Snowblind

Chapter 7: The Birth of a Monster

Warwick, Rhode Island

January 3, 1995

Jim and Marcie Scanlon lived in a thirty-year-old single-story tract home in the suburban city of Warwick, Rhode Island, just south of the city of Providence. They had purchased the house six years before, just after the birth of Meghan, their oldest child. It was a four bedroom, seventeen hundred square foot structure that sat on a non-premium lot and it had cost them one hundred and thirty-six thousand dollars, which, of course, they had to take out a mortgage to cover. At seven and a half percent interest on their thirty-year fixed rate, their mortgage payments were $1157 per month. With a combined family income of only sixty-nine thousand a year, two growing children, a car payment, the normal utility bills, and nearly twelve thousand dollars in high interest credit card debt, the Scanlons struggled constantly just to live paycheck to paycheck. They had very little savings to their name—certainly nowhere near the ‘three months living expenses’ the so-called financial experts recommended that every American working family maintain perpetually—and any unexpected expense like a car repair, an appliance failure, or a medical bill, usually sent them into a months-long spiral of late bills and phone calls from creditors.

However, on this cold New England winter morning—the first day back to school after the Christmas break—as Jim and Marcie awoke to the alarm clock at 6:00 AM and pulled themselves out of bed, their crappy credit score, the fact that their checking and savings accounts combined had only ninety-six dollars total, and the fact that they were already ten days late on the electric bill and still a week from the next payday were the furthest thing from either of their minds. Today was the day they had been anticipating for months. According to Jake Kingsley, who had called them last week with the happy news, the local alternative rock station, WKRO, would be debuting Together, the first Brainwash song from their self-titled debut album, sometime during the early morning commute hours. They would then play it at least once every two hours throughout the rest of the day. And that was just the Providence alternative rock station. The two hard rocks would be playing the song as well. And that was just Providence. Stations from Boston, Portland, Montpelier, Hartford, even New York and Philadelphia would be debuting the tune today as well. It was go-time. Time to see if the experiment was valid.

“Turn on the radio,” Marcie told her husband as she yawned and stretched. Her long brunette hair was mussed up from sleep and she was dressed only in a pajama top because Jim had pulled off the bottoms and her panties the night before so he could access her nether regions for a nice, sedate round of marital sex.

Jim, who was completely naked and still smelling strongly of his wife’s sexual musk, scratched at his balls for a second and then farted. “Jake said the song won’t be on until at least 6:30.”

“I don’t care,” Marcie said, walking over to the toilet in the attached bath area and sitting down on it. “People are wrong sometimes.”

“He seemed pretty sure about that,” Jim said, opening a drawer on the dresser and pulling out a clean pair of underwear.

“Just turn the goddamn radio on,” Marcie ordered as she began to pee.

“All right,” Jim said with a sigh. “Since you gave it up last night, I’ll be nice to you.”

“That is the deal,” Marcie told him with a smile.

Marcie finished up her business and then turned on the shower so it could warm up. Since the master bathroom shower tap was as far as it was possible to be from the hot water heater in the garage, she had time to brush her teeth before the water was warm enough for her to step in.

The Collective Soul song, Shine, was playing as she soaped herself up and as Jim shaved and brushed his teeth. As she stepped out of the shower to blow dry her hair and start getting dressed, Jim stepped in to start his own shower. Shine gave way to Stay, by Lisa Loeb. This was followed by a long series of commercials that played until Jim was out of the shower and fully dressed in a pair of slacks and a button-up long-sleeved shirt—his standard high school English teacher uniform.

By the time 6:30 AM rolled around, the official beginning of the commute hour for radio programming purposes, both Jim and Marcie were downstairs, eating breakfast and drinking coffee. Since they had only ninety-seven dollars to their names until payday, and since the cereal in the pantry and the milk in the refrigerator was earmarked for Meghan and Alex, their breakfast consisted of scrambled eggs with hot dogs cut up into them and a dusting of cheddar cheese on top. As they ate, they continued to listen to WKRO on the kitchen radio. Another set of songs rolled by without any of them being Together. Another set of commercials started. The clock ticked onward toward 7:00 AM, when Meghan, who had a longer commute, would need to hit the road and Margaret Scanlon, Jim’s mother, would arrive to take charge of the children.

Jim made the two of them lunch sandwiches from generic wheat bread, Walmart pre-packaged lunch meat, and individually wrapped slices of Walmart brand American cheese. He wrapped the sandwiches in generic Saran wrap and then packed them into their lunch bags along with reusable ice packs and a single serving bag of potato chips pulled from a huge bag of such in the pantry.

“Thanks, hon,” Marcie told him as he dropped her lunch bag on the shelf next to her car keys and purse.

“No problem,” he said. “When we go big shopping on Friday, let’s get some better lunch meat, huh?” Though they did not get paid until Tuesday, they could go shopping at Walmart on Friday afternoon and write a check for the groceries with the knowledge the check would not clear until usually the following Wednesday or Thursday. The Friday-before-payday shopping trips were a bimonthly ritual for the Scanlons.

“You mean the stuff from the actual deli?” Marcie asked doubtfully. “You know it’s a lot more expensive.”

“True,” Jim agreed.

“And it doesn’t last until the next shopping trip. You can only keep deli meat in the fridge for a week, tops, before it starts to go bad.”

“Again, true,” Jim said. “Let’s get a pound of it anyway.”

“Live a little?” she asked with a smile.

“Exactly,” Jim said. “Life is too short for crappy lunchmeat.”

Marcie smiled at him. “I always knew we’d be high-class someday.”

On the radio, the latest set of commercials ended and the morning DJ, who called himself Justin Case, made the announcement they had been waiting for.

“New music here on the Crow to get your morning drive rolling along,” Case told the audience. “At least it’s new music for the rest of the world. Here in the Prov, however, lots of you out there might already be familiar with this group. They’re called Brainwash and they’re a group of teachers who work for the Providence Public School District and have been laying down the tunes at the local clubs in New England for the better part of ten years now. Well, they finally got themselves a record deal and this is their debut song from their first CD, which I’m told will be released on January 23. The CD is just called Brainwash, and the tune is called Together. And remember, you heard it first here on WKRO, the Crow.”

“This is it!” Marcie said excitedly.

“Shh,” Jim hushed her. “It’s starting.”

The piano and Marcie’s vocals started simultaneously, laying down the intro to the tune. She marveled at the sound of her own voice coming out of the radio speakers, her emotions a mixture of pride and awe. And then the tempo picked up as Jim and Steph’s guitars started to play. The drums and the bass began to pound. And then Jim’s voice issued out as well, belting out his part of the chorus. The song was so familiar to them, yet it was almost as if they were hearing it for the first time.

