Playing For Keeps

PLAYING

FOR KEEPS

By Dani Weston

Playing For Keeps copyright © 2015 by Dani Weston.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

without the express written permission of the publisher

except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

I dropped the shoes I was unpacking into a messy pile in my closet at Delta Gamma, my UCLA sorority home. I’d spent all summer interning, beefing up my resume before I had to apply to MBA programs, but it was nice being back in Southern California, with some of my very favorite people.  When I closed the closet door, I let out a breath. The mess inside was blocked. More importantly, my study charts, created with oversized paper and permanent markers, covered the door, top to bottom. I adjust the bottom chart, which had gone a little crooked, until it was perfectly in line. Sure, my clothes might be in a pile and my floor a bit untidy, but my academic life was a well-oiled machine of discipline, timing, and little boxes ready for award stickers. Success was all about staying on top of things, about control.

Contented with my organizational set-up, I turned to Beatrice Hanover, number one on my list of faves, who was lounging on my unmade bed. Her fingers subconsciously tapped a rhythm on the cover of the magazine she was holding. She was the drummer for our band, Ladies in Waiting. I was the bassist. I first decided to become a bassist when I saw Kim Gordon strumming in an old music video, coolly settling into the rhythm of the song. There was something about the way she became one with the music that entranced me. And the way she’s lived her life on her own terms and the rest can fuck off. The woman is a goddess. Bea, however was fonder of boy bands and their soulful eyes than bass goddesses.

“Hey, Bea, did you catch whether the manager at Filth was going to pay us in cash or in drinks?”

“Drinks. You never pay attention, Court.”

“I was busy writing a new song in my head.” I adjusted my headband and shrugged. “But I’m not sure why I bother. Drinks doesn’t cut it. Especially not for a place like Filth. They’re more hard rock than we play.”

“Thursday night is their Dial It Down Night. So they’re looking for music like ours. As you would know if you paid attention.”

“I pay attention.”

“Yeah, to bands nobody else under the age of forty does. Pop quiz: Name all five members of World Wonder.”

“Terrence, Cal and…” my tongue pressed to the roof of my mouth. World Wonder were the top boy band, right now, but I couldn’t name them all. I just didn’t pay attention to their style of music.

My neighbor when I growing up in New Orleans, Local Jackson, used to be the best blues musician you’ve never heard of. Before arthritis got the better of his joints and he retired. After I got home from school, and before dad got home from his suburban 9-5er with the ninety minute commute each way, Local Jackson would come over and teach me the bass guitar. He’d pause at the end of my driveway to finish his smoke, knowing my dad would freak if he smelled cigarettes in the garage, then come in with sheets of music, yellowed with age, and drill me mercilessly in his rolling, gritty voice, laughing fit to kill when I made mistakes and telling me winding stories of all the ladies’ hearts he broke when he was young and trotting.

Local was a big fan of the geriatrics: the old school blues musicians like W.C. Handy and Ma Rainey. So I got a great, classical education. I wasn’t as though all the music I wrote sounded like them, exactly, just that I preferred their legendary sounds—and Kim Gordon’s, of course—to some of the newer stuff that got airtime.

“Hey, the classics become classics for a good reason,” I argued.

“Classic is a synonym for
old
.” Bea rolled her eyes at me and flipped open her PopSt*r magazine. “Jimmy Keats—from
World Wonder
—gave an interview this month. Do you want to hear it?”

I picked up my guitar and sunk into the chair in the corner, fingering a complicated rhythm on my fingerboard. “Nope, not interested.”

“He’s so hot,” Bea went on, as though I hadn’t said anything. “His solo project is amazing. But reading between the lines here…I don’t think the rest of World Wonder are happy about it. Oh, well. Time marches on. Oh! It says he just broke up with his girlfriend, Julia Wood. Which is good because they so were not right for each other. Even though, ew, they say they were the
perfect
pair and they can’t understand how the break-up happened.”

“How would you even know that they weren’t perfect?”

