Resist (Songs of Submission #6)(37)

Carnival Records didn’t have a cutting edge reputation. They weren’t “street.” They recorded gangsters and drug addicts, same as anyone, but internally, they were old school and buttoned-up. The office was all business. They weren’t there to create or be part of an arts community. They took care of business. That was all. So though I’d worn a yellow dress with cream shoes, a cream scarf to cover Jonathan’s marks, my hair in braids, and red lipstick bright enough to stop traffic, the employees kept the colors toned down, the lipstick nude, and the arty affectation to a minimum.

I wasn’t waiting long before the receptionist brought me up the stairs, her ass swaying like a pendulum in her Robert Rodriguez skirt, big cloppy shoes silent from practice. She led me into the conference room. “Would you like some coffee?”

Again, Los Angeles was spread before me from Wilshire to the haze of the horizon. “Tea would be great. Just plain.”

She smiled and left. I didn’t sit but looked out the window onto the city of Los Angeles and the miasma of smog over the east side. Windows looked out into the hallway and all the blinds were up, so everyone in the office could see where Harry was and who he was talking to. He came into my sight, flanked by an entourage, mid-conversation. He smiled and waved through the window to me, stopping to finish talking to Eddie Milpas and an older woman who had a very important point to make, apparently. Two younger women flanked with notebooks and smart suits. A young man with three days of facial growth and a plaid shirt with slacks, an intern from the looks of him, opened the door when Eddie pointed to it. The gaggle of them strolled in.

“Ms. Faulkner,” Harry said.

We had handshakes and introductions. Eddie and I exchanged a meaningful look that acknowledged we’d already met. I tried to put an innocuous expression on my face to tell him I wasn’t going to wrestle with him over Bondage Girl in front of his boss. Everyone sat.

We had almost exactly the same small talk as every other meeting I’d attended. Traffic first. Los Angeles neighborhoods next. Some personal family stuff from Harry about his kid’s Little League. I avoided a conversation about baseball that could have gone on for days.

“Well,” Harry said as if he was cutting in on his own conversation, “it was something else to hear you perform last week. Wasn’t what I expected to see when I came out there.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

Jerry, the producer who first recorded me playing “Collared” with a theremin, blasted in wearing a navy jacket and a windowpane shirt with the top three buttons undone “Sorry, sorry.” He winked at me.

Harry gave him a smile that could have been swapped for a glare with no change in the message, then turned back to me. “Everyone in this room has seen you play.”

I hadn’t expected that. I thought they might have all heard Jerry’s recording, but apparently, they all stopped by Frontage at some point. Of course, Harry had heard me play the B.C. Modern.

“We’re all very impressed,” he said. “Eddie and I have been discussing some marketing strategies, and he’s come up with some ideas that are out of the park.”

Customer service smile.

If it was Bondage Girl, we were going to have a very short meeting.

If it was me pretending I was some sort of expert in the art of submission, I was taking my little F-type Jaguar home, picking up Darren, and going up and down Mulholland until I needed to hit a gas station. Then I would bring it right back to Griffith Park with an empty tank.

“Out of the park, huh?” I said. “I’m excited to hear it.”

“Were you considering doing more work like you did at the B.C. Mod show?”

Without Kevin?

Could I? I wasn’t visual. I had taste, I could put stuff together, but I didn’t have what Kevin had. “I’d like to, but it’s complicated. That was a one-off.”

He waved his hand. “It’s an attitude. The work will follow, if that’s what you want. We want to brand you something like a Laurie Anderson. An all-around package. A musician, yes, but also an artist.”

“We want to introduce you around to some of L.A.’s art patrons,” Eddie broke in. He seemed on board with the new strategy. I hoped he’d thought of it, because if he was just along for the ride, it would be half-assed. “There’s an event Thursday night at L.A. Mod. The Collector’s Board gala. Very big thing.”

“It’s short notice,” I said. I had work, but I could switch a shift. Work wouldn’t stop me. Jonathan had been clear he wasn’t going, but maybe that had changed. I didn’t know how I felt about seeing him under those circumstances.

Harry picked up the thread. “It’s very short notice, but this event is only once a year. Next year, it’ll be too late. We want your face there, photographed with Carnival Records.” He indicated Eddie. “An artistic partnership.”

I don’t know what expression I wore, but I wore it long enough for Eddie to break the silence.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“Can I get back to you on Thursday night?”

“No problem,” Eddie said with the same tone he’d used the last time we met, as if maybe really meant yes. He held out his hand to one of the assistants, and she handed him a piece of paper. He passed it to me. “These are the terms we’re offering.”