“It’s really true,” Marcie whispered when the tune ended and the next one—I’m the Only One by Melissa Etheridge—began to play.

“What’s really true?” asked Jim, who was still basking in the awe of hearing himself on the radio.

“They really are going to release a CD of us,” she said. “They really are going to play us on the radio.”

“You didn’t think that was true?” Jim asked. “After the three months we spent recording that CD?”

“Well ... most of me knew it was true, but there was a part of me that thought this was all just ... you know ... a pipe dream. That something would happen that would keep them from releasing it, or that this was all some kind of a scam. But now ... now I know it’s real. I’ve heard us on the radio! That really happened, didn’t it?”

“Yes, it really happened,” he said.

The doorbell rang, signaling the arrival of Jim’s mother, who, though she had been coming over on school mornings for years and had her own key, absolutely refused to just enter the house on her own when she knew Jim and Marcie were there.

“Mom’s here,” Jim said. “You better hit the road or you’ll be late for school.”

“Right,” Marcie said, picking up her purse, lunch bag, and keys. She gave Jim a quick kiss and a quick “I love you.” She started for the living room to let her mother-in-law in while simultaneously letting herself out. She then paused for a moment and looked back at her husband. “When will we start seeing money from this do you think?”

“The first royalty check will be sent out in April,” Jim reminded her. “But Jake said not to get our hopes up too high for that one. We have to pay back the advance money before we start seeing income and debut albums generally don’t start to sell in big numbers until there are two heavy airplay tunes in circulation.”

“But Jake really thinks we’re going to make some money from this?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.

“He really does,” Jim assured her. “He thinks that by the tail end of the second quarter we’ll go Gold and be heading toward Platinum.”

She nodded. “I hope Jake is right.”

“Me too,” Jim said.

As it turned out, however, Jake could not have been more wrong.

No one mentioned having heard a song by Brainwash to Jim or Marcie that day, though the tune had been played an even dozen times throughout the day on WKRO and another dozen on the two Providence hard rock stations. Jim himself heard the tune twice on his drive home from work.

The next day, however, after hearing the tune again on his commute in along I-95, two students from Jim’s fourth period English Lit class—Steve Branford and Donny Landis (members of the stoner clique, but intelligent ones who managed at least passing grades) encountered him in the hall as he was heading into the office from the parking lot.

“Yo, Mr. S!” hailed Steve, a grin on his face. “I heard your band on the radio this morning!”

“Did you?” asked Jim, feeling gratitude that someone had been listening.

“Yeah, dude!” Steve said. “It was tight! Was that really you singing?”

“Well,” Jim said, feeling absurdly prideful that this teenage stoner had appreciated the tune, “it was mostly Mrs. Scanlon on the vocals, but yeah, that was me in the choruses.”

“No kidding?” Steve said. “She’s got an awesome voice. And yours ain’t too bad either.”

“Yeah,” agreed Donny. “The tune was badass, Mr. S! Is it true that Ms. Zool was the one laying down the licks?”

“That was her on the lead guitar,” Jim confirmed. “She can shred, can’t she?”

“Who woulda thought?” Steve said.

In the administration office two of his colleagues—Kyle Bremen, who taught History, and Lynda Cole, who taught Biological Sciences—let him know that they had heard the tune played as well.

“Solid alt-rock,” Kyle, who fancied himself a music connoisseur, proclaimed. “Good guitar work from Steph and your wife’s voice is incredible.”

Lynda’s opinion was similar, though she was not as musically inclined. “It had energy and a strong beat,” she told him. “You guys really are talented.”

“We try,” Jim said humbly, feeling good about himself as he retrieved his mail from his cubicle.

It turned out that many of the students had heard Together on the radio that day, and, since Jake had given specific instructions to the music promotors that the band’s name be mentioned with each playing for the first two weeks, and since the student body had long been aware (to the chagrin of the school administrators, the PPSD board members, and the PTA movers and shakers) that Mr. Scanlon the English teacher and Miss Zool the lesbo gym teacher were both members of a rock band named Brainwash, most of them knew Jim was the male singer in the tune and Steph was the guitarist. In every class that day a group of students would make their way to his desk before the bell to tell him they had heard the tune and what they thought about it. Most were very impressed with the tune. No one told him they did not like it. He thanked all of his admirers humbly and then, once the bell rang signaling the start of class, he did his job and taught them the vagaries of the English language. Steph, he heard later, was experiencing much the same phenomenon, as was Marcie at the junior high she taught at, and Jeremy and Rick at the high schools they taught at.

By the next day, with Together airplay picking up in frequency and stretching all throughout the day on four separate Providence stations, pretty much everyone in all five band members’ schools knew about the song and the coming release of the CD. And this led to a bit of unwanted attention.

During period five, the second to last period of the school day, the black phone began to ring in Jim’s classroom. He looked at it in annoyance, as it was interrupting his lecture on the symbolism to be found in To Kill a Mockingbird. It was the phone that communicated with the administration office and was generally used to have a student report to the office for an early dismissal or something of that nature. Usually, the student in question would let him know when an early dismissal was in the works, but no one had claimed a get out of jail free status to him for this class.

“Excuse me for a minute,” he sighed, leaving the lectern and walking over to the ringing device. He picked it up and put it to his ear. “Room 237,” he said.

“Hi, Jim,” said a female voice. “Lynn here.” Lynn was the administration secretary, a woman of indeterminate age who gave the impression she had been sitting behind that desk since the days when Rhode Island had renounced its allegiance to the British Crown. The students (and more than a few of the faculty) called her Broom-Hilda, after the comic book witch, though never to her face.

“Hey, Lynn,” Jim said, carefully keeping the annoyance out of his voice (in truth, he was a little bit afraid of Broom Hilda himself). “What’s up?”

“Jeffery and Anne are requesting a meeting with you today after final period,” she said.

Jeffery Jonas was the principal of the school. Anne Borden was the assistant principal. Jim made a point to avoid dealing with them as much as possible. “They want me to stay after school?” he asked.

“They do,” she confirmed.

“Did they say what this is about?”

“They did not,” she said dryly. “They have requested you meet them in Jeffery’s office immediately after the period six bell.”

“Very well,” Jim said with a sigh. “I’ll be there.”

And he was. He made the walk from room 237 to the admin building while students were still filtering through the halls to the exits. He arrived at the door at the same time as Stephanie Zool. Understanding suddenly filled him.

“Let me guess,” he said to his educational colleague and bandmate, “Jeffrey and Anne requested your presence at a meeting?”

She smiled. “You must be psychic,” she told him.