“Because I know he’s right for
me.
” Bea wiggled her eyebrows.

I snorted. “Yeah, if you go for that falsely constructed lacking true talent doesn’t even write his own songs gets by on nothing but his looks and a fat marketing team pseudo talented musician type.”

Bea gave me a look. “You wouldn’t know him if he whacked you on the forehead, so I don’t know where this talk about skating by on his looks comes from. Plus, it says here he wrote his latest single himself, so there.”

“That bubble gum nonsense? I believe it.”

“At least you admit you’ve listened to it,” Bea said.

I let my guitar fall flat into my lap and glared at the wall behind Bea. But I couldn’t hold back my laughter. Bea was good at calling me on my BS. “Okay,
heard
, not listened. There’s a big difference. And I can’t help to have heard it when every lovesick student on this campus is playing it at top volume. It makes me cringe every time Jimmy Keats’ falsetto blares in my ears.”

“Whatever, Court. Just think what a man with that kind of voice can do with his tongue.”

I stuck my own tongue between my teeth and scratched out a measure of notes on the sheet music on the desk beside me while Bea continued to read her article. All true musicians needed to read proper sheet music, Local always said. Not just the chord scribbles so many bassists breezed by on.

People like Jimmy Keats got on my nerves. I hated that those kinds of imposters got all the adulation while real artists were barely making a buck. I was trained by a great musician, and all I got were offers for drinks. I sighed. It really was time to give up on the while music thing and focus on my last year of courses, especially if I wanted to get into a good MBA program.

“Hey,” Bea said, as she turned the page in her magazine. “Jimmy Keats says he wants to go into producing. Maybe we should give him a call. See if he can handle the incredible talents of Courtney Dreger.”

I snorted and picked up my guitar again. “No, thanks.”

“But what if that means Ladies live to see another year?”

I paused and caught my best friend’s eye. There was a sadness there that I knew was reflected in my own. Ladies In Waiting was the blues rock band I founded two years ago. The one that was struggling, ever since our former lead singer, the only one of us who was a senior last year, moved away after graduating. Now, we were splintered. If we were going to continue, we had to redistribute. The question was, did we really want to continue? All three of the remaining members of the band had loaded senior year schedules and after
we
graduated…real life began, right? What kind of room could there be for a band when we were all going to be juggling high-powered careers, as was the plan?

But I knew there was something more that Bea was asking me than just the future of the band.

“It doesn’t matter how long Ladies play or where we end up, I’ll always be there for you. Always be your best friend.” I strummed a few chords, something in a minor key. Sounds of the emotionally overwrought.

Bea cracked up. “God, Courtney, that was the worst Hallmark movie moment I’ve ever experienced. Stick to music, because you’re acting career is over before it’s begun.”

“Ah!” I flung myself on the bed, half landing on Bea, and pinned her hands to the pillow over her head. “Take it back!”

“Never!”

I leaned down and dug my bony elbows into her shoulders.

“Ow ow ow! You elbow…and your boobs are in my face!”

“You like it.”

Bea lurched up and sent me flying onto the floor. I landed with a thud that rattled the window. We dissolved into giggles, both laying on our backs until we caught our breath. Then Bea sighed and tossed her magazine at the wall. “If we’re really going to end this band, we might as well play a goodbye show. We’ll never be some millionaire boy band like Jimmy Keats and co., but drinks are better than nothing, right? I’ll give Filth a call to reconfirm.”

“Go for it,” I said, rolling to sitting position, picking up my pencil and jotting down another series of notes on my sheet music. “Until then, I’m late for my DG meeting.”

“Ooo, going to sign up for the welcoming committee? Party planning? How will you pack your resume, this year?” Bea teased.

I stuck my tongue out at her. Bea knew that, initially, I wanted to join Delta Gamma for the networking and the resume padding. But she also knew that three years later, I truly loved my sorority sisters. And the responsibilities I had with them. “Activities Coordinator, maybe.” My eyes went to my pristine study chart on my closet door. “I’m good at schedules.”

