Standing On Top

Chapter 21b

Jake put the wasabi and the seaweed in his ice chest, the rest of the groceries on the floorboard, and climbed back in his truck. He worked his way south until he was just out of the city proper. Here, he entered State Highway 1 via an onramp and continued south into the heart of the Canterbury Plains — a vast stretch of cattle grazing and farm land.

A fifteen minute drive brought him to a small farmer's market where the local landowners hawked fresh produce, freshly butchered meat, farm-fresh eggs, and locally produced honey. There was a farmer's daughter who regularly staffed a booth at this market that Jake had made very personal acquaintance with. She was not here today. Jake was not terribly disappointed by her absence. His social calendar was pretty much as full as he wished it to be for the next two weeks. He chatted with a few people he knew (and a few he didn't know), bought some tomatoes, lettuce, celery, mushrooms, corn, and cauliflower, and then climbed back in his truck and headed north again. It was time to go home and start the next phase of his daily routine.

He put his groceries away and then made a large sandwich out of wheat bread he'd made himself and some leftover chicken breast from two nights before. Since it was now well into the afternoon hours, he popped his first Steinlager of the day and drank it while eating his sandwich in front of the kitchen television set. It was now just after 6:00 AM in Khafji, and the battle for the town was continuing. CNN reported that the US marines and the Saudis were now getting the upper hand and the Iraqis were starting to pull back across the border. American planes and Cobra attack helicopters were pounding them as they retreated. There were also reports that eleven marines had been killed when the Iraqis destroyed their armored vehicles with anti-tank fire. These reports were so-far unconfirmed, but, if true, would be the first significant US casualties of the conflict.

Jake watched the coverage for almost two hours, until he became bored with the repetition of the same old information. While watching, he drank three bottles of Steinlager and smoked six cigarettes, despite his vow to start cutting down on both vices. He also did not go utilize any of the gym equipment he had purchased and installed in the back room of his house. He had a treadmill, a stationary bike, a stair-climber, a complete Nautilus machine, and a complete set of free weights. The equipment was all brand new and had acquired exactly zero hours of use so far, despite the fact that it was one of Jake's first purchases upon moving in.

Maybe tomorrow, he thought as he turned off the television set and grabbed a fresh can of Steinlager out of the refrigerator. Once I get that first workout done, the routine will be established and I'll keep up with it.

He carried his beer with him into his office, where he pulled a notebook and a pen from his desk and his Fender six-string from a rack on the wall. After stopping to get his cigarettes and his lighter, he went out his front door and onto his wraparound porch. A porch swing was installed here. He sat in it, putting the guitar in his lap, the notebook, beer, and smokes down on a wooden table within easy reach. He stared out at the view, smoking and sipping for the better part of fifteen minutes. Finally, he took a pick out of the inlay and began to strum the guitar gently.

Since exiling himself here at the far-reaches of the planet, Jake had written three songs. Two were break-up songs inspired by his parting with Helen. One was a poignantly worded piece about his relationship with Mindy Snow — in particular, his resolve to never have anything to do with her again. He played this song out, strumming and singing quietly. It was called Nothing's Different Now.

You're shrewd, you're strong, and few will ever know how much

Always a step ahead, when trouble comes you stay untouched

Whenever it seems that life has led you astray

It turns out that you planned it that way

You plot, you scheme, come what may

You don't care who has the price to pay

Nothing's different now

You came into my life again

You should take a bow

Didn't think I could be fooled again

No, nothing's different now

You played me like the pawn I am

Nothing's different now

From first to last, another scam

Nothing's different now

"Hmm," Jake said, after reaching this point. He ran through the first verse and the chorus one more time, making it just a bit more up-tempo. Is it too self-deprecating? Is it too whiny? He wasn't sure. He liked the way the lyrics came off his lips, liked the melody he'd composed to accompany it, but was this the sort of material he was after?

He took a few drinks of his beer and then ran through it again, this time continuing onto the second verse, which included another set of unkind words about Mindy Snow, and then the bridge, which contained a declaration of his intent to never have anything to do with her again.