Broom Hilda, who was wearing a black dress on this day and actually looked like a witch, sent them immediately into the principal’s office upon arrival. The office was modest, with a cheap, district supplied desk with an in and out box and a large blotter on it. Jeffrey Jonas was in his early fifties, balding, and had been the principal of Hope High School for the past fifteen years. He made it clear that he planned to stay in the position until retirement. He tried to project an image of benevolent leader to both the students and the staff, but in actuality, he just hated being seen as a bad guy or making tough decisions. He sat behind the desk in his signature sport jacket and tie, his glasses perched on his nose. Sitting next to him was Anne Bordon, known as the hatchet woman by students and faculty alike. She was in her late thirties and full of ambition to rise to the very top of the PPSD food chain. She was marginally attractive physically, tall and thin with an aristocratic face, but quite unpleasant on a personal level.

“Jim, Stephanie, please, close the door and have a seat,” Jeffery told them with a phony smile that both distrusted immediately. He waved at the two seats that had been set up in front of the desk.

“Sure,” Jim said softly, shutting the door and making sure it latched.

Steph made no move to sit down. “What is this about?” she asked the two bosses.

“We just want to have a little discussion about some recent developments,” Jefferey said.

“A little discussion, huh?” Steph said. “Is this the sort of discussion we should be getting a union representative to sit in on?”

“No, no,” Jefferey said dismissively. “It’s nothing like that. This is just an informal talk about ... well ... about this music thing the two of you are involved in.”

“The music thing, huh?” Steph said. “Haven’t we talked about the music thing enough over the years? We understand. You don’t like that we are in a band and play the sort of music you think is offensive. And there is nothing you can do about it. End of discussion.”

Jeffery opened his mouth to say something, but Anne beat him to it. “It is not the end of the discussion,” she said, “but the beginning. Please sit down, both of you.”

Jim and Steph looked at each other for a moment, passing a look back and forth. They were certainly within their rights to have union representation here—they had invoked that right before—but Steph finally shrugged, seeming to say: “Let’s hear what they have to say.”

They sat down, Steph closer to Anne.

“It has come to our understanding,” Anne said, “that this musical group you two are a part of has recorded an album and they are now playing one of your songs on the radio locally.” She said musical group the way other people said venereal disease.

“That is correct,” Jim said.

“Why did you not inform us in advance that this was going to occur?” Anne asked.

“Uh ... because it’s not really any of your business,” Steph said.

A flash of anger appeared on Anne’s face. “Don’t be impertinent with me, Ms. Zool,” she said. “The fact that two of our instructors are playing rock and roll music on the local radio stations is very much our business.”

“Actually, it’s not,” Jim said. “What we do on our own time, as long as it is legal and does not affect our job duties, is our business and our business alone.”

“This does affect your job duties,” Anne said. “You are creating a large distraction to the educational process in this facility.”

Steph rolled her eyes. “You and the board members and the PTA have been telling us that for years,” she said. “We’ve gone to the wall on this issue more than once. We are not causing a distraction to anyone by playing music.”

“That is where you are wrong,” Anne said. “Things have changed now that your so-called music is being played on the radio.”

“How does that make things different?” Jim asked.

“I would think that would be obvious,” Anne told him. “When you were simply playing in clubs during the summer, the children did not have access to your music. Everywhere you played was a place where you had to be twenty-one to gain admission, correct?”

“Correct,” Jim agreed.

“Now they are playing your songs on the public radio waves,” she said. “On stations that the children of this school listen to. They are now being subjected to the offensive lyrics and radical causes that your group is well-known for.”

“Offensive lyrics and radical causes,” Jim said softly, as if pondering that. He looked back up at Anne. “Have you ever actually listened to one of our tunes?”

“Certainly not!” she said firmly, as if he had asked her if she had ever snorted cocaine from an ass-crack.

“Then how do you know our lyrics are offensive?” Steph asked.

“The type of music you play is well known for being offensive and supporting the left-wing cause,” she said.

“The song they’re playing on the radio right now is called Together,” Jim said. “It’s a song about the sanctity of a long-term relationship between two people, about how you have to face the tough times together so you can enjoy the good times. It is, in fact, a moving and quite touching declaration of love and commitment that my wife wrote for me. How is that offensive?”

“Or left-wing?” added Steph.

“We’re not here to discuss semantics or to interpret song lyrics,” Anne said. “We’re here to talk about how we’re going to deal with the distraction the release of this music of yours is causing to the children of this school.”

“What makes you think there is a distraction?” Jim asked. “All of my classes were pretty much distraction free today, except when my lecture was interrupted by Lynn calling me on the phone to tell me to come to this meeting.”

“My classes all went pretty much normally as well,” Steph said.

“Nevertheless, the distraction exists,” Anne insisted. “I’ve been getting calls all day long from parents, from members of the school board, from prominent members of the PTA, all demanding to know what we’re going to do about this situation.”

“It sounds like the admin and the parents and the PTA are the ones being distracted,” Jim suggested. “Not the students.”

“The children are being distracted as well,” Anne barked. “I’ve been out in those halls today, listening to them. They’re all talking about the song on the radio.”

“But they’re paying attention in the classroom,” Jim said. “At least as much as they normally do.”

“Again, I’m not going to argue semantics with you two,” she said. “The distraction exists because the children are being exposed to your so-called music. We need to do something about this situation.”

Jim and Steph shared another look. Here it comes, the look said.

“And what exactly do you propose we do about it?” Steph enquired.

“We are requesting that the two of you take a voluntary leave of absence for the remainder of this semester,” Anne said.

“A voluntary leave of absence?” Jim said.

“We think that is the best solution to the problem,” Anne said. “That would keep the campus distraction-free until the start of the fall semester in September. By that time, I’m sure your little album will have faded into obscurity and will no longer be able to distract the children in the manner it is now doing.”

Jim felt his anger rising and he fought to keep it down. It was a struggle. “Correct me if I’m wrong,” he said, “but a voluntary leave of absence would be unpaid, wouldn’t it?”

“Well, naturally,” Anne said. “But surely you will be collecting income from the release of this CD.”

“Not until April at least,” Jim said. “And only if it sells enough to cover the advance money we have already been paid.”

“Oh ... well that is unfortunate,” Anne said, “but I’m afraid we’re still going to have to insist that...”

“Hold the fort here a minute,” Steph interrupted. “I have another question about this voluntary leave of absence.”

“What is that?” Anne asked.

“Thanks to all the previous attempts of you and the board and the PTA to try to get us fired or suspended for being musicians, I’ve gotten to know our collective bargaining agreement pretty well.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Anne asked.

“A voluntary LOA is something that the admin is not required to grant. Whether or not to do it is a case-by-case basis.”

“I assure you that we will grant the LOA,” Jeffery said. “That is why we’re having this meeting.”

“Uh huh,” Steph said. “The contract also says that if the LOA is for more than a sixty-day period, the employer—that’s you two—have the option of not retaining the employee when they request to come back from the leave.”

“You don’t say?” Jim asked, shaking his head.

