[i]Where was he?[/i] Rob blinked a few times to try to gather his senses and look around him. To his left, he could see a few members of the band he was drumming for. [i]What was their name again? Men Of Old?[/i] He wasn’t sure at this point. Rob’s evening had been a complete cluster of noise and booze–which was pretty typical of a night in The Crocodile. Tucked in between a hostel and a Bank of America, The Alligator was the place where diverse and thriving acts could come and play in a space that wasn’t judgmental, clean, or even above code. The floor swayed and bent at the thrashing mobs, which ebbed and flowed with shrill power chords and far too much low end from the three stand amps that pumped the space with precious noise. Whoever or whatever lived below The Alligator was probably something Rob never wanted to meet. Yet, if the outdoor signage was to be believed, the owner himself inhabited the space–paid for in total by the noise above. Rob blinked a few more times–hard, fast, like he was clearing a splinter. He re-centered himself and looked to his right this time. Next to him, a polite girl who went by Ari signaled that the act on stage was almost done. [i]”Woman,”[/i] Rob mentally corrected himself. [i]”The woman next to me.”[/i] Yet he couldn’t help himself. He knew Ari somewhat well–and even started tutoring her on microbiology for her UW courses. She was a proto-adult in his eyes–same as those in the band he was opening for (what was their name)? People who still carried a fake in their wallets and purses and hurt themselves in a pit to the type of distorted drivel which swelled out from the band on stage. [u]Again.[/u] Rob blinked again. He needed to be ready for the set. Sure, the songs the boys had put together was little more than a cacophonic mix of thrash and doom–but he still needed to focus. At least, he would need to focus this many drinks in. He blinked again. [i]How many drinks had he had?[/i] He was drunk–he knew that much–but he wasn’t entirely sure [i]how[/i] drunk he was. He tried to count his shots. One at the front of house, free of charge and courtesy of Ryan the Bartender who knew him very well. Two more purchased by the band for him, as a bit of a “thank you” for stooping down to the band’s level. At least three of four more after setup and before the opening act started up. Maybe another from Ari for good luck? And after that? He wasn’t entirely sure. [i]“Hey man. You good?”[/i] The voice rang out from his right, barely audible above the music on stage. Rob turned to his left to look towards Jared. [i]What a stupid name for a kid. Jared? How old was he when In Bloom toured Europe? Eight?[/i] “Yeah man,” Rob shot back. He threw a bright smile on his face. “Let’s fuck it up!” he gruffed out over the mess of noise which surrounded them. Jared smiled and nodded. “Fuck yeah, dude!” He shouted, looking to the two other boys. Rob looked at them through whiskey-soaked eyes and felt little more than contempt. These were no trailblazers. They weren’t the kind of kids to make music to mean anything. And he would know. He’d seen it done twice. No–these were kids who wanted the [i]idea[/i] of a rock band. The allure of the sights. The sounds. The tours full of drugs they could take and the women they could fuck the brains out of on a tour bus. They wanted something they thought Daddy could buy. Which is exactly why Jared’s Dad–a nice, perpetually busy person he had met during the heyday of MAE–had set the two up and paid Rob far more than he was worth to play with the boys. Here he was, mid 30s, about to take the stage with kids who thought they could buy their way into the scene they were sampling. So yeah—of course he had been drinking. --- Rob blinked again, and the show was over. Sweat bled down from his forehead like a gashed wound and bit at his eyes. His arms vibrated from the forearms down. His fingers blistered from poor form and a violent grip throughout the band’s set. But the crowd ahead of him roared in approval, and all seemed right. He supposed he did earn that ten grand. “Thanks again to Rob Pennie on the drums,” Jared barked into the mic, “’cause this has been an absolute pleasure and a dream of mine, my man.” Rob shot a grin up to Jared to get him to turn away and back to the audience. “And I have to say, on behalf of everyone here, in Seattle, all over the fuckin’ place man,” Jared continued. “Call Jane. Call Austin, call Sam. The audience is here man, make it happen!” Before Jared could finish the sentence, the crowd shouted over him–and the noise seemed to deafen all of King County. It was insane the level of noise they produced. About as insane as Jared’s notion. [i]”Yeah,”[/i] Rob thought to himself as he waved and faked appreciation for the wooing crowd. [i]”You guys keep dreaming.”