"I don't know," he finally said when he finished it up. This was how he always felt about this song at this point in his daily routine. He just didn't know. Sometimes it seemed like he should scrap it and recycle the melody for something else. Sometimes it seemed like the song that just might get him that elusive Grammy once recorded. Sometimes it seemed like even the melody — a mellow blues progression — sucked ass too.

Jake finished his beer and went back inside for another. He smoked another cigarette. He then went through his two Helen break-up songs. The first one he really liked. It was called Hit The Highway, and was basically an up-tempo liberation song, not quite up-tempo enough to fall into the Intemperance genre, but definitely something that would feature a distorted electric guitar as the main instrument. The lyrics acknowledged that the woman in question had been the one to end the relationship and that the ending of the relationship was not exactly something that the singer wanted, but they also conveyed an easy acceptance of the break-up and a lack of concern for what came next.

The final chorus summed up the general tone of the song:

So hit the highway

Head out, be free

If I don't make you happy

Then that's the way it ought to be

Yeah, hit that highway

I wish you the best

No hard feelings, baby

We just couldn't stand the test

So hit that highway

I'll do the same

Won't throw no stones after you

And I'll even take the blame

The other break-up song, however, Jake was not so sure about. It was titled, Nothing In Common?, which was the main reason Helen had cited for breaking up with him. The lyrics were a reflection that, yes, they really did have nothing in common except for the interest that had brought them together in the first place: flying. The song was long and complex, with four separate verses, two bridges, and each chorus worded differently to support the idea that had been advanced in the verse before it. Jake was still strumming it out entirely on his acoustic (he, in fact, had no other musical instruments at his house to play around with — not a piano, not an electric guitar, not even a harmonica), but he envisioned a complex piece full of multiple tempo changes, several instrumental breaks, and a grinding, almost heavy-metal ending. He worried that the whole thing was simply too complex, that he wouldn't be able to pull it off. He also worried that it was too campy of a subject to match the musical sophistication he was aiming for. His biggest worry, however, was the anticipated length of the tune. It would be damn near eight minutes long the way he was picturing it — much too long for standard radio airplay or single release and about two and a half minutes longer than the average American's attention span for a tune.

Jake played around with Nothing In Common? for a bit — long enough to drink another beer and smoke another cigarette. He didn't accomplish much besides clarifying a few of the tempo changes and dialing in one of the bridges. He had long since passed the point in this tune where it was usually put aside until it could be introduced to the full band. Now, there was no full band to introduce it to. Whenever he started dwelling on that, his enthusiasm for composition faded away.

Jake put his guitar aside and stared out at the harbor for a few minutes. It was after three o'clock now and a few of the fishing boats were making their return. He watched one of them dock and saw the tiny figures of the crew scurrying around on the deck. He was too far away to make out what they were unloading from their cargo hold. Whatever it was though, some of it would make its way to Elizabeth and Kate's shop.

When his beer was empty, he went back inside, carrying his guitar with him. He had a decent buzz going on now, his morning hangover nothing but a memory. He was also a little fatigued. After putting the guitar back on its rack in his office, he went to the couch in his living room and took a two-hour nap while CNN played constant Persian Gulf War coverage in the background.

When he awoke, it was time to start getting ready for this evening's dinner guest. He shaved, brushed his teeth, and took a shower before dressing in a fashionable pair of slacks and a Pierre Cardin shirt.

At precisely 6:30 there was a knock on the front door. He opened it and there stood Samantha Spangle, a thirty-two year old teller from the Sydenham branch of The Bank of New Zealand where Jake kept his local accounts. She was wearing a business dress, dark nylons, and a sultry smile.

"Hi, Jake," she said, stepping inside without being asked.

"Nice to see you again, Sam," he told her. "You look beautiful."

"Thank you," she said.