“We would allow you to return to your positions without loss of seniority or pay rate,” Anne said. “You have my word on that.”

“Your word?” Steph said. “You, who has tried to have us fired or suspended multiple times in the past? Who arranges to have us randomly selected to pee in a cup every September when we come off tour? We’re supposed to take your word that you’ll give us back our jobs?”

“My word is my bond,” Anne said, as if offended by the very suggestion that it wasn’t.

“Yeah,” Steph said. “I’m sure it is. All the same, however, I’m afraid I’m going to have to say no to your suggestion.”

“Me as well,” Jim said.

Anne’s face was now turning red. “You cannot say no to this,” she said. “We’re going to have to insist.”

“Oh, so then you’re not really talking about a voluntary LOA then, are you?” Jim asked. “You’re talking about a suspension without pay.”

“We would prefer to keep this thing on an informal, voluntary basis,” Anne said.

“I’m sure you would,” said Steph. “That’s because you know you don’t have a leg to stand on by trying to do this officially. You can suspend us if you want. You can do it right now, right this minute in fact. But you know that we have the right to union representation if you go official. You know that you have to have a legitimate reason for suspending us. You know that we’ll take this thing all the way to binding arbitration and that when the judge hears why we were suspended, you’ll lose and have to reinstate us with back pay for all the time we missed.”

“I know no such thing,” Anne said. “I’m asking you to think of the children and do the right thing.”

“The children, huh?” Jim said, shaking his head sadly. “Don’t you think that trying to suspend a couple of popular teachers because they put out a music CD would be more of a distraction than just leaving things be?”

“No, I do not think that at all,” she said.

“Well, I guess we aren’t going to be seeing eye to eye on this issue then,” Steph said. “In any case, my answer is no. I will not go on a voluntary LOA. If you want to suspend me, you’re going to have to do it officially.”

“My answer is no as well,” Jim said.

“You two are making a serious mistake,” Anne hissed.

Jim simply shrugged. “I’ve made them before,” he said. “Are we done here?”

“We are not done here!” Anne said. “We need to resolve this issue before you leave.”

“Then I’m afraid,” Steph told her, “that at this point I’m going to refuse to speak anymore to either of you without a union representative present.”

“Me as well,” Jim said.

The vice principal and the principal fumed a little, and blustered a little bit more, but it turned out that the meeting was over after all.

By the third week in January, Together was the most-requested song at radio stations coast to coast in the United States and Canada. The tune resonated with fans of alternative rock and traditional hard rock alike, dominating the 18-35 demographic for both males and females. The song debuted at 67 on the Billboard Hot 100 before the CD was even available for sale. And it began a rapid climb upward from there.

On January 24, the eponymous CD was released for sale across the US and Canada. Jake Kingsley, who was in charge of the Brainwash project and was monitoring things closely—as well as directing every detail of the promotion campaign that Aristocrat Records had put into play—was not expecting much in the way of CD sales at first. That would come, he figured, after the second track to be released—Steph’s What Can I Do?—started to get airplay. He figured that in the first quarter of the year they might sell fifty thousand or so if they were lucky. He was, therefore, quite surprised when Brainwash, the CD, sold more than forty thousand copies in the first week of release. It sold another twenty thousand or so by the time January turned to February.

A little research gave him a partial explanation. More than ninety percent of the first two weeks’ worth of sales were in the New England region. Brainwash had been popular in New England for years and their fans were snatching up the CD once they became aware of its availability. A little further research clarified things a bit more. Well over a third of the purchases were made by the 15 to 25-year-old demographic with the heaviest sales in the Providence region. In other words, younger people in Brainwash’s hometown were snatching up the majority of these early sales. The members of Brainwash were junior high and high school teachers at four different schools in the city’s district and had been teaching new crops of kids there for years. Their students and former students were the people who were buying the CD more than anyone.

“Out of fucking sight,” Jake muttered when he saw the market research documents and figured out what they meant.

Together, meanwhile, continued its way up the Billboard chart with a bullet and broke into the Top 10 on February 12. By the following Sunday, it was at number one, neatly booting TLC’s Creep out of the position it had held for the previous four weeks. It would stay at the top for three weeks straight before Madonna’s Take a Bow was able to displace it.

As the song became a nationwide phenomenon, album sales outside the New England region began to show the sort of upward trend that Jake had initially predicted even while the New England sales slacked off a bit. By the time Together began its slow trip back down the chart in mid-March, Brainwash had sold two hundred and ten thousand copies, almost halfway to Gold status in only two months. It was then that Jake decided to give the band he had discovered a little present. He arranged for a meeting with Miles Crawford, the head of promotions at Aristocrat.

Miles was all smiles and glad-handed cheer when Jake walked into his office that Monday morning. He could not stop gushing about the unexpected success of the Brainwash release and the CD sales they were currently enjoying. Of course, he took full credit for the success of the project, exclaiming about the professionalism, courage, and skill of his web of promoters.

“Yeah,” Jake said, fighting not to roll his eyes. “They’re doing a great job. Now it’s time to bring things to the next level and start generating some more CD sales.”

“What do you mean?” Miles asked.

“We need to release the next single for airplay,” Jake said.

“So soon?” Miles asked. “Jake, Together is still getting tremendous airplay all across the country. They’re even starting to play it in the UK and Australia.”

“I understand,” Jake said. “But if we get What Can I Do? out on the waves with it, and make sure that people understand it is also a Brainwash tune, the album sales will start to climb like a rocket.”

“I don’t think this is a good idea, Jake,” Miles told him. “You should know that the formula in promotion is to wait until the first hit has pretty much de-charted before releasing subsequent hits.”

“I do know that,” Jake said, “but Brainwash is not an ordinary band. They have multiple singers instead of a single vocalist. They have multiple genres of rock. Releasing What right now while everyone is still enjoying Together is the right move to make. It’s Steph’s song and it’s of a completely different style and composition than Together. It’ll resonate in a favorable way and make people start to get curious about what else is on that CD.”

“I don’t think this is prudent,” Miles said. “It’s too early for a second release. We must be patient and not get greedy for album sales right now. They’ll come in time.”

“They’ll come as soon as we start getting airplay for What,” Jake insisted. “I want to start hearing the tune on the radio by Wednesday.”

“I must protest this,” Miles said firmly. “It’s too early.”

“It’s not,” Jake said.

“And not only that, but I strongly recommend that What, as well as all of that lesbian woman’s tracks, be kept as deep cuts. They’re too controversial. In this political climate, no one wants to hear the rantings of an oppressed lesbian.”

“It’s a solid tune that has nothing to do with being a lesbian,” Jake said. “It’s a female empowerment song, an anthem if you will. And, perhaps you’re not aware of this, women make up more than fifty percent of the human race. Tapping into that market will generate sales.”

