POST #11 Sequoia History

Hi readers,

Sorry to take so long to post again. This time my poor excuse is

an attack by the inspiration I need to finish the rough draft to

my new untitled novel. Good reason for me.

But here I am again.

This time, a poem about a long-told and imaginary history.

And another novel excerpt.

Cheers,

David

POEM OF THE WEEK:

History from Great Aunts

We lived near the Rhine and
Pa was a ferryman on the river.

There was trouble one night and
Ma stopped talking to him and
took us to live on Granma's farm.

Gran had a big harvest but lost

it when other farmers with guns
invaded and carried away our oats,

so we sailed on a ship to New York.

A factory in the town made guns but
we found a little dairy farm there.

No one invaded us for the milk.

Dad went away to college so
we wouldn't stay poor, he said.
He got a job in a steel mill
at night testing steel quality,

so he wasn't around much.
He graduated to be a doctor
and worked in a hospital but
we still lived on the farm.
That's how I know
that good peas rise
to the top and float
on briny water.

----------- Cantab Tango Excerpt of the week: 7.

7.

Tony walks in late in the afternoon to kick me out of the producer's chair in the studio control booth. He doesn't say so right away but he's wicked angry that I hired John on my own without consulting him. He thinks it's only me trying to get back with Atisha—not about the music. He's only half wrong. He would agree that John's a great drummer, but I've stepped hard on his toes—all this for a woman, no less. His acceptance of me as a guy who's evolving from a vague heterosexual into a blatant heterosexual is a long time coming.

Satch hides under his headphones at the microphone while he waits in the live room to record a take on our new song. Tony is so angry I'm afraid to tell him we raided his stash and got high enough to write the most outrageous love song since Louie Louie. But we did both.

When he hears “I Love Racist Girls” he's going to send me back to the hospital again. I'll just have to repeat my favorite argument to him:

“It's called playing music, Tone—not working music. Chill. Have a little fun!”

But he stays so angry he spends five minutes criticizing the demo we made in the studio while he was out on Cape Ann running a sound board for a video by Robin Lane and The Chartbusters. Then he gets to the real problem with me: hiring Jamaica John as our drummer.

“I didn't hire John, Tony—I just teased it at him a bit. We have no final contract—you always tell me that: only a signed contract matters. But we will. Besides, this whole thing is up to Atisha and where she can stand to live and I don't know anything about that, yet. You know how complicated things like that are, but she's coming here to Cambridge, whether he comes here or not, so . . . who knows?”

“What—you got Atisha to come here? How the hell did you accomplish that? I'm sure she'll be armed to the teeth. I'll need a signed life insurance policy from you before she gets here.”

I refuse be drawn into another sarcastic argument, so I don't answer.

“We could all live at my place—they and a pride of lions,” I say.

Tony frowns and thinks I'm kidding about everything I just said. I am kidding and I'm also not kidding—we'll work it out later, dude. He changes the subject again.

“Fucking Chartbusters say they can't pay me now,” he says. “I hate myself for helping them without a contract—I always wanted to engineer for them, but now . . . how many times have I told you . . .”

“Yeah—a contract. But it'll look good as a new promo puff for your new website—'I worked with Robin Lane and . . . .'”

“You know, I can't even afford to get the damn piano tuned. You've got to do that lawyer-imitation thing again where you threaten to sue the Busters and threaten to publish the lawsuit story in Rolling Stone—or the Boston Globe. Damn.

“And you know Bruce Hornsby was too polite to say the piano wasn't perfectly tuned last week—and he did notice it— he'll never come back here again. I was so embarrassed. Shit.”

“Let worry worry itself—we can wait,” I say.

“Fuck. Will I feel better after we see the accountant tomorrow? Don't know.”

Satchmo carries his guitar into the control booth and sits on the couch.

“So it turns out you guys can't pay me after all? Can't get a fucking piano tuned? Will you visit me at Sing-Sing after they send me up the river for ten years? My parole, remember? You left the booth mic on in there so I could hear everything you guys just said. My parole is over. I'm in prison.”

“No, Satch. No. You're good. We already have a bank account for you. The bank card got mailed to me—it's back at our place—prepaid, in advance, for another whole month. Ask me when I get there and keep the cash I gave you from yesterday—you're our lead singer, our king. This here is only a simple marriage spat.”

Nope, no rise from him about the word, marriage. I'll ask him straight out next time I get a chance—when we're higher than this.

“Tony just likes to worry—it's his favorite hobby. Tomorrow we're going to remortgage the studio so we'll be rolling in paper again soon. Let worry worry itself.”

“Now there's a song title: Let Worry Worry Itself—Be Happy. Good one. Ack-Ack, play him our new one. Now. It's time.”

“Get ready to laugh, Tone,” I say.

Tony sits at the board with his eyes closed. I'm sure today didn't fit into the dream he had for his record company, our record company. Just like me, he always needs to get angry for awhile before he cries. Tears before enlightenment.

I punch up our new song. I hope this song can lighten the mood—maybe not. I'll have to remember to duck if his criticism travels by fist. Is this a drunk-call song or what? I watch Tony's face carefully on its first notes. I play it through the big monitors, loud.

I love racist French girls.

I love racist dogs.

I love racist dyke girls.

I love racist frogs.

Racist Girls can make you happy.

Racist Girls have all the money,

Racist Girls know who to kiss on,

Racist Girls know who to piss on.

Tony throws his skull cap at me. Cool. No fist is thrown. I turn off the player.

“No, Tone—relax. We have Aretha lined up to sing it at the White House for her live album. Plus, it's got this bridge”

I turn the player back on.

I’m as thorny as jaundice in August

I'm as normal as dogberry pie.

No more a dumb-ass girl with a bloodline—

I've found me a bootlicking guy!

When the bridge ends, Tony shouts Cut! and holds his hand out.

“Really? You're stealing from South Pacific now? Give it. Give me that song. You're going to dope us all into oblivion. No more dope for you guys—this is crazy—you're both crazy. Racist Girls—really? You guys are fired. What the fuck?”

“See, Satch? I told you he'd do his Little Hitler act. He learned all his bossy uppity-thing about three blocks to the west of here. He's a bona fide, stick-up-the-ass Harvard dude.”

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