588. My Prerogative

I was still having nightmares and annoying dreams. Ziggy wasn’t in all of them, but he was in most. There was one where me and Bart and Colin were in a boat, rowing from an island to the shore and we were taking turns rowing but we never got where we were going. I woke up with my arms feeling tired.

That morning (or afternoon, whatever, you know I count it as morning until I eat something or the sun sets, whichever comes first) I went right to the basement still in pajama pants and the T-shirt I’d slept in and made a demo tape of a song. I already had most of the words and most of the music but I hadn’t nailed it down until that moment. It was kind of a companion song to the one Ziggy and I had written in Los Angeles. It was another meta-song about being a song and about being alone. I basically turned the idea of trying to remember how a forgotten song goes into a metaphor for lost love. Yeah, I wrote a song about love without using the word love. Well, okay, it’s in there once. But only once.

I was listening back to the demo tape for the third time trying to figure out if I was really finished fucking around with it and starting to realize I hadn’t even had a glass of water since I got up and maybe this was not such a good idea when I heard the phone upstairs ringing. I had neglected to bring the cordless to the basement with me so I ran up to try to answer it before the machine could get it. That would be a good excuse to go in the kitchen and eat something.

“Yellow,” I said, grabbing the kitchen phone off the wall.

“Daron, motherfuck,” Carynne said, clearly ripshit about something more serious than the fact it had taken me a long time to get to the phone.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Remember I said I had some kind of legal paper addressed to you?”

“Yeah?”

“Remember how you’re a part owner of Digger’s company?”

Oh, that sinking feeling. “Was that ever official?”

“It was and it is.”

“Did I ever make any money from it?”

“You didn’t. But that doesn’t negate the fact he gave you stock in the company.”

I sat down in one of the kitchen chairs. There were only three of them. I’m not sure where the fourth one was. In the sun room maybe. “Okay, so what’s the legal notice?”

“You’re being sued.”

“By whom this time?”

“BNC.”

“Motherfuck.”

“That’s what I said.”

“I told you I was against this whole nailing Digger to the wall idea.” I laid my head down on the kitchen table, holding the phone to my ear. “Fuck fuck fuck. Well, okay, I don’t actually know what this means exactly but I assume it’s not good.”

“I have a call in to Feinbaum about it. He might laugh it off. Or he might say we were idiots to not realize this would happen.” She sighed. “The other thing which is troubling me is that we haven’t actually gotten a dime from Megastar.”

“Mega–? Oh, you mean the parent company that owns BNC now?”

“Yes. I don’t know if Ziggy’s seen any of it yet, either, but I have to assume maybe there are more countersuits being filed or something? I don’t know.”

“Why would that stop them from honoring the contract, though? Won’t that just create even more suits?”

“That’s just how these companies are sometimes, D.”

Ugh. That certainly had been our experience so far. “Okay, so how bad is it?”

“I’m working on the year-end financials now. Courtney’s tuition’s already paid but she should probably take the summer off to work. And you should not buy a car unless you’re going to get a five hundred dollar junker from the want ads.”

Well. Nothing like having the other shoe dropped right on your head. “What month will we be short on paying the mortgage?”

“Colin will be fully employed January through April 15th as usual…”

“Don’t think about Colin right now. I mean just me and Chris and the house.”

“Well, you know some songwriting royalties are going to come in, but we don’t really know how much those will be for, but assuming similar to last year… May or June if you don’t get another gig.”

“That’s including what Wenco’s supposed to fork over?”

“Yeah. Counting that.”

“Okay, that’s not as dire as it could be.”

“True. We’ve got time to line you up some work. In fact…”

“Don’t say it.”

“Don’t say what, you’re about to spend Christmas with some guys who already have their entire summer of shed and festival dates booked?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t sound happy about that.”

“It’s just that I haven’t eaten yet today.”

“Motherfuck, Daron, I’m coming over there right now. I’ll pick up Chinese on the way.”

“Indian. Get Indian. Please?”

“Okay, Indian.”

She hung up without saying goodbye. I decided it would be best if I were showered and dressed before she arrived.
—

(Don’t take this video as endorsement of Bobby Brown. I still blame him for the fall of Whitney Houston. Cautionary tale about two famous people trying to make love work–and men who can’t take it when their wives are more famous than they are–if ever there was one. -ctan)