[/i] Rob’s walk home wasn’t too far–three blocks east and two north–but fending off the teenage crowd wasn’t an easy task. He was a weird spot with this sort of thing. With Mae, there’d likely be a bodyguard or two following the two of them around the streets of Seattle. But without her, he was almost entirely anonymous. That was, whenever he wasn’t at or in a concert. Every year since In Bloom’s demise and especially after Mae’s MAE phase (at the two referred to it is), he’s grown to resent the fame and the noise. Because it wasn’t a fame to be proud of. It was a fame based on his proximity to his ex-wife. And, a fame based on a band that exploded so cataclysmically and fully he wanted nothing to do it with it. But, as luck would have it, In Bloom and MAE followed him around like some fetid ghost. He couldn’t listen to KEXP for more than an hour before J’s voice would crackle over the car stereo. And not even three songs seemed to go by on the pop station before Mae would be on there, singing her biggest hits. Especially these days, In Bloom seemed to take on more and more of a life of its own. Kids seemed to throw their hits across video after video. You could easily see 15-year-olds lip-syncing their hearts out with J, mashing up the songs with Paramore or Rodrigo. Rob always laughed at the thought of it. [i]”Wherever she is,”[/i] Rob would think, [i]“I’m sure she fucking hates that shit.”[/i] It was almost a relief, however, that his ex-girlfriend’s band was taking on a new life over his ex-wife’s act. Listening to MAE, all-caps, was an aggravating experience. It would only bring about memories of slaving over an album, over and over, only to have Mae, the person, overrule him and swap him out with a drum machine. Listening to MAE also brought him back to the world tour. Crossing over Europe, Asia, and at one point they did a week in South Africa. If you watched MAE’s documentary, it would be easy to see how the tour was actually going. It wasn’t a tour of dreams. It was one of nightmares. Still, after all these years, Rob couldn’t be too mad at Mae. Visitation rights had been firmly upheld, and he even got child support, and a lot of it due to the difference in income. Rob even had to admit he liked seeing her. They had always been good friends. Just not-so-good lovers. Rob shook his head. Centered himself. He was a block away from his home, turned around and signing the last of the autographs and telling his final tour stories. One guy–a short, timid dude probably still in high school, was the last of the crowd. His arm shook as he handed over a vinyl in pristine condition. On the front, J’s face bright and happy. Last he heard of her, she had been in rehab. And last he’d seen her, it had been through tear-stricken eyes, looking at her sleeping form. Then bolting off in the middle of the night, never to be seen again. “Want me to make it out to someone?” Rob asked as he got a silver sharpie out. He was all business–even knowing half of those words came out slurred, half-formed. “Jane,” the boy said, after a moment. Rob looked at him, swaying, more confused than anything. “J?” he asked back. The boy looked taken by surprise. “No, no, sorry,” he laughed out. “My girlfriend’s name is also Jane. I’m giving this to her for her birthday.” Rob blinked. “Of course,” he said–too loud–and signed the album. “Best of luck to you both.” The boy thanked him and turned the corner, and again Rob was alone. --- The next day was when the call came. It was two–no, three–in the afternoon. His head throbbed and ached. He was leaned over his armchair, ice pack in hand, when the phone buzzed. At first, he thought it was Elle. She probably had grabbed her mother’s phone, as she usually did around this time when the tutor wasn’t looking. She’d usually call and scream “Daddy, I did it!” into the phone. No reason—just a child declaring victory over her mean tutor, snagging the phone and making a call when no one was looking. Rob would laugh and say as much as he could before the tutor eventually came and took the phone back. But it wasn’t Elle this time. It was Evan. “What?” Rob shot into his phone, before putting it on speaker and sitting it on the end table. In the transition, Rob missed the first few words of Evan’s speech. Not like it mattered much, anyways. Evan was the ‘account manager’ for In Bloom at the moment. The third in four years. The licensing rights for the band post-breakup had been a clusterfuck, made ever-more complicated since the four of them mutually agreed not to ever meet up in person again. So instead, four different managers working with four different estranged bandmembers had made a quagmire of the rights over the years. Evan was the unfortunate ringleader—the voice between the band and the label itself. He was probably the closest thing they had to a manager at the moment, as terrible as that was. “—absolutely fucking insane, what we’re seeing,” he said as the speakerphone activated. “Have you seen it?” “No, I haven’t,” Rob said back. He re-adjusted on his seat and moved the ice back down his bad leg. “Do tell.” “Millions per day, Rob. On every fucking song in the back catalogue.” “So, the catalogue?” Rob corrected. “Yeah–fine¬–whatever,” Evan replied, the three words hitting equal