mind, Jax waited until the waitress vacated the room once more and leaned forward. “Who’s managing you these days?”
Gage answered, although the person in question had done little of nothing so far. The Green Envy gig had even fallen into his lap through his own connections.
“I listened to what you sent. What else are you working on?”
He summed up his current projects, picking at the food on his plate at first. And then not wanting to seem rude, he shoveled in bites with a little more gusto.
“You ever produce for anyone else? Besides your demo projects?” When Gage shook his head, Jax spoke of a band and asked if he wanted to sit in on a session with them. “I like what you’re doing with your stuff. And their producer is stumped with some of the arrangements.”
He arrived home more confused over his future than ever. He studied the business card he’d been given. A talent manager closely associated with Jewelstone. Jax’s nice way of saying ‘not interested but this guy may find you a new gig?’ And yet, Jax had offered him everything—a position in a band, an engineering gig—everything except the hope of signing him on as himself at some point in the future. Atop the card, he placed the thumb drive and stretched out on the couch, hoping to sleep through the night.
Chapter 20
A ll in all, this Christmas could have top billing of the Christmases of the last several years except for one thing. Despite the festivities a surprisingly sober mother without a crazy rocker boyfriend in sight had insisted on, I still had a Gage-sized hole in my heart that kept a damper on things.
Holiday seasons during my late teen years and early college years had always included Henni’s latest boyfriend, cheap takeout, and then me disappearing into my room. I’d always used the excuse of studying, but had more often than not ended up with headphones feeding my favorite songs into my head while I lay in bed staring at the ceiling.
This year, my mother had flown into Los Angeles and was bunking on my couch. We’d cooked dinner with all the trimmings for just the two of us. Henni’s cooking skills peaked at boiling water—and oftentimes in the past she’d forgotten that on the stove while getting her next fix. My culinary experience was limited to a blender—as in smoothies or hot sauce. So, our dinner was less than stellar, but we both enjoyed every bite.
“Do we have to wait until morning to open presents?” I felt ten years old when I asked the question. But the day had been going so well. We were on a roll this season, and I didn’t want to chance something spoiling it by morning.
“I don’t see why.” My mother left the dishes soaking in the sink and skipped across the room. Kneeling beneath the tree we’d trimmed—another novelty my especially maternal parent had insisted on this year—Henni drew out three brightly wrapped packages. Very small. Medium. Large.
I couldn’t help laughing. “I feel like this is a test. One of those experiments we set up in psych class. Which should I choose first…?”
“You shouldn’t be thinking of class. You’re on semester break!” My mother promptly pushed a glass of wine across the sofa table.
“Well, grab yours while you’re down there and let’s tear into these babies! Sorry I didn’t get you three.”
My mother replied with a ‘pish’ sound she’d perfected through the years and settled Indian style on the floor with my present in her lap. “One, two, three, and go!”
The paper settled and while my mom screeched in excitement over each article of designer clothing separated from tissue paper folds, My focus remained frozen on what was inside the medium box.
The child’s size electric guitar was cherry red. I ran a finger down the frets, plucking terribly out of tune strings. But the real oddity—if a kid’s guitar to a woman in her twenties was not strange enough—was the deep, wide scuff on one edge. Looking up, I found Henni
Gage answered, although the person in question had done little of nothing so far. The Green Envy gig had even fallen into his lap through his own connections.
“I listened to what you sent. What else are you working on?”
He summed up his current projects, picking at the food on his plate at first. And then not wanting to seem rude, he shoveled in bites with a little more gusto.
“You ever produce for anyone else? Besides your demo projects?” When Gage shook his head, Jax spoke of a band and asked if he wanted to sit in on a session with them. “I like what you’re doing with your stuff. And their producer is stumped with some of the arrangements.”
He arrived home more confused over his future than ever. He studied the business card he’d been given. A talent manager closely associated with Jewelstone. Jax’s nice way of saying ‘not interested but this guy may find you a new gig?’ And yet, Jax had offered him everything—a position in a band, an engineering gig—everything except the hope of signing him on as himself at some point in the future. Atop the card, he placed the thumb drive and stretched out on the couch, hoping to sleep through the night.
Chapter 20
A ll in all, this Christmas could have top billing of the Christmases of the last several years except for one thing. Despite the festivities a surprisingly sober mother without a crazy rocker boyfriend in sight had insisted on, I still had a Gage-sized hole in my heart that kept a damper on things.
Holiday seasons during my late teen years and early college years had always included Henni’s latest boyfriend, cheap takeout, and then me disappearing into my room. I’d always used the excuse of studying, but had more often than not ended up with headphones feeding my favorite songs into my head while I lay in bed staring at the ceiling.
This year, my mother had flown into Los Angeles and was bunking on my couch. We’d cooked dinner with all the trimmings for just the two of us. Henni’s cooking skills peaked at boiling water—and oftentimes in the past she’d forgotten that on the stove while getting her next fix. My culinary experience was limited to a blender—as in smoothies or hot sauce. So, our dinner was less than stellar, but we both enjoyed every bite.
“Do we have to wait until morning to open presents?” I felt ten years old when I asked the question. But the day had been going so well. We were on a roll this season, and I didn’t want to chance something spoiling it by morning.
“I don’t see why.” My mother left the dishes soaking in the sink and skipped across the room. Kneeling beneath the tree we’d trimmed—another novelty my especially maternal parent had insisted on this year—Henni drew out three brightly wrapped packages. Very small. Medium. Large.
I couldn’t help laughing. “I feel like this is a test. One of those experiments we set up in psych class. Which should I choose first…?”
“You shouldn’t be thinking of class. You’re on semester break!” My mother promptly pushed a glass of wine across the sofa table.
“Well, grab yours while you’re down there and let’s tear into these babies! Sorry I didn’t get you three.”
My mother replied with a ‘pish’ sound she’d perfected through the years and settled Indian style on the floor with my present in her lap. “One, two, three, and go!”
The paper settled and while my mom screeched in excitement over each article of designer clothing separated from tissue paper folds, My focus remained frozen on what was inside the medium box.
The child’s size electric guitar was cherry red. I ran a finger down the frets, plucking terribly out of tune strings. But the real oddity—if a kid’s guitar to a woman in her twenties was not strange enough—was the deep, wide scuff on one edge. Looking up, I found Henni
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