through. It was labeled with his name and the year. Drew put it on a low pile and wiggled off the top. The box had become misshapen from dampness. The smell of mildew got sharper with every pile we unearthed.
Contracts. Invoices. Master tapes. A pencil case.
“That’s weird,” I said.
Drew handed it over. Shiny orange vinyl marked with pen. I pulled the zipper open. It was empty inside but dusted with fine white powder. I held it open for Drew.
When he looked, he laughed. “Of course. We could probably open up all these boxes and sell coke out of the back of this container.”
I zipped it closed and tossed it back in the box. “He’s a cellist. I can’t even imagine what the rest of these have in them. We taking the whole thing?”
“More likely than not.” He jiggled the top back on.
We’d found what we came for, but we were both hesitating. He looked toward the back, where another ten feet of solid banker box stood. A thick wall of musical history.
“You’re thinking what I’m thinking,” I said flatly. The container was hot and oppressive, yet I didn’t want to leave it. “We did come for the Kentucky Killer masters.”
“You have to get back to the office.”
“More likely than not.”
“You can’t stay here with me. Already you’ve been with the visiting attorney too long.”
“And a law clerk can’t call in sick for the rest of the day or anything.”
“You’d have to make it up over the weekend.” He put his hands on a high box and slid it down, then he put it in my outstretched arms. It said “Neil Young – 1990.”
“Yeah. I hate working weekends.” I put the box with the rest of the early nineties. “Maybe five minutes. Then I’ll grab a taxi back to the office.”
“You should run into the office and call. I don’t want you to get in trouble on my account.”
He had dust on the shoulders of his shirt, and he’d rolled up his sleeves, exposing the tattoos on his inner arms. I’d done a good job stripping the lawyer costume.
“Five minutes.” I held out my arms for another box. “Ten. Honestly, I already told Dozer traffic might keep me here. And I have a family dinner tonight. So they don’t expect me until tomorrow.”
“Saturday.”
“Come on, you know the drill. Six days a week, et cetera.”
He slid another box off the top. I’d never heard of the artist. He put it gently in my arms, still holding it. “I’m glad you got your shit together.”
“You too.” I whispered it because I wasn’t just returning a nicety. I was speaking a deep truth.
Seeing him again wasn’t just a happy coincidence. He scared the shit out of me. I didn’t do feelings. They didn’t rule me. I did what I wanted, when I wanted, how I wanted. But I was scared, and fear made me uncomfortable.
I decided discomfort was all right though. I wanted to be around him.
His fingers grasped my elbows while he held the weight of the box. “I’m not together. I just have a law degree.”
He wanted to tell me something, and I wanted to tell him something. We couldn’t. We were different. We didn’t know each other and we never had, but the pull was there. I wanted him to know me. I wanted to tell him my secrets. Not because of who we’d been, but because something about his puzzle pieces fit my puzzle pieces. I felt a clicking, like the snap of one piece into another.
I stepped back with the box, and his fingers brushed my arm as I pulled away.
That felt nice.
I turned away and put the box on the pile. Fear was uncomfortable, but the rainstorm between my legs wasn’t much better.
Chapter 16.
1982 – Before the night of the Quaalude
I happened to know that most stars, real stars, didn’t get mortgages. They paid cash or had their corporations loan them the money, so they paid interest to themselves. But Drew and Strat, and Gary to a lesser degree, were normal guys on the brink of becoming real rock celebrities.
We lived on chips and pretzel rods because we were young
Contracts. Invoices. Master tapes. A pencil case.
“That’s weird,” I said.
Drew handed it over. Shiny orange vinyl marked with pen. I pulled the zipper open. It was empty inside but dusted with fine white powder. I held it open for Drew.
When he looked, he laughed. “Of course. We could probably open up all these boxes and sell coke out of the back of this container.”
I zipped it closed and tossed it back in the box. “He’s a cellist. I can’t even imagine what the rest of these have in them. We taking the whole thing?”
“More likely than not.” He jiggled the top back on.
We’d found what we came for, but we were both hesitating. He looked toward the back, where another ten feet of solid banker box stood. A thick wall of musical history.
“You’re thinking what I’m thinking,” I said flatly. The container was hot and oppressive, yet I didn’t want to leave it. “We did come for the Kentucky Killer masters.”
“You have to get back to the office.”
“More likely than not.”
“You can’t stay here with me. Already you’ve been with the visiting attorney too long.”
“And a law clerk can’t call in sick for the rest of the day or anything.”
“You’d have to make it up over the weekend.” He put his hands on a high box and slid it down, then he put it in my outstretched arms. It said “Neil Young – 1990.”
“Yeah. I hate working weekends.” I put the box with the rest of the early nineties. “Maybe five minutes. Then I’ll grab a taxi back to the office.”
“You should run into the office and call. I don’t want you to get in trouble on my account.”
He had dust on the shoulders of his shirt, and he’d rolled up his sleeves, exposing the tattoos on his inner arms. I’d done a good job stripping the lawyer costume.
“Five minutes.” I held out my arms for another box. “Ten. Honestly, I already told Dozer traffic might keep me here. And I have a family dinner tonight. So they don’t expect me until tomorrow.”
“Saturday.”
“Come on, you know the drill. Six days a week, et cetera.”
He slid another box off the top. I’d never heard of the artist. He put it gently in my arms, still holding it. “I’m glad you got your shit together.”
“You too.” I whispered it because I wasn’t just returning a nicety. I was speaking a deep truth.
Seeing him again wasn’t just a happy coincidence. He scared the shit out of me. I didn’t do feelings. They didn’t rule me. I did what I wanted, when I wanted, how I wanted. But I was scared, and fear made me uncomfortable.
I decided discomfort was all right though. I wanted to be around him.
His fingers grasped my elbows while he held the weight of the box. “I’m not together. I just have a law degree.”
He wanted to tell me something, and I wanted to tell him something. We couldn’t. We were different. We didn’t know each other and we never had, but the pull was there. I wanted him to know me. I wanted to tell him my secrets. Not because of who we’d been, but because something about his puzzle pieces fit my puzzle pieces. I felt a clicking, like the snap of one piece into another.
I stepped back with the box, and his fingers brushed my arm as I pulled away.
That felt nice.
I turned away and put the box on the pile. Fear was uncomfortable, but the rainstorm between my legs wasn’t much better.
Chapter 16.
1982 – Before the night of the Quaalude
I happened to know that most stars, real stars, didn’t get mortgages. They paid cash or had their corporations loan them the money, so they paid interest to themselves. But Drew and Strat, and Gary to a lesser degree, were normal guys on the brink of becoming real rock celebrities.
We lived on chips and pretzel rods because we were young
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