*

I laid down my last chords of the night and raised one arm in the air. “Thank you very much!”

The hot stage lights flicked off and, slowly, my vision adjusted to the dim club lights, sans the dazzling pink, green and blue that had been trained on me for the past half hour. Applause gradually filtered into conversation and that was it. The last show for Ladies In Waiting was over. I turned to Bea, who was already dismantling her drum kit, and Kaitlin Keenan, lead guitarist, and flashed them both a grin.

“Onward and upward, right?”

Kaitlin pulled her guitar over her head and smiled back wryly. “I have a class at eight tomorrow…I mean
this
…morning, so yeah. Onward, I guess. But after accepting drinks instead of cash tonight, I’m hoping tomorrow’s lecture isn’t risks and payout. That’s not one I should be sleeping through.”

“Consider this…emotional investment,” I said. We helped Bea with her drum kit, taking our instruments backstage to pack away for the night. For a long time, probably. In the back room, another band was gathering their instruments to take onstage. I sprawled on the threadbare green couch and sipped from my bottle of water.

“Nice set,” one of the other band members said, pausing for one last sweep of the back room.

“Thanks.” I stood. The room suddenly felt crowded. I was going to miss this. All of this. The couch with the holes in it—there was one in every club back room—meeting other musicians, late nights with my best friends. I turned away. “I’m going to go claim my drinks.”

Bea checked her watch and bit her lip.

“Fifteen minutes,” I told her, and she nodded and went back to loading her equipment in the cases.

The main club wasn’t much cooler than the back room. And it smelled like warm bodies and cologne. I wrinkled my nose and weaved my way through guys trying to get a hook-up, girls recapping the weekend’s drama, and single metal heads staring at the stage, waiting for the next act. The bar was in an inconvenient place, up a couple steps and slightly around a corner so that the view of half the stage was blocked. That didn’t matter to me, though. I was only in it for the gin and tonic, at this point.

“Hey,” I nodded at the bartender, a cute girl with long, black hair and heavy eye makeup. “I just finished playing--.”

The bartender cut me off with a smile and her whole face lit up. Her cheeks were tiny, pink apples. “Just now? You guys were really good. I enjoyed that. Especially that second to last song. About the lonely drifter? Heartbreaking. Anyway, what can I get you to drink? Whatever you want. Top shelf.”

“Thanks. That’s really cool of you to say. And just a gin and tonic, please.”

I took my tumbler and turned away from the bar, spotting a couple just walking away from a pub table. It was the only empty one. I made a beeline for it. But I wasn’t the only one. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a man heading toward the tall table from one of the dark corners, too. We reached the table at the same time. I set my drink down decidedly and he raised his eyebrows.

“There are worse people I could ask to share a table with.” His glass hovered over the table. “The view is terrible on that side of the bar.” He nodded in the direction from which he came. “I couldn’t see the band that was just on. But they sounded good. Mind if I join you?”

I looked him over. He seemed familiar, but I couldn’t quite place him. Typical. I had no brain for those kinds of details. Bea always said I’d be the worst witness to a crime, ever. But this guy was gorgeous enough that I wanted to get a really good look. He was tall, and dark-skinned, with toned arms and chest under a tight-fitting t-shirt. Dark wash jeans. A studded belt. Tattoos peeking out from under one sleeve. A common musician’s uniform. I might have seen him around the L.A. scene, but I’d probably seen a dozen guys who looked just like him and was getting them all mixed up. Regardless, he’d complimented my band, even though he’d admitted he couldn’t see us—which meant he didn’t know I was the one singing. A smile tickled my lips and I took a long drink of my cocktail.

“I don’t mind.” My eyes fixed again on his shirt. The graphic in the center was a Polaroid camera cartoon holding a photo of itself. Maybe it was the gin at work, but the image was a little mind-bending. “Nice shirt.”

When he smiled, his eyes crinkled at the corners. He offered his hand over the table. We shook briefly. “Kevin.”