They ate fresh sushi and sashimi dipped in wasabi and soy sauce. They drank a bottle of sake and then switched to wine. Samantha was not as enthusiastic a drinker as Kate and Elizabeth. As a result, Jake kept his own drinking somewhat restrained. In the course of the evening he only drank half a bottle of sake, nine glasses of white wine, and three mixed drinks. This was enough to make him pleasantly drunk but not enough to trigger a blackout. For this reason he was able to retain the pleasant memory of Samantha's lush body and the things she knew how to do with it.

And such was a typical day in the life of Jake Kingsley in the immediate post-Intemperance phase.

Christchurch International Airport

March 18, 1991

Pauline almost didn't recognize her brother when she and Jill Yamashito emerged from the baggage claim area for the Air New Zealand terminal. He was sitting right where she expected to find him (assuming that he even showed up, something that had never been confirmed) — at the bar, sipping on a tall glass of beer. His hair was still down to his shoulders and he still favored blue jeans and button-up, short-sleeved shirts, but...

Jesus, Pauline thought as she realized the person she was looking at really was Jake. He's gotten fat!

Fat was perhaps not the best word to describe him. He was not obese or in danger of breaking any furniture just yet. He was, however, noticeably larger than when she'd seen him last. His stomach was sporting a decent-sized spare tire. His face, arms, and legs had gotten flabbier as well. He didn't look like he was at death's door by any means, but he didn't look exactly healthy either.

"Jake," she called, waving her hand to catch his attention.

He spotted her and slowly, almost reluctantly, his mouth formed a smile. He drained the last of his beer, stood, and made his way over to their position. They hugged. Though he was clean-shaven and freshly showered, Jake smelled of cigarettes and alcohol.

"It's good to see you, sis," he said. "Welcome to Christchurch."

"Thanks, Jake," she said. "It's good to see you too."

He turned to Jill, who had stood silently by during the reunion. "Hi, Jill," he told her. "Welcome back to Christchurch. Couldn't stay away, huh?"

"Nope," Jill said, perhaps a might sourly. "You know how much I love traveling to this far corner of the Earth."

Jake let the sourness roll off his back. He gave her a hug as well. She returned it with genuine affection.

"We were kind of afraid you weren't going to be here," Pauline said as Jake took their suitcases and led them toward the terminal exit door. This was, in fact, the first direct communication she'd had with her brother since the day before he'd left the United States. He had no telephone in his house and employed no answering service. He had answered none of the many letters sent to him. In order to let him know that she and Jill were arriving today, Jill had to contact Zachary Fields, the man who was leasing Jake's plane at some bum-fuck Egypt airport in the backwoods of Canterbury, in order to pass on the message.

"Of course I had to be here," Jake said. "Jill knows where I live. You would've just found me anyway."

Pauline wasn't sure if he was joking or not. She decided to assume that he was. "Well, thankfully that pilot friend of yours got the message to you."

"Yes," Jake said. "He stopped by my house day before yesterday... I think." He shrugged. "I told him to leave you a message that I'd be here. I guess he never got around to it. Zach's that way sometimes, you know."

"It would've been much easier to communicate with you," Pauline said, "if you had a damn telephone in your house. Perhaps you've heard of the phone? It's this nifty new device they came out with a few years back."

"Ahh, but you fail to see the methodology of my thinking," Jake told her. "If you have a phone, people can call you. When your goal is to remain incommunicado, putting in a phone tends to be counterproductive to that goal. You two should try living without a phone sometime. It's very liberating."

Neither of the women knew what to say to that. The idea of living without a basic phone — let alone a cellular phone and a pager — was starkly terrifying to contemplate.

They left the terminal and went outside. It was a beautiful spring day here in Christchurch, Pauline couldn't help but notice. About sixty-five degrees or so, a few wispy clouds drifting overhead, a slight breeze stirring the sycamore trees in the decorative planters that lined the terminal road.

No, she remembered, it's a beautiful autumn day here. This place is heading into winter, not summer. It was yet another reminder of just how far from home her brother had fled.

They went into a parking lot that was mostly empty. Near the back of it, they came to a red Toyota pick-up truck sitting by itself. The truck appeared pretty new although the wheel wells were coated with road grime and the body had a fairly thick layer of dirt and dust on it.