emphasis and lack of interest. “The point is, you have to strike when the iron is hot with these things. We can’t wait for it to top out before making our move.” “And what would that move be?” “…don’t be mad.” Rob’s blood pressure shot up. That wasn’t good. “Evan—” “Two weeks in Orange County. That’s all I’m asking—” “EVAN—” “Hey. HEY. Two weeks. You and the rest of them. Turn in a song, an EP, fucking four albums, I don’t care. Just turn something in. We can put in cameras and everything, make a doc out of it.” “No the fuck you won’t.” “Or not! It’s fine. I don’t care. I don’t. Just make something.” Rob thought for a long while. Ahead of him he could see the faint outline of Puget Sound amongst the fog and fir trees. He envisioned them dissipating into the smog, pollution, and shithole that was Southern California. After leaving, he had vowed never to return. So far, he had kept that promise. “What did the others say?” he finally asked. He could feel the sigh of relief from Evan on the other end. [i]Not an immediate no. Progress.[/i] “I haven’t asked them yet,” Evan admitted. “To be honest, I wanted to start with you.” “And why is that?” “Well, you’re the most dependable! You’re an excellent drummer, still working all over the world and…how do I put this.” After a moment, Rob interjected. “Put it however you want.” A pause. Then: “You’re the most successful one, Rob. I thought you would be the easiest yes and I need a yes from someone before I call anyone else. I know you guys aren’t close—” “—a nice way to put it—” “—but they’re not that easy to get a hold of, much less convince.” Rob leaned back in his chair, weighing the options. Elle would be out of school in a week. He always took her on a trip in summer. He’d have to push that back. “I can’t be gone all summer—” he started, but Evan was way ahead of him. “You won’t be. We do this over the next three weeks, you go home for the summer, spend time with Elle, we mix and master, maybe we talk about a short tour in the fall. I know Elle’s important to you.” “You promise? No summer tour—” “Rob I can’t promise anything,” Evan said. “You know how these things are. But I’ll try my best.” Rob took a deep breath. Between him and his picturesque Seattle view were three half-drank bottles of whiskey. Maybe he could use a change of pace. At least, before he’d have to call AA. “Two weeks,” Rob repeated. “Not a fucking day more. I want the fuck out of California after two weeks.” --- Within four days, all of the arrangements had been made. When he told Mae over the phone, she seemed over the moon for him. And she was—which didn’t help. He almost wanted to fight with her, but the truth was, Mae was an excellent mother and a genuinely nice ex-wife. Which really only made him feel shittier. She also let him have Elle over the weekend for a short getaway even though it wasn’t his weekend. Rob took her out to nearby Victoria. She was in the middle of a floral phase, and the two had an absolute blast walking through the streets of the quaint Canadian town. But it all passed far too quickly. Right as he picked her up, it felt like he was dropping her right back off at her mother’s—a glass mansion on a hill in Mercer Island. “Where are we going next month?” He asked Elle, on his knees, at Mae’s doorstep. “I dunno,” Elle responded. “Oranges cow?” “Orange County,” Rob corrected. “Why do you wanna go there?” “You wanna go there,” she responded, matter-of-factly. “I wanna go there.” Rob and Mae shared a look and a laugh at their daughter’s answer. “Tell you what,” he said, “maybe we can check out a farm when I get back. See some cows, oranges, apples?” Elle smiled at the thought. “Can I get dinner now?” “Can I get a hug?” Rob squeezed his daughter tightly for as long as she’d allow—hardly more than a second—before she bolted into the home, yelling in delight. It was movie night, and movie night was the one night she got chicken nuggets for dinner. Rob stood to his feet and looked to Mae. He tried to get a read out of her, but she seemed unreadable in this moment. It almost concerned him. “Take care of yourself, Rob,” she said softly. “Seriously.” “I do,” he said, a bit more defensively than he intended. “Rob…it’s starting to smell on you. Seriously.” “I don’t drink when I have Elle,” he shot back. “You know that.” “I know you didn’t. I know you don’t. That’s why I’m worried. When’s the last time you washed that shirt?” “Mae, please—” “Tell them hi for me, would you?” Mae responded—changing the subject as she always did when she made her point. “I hope it works out.” With that, and a brief hug, Mae receded back inside. She had a way of doing that. Making her point—making her threat—without having to even seem mean. Rob stormed back to his car, filling with anger with every footstep. Because no matter what happened, Mae was [i]not[/i] going to take Elle from him. And if she thought so, she had another fucking thing coming. --- Within 24 hours of dropping Mae back off, Rob was flying over California. He had been situated into first