“I’m sorry, Jake,” Miles said, shaking his head. “I just don’t think this will work out.”

“I don’t really care what you think, Miles,” Jake told him. “I have a contract with you that says all promotional decisions are the exclusive right of KVA Records. I am exercising that right. Now, unless you want to be in breach of contract and forfeit your organization’s royalties on what I suspect is going to be one of the best-selling CDs of the decade, you will do what I say, exactly as I tell you how to do it.”

Miles did what he said, exactly how he told him to do it, and by Wednesday morning, Steph’s song, What Can I Do? was being played for listeners nationwide during the morning and afternoon commute hours, always at the beginning of a set so the DJs could announce that this was the new song from Brainwash.

By the following Wednesday, What Can I Do? was being requested for airplay across the country. And, as Jake predicted, album sales of Brainwash, the CD, began to tick steadily upward, not just in New England this time, but everywhere that CDs were sold.

By the close of west coast business hours on March 31, 1995, the end of the first quarter of the year, Brainwash had sold three hundred and eighteen thousand, four hundred and sixteen CDs and was climbing up the Billboard Hot 100 album chart.

Warwick, Rhode Island

April 14, 1995

For Jim and Marcie Scanlon, the ride that Brainwash was taking seemed almost surreal, as if it were all an illusion and not really happening. For them, life went on pretty much normally. They were aware that their CD was selling like hotcakes, that their two singles were extremely popular—hell, they heard one or the other of the songs pretty much every day during their commutes or while listening to music at home. But otherwise, things pretty much remained the same as they had always been. They struggled from paycheck to paycheck, finding it increasingly difficult to pay all their bills, their credit card debt (they barely managed to make the minimum payments each month and the balances never seemed to get any lower) and still have enough money left over to keep themselves and their children in gas, food, and household staples.

All they were seeing at this point in the game were the downsides of fame. The PTA, for instance, was outraged that members of a rock and roll band who had written and performed songs advocating lesbianism (there were members of the group who had gotten their hands on a copy of the CD and correctly analyzed Steph’s song Wrong Tree), communism (Jim’s song Up in the Tower, which was about the rich exploiting the poor had been interpreted by the same group in this manner) and underage sex (Marcie’s ballad about growing up in rural Louisiana, On the Water’s Edge, mentioned her high school boyfriend nostalgically and had been interpreted as being about this subject) were allowed to have daily access to Providence’s vulnerable children. They had protested in front of the school several times. They had petitioned the school board and even the state legislature several times trying to have the band members forcibly removed from teaching. When none of that worked, many of them demanded that their children not be assigned to classrooms where one of the communist pervert devils was teaching.

All five of the Brainwash members tried the best they could to take all of this in stride, but it was tough sometimes to turn the other cheek and keep showing up for work each day. Anne had all but begged them on multiple occasions to reconsider her offer of a voluntary leave of absence, even going so far to offer to put into writing her guarantee that they would be allowed back to work at the start of the following fall semester.

“It’s for the good of the school,” she insisted. “The good of the children.”

Neither Jim nor Steph took her up on the offer. Nor did Marcie or Jeremy or Rick when similar offers were made to them from their respective schools’ versions of Anne.

And now, the first quarter was over and Jim and Marcie were desperately awaiting their royalty check. Tax Day had been delayed by two days this year thanks to April 15 falling on a Saturday, but come Monday the 17^th, they were going to owe a whopper to both the State of Rhode Island and the United States Internal Revenue Service. And the reason they were in tax trouble this year was because of the Brainwash project. They had been given a twenty-thousand-dollar advance by KVA Records back in May of 1994, their share of the fifty thousand dollars in advance money fronted to the band against future royalties. They had failed to take that money into consideration when figuring out their tax withholding. And now the bill was due. They owed Uncle Sam more than nine thousand dollars in taxes and Aunt Rhode Island nine hundred and fifty-five. And currently, their checking and savings accounts combined had a total of fifty-three dollars and seventy-four cents. Their three credit cards were all maxed out. They were, in short, in big trouble if their royalty checks were not enough to cover what they owed.

“You called Jake, right?” asked Marcie, who had been chewing her fingernails obsessively for the past two weeks, ever since Jim had figured out their taxes using a computer program a friend of his had loaned him. Not believing the result at first, he had then painstakingly figured out the taxes by hand and came to the exact same figures.

“I called him,” he assured her. “He said the check should be here any time.”

“But he didn’t tell you how much it was?” she asked.

“He said he did not have the figure in front of him,” Jim told his wife. “He did say he thought we would be pleased.”

Marcie shook her head in consternation. “Do you really think he doesn’t know?” she asked. “He’s one of the owners of KVA! How can he not know how much money he’s sending us? How can he not know how many albums we’ve sold?”

“What are you suggesting?” Jim asked, looking at her carefully.

“Maybe he’s trying to screw us,” she said.

“I don’t think Jake would do that,” Jim said. “He’s a good man. We lived with him and Laura for three months, remember?”

“I remember,” she said.

“Did he give you the impression that he was someone who was going to screw us?”

“Well ... no, not really ... but he’s from Hollywood, Jim! How do we know what he’s really all about?”

“He’s not from Hollywood,” Jim reminded her. “He’s from Heritage; a little podunk town in northern California.”

“It’s still California,” she insisted.

“Listen,” he said. “We’re worrying about things that are out of our control right now. Let’s just go about our day and see what happens. Mom will be here any minute and we’ve got children we need to corrupt at school.”

She sighed. “I suppose,” she said.

Margaret arrived a few minutes later and Marcie headed for work. Jim helped his mother get the kids up and around and then told his mother they were expecting a very important correspondence that would be arriving by UPS at some point.

“What is it?” his mother asked.

“Our royalty checks from the Brainwash album,” he told her.

His mother wrinkled her nose a bit. She had never particularly understood her son’s music compulsion—it certainly had not come from her side of the family—nor did she particularly approve of it. She had heard his music before—both when he had been with Courage back in the early eighties and with his coworkers back when they had first started performing. She loved her son but thought his music was incomprehensible noise, nothing at all like the sixties and seventies easy-listening staples that her ear enjoyed. Still, he was finally going to be getting paid for his efforts, so that was a good thing, she supposed. “How much are they paying you?” she asked him.

“We won’t know until the check arrives,” he said.

“It sounds like those little songs you have on the radio are popular,” she suggested. “Hopefully, it’s a good amount.”

“Hopefully,” he told her.

He kissed his children goodbye as they ate their cereal at the table and then headed off to work. He spent the day as usual, teaching fifteen to eighteen year olds about the English language.

He had to stop for fuel on the way home from work, putting only eight dollars worth in the tank in light of their dwindling funds. He hoped it would be enough to carry him through until payday but suspected that it would not.