"Let me just throw your luggage in the back," Jake said. He then did just that, having to strain a little to get Pauline's bag up and over. "Go ahead and climb in. Someone is going to have to sit in the middle though. They didn't have any extended cabs at the Christchurch Toyota dealer and I didn't want to go all the way to Wellington to get one."

They squeezed in. Pauline took the middle position, figuring she would be less uncomfortable with Jake having to reach between her knees to shift gears. Jake started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot. They passed no kiosk on the way out.

"Don't you have to pay for parking?" Pauline asked.

"Nope," Jake said. "They don't do that sort of thing here."

"They don't?" Pauline said, appalled at the thought of not gouging people for parking fees when you had a clear monopoly on the privilege. "What is this place? A communist country?"

Jake chuckled and started heading for home. They left the airport grounds and started down the main thoroughfare that led back to the city. Pauline looked at the sights as they went, taking everything in. She watched the people, the cars, the houses and businesses, comparing and contrasting what she saw to what she was familiar with. Occasionally she would catch glimpses of the Southern Alps in the distance. She found that this really was a clean and beautiful place. She could understand why Jake liked it here. But it was so far away from everything! Including the layover in Auckland, they just spent nearly eighteen hours traveling just to get here. Eighteen hours by modern jet aircraft! This really was the far corner of the Earth, as Jill like to call it.

"So how is everyone back home?" Jake asked once they entered Christchurch proper. He seemed to ask this more out of a sense of obligation than anything else.

"Haven't you been reading our letters?" Pauline asked. "I know you haven't answered any of them, but you have been reading them, right?"

Jake smiled guiltily. "I haven't gotten around to it yet," he said.

She gave him a stern look. "You haven't read any of them? Not even Mom and Dad's?"

He shrugged. "What can I say?"

"Jesus, Jake," Pauline said. "What are you trying to do here?"

"Nothing," Jake told her. "I'm trying to do nothing and I've accomplished that goal very nicely."

"That's kind of why we're here, Jake," Jill said. "There are some financial matters that we need to discuss. Some things that you just can't ignore."

"How about we do that later?" Jake said. "I'll get you two home, show you around my place, we'll have a few drinks, and then we'll talk about whatever you want. In the meantime, why don't we start with something easier?"

"Like what?" Pauline asked.

"Mom and Dad," Jake said. "How are they doing? I noticed the last couple of letters had the Cypress return address on them. I take it they moved into the new place?"

Pauline shook her head in consternation. How could he have not read a single letter sent to him? How could he not know what his own parents were doing at a major crossroads in their lives? "They've been living in their Cypress Hills house for the past three months," she said. "Stan and Cindy are living in their new house on the property too. The houses turned out quite nice. You should see Mom and Dad's — especially since you paid for half of it."

"So they're happy?" he asked.

"They're content," Pauline said. "They love their new house and Dad is finding retirement to be everything he wanted. He hasn't looked at a legal brief since he put in his papers. He's gotten into fly fishing, if you can believe that."

"Fly fishing? Dad? You're putting me on."

"Nope," she said. "Him and Stan both. Of course they're strictly catch and release. They wouldn't dream of depriving a rainbow trout of its right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness."

"Now that sounds like Dad," Jake said with a laugh.

"Mom, on the other hand, is not finding retirement so sweet. She couldn't stay away from the musical life."

"She went back to the philharmonic?"

"No, she didn't go that far. She got a gig with Cypress High School running the student orchestra. She's conducting classical music productions for them. They had their first concert just a few weeks ago — something I'm sure she told you about in one of her letters. It was quite the occasion."

"Does she enjoy doing that?" Jake asked.

"She loves it," Pauline said. "The only problem is that she doesn't hold a teaching credential, so they can't consider her an actual teacher. She doesn't get the same pay as a teacher and she isn't part of the union."

"Is she going to pick up her teaching credential?" Jake asked. "It shouldn't be too hard, should it? She already has a master's in classical music."

