SUBJECT:Bachelorette Party Survey—Please complete ASAP.
Good evening, fellow bridesmaids! I’ve put together a questionnaire regarding Gin’s bachelorette party. I’ve planned quite a few of these bachelorette trips, and the sooner you fill out the questionnaire, the sooner I can start planning!
Thanks in advance.
XO, Renee
“God, this girl is doing the most,” I say to my audience of none. My throat squeezes tight. Would that I could text my dad. I swipe open our long-inactive text thread and treat myself to a few old messages, putting my heart on a spin cycle; then I open my Notes app and begin to type.
Hey Dad. Hope you’re good, wherever you are. Quick question: What would you do if youreallycouldn’t stand one of your bandmates?
I know he won’t respond, but the empty space feels like he just might. Sometimes it’s nice to pretend.
Three
This Monday begins the same as a dozen Mondays before it. Same eight o’clock alarm, same cup of coffee dressed the exact same way—one splash of oat milk and two packets of sweetener. Same as how Dad used to drink it, minus the bourbon.
Routinewas a dirty word back in my Cold Sweat days. Any touring musician would tell you the same—it’s all late nights and last-minute gigs, breakfast beers and gas station dinners between cities with names you forget. The Alice Pierce of Cold Sweat was a tornado of a person, touching down without warning, but the Alice Pierce of Gentle Giant Studios is a convert to the church of routines.
I pop in an earbud and file onto the bus, snagging my preferred seat near the middle. As usual, I check my email, but the same-old ends there: A surprise in my inbox earns an honest guffaw.
FROM:Renee Roberts
TO:Christina Amato, Alice Pierce
SUBJECT:following up :)
Good morning, ladies! Just making sure everyone received the bachelorette party survey I sent over last night! I’ve already received a few responses, and the sooner we have everyone’s schedules and ideas, the sooner we can get this celebration on the calendar! Maybe we can have a wine night next week to iron out all the details? How’s Thursday?
XO, Renee
I read through it twice, laughing both times, and my seatmate glares at me for expressing joy on the CTA. Joy is far from what I’m feeling, though. Disbelief, maybe? Shock? Highly concentrated irritation? It hasn’t been twenty-four hours since Renee sent out the questionnaire. Did she really already need to “follow up :)”? And what does she mean she’s received “a few responses” already? Aren’t there only three of us?
My fingers leap to grab a screenshot of the offending email, but the bus lurches and my gut twists when reality catches up with my instincts. I have no one to send this to. Gin obviously isn’t an option, and Mom would probably take Renee’s side and compliment her on being organized.
If Dad were still around, though, he’d drag Renee through the mud with me. I take the screenshot, then drop it into my Notes app.
Following up on an email you sent less than 24 hours ago? No law against that, I guess. XO, the bummer bridesmaid
I smirk at my own joke and try to imagine what Dad might’ve said in response. Something witty and mean spirited, no doubt.Whenever I had a bad word to say about anyone, Dad stood ready with three more. It didn’t matter if he actually knew the person; anyone who so much as inconvenienced his daughter was fair game when our conversations devolved into roasts. In retrospect, I was often the one we should’ve been roasting, but had I been looking for accountability, I would’ve gone to Mom.
My next notification is a more welcome surprise: a text from Gin with her availability for dinner the next few weeks. I call dibs on her Friday night and, in a fleeting moment of overconfidence, offer to host. An incentive to clean the apartment, I decide.
Once I’m off the bus, it’s a five-minute walk to the unassuming home of Gentle Giant Studios. If you blink, you might miss the only proof you’re in the right place—a small gold plaque hangs on the door, engraved with two thin letters:GG. Apart from this one clue, this building could be any place that’s no place in the city, an enormous brick fortress your eyes are meant to gloss over on their way to something more exciting. A few of us lucky ones know better; there is no place in Chicago more magical than the studio where platinum records are born.
Through the glass of studio A, I spot Aidan by the patch bay, looking sleepy in the same faded A Tribe Called Quest sweatshirt he wears on the daily. I rap on the glass, and he tips his cleft chin and waves with a cable in his fist, his silent request for another XLR.
Even after two years assisting at Gentle Giant, stepping into the storage closet makes me feel like a kid in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. The wall-to-wall wire shelves house every mic, monitor, and synth under the sun, every piece of recording equipment you could dream up, plus a half dozen barely different alternativesto suit the pickiest musicians. I’m only here three days a week, but if I had it my way, I’d never go home.
I run Aidan his cable and lend a hand with the inputs; then the studio phone rumbles in my pocket, and I step out to buzz in our guests. Two flannel-wearing men, one tall and one short. In my head, I dub the tall one “Big” and the small, nervous-looking one “Rich.”
“Welcome to Gentle Giant,” I watch myself say in the reflection of Rich’s aviators. “Can I grab you anything? Tea? Coffee?”
“Beer?” Rich’s push broom mustache twitches with a hint of a smile. It’s 11:00 a.m., not that he or any other rock star I know would give a shit. I swing by the fridge and tug one can free from a six-pack, and Aidan slouches out of the live room just as Rich pops the top.
“Whaddup,” Aidan ribbits, and sticks out his hand.
“Aidan Davis, right?” Big straightens and claps his tattooed hand into Aidan’s, pumping it twice. “It’s an honor to meet you, man. Truly. Love your work.”
