Standing On Top

Chapter 5b

The prevailing rumor over the next few weeks was that Darren was a vegetable, languishing on life-support without awareness or comprehension, only waiting for someone to make the decision to pull the plug. This was not even close to the truth. Darren remained on a ventilator because his respiratory muscles no longer had the strength to draw air into his lungs. His arms and legs remained flaccid because they no longer had the strength to move. Darren's brain, however, was still quite in the game. He was kept heavily sedated much of the time in order to spare him the discomfort of having a breathing tube crammed into his trachea, a catheter crammed in his urethra, and a diaper wrapped around his ass, but he was lucid, or at least semi-lucid, in the intervals between drug doses. He could hear and understand and he could even communicate, though not verbally because of the endotracheal tube. He mother had flown in from Heritage and was staying in the downtown apartment Matt rented to sleep in during the workweek when recording or rehearsing was in progress (Matt's house in San Juan Capistrano was too far away for convenient daily commuting). She visited Darren for at least four hours every day, sitting beside him and reading to him or talking to him. One of Darren's fellow band members or Pauline visited every day as well, although usually only for an hour or so. Darren could nod or shake his head slightly for yes or no responses and his eyes could track a conversation. There was no gauging how his spirits were actually doing though because of the drugs he was on.

As the date began to approach for release of the new album public interest in it began to swell unlike any of their previous releases. Crow didn't even have to let slip that the title cut was the song that had prompted the breakup between Michelle Borrows (now Rourke) and Jake. Michelle herself took care of that quite nicely.

"That song is the vile and disgusting condemnation of The Bible that finally forced me to pull myself away from Kingsley and back to The Lord," she stated during an appearance on Wake Up USA. "If there was any decency left in the country it would be illegal to sell such an offensive and obscene lyrical arrangement to anyone, especially children."

The proverbial shit really hit the proverbial fan when National began to advertise the up and coming album in various magazines and the ads displayed a picture of the album cover. Within forty-eight hours every major Christian organization in the country was up in arms over what they considered the worst kind of blasphemy.

They have the nerve to actually show the holy cross on their album cover, read a press release from one such group. They mock the most sacred symbol of Christianity in order to sell albums to our children. There was now mention in this tirade, or in any other, that this particular cross had been cemented into Jake's yard in the middle of the night by alleged Christians.

Putting out of context biblical verses on a satanic band's album cover is completely over the line, read the press release from the national Family Values Coalition headquarters. There are times when the First Amendment simply allows too much. I hardly think this is the sort of speech our Founding Fathers were worried about protecting. This album needs to be banned from release to the public and from airplay on public airwaves.

And, of course, Crow and the rest of the bigwigs at National Records couldn't have been happier. They knew there wasn't a chance in hell that any judge would ever rule that It's In The Book needed to be banned but the publicity the furor was producing was absolutely priceless. In the boardrooms of the National Records Building it was thought that It's In The Book might very well be the fastest selling LP of all time. They eagerly awaited its release so they could start reaping their rewards. Their only regret was that Intemperance was operating under their new contract and would siphon a good portion of that profit for themselves.

It was on November 2, two weeks before Book's release, that Crow called Pauline and the remaining band members for a meeting in his office. They started off with the usual preliminaries — Crow offered them drinks and cocaine and they all refused, settling instead for soda, water, coffee, or tea. Finally, with a look of trepidation, Crow got down to the business at hand.

"We need to start putting the tour together," he told them.

"What fuckin' tour?" Matt asked. "Haven't you been reading the goddamn newspapers? Our bass player is in the hospital on fuckin' life support."

"I'm aware of that," Crow said. "I'm also aware that he is going to be in there for at least six months, maybe more. It will be more than a year before he regains enough strength to stand up to the rigors of touring... if ever."

"So what are you saying?" Jake asked.

"The show must go on," Crow said. "We need to start looking for a replacement for Darren."

The argument over this raged for more than three days. At times it seemed like everybody was pitted against everyone else. Initially all four band members and Pauline completely rejected the idea of replacing Darren — even on a temporary basis.

"He's a fuck-up and a heroin addict," Matt said, "and sometimes it seems like a roomful of houseplants with the right sort of fertilizer might be able to outthink him, but he's our fuck-up, our heroin addict, our dumbshit. He's been with the band since day fucking one, even before Jake and Nerdly. We owe him some fuckin' loyalty, Crow! I ain't gonna go hiring some fuckin' hacker to replace him just because he's sick."