"She says she doesn't care about that," Pauline said with a bewildered shake of the head. "She says she's doing it because she wants to, not because of the money."

"Yeah, I can relate to that," Jake agreed.

Pauline gave him a sour look. You're going to have to un-relate to that, brother dear, she thought. And you're going to have to do it soon.

"Anyway," she said, "they're content and their hobbies keep them from getting on each other's nerves too bad. They are worried about you though."

"Tell them I appreciate their worry, but I'm doing fine."

You don't look like you're doing fine, she thought. In fact, you look like shit, Jake. You look like you're just one step away from a breakdown.

She kept her observations to herself. For now anyway.

The two women had left LAX at 10:00 PM and flown all night long, landing in Auckland at 6:00 AM local time. From there, they'd hung out in the Auckland airport for two hours before catching their connection to Christchurch and arriving just before 11:00 AM. Both had slept little on the overnight flight (they had, in fact, gotten their most restful sleep of the trip in the lounge chairs of Auckland International while waiting for their connection). By the time they made it to Jake's house and got the grand tour (both of them loved the house and the view) they were exhausted and wanted nothing more than to catch some sleep.

"Bad idea," Jake warned them. "Trust me on this. I know the best way to combat jet lag."

"It's not getting some sleep?" Pauline asked testily.

"No, that just makes it worse," Jake told her. "What you want to do is stay up until nine or ten tonight."

"Nine or ten?" Jill groaned.

"Are you insane?" Pauline put in. "It already feels like it's late afternoon on a day after I've stayed up all night. You want us to stay up another nine hours without even a nap?"

"That's right," Jake said. "If you do, you'll sleep all night and wake up sometime around seven or eight o'clock — exactly when you're supposed to wake up. Once you do that, your body clock will be pretty much set on New Zealand time until you go home."

They gave it a shot. Jake brewed a pot of potent Sumatra to help keep them awake. They drank three cups apiece and seemed a little more alive for the effort. Jake told them a few of his tamer tales of life on South Island. He did not show them his new tattoo. They did not discuss whatever their reason for coming here was.

"How does filet mignon sound for dinner?" Jake asked them. "I picked some up from a butcher shop down in Lyttelton yesterday. It's so fresh it was still in the cow three days ago."

"Uh... fine, Jake," Pauline said.

"Sounds delicious," Jill agreed.

Jake kept them occupied. They climbed back in his truck and he took them on a tour of some of his favorite places. They started with Christchurch itself, going through the tunnel and heading to the center city. They saw the majestic cathedral that had given the city its name. They wandered through a few of the parks surrounding the town square. They drove out to a few of Jake's favorite shops where he purchased the makings for the next day's meals. From Christchurch, they went back through the tunnel and into Lyttelton, visiting the wharf (though not the fishmongers or the bar or the tattoo shop), the butcher shop, and an old bookstore where Jake got most of his reading material.

Again, the two women avoided any confrontational conversation during the outing. Pauline did, however, update him on the happenings with his former bandmates.

Matt was going full speed ahead on the recording and production of his first solo album. He had eleven songs that had already been composed and submitted and were now being recorded in National's basement studio. Matt was the lead singer and the lead guitarist on every cut. He had demanded and been granted absolute control over the recording process. As such, there would be no overdubs of any kind inserted into the master recording. The album — which would be titled Phase Two — was slated to be released in late May.

"Who did he get for a backing band?" Jake asked, interested (and perhaps a bit jealous) despite himself.

"Studio musicians," Pauline replied. "He handpicked a bass player and a drummer from National's best. He said they don't have to be all that good, just competent. His guitar will carry them."

"It better," Jake observed. "With only three instruments, one voice, and no overdubs, he's going to have to really shine."

"I haven't heard any of the tunes myself," Pauline said, "but I talked to Crow. He's Matt's A&R guy. He says the tunes are raw and gritty with lots of power chords, complex riffs, modified palm-muted chords, and long, intricate solos. Just the sort of thing Matt Tisdale fanatics will love. He's not real happy about Matt doing the vocals though."