Because of the delay, he arrived at the same time as Marcie, both of them pulling in the garage one after the other.

“Another meeting with the dragon?” asked Marcie as the garage door closed behind them and they stepped into the house.

“No, but I needed some gas.”

She frowned. “I’m going to need some pretty soon too,” she said. “How much did you put in?”

“Just eight dollars.”

“I’ll need at least ten,” she said. “My commute is longer than yours.”

He nodded. “Do you what you gotta do.”

Meghan and Alex both ran to greet them as they entered the house, both of them talking excitedly about their days. They kissed and hugged their children, listened to their tales, and then walked into the living room, where Margaret was sitting on the couch, sipping from a glass of iced tea and watching the People’s Court on the television.

“We’re home, Mom,” Jim told her.

“So I hear,” she said. “Good day?”

“Nothing to complain about,” he told her with a shrug.

“How were the kids?” Marcie asked.

“They were good,” she said. “Meggie and I worked on her reading for a little bit and Alex and I practiced our letters.”

“He’s getting pretty good at them,” Marcie commented. “We really appreciate you coming over every day to help out.”

“What are grandmas for?” she asked. “Oh ... by the way, the UPS guy came today.”

“He did?” Jim asked.

“He brought a big envelope from California,” she said. “I had to sign for it and everything.”

“Where is it?” Marcie asked.

“I put it on the TV,” she said.

Jim and Marcie both rushed into the living room and found an eight and a half by eleven manila envelope sitting on the television set. It was sealed shut. Their names and address were on the front and a return address sticker was in the corner. It was headed KVA Records LLC.

Jim picked up the envelope and practically ripped it open. He reached inside and pulled out a moderately thick sheaf of paperwork, upon which were itemized tallies of CD sales, expenses, cost breakdowns, and other data. Stuck to the front of this was a yellow post-it note. Jim peeled off the note and read it.

Sorry to keep you in suspense,

but I wanted your first checks to be a surprise.

Are you surprised??

Jake

Jim handed the note to Marcie and then dug further in the envelope. Inside were two checks, one made out to Jim, one made out to Marcie, each representing one fifth of the total royalties from first quarter sales of Brainwash minus one fifth of the fifty-thousand-dollar advance money. Jim looked at the amount, at first sure that he was seeing it incorrectly.

$47,314.88 was written in the number box.

And in the longer box: Forty-seven thousand, three hundred fourteen and 88/100 DOLLARS.

This was for real. And there were two checks in this amount, two checks for a total of ... he could not do the math in his head, but roughly ninety-four thousand six hundred dollars. Ninety-four fucking thousand! That was considerably more than the two of them combined made in an entire year.

“Fuck me!” Jim said aloud, lapsing into an expression he had picked up from Jake when they had been staying together in the Coos Bay house.

“Jim!” his mother admonished harshly. “Your language! The children are present.”

“How much is it?” Marcie asked, her eyes showing nervousness. “Did he screw us?”

He handed her check over. She took it and looked at the amount, her eyes growing wide. “Is ... is this right?” she asked.

“It’s right,” Jim told her.

“But ... it’s made out just to me. Does that mean...”

“There are two of them,” Jim said. “One for me and one for you.”

“Yours is ... is the same amount?” she asked.

He nodded slowly. “The checks are identical except for the names.”

His mother’s curiosity was quite aroused now. “How much is it?” she asked.

He slowly handed her the check in his hand. She looked at it and her eyes widened as well. “Forty-seven thousand dollars?” she whispered in awe. “And you both got one of these?”

“That’s right,” Jim said.

“My God,” she said. “And this is only for the first quarter?”

“Yep,” Jim said. “We’ll be getting royalty checks every three months now from here on out.”

“And will they all be this much?” Margaret asked.

“They’ll probably be even more for a while,” Jim said. “The CD sales are just now starting to take off.”

“My God,” Margaret said again.

“Well ... I guess we don’t have to worry about how we’re going to pay our tax bill now,” Marcie said.

“No, I think we’ll be able to cover it,” Jim agreed.

“What about taxes?” Margaret said.

“Oh, we got hit pretty hard this year,” Jim told her. “Mostly because of that advance money KVA gave us. We were kind of worried about how we were going to pay it.”

“How much?” she asked.

“About ten grand,” Jim said.

“Ten thousand dollars?” she said, horrified. “Jim, why didn’t you tell us? You know we would have helped you out.”

“We don’t want to take money from you and Dad, Mom,” he told her. “We dug our hole; we can crawl out of it without help.”

“That’s just your pride talking,” she admonished. “We’re family. When you need help, you just ask.”

He nodded. They had taken their share of help from his parents over the years, and every time they had to, it had gnawed at him for months. Not that his parents had ever held it over his head or even so much as made mention of it ever again, but because it made him feel like he was a failure, that he couldn’t support his family. “We don’t need help now, Mom,” he told her. “I think our ship just came in.”

“The taxes!” Marcie said suddenly.

“I told you, they’re covered,” Jim told her. “We’ll deposit this thing on Monday morning and send out the checks for our tax bills at the same time. These checks will clear long before the IRS and the RIDT deposit our checks.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Marcie said. “Jake told us that we’re responsible for figuring out and paying the taxes on our royalties. We don’t get to keep all of this money.”

“Oh ... yeah, I guess you’re right,” Jim said.

“How much are they going to take in taxes?” Margaret asked.

“I don’t know,” Jim said. “Thirty or forty percent of it maybe?”

“I think you’re going to need to figure that out,” Margaret said.

“Yeah,” Jim agreed. “I’m thinking that another one of our projects for next week will be to find ourselves an accountant.”

Los Angeles, California

April 19, 1995

The dinner party that night was at Jake and Laura’s house; its purpose to serve as a going-away gathering of sorts for Greg Oldfellow, who was leaving on a chartered flight the next morning for Chicago, where principal photography for Us and Them was scheduled to begin on Thursday morning. The mood at the dinner was a bit somber, however, and the conversation mostly dominated by the topic that everyone in the nation was talking about on this day: the bombing of the Federal Building in Oklahoma City that had taken place that morning. This act of terrorism, it was being reported, had cost hundreds of people, many of them children, their lives.

“Fuckin’ ragheads did it,” Greg opined as they ate bacon wrapped filet mignon and sipped Merlot from the Napa Valley. “When they catch those scrotes I hope they just take ‘em out behind the building and bust a fuckin’ cap in their skulls.” Greg said this roughly, with a Midwest drawl, using crude terms he had picked up during his two weeks of ride-a-longs with Chicago PD. He had learned how to talk and carry himself like a hardened street cop and was already working on getting into character for the upcoming project, much to the amusement and sometimes annoyance of his friends and family.