"Didn't you tell him that if he ever used heroin again he was out of the band?" Crow asked. "Well... he's used it again, hasn't he?"

"That was a threat, Crow," Jake said, glancing at Coop nervously. Coop had been given the same threat. "It wasn't a completely empty threat, mind you. If he had started missing meetings or showing up to rehearsal loaded, we would have carried through with it. But it was not intended as an absolute."

"Yeah, man," Coop agreed. "He just had a little slip back into the shit and then had some bad luck with this botulism thing. That don't mean we gotta kick his ass out."

"I won't vote to replace him under these circumstances," Nerdly said firmly. The rest of the band agreed.

Pauline was the first to change her mind. It wasn't really changed, per se, but forced into transition by the realities of the situation. The band was contractually obligated to go out on tour. Their new contract gave them the right to plan their tour, to veto any act proposed by National for their tour, and to come up with the song order and list for their tour, but it did not give them the right to refuse to tour.

"What the fuck do you mean we have to go on tour?" Matt demanded when she shared this uncomfortable news with him. "We can't control the fact that our bass player is sick."

"That doesn't matter, Matt," Pauline said.

"What the fuck do you mean it doesn't matter?" he yelled.

"Look," she said, remaining her usual calm, cool, and collected self. "I understand how we all feel about Darren. I'm talking about things from a strictly legal standpoint and from how a judge and jury would look at this thing if push came to shove. If there were a reasonable prohibition from touring that would be one thing. National wouldn't be able to demand you go out there."

"Not having a bass player is not a reasonable prohibition?" Jake asked.

"No, it is not," she said. "Darren is not a key member of the band and he is easily replaced. If Matt or Jake or possibly even Bill were the one laying on life-support in a hospital we could make the argument that you were irreplaceable to the band. That argument simply does not stand up with the bass player or the drummer — sorry, Coop, but that's the way it is."

"Yeah," Coop grunted sourly.

"The simple fact of the matter is that if you don't get a new bass player and get out on tour in a reasonable amount of time, National will have a valid basis to claim breach of contract. And, as you know, if National can get a breach of contract ruling, you will revert to your original contract immediately, which means that you'll all lose the income from what is obviously going to be your best selling album so far."

This argument was a very persuasive one indeed. Jake and Nerdly both reluctantly agreed that — as painful and distasteful as it seemed — they were going to have to find someone to take Darren's place and hit the road. Matt and Coop refused to budge on their stances at first.

"Then put us back to the goddamn original contract," Matt proclaimed. "What the fuck is money anyway? It sure as shit ain't as important as loyalty to your fuckin' friends!"

"Yeah!" Coop agreed, casting evil glares at Jake and Nerdly. "If Darren ain't going then I ain't going. National can lick my hairy balls!"

"This is a mess, Jake," Pauline told her brother later that night as they sat on his balcony slamming shots of tequila and washing them down with Corona beer. "I can't believe those two are willing to sacrifice everything we've all worked for just because of misplaced loyalty."

"They'll come around," Jake predicted, lighting his thirty-seventh cigarette of that most trying day. "I'll talk to them privately tomorrow and hopefully they'll start to see the light."

"Hopefully," she said. "I better call for a limo now or I'll end up puking in it later."

Jake did talk to the two of them the next day and he was finally able to put things into a proper perspective for them.

"Look," he said, "put aside your feelings for Darren for now. That's how I was able to come to the conclusion I've come to."

"By abandoning a band mate?" Matt asked. "That's real fuckin' rich!"

"No," Jake said, "that's not what I'm doing at all. Did you ever stop to think that National wants nothing more than for us to refuse to go out on tour?"

"What are you talking about?" Coop asked.

"If we refuse to tour, they get to revert us back to the original contract," Jake said. "What that means is they'll rake in almost all of the profit from It's In The Book, which will probably sell at least five million copies over the next year or so, not to mention five or six million in singles sales. That's an ass-load of money for them if they don't have to share as much of it with us. How much do you think they're anticipating making from the tour?"

"I don't know," Matt said thoughtfully. "Why don't you tell me?"

"They would make profit off the tour, don't get me wrong there. We would sell out every venue and I wouldn't be surprised if they jacked up the ticket prices a little just to pull in more. But no matter how much they make off of us touring, it wouldn't be a tenth of what they'd stand to make if we reverted back to the old contract and they got to cheat us blind again."