"No?" Jake said.

She shook her head. "He wanted Matt to get a Jake Kingsley sound-alike vocalist."

Jake chuckled. "Of course he did." There were many such people out there. Jake could think of six bands off the top of his head that were blatantly trying to cash in on the success of Intemperance by imitating their style of music and the distinctive lilt of Jake's tenor voice. All of these acts had been signed solely on the basis of their imitation skills. It was only natural that National would want to score one of these singers to belt out Matt's tunes on the theory that it would attract more of the mainstream to his solo album.

"I heard that Matt's suggestion for what Crow could do with a Jake Kingsley impersonator was among his most colorful and physically impossible," Pauline said.

"But they let him go ahead and sing himself?" Jake asked.

"Yeah, that wasn't a deal breaker," Pauline told him. "His voice is decent enough. Somewhat generic, but he can carry a tune. He's sticking to the basic formula that they want so they'll play nice with him."

"Well, I wish him the best," Jake said, and he did, although there was a small part of him — mostly hidden in his subconscious — that would enjoy seeing Matt bomb after everything he'd put him through.

Nerdly was also working hard these days. Pauline told Jake that he and Sharon spent no less than eleven hours a day in National's recording studio, overseeing the engineering and recording of the majority of the albums in production (with the notable exception of Matt's — the Archers were forbidden from even entering the corner of the studio where Phase Two was being recorded).

"Both of them are considered to be geniuses when it comes to putting audio onto a master in the best form," Pauline said. "Techs that have been working there for thirty years are regularly coming to them for advice."

"He always did like that aspect of being a musician better than the actual music," Jake said.

"Yeah," Pauline agreed, "and I'm afraid that National is exploiting the two of them terribly. They're paying them fairly good wages for what they do, but they're worth a lot more. I've tried to get them to negotiate a contract of some sort but they won't do it."

"Why the hell not?" Jake asked.

"They're addicted to what they do, Jake," Pauline said. "They're afraid that if they push for more money that National will tell them to take a hike and they won't get to do it anymore."

"That's ridiculous," Jake said. "Even if National was dumb enough to do that — which they aren't — any other studio would pick them up in a minute. They could name their own price."

Pauline gave a knowing smile. "You ever try talking rational to an addict?" she asked. "They don't always look out for their own best interests."

Jake felt there was a little more to Pauline's observation than met the eye. As such, he quickly changed the subject to something else.

That something else was Coop, who was a happier story. He had joined up with former Earthstone bassist Mike Hamm, former Gold Rush guitarist Jerry Hawk, former Rhineland keyboardist Steve Carl, and former Destination vocalist Rob Wilkes to form a new band called — appropriately enough — Veteran. Pauline was their agent. They had put together a demo tape (engineered by none other than Nerdly and Sharon using their own home recording equipment) and had basically held a contract auction to see which label would offer the best contract.

"They did well for themselves," Pauline said. "I brought a copy of their demo tape if you want to hear it. It's good shit. Solid, complex music. Hawk and Wilkes are the lyricists and they know what sells. All five of them are the composers. This album is going to be big when it comes out."

"Who ended up signing them?" Jake asked.

"Aristocrat gave the best offer. Two option periods at thirty percent royalties with half a million advance and all tour costs covered. First class air travel to the venues, first class accommodations, limo service, and fifty percent of the merchandising."

"Wow," Jake said, impressed. "That's not bad at all."

"Coop is happy," Pauline said. "They're in the studio now, just starting the recording process."

And even Charlie was getting by in his post-Intemperance phase. Pauline told Jake that the suggestion to open one of his vegetarian restaurants in San Francisco had been right on the money. People in the city by the bay did not give a shit that Charlie had been caught having sex with a transvestite. In fact, many of them applauded it. So many, in fact, that Charlie decided to come out of the closet. A little more than a month ago, he publicly announced that he was gay. He was now openly living with one of the headwaiters at his place of business.

"I can't believe you missed that news, Jake," Pauline said. "It was in all the tabloids, on all of the channels."

