JUNE
ZANE
“Honestly? It’s all shit,” Steven said with a wide yawn.
It was three a.m. on a Tuesday (or was it Saturday?) and they’d been locked in the studio since noon. The room was stuffy and dimly lit, and the only window faced the control room. Sheet music, yellow legal pads with lyrics scrawled on them, and leftover takeout containers were strewn on nearly every surface, including the Steinway grand piano at which Zane sat. Mike and Claudia were slouched on the red leather couch together. She had one leg resting lazily on top of this thigh, a sight that irritated the shit out of Zane. Rusty, whose back wasn’t thirty anymore, was lying on the black and red striped carpet, his feet resting on the seat of an armchair. Steven sat behind the drum kit twirling a stick in his left hand, looking agitated. The production team had left some time around one to get some sleep and give them time to fight it out in private.
After a straight month of recording, tempers always ran high, but with this album, the tension was at an explosivelevel. Nothing was gelling. There wasn’t one song yet that felt like a lead single, when usually they’d have at least two good contenders by now.
Zane glared at the drummer from the piano bench. “You’re pretty fucking picky for a guy who’s never written anything.”
“Just being honest. I know the difference between a hit and shit.” Steven got up and walked over to the table to grab a slice of the pizza that had been sitting out for hours.
Mike ran a hand over his short hair and groaned. “Steve’s right. We should scrap this one. It’s like we’re ripping off our own song.”
“I actually like it,” Claudia said, glancing at Zane. “It’s not quite there yet, but it’s got a lot of potential.”
Mike slapped Claudia’s knee with his left hand. “No offense, but you’re not exactly the expert in the room, so maybe stay out of it.”
She cleared her throat and stared down at the carpet, and Zane could see she was fighting tears. “Sorry. I just wanted to help.”
“Well, don’t. We know what we’re doing.”
Zane banged on the keyboard, letting out a clang of notes, all fighting each other to be heard. “Don’t be a dick, Mike.”
“I’m not.”
“Yeah, you are. Claudia’s the only one coming up with anything even remotely solid at the moment.”
Mike glowered at him. “Why? Because she rhymed candle and handle? Doesn’t exactly make her Bernie Taupin.” He glanced over at his girlfriend. “No offense.”
“Some taken,” she answered, standing up to get away from him.
Steven’s gaze followed Claudia as she crossed the roomto the minibar fridge to get a Tab. “What we need to do is figure outwhywe’re struggling so much with this album. We’ve never run into this problem before.” The not-at-all-subtle message was that Claudia was the Yoko Ono in the room.
Rusty gave him a ‘seriously, dude?’ look from his position on the floor. “I think we all need to get some sleep. Maybe we take a day off and come back fresh on Thursday.”
“Today’s Thursday, isn’t it?” Mike asked.
Rusty shook his head. “It’s definitely Wednesday.”
“It’s Sunday,” Claudia answered.
Both men looked mildly shocked by this news.
“She’s right. It’s Sunday, which means we lose the studio in three days,” Zane told them. “Which means we push on until we have something. I refuse to go back to the label and say we came up empty.” He chewed his bottom lip, then said, “I say we go back to my original lyrics.”
Murmurs of dissent were heard from around the room.
Rusty carefully turned onto his side, then made his way to standing with an accompaniment of middle-aged man groans. “You stay and keep spinning your wheels if you want. I’m going home. I can’t even think straight anymore.”
“Fine, be a quitter,” Zane muttered.
“It’s not quitting. It’s sleeping so I can get my creative juices flowing again. Besides, I miss my wife.”
Zane felt a flash of jealousy as Rusty walked out the door. Of course Rusty could leave. The pressure wasn’t on him. It was on Zane, who wished to God he hadn’t told Larry he should be the sole songwriter. The weight of it had been crushing him ounce by ounce ever since, while Rusty could stroll out and sleep like a man without a care in the world. And the thing about him missing his wife? That was on purpose. They all knew Sienna and Zane were at a lowpoint, in part due to their toddler who never slept. Little Poppy, who was going through the terrible twos, clung to Sienna day and night, as if she might die without her mom nearby. She woke up at least three times a night crying for her mom, who was up by six with the older kids. Sienna was a walking zombie with nothing left to give their marriage. As much as Zane tried not to blame his wife, part of him couldn’t help but think she was spoiling their final baby, thus creating the problem herself.
They hadn’t had sex in over two months—on his birthday. It was fast and quiet, and the entire time, he could tell Sienna was listening for Poppy instead of focusing on him. It felt like a favor, which made him feel unwanted and old. Since then, he feared both were true. He was forty-four after all, and suddenly terrified he was past his best-before date. And now he’d been reduced to keeping track of how many days it had been since they’d had sex. They were becoming one of those pathetic couples who only did it on anniversaries and birthdays. What was next? Reading glasses on a chain?Chinos?