"Wow," Coop said slowly as he pondered this.

"I never really thought of it that way," Matt said.

"Guys, seriously, I love Darren like a brother — a fucked-up, pain-in-the-ass brother, but a brother nonetheless. I don't make a decision like this lightly. We don't have to kick him out of the band, we can just hire a temporary replacement. If we don't go out on tour, though, we're all gonna get fucked — including Darren — and National is going to be the only one who wins."

Jake's speech did the trick. Within twenty-four hours Coop and Matt had signed on with the plan to go on tour and the search began for a new bassist.

"I'm glad you're finally seeing things our way," Crow told them in his office the next day.

"Yeah yeah," Matt said sourly. "And if chickens could fly you wouldn't be able to felch with their wings."

Crow puzzled over that one for a few moments and then shook his head. "Anyway," he told them, "I've taken the liberty of putting together profiles on four of our studio bass players for you." He pulled four file folders from his desk and set them down before the band. "I would recommend John Clampsy here." He tapped the top folder. "He's been doing sessions with us for six years now and is probably the best of the four."

"Studio musicians?" Jake asked. "You want us to pick a studio bass player?"

"What's wrong with that?" Crow asked.

"Well... in the first place, we don't know any of these people."

"And in the second place they all suck ass," Matt added.

"They're professional musicians," Crow said. "How can you possibly say they aren't good without hearing them first?"

"I don't need to hear them," Matt said. "They're spending their lives playing movie soundtrack bits for you at a little over minimum wage and minor royalties. If they were touring band caliber they wouldn't be here."

"That's not true!" Crow said. "Where do you come up with this shit, Matt?"

"Look, Crow," Jake said. "I'm sure your studio guys are decent with their instruments for what you have them doing, but none of these guys have ever toured before, have they?"

"Well... no, not on a major label tour, but..."

"We want someone with touring experience," Jake said. "We want someone who knows what it's like to ride on a bus for sixteen hours at a time for weeks on end. I don't think a studio musician would have what it takes to put up with that."

"And Intemperance is a fuckin' exclusive club," Matt said. "We ain't letting just any hacker in here, especially not one who would be nothing but a spy for you."

"A spy?" Crow said. "You're getting paranoid, Matt."

"Paranoid?" Matt asked. "When you work for an organization that once bugged Jake's phone just to see who he was dating, I don't think it's really possible to write off anything you people do as mere paranoia."

"I had nothing to do with that," Crow said. "That was Acardio."

"There's no need to dwell too much on the past," Jake said. "But I think our position is clear. We want an experienced touring musician, preferably someone we know or have at least met."

"Who did you have in mind?" Crow asked.

"How about Fran Jeffers from Caliper?" Matt asked. Caliper was a popular thrash metal band that had followed in the wake of groups like Motley Crue and Slayer. "I partied with them two years ago when they came through on their Sustentations tour. Caliper just broke up three months ago, didn't they? Maybe we could try to get Jeffers."

Crow had been shaking his head the entire time. "Caliper was signed with Columbia Records. They broke up before their contract was expired. There's no way in hell Columbia is going to release him from the contract so he can come work with us."

"What the fuck is up with you record company assholes?" Matt yelled. "It sounds like we're talking about buying a fuckin' slave here."

"In a way," Pauline said, "that's exactly what it's like."

"Look, guys," Crow said, "I understand where you're coming from here — really, I do — but I don't think we're going to find a touring experienced bass player who happens to be free of a contract just laying around doing nothing. Our goal here is to get you guys out on tour as quickly as possible. I really think the only way to do that is to go with one of our studio musicians."

Before Matt could go on another tirade, Nerdly suddenly spoke up. "I have somebody in mind who just might be an acceptable choice to all involved parties."

Everyone looked at him. "Who?" Crow asked.

"Charlie Meyer," he said.

"Charlie Meyer?" Jake asked. "From Birmingham?" Birmingham was a southern rock group that had signed with National just over three years before. They had recorded a single album that had produced a single top ten hit that was nominated for a Grammy in 1985. Unfortunately, when they failed to win that Grammy, National had elected not to invest in a second album and the band had faded from view — another one-hit-wonder group that few even remembered now. The only reason the members of Intemperance knew who Charlie Meyer was was because Birmingham had been their opening band on the The Thrill Of Doing Business tour.