"I've only been watching CNN," Jake said. "Mostly the war coverage. Whenever anything about celebrities comes on, I turn the TV off."

Pauline shook her head. "You turned yourself into an ostrich down here, didn't you?"

"Yeah," Jake had to agree. "Sometimes ostriches have the right idea."

Jake's dinner was up to its usual standards. He delicately brazed the filet mignons to a perfect medium rare on his barbeque and then served them with fresh artichokes, rice pilaf, and mushrooms sautéed in garlic, wine, and fresh butter. They drank a bottle of 1982 Napa Valley Merlot with the meal. When they were done eating, there was not a scrap of food left over.

"Your cooking has improved, Jake," Pauline complimented. "I mean, you were always pretty good at it, but you've gotten better since you've been here."

Jake shrugged. "It's mostly the ingredients," he said. "Everything I cook with is fresh. I've also had lots of time to experiment and practice. I like good food and I don't have Elsa here to make it for me."

"Elsa misses cooking for you, Jake," Pauline said. "She wanted me to tell you that."

"Yeah," Jake said. "I miss having her."

They sat in silence for a few moments. Jake drained the last remnants of his wine and wished that he had another glass. The two women exchanged a few glances with each other.

"All right," Jake finally said. "Let's get it over with. Why did the two of you fly halfway around the world uninvited? I'm assuming it has something to do with my finances since you're here, Jill."

They exchanged another series of looks, this set looking like a non-verbal argument over who had to speak first. It seemed like Jill lost this particular battle.

"Your finances do need some attention, Jake," she said.

"I see," Jake said. "Am I no longer filthy stinking rich?"

"You're still rich," she said. "I brought some paperwork that we can go over to..."

"I don't need to see any paperwork," Jake interrupted. "Just lay the facts on me."

"Well... okay," she said. "The fact is that you are currently spending more money than you're bringing in. If it keeps up, you will eventually run out of money."

"How eventually?" Jake asked.

This question seemed to anger Jill's accountant sensibilities. "Does that really matter, Jake?" she demanded. "I just told you that your finances are in a downward spiral. You are spending more money than you're taking in and you're eating away at your capital. The very fact that such a situation exists should scare you."

"Yes, it matters," Jake said. "If we're talking twenty years before the money is all gone than I don't have to worry all that much, do I? If we're talking six months, than I do have to worry."

"You have to worry no matter what!" Jill almost yelled. "This is your money we're talking about here! Your money!"

"Yes," Jake said. "The key word being 'my'. So how long?"

She sighed. "I don't have exact figures on me," she said. "Off the top of my head, I'd say that without a significant change in your spending habits, the cutting down of some of your monthly obligations, or a resurgence of future income, maybe five years."

"Five years, huh?" Jake said, pondering that. "That's not very long."

"Well I'm glad you're alarmed by that," Jill said, shaking her head in disgust.

"I was just asking for the facts," Jake said.

"Look, Jake," Pauline said. "The reason we came out here is to find out what you want to do about this. Whether you want to or not, you're going to have to make some decisions."

"I suppose," Jake allowed.

"Let me tell you where you stand," Jill said.

"Please do," Jake said.

"Your last album — Lines On The Map — did very well despite the break-up of the band right after its release."

"Or perhaps because of," Pauline put in.

"Perhaps," Jill said with a shrug of her own. To her, the why of the matter was irrelevant. "In any case, the album has gone quadruple platinum and has spawned four top ten singles. But that success has already gone well past its peak. The singles are still receiving lots of airplay but their sales have come and gone. The album itself is still in the top twenty on the chart, but it's not selling a hundred thousand copies a week anymore."

"So you're saying my next royalty check won't be as big as my last one," Jake said.

"Correct," Jill said. "Nor will any of the ensuing royalty checks if you don't put out some new music."

"They didn't want to record my new music," Jake said sourly. "Did we forget that part?"

"They didn't want to record the music that you wanted to play," Pauline said.