“They have that sketch of the suspect,” Jake pointed out. “Haven’t you seen it? It’s definitely a white guy.”

No one knew at the moment, including the police and FBI agents investigating the incident, that the man in the sketch was already in police custody on a firearms charge. And Greg was advancing the most common theory being floated by most Americans. “I’m sure that dude in the sketch is not the actor,” Greg said assuredly. “He’s probably some tweaker that just happened to be making himself scarce after the bomb blew so he didn’t get jacked up. This has Muslim terrorism written all over it. Just you wait and see.”

“I guess we’ll have to,” Jake said. “I just can’t conceive of anyone blowing up a building with regular office workers and their children inside. It’s horrible.”

“And in Oklahoma City,” said Celia, shaking her head sadly. “Not New York, or Los Angeles, but Oklahoma City. If they will hit there, they’ll hit anywhere.”

“That was undoubtedly their point,” said Laura. “Nobody is safe.”

Finally, they tired of talking of it and switched to other topics. Everyone had long since gotten bored with the endlessly ongoing OJ Simpson murder trial, so they talked instead of the ongoing success of the Brainwash project.

“I must admit,” Greg said. “When Celia first told me about this band of teachers, I had my doubts, but you made the call, Jake. They’re selling like wildfire.”

“I am actually kind of surprised by how right I was about them,” Jake said. “I knew they would be popular, but this thing is turning into a monster.”

“I like this kind of monster,” Celia said with a smile.

“What’s the next move with them?” Greg asked. “Are you going to send them out on tour? Are they going to make any music videos?”

“We’re not in a position to finance a Brainwash tour at this point in time,” Jake said. “And, truthfully, we don’t really need one. The album is selling quite well without the tour. And, as for music videos, we don’t really do that at KVA, as you might have noticed.”

“Yes, I know that you and C don’t believe in them,” Greg said. “But maybe it would help Brainwash to get their music out in that format?”

Jake shook his head. “I can’t see that being cost-effective, as Jill would say. The money we would spend producing a video would not increase sales enough to justify the expense. Besides, we kind of like to keep the Brainwash members somewhat of a mystery. So far, they’ve not given a single interview or appeared on any media. A few rags did some stories about their background as teachers in Providence and their popularity in the New England clubs, but we don’t even have pictures of them or basic biographies on the CD insert. Just their names and the instruments they play.”

“Do you think the mystery adds to their popularity?” asked Laura.

“To some degree, yes,” Jake said. “But that’s not the only reason. They’re camera shy. They know they’re not glamorous-looking and they would just as soon keep in the shadows for now.”

“And they’re going to keep working as teachers?” asked Greg.

“For now, that is their plan,” Jake said. “We’ll see what happens after a few more royalty checks come rolling in.”

They polished off two bottles of Merlot during dinner. After Elsa shooed them out of the dining room so she could start cleanup, Laura and Celia opened a bottle of white wine and sat on the couch to discuss girl things while Jake poured Greg and himself snifters of Cognac and grabbed a few cigars out of the humidor. Greg was still apparently unaware that his wife enjoyed a little puff on a stogie on occasion herself.

They lit up out on the deck, looking at the city lights of Los Angeles and enjoying the pleasant night breeze of spring.

“It won’t be this nice in Chicago,” Greg said whimsically. “I checked the weather there earlier from our computer.”

“From your computer?” Jake asked.

“That’s right,” Greg said. “We’re on this internet thing now. Nerdly set it up for us a few weeks ago. It’s actually quite amusing. I can call up weather reports from anywhere in the world, basically.”

“He’s been telling me that,” Jake said. “So far, I haven’t jumped on the wagon. I’m afraid that if I start getting into it, I won’t spend as much time working on my music. Especially once the porn starts rolling in.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about that,” Greg said dismissively. “While the world wide web is interesting and it’s easy to look up something like the Chicago weather or to send one of those email messages to someone, I don’t really see any practical use for it in the long term.”

“No?” Jake asked.

Greg shook his head. “I’m sure it’s just a passing fad and that it won’t end up going anywhere in the long term. But for now, it’s just a few clicks of the mouse to find out that it’s going to be forty-eight degrees and windy when we land in Chicago tomorrow. And that there is rain forecast for the day that we’re supposed to start our first photography takes.”

“Email, huh?” Jake said. “I heard Nerdly going on about that a few weeks ago. He says it’s going to replace the US Postal Service eventually. That no one will ever send letters or memos to anyone in another ten years.”

Greg shook his head again. “I find that really hard to believe,” he prophesized.

They puffed their cigars a bit and then had a few sips of Cognac.

“I’ve been kind of busy with the Brainwash project these past few months,” Jake said. “You haven’t told me how things are going with our favorite actress.”

“Mindy Snow,” Greg said. He shrugged. “We’ve been in meetings together on multiple occasions now. We’ve even done some basic readings of some of our primary scenes in the script. So far ... nothing unusual to report. She’s been polite and very professional with me the entire time. She seems to be taking her role very seriously.”

“Really?” Jake asked.

“It’s the truth,” he said. “She has made no allusions to anything. In fact, she has pretty much only talked business with me when we’ve been together. Like I said, very professional, very goal oriented.”

“Interesting,” Jake said. “I find that a particularly ominous development.”

“Maybe she’s turned over a new leaf?” Greg suggested.

“No,” Jake said firmly. “There is no new leaf for Mindy Snow. Watch your ass.”

Greg nodded. “If there’s one thing I learned how to do when I was riding with Chicago PD on the south side, it’s how to watch my ass.”

“Are you coming to the studio tomorrow?” Celia asked Laura as she poured the two of them fresh glasses of white wine. Tomorrow Jake and Celia planned to meet at ten o’clock in the morning at KVA’s studio in Santa Clarita. Both had the basics of ten to twelve tunes they had worked up and they wanted to get started on their next albums.

“I don’t know,” Laura said with a shrug. “Should I?”

“You should,” Celia told her. “Has Jake played any of his tunes for you yet?”

“A few,” she said. “I like to listen to him strum and sing and he likes to ask me what I think of the melodies and the lyrics.”

“That’s because you’re a musician,” Celia said. “You have insight into the art. I’d love to hear your opinion on some of my work too.”

“If you really think I’ll be helpful,” Laura said.

“I really think you will,” Celia said. “And you should bring your sax with you too. Jake says you’ll be our sax player this next round?”

She nodded. “I’m out of practice, but I promised him I would play.”

“Then you should start plugging in as soon as possible. I’ve already got five songs in mind that will need an alto sax as either the primary melody or for the fills. It would be nice to hear you play it out for me so I can see if I’m on track or not.”

“All right,” she said. “I guess I’ll be there. It’s time I started getting back into the groove again.”

“I’ll be looking forward to it,” Celia said happily. “And there’s another thing. Do you have any plans for this weekend?”