"That's him," Nerdly confirmed. He looked at Crow. "Ever since you refused to finance their second album he's been working in West Hollywood at a Speedy-Lube. He's not able to work as a musician anywhere but here since he's still under contract with you, but the guys over in media sounds have been using him for twenty or thirty hours a month to do the bass on movie soundtracks."

"They have?" Crow asked, surprised. Though he had been Birmingham's A&R rep when they'd been hot, he hadn't given a thought to them in more than two years.

"Yep," Nerdly confirmed.

"How do you know this, Nerdly?" Jake asked.

Nerdly looked a little embarrassed. "Well... I've been spending some of my free time in the studio helping some of the guys with their mixing. I was here about a month ago when they were mixing the soundtrack for the next Star Trek flick and Charlie was in there doing overdubs on the bass tracks. We went and had a few drinks and some smoke after the session."

"No shit?" Jake asked. "How's he doing?"

"He seems like he's almost suicidal," Nerdly said. "He's living in a one room apartment in Hollywood and pays the rent by lubing cars for minimum wage. He picks up a hundred dollars or so a month with the studio sessions they throw him and he's just waiting for their contract to expire so he can be a real musician again."

"How sad for him," Crow said, rolling his eyes. "But you have to remember..."

"You know why the studio likes to use him?" Nerdly asked, interrupting Crow.

"Why?" Matt asked.

"They say he's one of the best bass players they've ever heard," Nerdly said. "He can pick up a rhythm that someone else has laid down and replay it to perfection without even seeing the notes on paper. They want to use him full time down there but he doesn't want to get locked into the whole studio musician contract."

Jake and Matt were looking at each other and passing good signals back and forth. "Meyer was a good bass player," Jake said. "I caught their act while they were opening for us. He knows what he's doing."

"We partied with him a few times too," Matt said. "He's an okay guy. A little strange, but no more so than Nerdly here."

"I'm not strange," Nerdly said, offended.

"Uh... guys," Crow cut in, "before you start painting his name on a locker, I think we need to talk about this a bit. Meyer is still operating under the Birmingham contract. If I remember correctly, they're obligated to the terms of that agreement until late in 1990. He can't just go joining another band like some guy off the street."

"Why not?" Pauline asked. "National holds his contract. You can release him from it if you want."

"If we release Meyer from the contract we have to release the entire band from it," Crow said. "That would leave them free to get back together and start playing for a different label."

"Oh give me a fuckin' break, Crow," Matt said. "You guys are one of the biggest labels in the world and you didn't want to record a second Birmingham album right after their first one. Who in the fuck is going to sign them now, three years later?"

"They could also go on tour again," Crow said. "There is no way that Mr. Doolittle or Mr. Casting will allow release of their contract."

"You're making this up as you go along, Crow," Pauline said.

"Excuse me?" he said, seemingly insulted.

"Don't bullshit a professional bullshitter," she said. "National owns the rights to every Birmingham song. Even if they did form up again they can't perform any of those songs in front of an audience for the next twenty-five years without your agreement. So if nobody is going to sign them as Birmingham and if they can't even do a reunion tour, what's the big deal about releasing them?"

"They could start doing solo efforts," Crow said. "They could start playing with other bands again."

"So?" Jake asked. "How much money would you lose from that? You don't have any intention of letting them record something. You just want to punish them for not selling more albums."

"Actually, I think it's a little more than that," Pauline said.

"Oh?" Crow said condescendingly. "And suppose you tell me just what this is about?"

"Gladly," she said. "Jake hit the nail on the head a few days ago. You don't want Intemperance to go out on tour. You want to be able to claim breach of contract so you can revert to the old contract and keep all the album and single revenue for yourselves."

"That is not true," Crow said. "You're getting as paranoid as Matt, Pauline."

"Maybe," she said, "but there's one thing you're not considering here. A little legal fine point with this situation turns your open and shut case to something a little more up in the air. "

"What's that?" Crow said warily. He had witnessed Pauline's legal skills before and had learned — the hard way — to respect them.

