversation. But when Matt would call Shaver to enquire on how things were going, all he would be told was that the tape had been sent out to various contacts in the industry and that it took time to get a response to them. Be patient, Matt was advised. Things will start moving soon.

And it turned out that Shaver was right. In mid-February of 1982, just as Jake was starting to think that the whole agent thing had been for nothing, he received a phone call from Matt.

"Wassup, Matt?" he asked, using the remote control to mute his television set. "You sound excited."

"I am," Matt said. "I'm about ready to come in my fuckin jeans, brother."

This got Jake's attention. "Shaver?" he asked.

"Bet your ass," Matt told him. "He came through for us. I just got off the phone with him. He's sending us some plane tickets and we're flying down to L.A. next Thursday."

"Who? Me and you?"

"No, the whole fuckin band, man. All of us."

"What for?"

"We're gonna meet with a guy from National Records."

"National Records," Jake said slowly, pondering. National Records was one of the largest names in the business.

"Fuckin A, homey," Matt told him happily. "Shaver says they want to discuss signing a recording contract with us."

"Holy shit," Jake said.

"Holy shit is right! Shaver did it. The motherfucker actually went and did it!"