“This weekend, no.” she said. “Remember, I’m currently unemployed. I don’t even have housewife responsibilities thanks to Elsa. Why do you ask?”

“I’m driving to Palm Springs on Friday morning,” Celia told her. “My friend Suzie is going to meet me there.”

“Suzie the pilot?” Laura asked.

Celia nodded. “That’s the one.”

“The one you had the little crush on?”

“The one I have the little crush on,” Celia said. “We’re going to have a girl’s weekend at the Palm Spring house. I invited her a few weeks ago when she came up to visit Greg and I and ... well ... she took me up on it.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Probably not,” Celia said. “I resisted her the whole time we were out on tour and I’m pretty sure I can resist her now, but ... well ... you’re one of my best friends too, and you’re one of the girls, and ... well ... I thought it would fun if you joined us.”

“Is there more to it than that?” Laura asked.

“Maybe a little,” Celia said. “I thought things might be a little easier on everyone involved if ... well ... I had a chaperone with me.”

“You want me to be your chaperone?” Laura asked.

“I think it would be a prudent precaution,” Celia said meaningfully. “Say you’ll do it, Teach. For me?”

Laura smiled. “I’ll do it,” she said. “As long as Jake doesn’t mind.”

“Deal,” Celia said with a smile. “You’ll be my guardian against licentious temptation.”

Yes, Laura thought, I’ll be your guardian. But she couldn’t help but think of the words of Juvenal, the second century Roman poet who had asked the ubiquitous question: But who guards the guardians?

The very next afternoon, while Jake, Celia, and Laura were in the KVA Studios building, strumming out the very beginnings of the tunes that would hopefully appear on their next albums, Matt Tisdale received one of the strangest phone calls of his life.

He was sitting in his house in San Juan Capistrano, a sheaf of musical scores before him that he was editing for clarity. He and his band were going to be hitting the recording studio in National’s basement next week to start work on his third album. He was very excited about this album as he was doing some entirely new sounds with his guitars and his effects pedals. He could not wait to start laying down some tracks.

He had just taken his fourth bong hit of the day and was sipping from his second Jack and Coke. He lit a cigarette and took a few drags and was just starting to think about crunching up a nice line of Bolivian flake when he heard the phone ring. He ignored it as usual, knowing that Chuckie would pick it up and screen the caller for him.

About a minute later, Charles came into the room carrying the cordless phone in his hands.

“Mr. Tisdale,” the butler said apologetically, “I am aware of your feelings on the matter, but I have Mr. Bill Archer on the line, and he insists on speaking to you.”

Matt looked at him to see if this was some kind of fucking joke, although as far as he knew, Chuckie possessed no sense of humor. Chuckie did not seem like he was anything but serious.

“Nerdly is on the phone?” Matt said. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I am not, sir,” Charles said. “He insists upon talking to you.”

“Well, I don’t want to talk to him,” Matt said. “I thought I’d made that quite fucking clear on multiple fucking occasions.”

“You have, sir,” Charles said, “but he says it is of the utmost importance.”

“The utmost importance?”

“Correct, sir. He says it is regarding a promise he once made to you.”

“What fucking promise?” Matt demanded.

“He did not enlighten me to what the particular promise was. He only said that he wished to relay some information to you and that it is for your ears only.”

Matt’s curiosity started to get the better of his anger now. What the fuck could Nerdly possibly be talking about? Had something happened to Jake, perhaps? Had he crashed his fucking plane and killed his sellout ass? That thought seemed like a reasonable possibility. And, to his surprise, the notion that Kingsley might be dead did not delight him as he would have sworn it would. It actually filled him with a sense of dread and foreboding.

“All right,” Matt said, holding out his hand. “Give me the fucking phone.”

Charles handed the phone over and then quickly retreated from the room. Matt looked at it for a moment, considered just hanging it up for a second, and then realized he had to know what this shit was about. He put it to his ear.

“This is Matt,” he said. “Is this really you, Nerdly?”

“It’s really me, Matt,” the familiar voice said. “I know you have requested no contact with any of us, but I’m just fulfilling a promise I once made to you.”

“What promise are you talking about?” Matt asked.

“Eleven years ago,” Nerdly said. “On the day we met with Crow and Doolittle in the National Records building and gave them that cassette tape with the substandard music on it. Do you remember that?”

“Uh ... yeah,” Matt said. “Of course I remember that.” And he did. That had been the first shot of their breach of contract strike, when they had put a bunch of crap tunes on tape for submission knowing that National would reject them, but legally fulfilling the requirement that they make a ‘good faith’ attempt to produce marketable music for the label. “What the fuck does that have to do with anything? I don’t remember any promise.”

“It was before we gave them the tape,” Nerdly said. “We were talking about the rise of the online computer industry and how pornography would one day be available for free and would be easily accessible on the platform.”

“What?!” Matt barked. “You better start making some fucking sense, Nerdly, or I’m hanging up this goddamn phone.”

“You asked me to let you know when we reached the point that online pornography was freely available at a whim so you could then join the computer revolution. I promised I would let you know when that happened. That’s why I’m calling you now.”

“What?!” Matt barked again.

“We have reached that point,” Nerdly said. “Pornographic images, mostly still-shots at this point because that’s all that current bandwidth in its present form will support in a reasonable amount of time, are now readily available to those who know how to access them. Thousands of images of all varieties. All you have to do is have a computer connected to the internet. Once you have that, you need to access the Usenet bulletin boards and download the images one by one. They are categorized broadly and quite specifically. For instance, if you like images of lesbians, there is alt.usenet.binaries.lesbians. And if you like bestiality, there is...”

“This is what you fucking called me for?” Matt demanded.

“Yes,” Nerdly said. “I made a promise to you. I keep my promises.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Nerdly,” Matt said. “You are a fucking freak! I’m hanging up now. Do not ever call me again, for fucking anything!”

“Okay, Matt,” Nerdly said lightly. “I’m sorry if my communication upset you. I just wanted you to know.”

“All right, I fucking know,” Matt said. “Now fuck off.”

“Fucking off,” Nerdly said. And then the phone clicked.

Matt stared at the handset for a moment, still in disbelief over what had just happened. Fucking Nerdly! Jesus fucking Christ, what a geek!

He set the phone down on the desk and tried to go back to work. But now he couldn’t keep his mind on what he was doing. After a few minutes, he stood up and walked out of the room.

Kim was sitting on the couch, drinking a glass of tea and smoking a cigarette while she watched the latest update on the OJ trial. She was dressed in a pair of yellow shorts and a half shirt. Her blonde hair was down on her shoulders. She looked up at him as he walked into the room and stood before her.

“What’s up?” she asked him.

“What do you know about online bulletin boards?” he asked her.