How We Deal With Gravity(3)

“This one’s from two months ago. Says here Mason Street and his band left a crowd of nearly 3,000 ticket holders waiting until almost 11 p.m. before finally taking the stage in Oklahoma City,” Ray says, flicking his eyes to mine for a brief second, just long enough to burn in his disappointment. “Oh, wait…there’s more. It goes on to say that when the band finally took the stage, they only made it through one song before the drummer passed out. And then…wow, really? And then Street broke his guitar over his knee and punched his bass player, starting a brawl that police had to break up.”

“Yeah, yeah…I get it,” I say, but Ray’s quick to cut me off.

“No, Mason. I don’t think you do. Let’s take a look at this one,” he says, unfolding the one that’s going to hurt to hear. I’m not going to get out of here without letting him say his piece—so I sit back again and get comfortable. I still won’t look at him, though, so instead I stare at the wall of photos.

“The Mason Street Band was arrested for disorderly conduct after trashing—trashing!—a Reno hotel suite. Damage was estimated at $250,000 and included two windows,” Ray pulls his glasses off and rubs at his forehead. He doesn’t need to finish. “Damn it, Mason. You really don’t know why the label dropped you? You and those…those…those clowns that you call a band. Jesus, boy! It’s a good thing you’ve come home, but I don’t know—”

I turn to him now. If he’s about to say what I think he’s going to say, I want to look into his eyes while he crushes me. “What, Ray? What don’t you know?” I ask, throwing my shoulders up in defeat.

Ray’s slow to respond, spending his time folding up the sad scrapbook he’s kept on me. The worst part…I don’t think there’s a positive article in the mix, and I wouldn’t know where the hell to find one. He slides the folder back into his drawer and leans forward on his elbows, cracking his knuckles while he studies me.

“Kid, you sure made a mess of things. You’re the most talented thing I’ve ever put up on that stage. But your goddamned head is thick, you know that?” he says, mouth tight, and showing only half a smile. “I don’t know if you can fix this, that’s all. But we’ll try, okay? We’ll sure try.”

Ray stands up and walks over to reach for my hand to pull me up to my feet. He pats my back as he guides me back out to the bar. I just shake my head, because I really don’t have any answers. I get how Ray sees things, but he also doesn’t understand what it was like to play, night after night, in some of those joints. Every month there was promise of a bigger ticket, of coming in for an album, recording something new. But then another month would pass, and nothing. The guys quit believing about a year ago, and I just couldn’t keep it going anymore. I quit writing, too.

“Hey, Ray,” called the waitress from behind the bar, “we’re getting hammered out here already. What are we doing about Barb?”

“Avery’s coming in early. She’ll be here in a few,” Ray says back.

I can’t help but chuckle at the thought of Avery working the bar. Ray’s daughter has always been mousy. We all called her Birdie when we were younger, because when she talked it sounded like chirping.

“Avery actually works here?” I half laugh to Ray as I join him behind the bar. Out of instinct, I start grabbing glasses and drying them. I did a lot of dishes at Dusty’s before I hit the road, and if Ray’s going to put me up for the next few weeks, the least I can do is help out until Birdie shows up.

“Yeah, she works the night shifts. She’s going to school, too. Girl works her ass off,” Ray says, either not picking up on the humor I see about Avery in a bar, or just ignoring it. “Hey, will you take these to the back and bring in the clean ones?” Ray asks, handing me a bin full of dirty glasses.

“Sure,” I say, lugging them with me to the back. Sal and Manny are working the kitchen today, so I spend a few minutes with them. Those two have been working here almost as long as my mom has, and they’re like uncles to me. Hell, Sal taught me how to throw a punch when I was getting picked on in fifth grade. And Manny taught me how to take one in high school. My mom was pissed when he punched me in the face, but when she found out it was because I was dating his daughter, she never brought it up again.

Ray yells through the swinging door. “Hey, Mason! Avery’s here, so why don’t you take my keys on over to the house and get settled?”

“Ah right, boys. I’ll catch ya later. I’m going to see if I can talk the old man into letting me play a night or two,” I wink. I dry my hands, and then shake theirs before heading back into the busy bar, where the crowd is starting to build. Ray’s manning the tap; it’s at least two-people deep, and most of the tables are full. I recognize a lot of the familiar faces, but there’s always a batch of new ones, too—tourists and college kids looking to party.

“You sure Ray? I can stay, help out?” I offer, but Ray just pulls out his keys and tosses them to me.

“Nah, this is nothing. Just another Thursday night!” he says, topping off a beer and going right in to fill the next one.

I grip the keys in my right hand, nod thanks to him and turn around, but before I make it a full step, I slam into one of the waitresses. Trying to stop myself, I accidentally grab her tit with my free hand.