"Which is all they're going to get from me," Jake shot right back. "That, as you'll recall, is what led to the 'unbreakable impasse'."

"That's one of the points we're trying to make," Jill said. "You still have income coming in, and you will continue to for some time. All of your previous albums are still being sold and are collecting royalties. You're very fortunate that many people are replacing their vinyl copies of your earlier work with CDs. That alone has contributed to significant sales figures."

"But that money won't be enough?" Jake asked.

"That's right," Jill said. "Over the past three years, fully eighty percent of your revenue has been generated by new music releases. New releases cause your fans to buy the album in droves. It generates single sales of anywhere from three to five singles off each album. It also results in tour revenue — the most significant of which is the endorsement contract you hold with Gibson Guitars. If you don't put out new music, your income will fall by at least seventy-five percent and will continue to trickle down, quarter by quarter, until your checks are almost nothing."

"How much is almost nothing?" Jake asked.

"Jake, that's not the goddamn point!" Pauline barked at him, clearly frustrated by his apathetic attitude.

"How much?" Jake repeated, ignoring her.

Jill sighed. "My guess is that you'll pull in around sixty to seventy grand per quarter for the next five or six years. That would probably go up for a few quarters if National were to utilize their right to release the music under their contract in a Greatest Hits release of some sort. That would sell well and you'd get royalties from that."

"And do they plan to do that?" Jake asked Pauline.

"Yes," Pauline said. "It's already in the works. My guess is they'll have it out by this time next year — probably a double album."

"So that'll keep me going for a while longer, won't it?"

"Absent the tour revenue and the endorsement contracts, yes," Jill agreed. "But you're still missing what I'm trying to say to you."

"Then spell it out for me," Jake said, lighting a cigarette. He blew the smoke into the air in deference to the ladies.

"You'll continue to draw income from your previous work for years," Jill said. "Every time they license one of your songs to some commercial or a movie, every time they find some way to rework some of your pieces into another album or compilation, you'll get royalties from it. And people will continue to buy your back albums for many years. All of that is true. But without new music revenue, you're going to find yourself with much less of an income. That figure I gave you of sixty to seventy grand a quarter is soon going to trickle down to fifteen or twenty a quarter."

"That's eighty grand a year, isn't it?" Jake asked. "Not a bad pension plan. Especially if it means I get to retire at thirty-one."

"Jake, is that what you want?" Pauline asked. "Are you saying you're done with the music business forever?"

Jake took a deep drag of his smoke. "I don't know," he said. "It's certainly possible, isn't it? I could liquidate all of my holdings in the states and use that to pay off the loan on this house and my Cessna. I could sit out here and live off the eighty grand a year for a long time. Eighty grand a year is like two hundred grand a year in New Zealand."

"Jesus Christ, Jake," Pauline said. "Could you possibly get any more self-deprecating?"

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"You want to sell everything you have, everything you've worked for, and give up on life so you can sit here on this cliff looking down on a fishing village? All because your little ego was bruised when the record companies didn't want to take a gamble on your new music?"

"I didn't say I was going to do it," Jake said. "I just said it's an option."

"Don't give me that crap, Jake," Pauline said angrily. "Look at you. Look at what you've done to yourself since you've been here. You've put on fifteen or twenty pounds. You've stopped exercising. You're smoking God knows how many cigarettes a day and I'd be willing to bet you're drinking yourself into oblivion every night."

"That's my right, isn't it?" he countered.

"Jake, you're committing suicide!" she said, tears springing to her eyes. "You're out here trying to painlessly kill yourself."

"I am not," he said.

"Really?" she asked. "How long do you think you'll last if you do just what you said? If you liquidate everything and stay out here in this big house with eighty grand a year of free and clear income, living the way you're living now, how long will you last?"

"Pauline, don't you think..."

"How long, Jake!" she demanded. "Be honest with yourself. You were always good at that before. Do it now! The way you're drinking and smoking and generally abusing yourself, how long will you last before you drop dead of a heart attack or a stroke or liver cirrhosis, or before you crash that fucking Harley? How fucking long, Jake?"