"The guys here are making a reasonable effort to work with you on this whole bass player thing," she said. "They've agreed to hire a replacement for Darren and go out on tour. They've informed you of their choice of bass player and there is no real reason for you — National Records management — to reject that choice. If you do reject Meyer and you then try to push a breach of contract ruling because the band does not accept your choices as replacement and go out on tour, I will go into court and argue that it is you, National Records, who are being unreasonable. I think if I were to do that and put Jake, Nerdly, and Matt up on the stand to testify to this matter, a jury might just see your scheme for what it is. They would probably reject any breach of contract charge."

"Your paranoia is showing again," Crow said uncomfortably. "There is no plot to try to keep the band from going on tour."

"Uh huh," Pauline said. "In any case, I'd suggest you take this matter up with Doolittle and Casting and start talking about releasing Birmingham from their contract. You need to advise them that we are prepared, once again, to go to the wall on this. I want you to call me the first thing in the morning with your decision. Once it's in — and I have no doubt they'll see things our way once they know the facts — we'll go talk to Meyer ourselves and ask him if he's interested. And before you even think to do it, don't try anything stupid like contacting Meyer and threatening him about rejecting our proposal. I think that between Matt, Jake, and myself we can override any threats your puny little minds could think to lay on him."

Crow was stunned, looking like he'd just gone a round or two with a heavyweight champion.

"Do you understand, Crow?" Pauline asked sweetly.

"Yes," he finally said. "I understand."

The phone call came in to Pauline's business line at 9:10 the next morning. It was Crow. "If Meyer is interested in playing with Intemperance until Appleman is better, we will release Birmingham from their contract," he said.

"Very good," Pauline said. "I thought you'd see things my way. Can you get Meyer's address for me?"

"I have it right here," he said. He read off a Hollywood address and Pauline wrote it down.

"Thank you, Crow," she said. "We'll get back with you later today regarding his decision."

"You do that," he said. "If he agrees, we'll set him up with a separate contract from the rest of the band. It will stipulate that..."

"Nope," Pauline interrupted. "We're not going to do that."

"Excuse me?"

"If Meyer signs on he'll be covered under the same contract as the other members of Intemperance," she said. "He'll be given his cut of fifty percent of the tour profits, paid quarterly, and will be allowed to sign on for any endorsement contracts he can come up with."

"Now wait a minute," Crow said. "Nobody said anything about..."

"And furthermore," Pauline said, "he will be subjected to the same rules as the other band members. We're hiring him as a temp, but from your standpoint he will be nothing more or less than a full-fledged replacement for Darren. That means the band will be the one to fire him if they feel they need to, not you."

"We did not agree to any of this," Crow said.

"But you will," she said. "If Meyer becomes a member of this group it will be with all of the protections I can offer him. I will not be a party to the ruthless exploitation that you in that building force upon the musicians who work for you. Do I make myself clear, Crow?"

"Yeah," he said at last. "You make yourself clear."

Charlie Meyer's apartment complex was two blocks away from the complex Jake and Nerdly had lived in while recording Descent Into Nothing, the first Intemperance album. It was two blocks away but it was miles more depressing and squalid. Composed of run-down post-war units whose better days had been back when Chuck Berry had been king, it was now full of parolees, drug addicts, hookers, and hopeless alcoholics. Charlie's apartment was on the second floor, near the very back of the complex. At 10:30 AM he sat in a battered easy chair watching an old black and white television set with rabbit ears on top of it.

Charlie was sitting in a pair of torn and filthy denim cut-offs. He was shirtless, his hair unwashed and hanging down around his shoulders, his face showing several days worth of stubble. The odor of sour sweat and cigarette smoke hung around him like a cloud. The television was tuned to an old episode of The Andy Griffith Show and the living room floor was cluttered with beer cans, laundry, cigarette butts, and old food containers. As Andy and Barney replaced the homemade pickles in Aunt Bee's pickle jars with store bought pickles, Charlie dug through a pile of debris on his end table and came up with a half-empty pack of generic cigarettes. He took one out and lit up, dropping the match into an empty beer can. He dragged thoughtfully and then looked up at the wall above the television, the wall where two gold records had been hung amid a display of framed photographs of him and his bass guitar.

When Nerdly had said that Charlie seemed "almost suicidal" he hadn't been kidding. A dark depression was constantly hanging over him, a depression that had started more than two and half years ago but that was now threatening to strangle him into nothingness. More and more these days he seemed to find himself thinking about the National Records Building only fifteen blocks away from where he now sat. He thought about how easy it would be to walk into that building on any given weekday and take the elevator up to the top floor. From there it was an easy trip to the observation platform up on the roof. From there, it was an easy climb to the top of the barricade that blocked access to the street two hundred and forty feet below. Wouldn't that be a fitting end for a disgraced rock star? Would there even be an obituary for him in the Birmingham News? What would be waiting for him in the next life? It would have to be better than what was waiting for him in this life, wouldn't it?