class–not his request–and kept a hat as far down as he could. He’d wear sunglasses in this flight if it wasn’t too suspicious. In just the past few days, the millions the previous songs had been pulling had begun converting into record sales. At this point the band had only small batch pressings available. In the past few days after they all had sold out, the label had put out pre-orders for a full pressing. Tens of thousands of pre-orders later, it was starting to look like a four or even five figure royalty check this month. Thanks to his work with MAE, he had never hurt for money after she went big—and made about as much as a predominant lawyer from royalties alone. And as uncomfortable as he had been with his growing wealth as of late, he had to admit that a royalty check that size wasn’t life-changing anymore. But was it to J? Was it to Sam and Austin? The thought of meeting them drew a pit in his stomach, so he returned his focus again to the drink on his tray. Within another hour, the plane had landed. Rob practically bolted from the gate terminal to the baggage claim—picking a spot in the corner to avoid any growing paparazzi activity. In Seattle he was a virtual unknown. But here, being the ex-husband of one of the biggest pop stars of the decade made it easy to be seen. The In Bloom explosion didn’t help either. And sure enough, just as he grabbed his bag— “Rob! Rob!” Some lanky boy with a patchy beard sprinted up to him with a DSLR. The flash was already blinding. Rob threw his glasses over his eyes before trying to move past him, towards the door. “What do you think of In Bloom’s recent success? Is more retro rock making a comeback?” “What?” Rob couldn’t help but mutter aloud. [i]”Classic rock??”[/i] he thought to himself. What the fuck happened to California in the past few years? The paparazzo, unflustered, continued a rattle of questions while maintaining about a six inch distance between himself and Rob. “Have you spoken to Mae recently? What does she think of the success of your side project? What are your thoughts about Jane’s newfound sobriety?” That one stopped him dead in his tracks. [i]J had gone sober? How was that news?[/i] Once a few years back someone had asked him what he thought of her in rehab, but he didn’t think on it much further than that. And if he was being honest, he brushed it off with the mindset that it was typical for her. But now, on his way to see her and the others, he was just now finding this out? He was beginning to feel worse and worse about this. “Look, man,” Rob finally said, “I’ll answer one question if you ask just one.” The two were nearly outside–where airport security would no doubt stop this guy before following Rob any further. Without hesitation, the paparazzo responded: “What happened between you and Jane in the first place?” Without a moment’s hesitation, Rob turned to go outside. “Nevermind,” he said as he turned away from the guy and his promise. “Sorry, kid.” --- Rob was quickly whisked into a black SUV, which took Rob up and up—higher and higher into Chino Hills. He had a brief call with Evan to get the details: it would be a three-story AirBnB with a private drive and a security detail nearby in case of any fanatics. The kitchen was stocked with as much junk food and booze as they could find. The basement was a converted theater-turned-studio and they had installed the simplest soundboard they could find for them to record demos with. And finally, at any point they could call in pros to get some better sound and even cut a record right then and there. Rob only had one question, which he asked as they pulled up to the gate and his driver started to enter in the access code: “Am I first?” “Yeah,” Evan said. “But you won’t be alone for long.” The driver pulled up the home–a nice, distinctively Los Angeles-looking mansion–and drove off without a second world. Leaving Rob with a suitcase and little else to enter inside. He didn’t spend too much time looking around. In fact, he almost immediately moved upstairs and picked a room. He briefly considered picking the master bedroom—an old band tradition of whoever got to a rental home first—but saw that the entire mansion was designed for the purpose of making music. Each bedroom had its own mini-fridge (with more booze), a bathroom, hot tub, and even sauna. Rob picked the first one he entered, unpacked a few things, and plopped down, face first, into the bed. Every moment he spent here alone was bringing him ever closer to confronting the rest of the band. Had they spoken since the band ended? Did they have some sort of anti-Rob group chat? What did they think of his and Mae’s overpublicized divorce? He calmed himself and decided laying in bed may not be the best move. He moved down to the studio space, got behind the kit, and got to practicing. If anything was going to get these two weeks over with, it was going to be the work. As he played, he pulled out a whisky shot, and took it. Lord knows he’d need it for however this first talk with J was going to go.