Charlie was twenty-six years old on this day. He had been born and raised in Birmingham, Alabama, raised by his mother and a succession of verbally and sometimes physically abusive stepfathers. He had started playing music in sixth grade and had been a band geek all the way through school, playing the trumpet, the trombone, the obo, and even the drums for a brief stint during his high school days. He had picked up the bass his senior year in high school, taking it to it like Matt Tisdale to a threesome with two groupie sluts. From there he had joined a series of local bands, eventually finding his way to that magic combination that had initially been called Stratos. They had enjoyed a year's worth of popularity in the Birmingham clubs before Mike Landry, their singer and songwriter, had sent one of their demo tapes to a Los Angeles agent and they'd been discovered. They'd changed their name to Birmingham at the suggestion of Steve Crow, their A&R guy and then the roller coaster ride had started.

Everything after that seemed like such a dream now that sometimes he wondered if it had really happened. Only the two gold records on the wall — one for their album, Southern Nights and one for their only single, Texas Hold-em — could convince him at times that it had been real. They had recorded their album and had heard their song played on the radio. They'd watched it go all the way to number one and then off they'd gone on concert tour, opening for the legendary Intemperance at cities all across the nation. They'd lived the good life, the life they'd always dreamed of, with groupies sucking their dicks in the shower, with bowls full of pot in their dressing room, with cocaine shoved under their nose day and night. They'd lived in luxurious condos with servants and traveled in limousines. They'd even been nominated for a Grammy award, perhaps the pinnacle of it all.

After failing to win the Grammy everything had crashed down around them in a matter of weeks. National refused to invest in a second album, stating poor sales and anticipated weaker sales on a second as the reason. They were told they were not allowed to play as musicians until the six year contract expired and then they were kicked out of their condos and onto the street, all of them owing National somewhere in the neighborhood of seventy thousand dollars in unpaid recoupable expenses, most of which was for the drugs, alcohol, and housing they'd used during the course of their careers.

Charlie was the only one still in Hollywood. Mike and the others had returned to Alabama long before and all of them were now working menial jobs in factories, in fast food stores, in retail outlets. Mike himself was now selling used cars the last Charlie had heard. Charlie, however, had never been able to quite admit to himself that it was really over, that his entire music career had come and gone in less than a year. He'd secured this apartment and gotten a job at the Speedy-Lube in West Hollywood and he'd kept his name as much on the minds of the National Records staffers as he could. Eventually, about a year ago, his desperate efforts began to pay off. Recognizing him as a talented bass player they'd started using him for the occasional overdub work on some of their entertainment industry recordings. The pay was a pittance and the work was far beyond intermittent but it was enough to make him feel like he was still a professional musician, enough to keep that depression far enough at bay so he wouldn't actually act on it.

It was getting harder and harder to do that lately though. With each day that went by, with each car that he lubed on the rack in his greasy overalls, the thoughts of taking the plunge off the top of the National Records building seemed more and more appealing. Every day that went by where he found himself sitting and drinking generic beer and smoking generic cigarettes in front of a twelve dollar TV set he'd bought from a fence, waiting for his next afternoon shift at the Speedy-Lube, the idea of moving onto the next life seemed like the only thing to do.

As he sat there, watching the Andy Griffith Show and smoking his generic cigarette, he was pondering what he was going to do with his day. He was supposed to be at the Speedy-Lube for work in one hour. He could do that or he could walk down to the National Records Building and jump off. He pondered this choice the same way other men debated whether or not they should burn a sick day to go fishing. He was actually leaning more and more toward the latter choice when someone began to knock on his door.

He almost didn't answer it. The only time anyone ever knocked on his door these days was when he or she mistook his apartment for the methamphetamine dealer's apartment next door. It was only when someone outside called him by name that he realized that he really did have a visitor. But who could it be? He'd paid his rent this month, hadn't he? He seemed to remember doing that.

He stood up and walked over the laundry piles and the debris, crushing two beer cans on the way and overturning a plate that contained the remains of frozen vegetable lasagna from four days ago. He opened the door and found five people standing out there, four men and a woman. It took him a second to credit what he was seeing.

"Jake?" he said. "Nerdly? Matt?"

"I'm here too, Charlie," Coop said. "But that's okay. I always go unnoticed. I'm just a fuckin' drummer after all."

"Oh... hi, Coop," he said, his head spinning. Intemperance had just showed up at his door. What the hell was going on?

"And I'm Pauline Kingsley," the woman said, stepping forward. "I'm the band's manager. Do you mind if we come in?"

"Uh... yeah, sure," he said, stepping aside and allowing them entrance. "Come on in."

The five of them stepped inside. They all wrinkled their noses as they caught a whiff of the smell. They looked around the filth of his apartment and looks of disgust began to appear. It occurred to Charlie that he should be ashamed of his apartment.

"Uh... sorry for the mess," he said with a shrug.

"I guess the maid has the month off, huh?" Matt asked.

"I don't have a maid," Charlie said. "I can barely afford the rent here as it is."

"Uh... yeah," Matt said, casting a glance at Jake.

"You guys wanna sit down?" Charlie asked them.

"Thank you," Jake said, looking at the furniture. "I think we'll stand. How you doing, Charlie? It's been a while."

"Yeah," he said. "I haven't seen anyone but Nerdly since the Grammy awards that time. That was when you got in that fight with La Diferencia."

"I remember," Jake said sourly.

"What are you guys doing here?" Charlie asked. "This is really kind of... weird, you know? How did you even know where I lived?"

"We got your address from National," Jake said. "We would've called first but apparently you don't have a phone?"

"No, it costs too much," he said. "So... what's up? What can I do for you?"

"We came to see if you could help us out with something," Jake said.

"What's that?"

"Well, I'm sure you heard about what happened to Darren, didn't you?"

"Yeah," Charlie said. "What a bummer. I never heard of anyone getting botulism from shooting up before. Is he going to be okay?"

"They tell us he'll recover eventually," Jake said. "It's going to be at least a year before he can tour again though."

"That sucks," Charlie said, pondering the stupidity of Darren Appleman for a moment. He had had it all, had been the bass player for the most popular hard rock band in America, and had thrown it away because he liked to shoot up with heroin. He had basically shitcanned something that Charlie would have killed for.

"Yeah, it does suck," Jake said. "And it puts us in kind of a bind too. You see, we're contractually obligated to go out on tour for our next album."

"Yeah, I heard about your next album," Charlie said. "It sounds like a rocker, man. And I loved that album cover you guys came up with."

"Thanks," Jake said. "So anyway, we were wondering if maybe you could help us out, if you're up to it that is?"

"Help you out with what?" Charlie asked, puzzled.

The five of them passed a look around.

"Are you fuckin' stoned or something?" Matt asked him.

"No," Charlie said carefully. "I haven't smoked any pot today. Why do you ask?"

"Uh, it's like this," Jake said. "We need to go out on tour within the next month or so. Our bass player is out for at least a year. You are a bass player. Is this starting to make sense now, Charlie?"

Charlie thought this over for a second and the light bulb finally went on. "You mean... you mean... you want me to play bass for you on your tour?" he asked carefully.

"Bing!" Matt yelled. "I think he's got it, Jake."

"Are you serious?" Charlie asked, unwilling to believe it just yet.

"We are dead serious," Pauline replied. "If you're interested in this I want you in Crow's office by the end of business hours tonight signing onto the Intemperance contract."

Charlie's jaw dropped. They were serious. They wanted him to sign a contract! But wait a minute? Could this be some sort of elaborate dream? Things like this just didn't happen to someone like him. He needed to make sure it wasn't a dream. In order to check this he reached into his pocket and pulled out a cheap disposable lighter. He lit it up and then held it under his forearm, burning the skin. "Oww!" he barked, jerking his arm away.

Jake, Matt, and Nerdly were all staring at him, shocked.

"What the fuck did you do that for?" Matt asked.

"Just making sure this is real," he said. "Apparently it is."

"Holy shit," Matt said, shaking his head. "This guy is stranger than Nerdly, Jake."

"Then he oughtta fit right in with the rest of us," Jake said. He looked at Charlie. "So you're in?"

"Yeah," Charlie said, still wondering if somehow, someway, this wasn't really happening. "I'm in."

Handshakes were exchanged all around. Intemperance had found their new bass player.