“You smoke?” Jake asked.
Scooter looked up at Jake. “Nah, it’s just what everybody does out here.” Then he flicked his cigarette out over the gravel, sending orange sparks skittering into the street.
He held up his almost full pack and said, “Want one?”
Jake sat down next to him. “Only when I’m drunk.”
For some reason Scooter didn’t make Jake nervous, even though he was more confident than anyone Jake had ever met. There was just something there, it was very disarming.
“Speaking of, I was supposed to have band practice tonight, but then we broke up. Want to go get plowed?”
They shared a general indifference to the world is what it was. Jake shrugged.
“Sure, why not.”
Scooter smiled. “Good, ‘cause I need a ride to the bar.”
Jake didn’t know what else to say, so he just looked down at Scooter’s shoes. They were red Chuck Taylors, ratty as all hell, and they had writing all over them.
Checkered patterns in black ink across the bottom, little doodles all over the canvas, and written across the toes on one God may call me home and on the other But the devil drives me onward. Jake thought they were to attract attention, but he didn’t know why Scooter needed anything like that. Jake desperately clung to other people’s outer illusions. He convinced himself that maybe they were a reminder.
Jake wanted to ask about them, but he couldn’t word it, so he just said, “Why’d your band break up?”
“My drummer’s penis found its way into my guitar player’s girlfriend. Hilarity ensues.” Scooter picks up a piece of gravel and throws it after his cigarette. “I guess it’s good I have this day job.”
Jake wanted to laugh but he felt like it would be ruining something. Instead, he frowned at the stream of soda syrup that was running between them from the kitchen, bisecting the stoop into two awkward halves. “You know, I don’t remember saying that, about the day job.”
“Whatever.”
Jake didn’t know what he meant. “It's what my dad said to me, when I was in a band.”
“That’s bullshit,” Scooter said, spitting between his outstretched legs.
Jake didn’t know what Scooter meant by that either. He was fumbling his way through a real conversation like he hadn’t had one in a long time, which was more than true enough. There were sarcastic remarks to make Kimmy laugh, and then there was this morning, but that was it. “No, it’s really not.”
“Yes it is, and you should tell him so.”
“I can’t,” Jake said, watching a bird hop among the food scraps left by a ripped bag of trash. “He’s dead.”
Scooter let out a sarcastic laugh. “Well, there’s some fuckin’ exposition for you. How’d that happen?”
“Hung himself.”
“Well, it’s probably because you weren’t good enough.”
Jake didn’t say anything. It wasn’t that he was hurt—he was used to people chewing him up. It’s just that he was walking in on that broken ceiling fan with the rope tied to it all over again. He was looking at the bloated, blue face with the black tongue and the ruined family and now he was all that was left and did that make things better? They had always hated each other.
“C’mon,” Scooter said as he slapped Jake on the knee, “let’s go get drunk before the conversation gets depressing.”
“You ever do a girl in the ass?”
“No, never did a girl in the ass.” Jake had spent a great deal of the afternoon trying to laugh at the appropriate times and looking straight ahead. He was getting better at it.
“Don’t. It’s not worth the conversation or the risk.”
“Got it.”
“I’m not kidding, man. This is a serious thing with consequences. The guy says it’s about acceptance and understanding, that kind of usual manipulation, and he presses the issue for months, and then before he knows it she’s shit all over his dick and he’s doing his best not to throw up on her. Grim business.”
“Duly noted.” They sipped their beers.
“Damn right duly noted. Relationship ender. Juliet defecates on Romeo.”
Jake started laughing nervously.
“What, too much?”
“No, it’s funny.”
“It’s not funny! It’s a tragedy!”
“Yeah, I know.”
Scooter sighed and shook his head. “I think you need more beer.”
Scooter walked over to the bartender who had given him the finger and ordered two more cheap beers. He came back and set one in front of Jake.
“Okay, follow up. What the fuck are you doing in Barker?”
“I could ask you the same,” Jake said.
“Fair enough, but I asked first.”
“College dropout. Then management material.”
“Run your own store one day, son.”
“No, I think they knew I would level off.”
“Run your own shift, then.”
“Yup.”
“Day manager at a restaurant. You’re living the first generation immigrant’s dream. Your papers say Jakewitz, but here in America we’ll call you Jake.”
They took a long sip each.
“Okay, your turn,” Jake said.
“Couldn’t tell ya.”
“Bullshit.”
“Serious. Kind of drifted in. Guitar player went to college, I was his roommate, so I went to college. We lived together for a semester before we hated each other and I rented a house. I like being near a college. Every now and then I still sneak into a class on thermodynamics, English, whatever. Reminds me what I’m doing with myself. You can play music anyplace, and I’m here.”
“Ah.”
“Not to mention I’ve been twenty-one two months now and haven’t been carded in the past three years in this town. It’s a matter of don’t look like an asshole with a fake ID.”
From this point, Jake and Scooter quickly discovered their common religion, which was music and drunkenness. Jake bought the next round and they talked about bands they liked and didn’t like. It was a test of wills. Whether or not Dear You is the best Jawbreaker album. When, specifically, Alkaline Trio became a ridiculous self-parody. Scooter claimed the Descendents only made one good record, Milo Goes to College. Jake thought that was horse shit. They danced around these dropped names for an hour and drank. I won’t give it all to you because it sounds like what it is: mating rituals for dysfunctional children.
Then Scooter said, “Don’t be alarmed but I’m changing the subject.”
“I’m alarmed.”
“That Kim girl.”
“Nope. Hell no.”
“Why not?”
“We just hung out the one time. That’s it.”
“Right,” Scooter said, “at the show. Well, why not? I know your dad doesn’t disapprove.”
Jake stared down at the floor without talking, trying to look upset that Scooter would talk about his father like that. Mostly he didn’t give a shit because they had always hated each other.
Scooter saw right through it. He laughed into his beer and said, “Just wanted to see if you’d dodge my question about the girl.”
Jake sighed and turned around in his stool, facing out. “No, it’s nothing between us.”
“Really.” Scooter emphasized the word so Jake knew he saw right through it again. “Pool?” he asked, pointing towards the back door with his beer.
Jake followed him out back, and they had the porch all to themselves. Scooter racked up while Jake picked out a cue. They were all warped and crooked, and two of them had cracks running longways down the side. Scooter grabbed one of them and broke. Jake grabbed the other one.
Scooter didn’t say anything else—he was concentrating on the game. One shot after another he sank each of the stripes, running the table before Jake got a chance to play. Maybe he was proving a point.
Jake watched as Scooter sank the eight, and he had a feeling that this was how the night would go if he didn’t answer the question honestly. Watching it roll smoothly into the hole was enough.
“Alright, fine. There’s this girl named Alexis. Alex. She lives in Seattle, but we haven’t spoken in years. Jesus, are you always this manipulative?”
“I didn’t say a word,” Scooter said, and then burst into a wide grin, “and no, mostly I’m very up front. So call her.”
Jake lined up the shot for the second break, but it caught a bad spot on the felt and hit left. “I don’t have her number, just an old IM screen name.”
“Well then, message her,” Scooter said as he sank the one and seven balls in one shot.
“What, you think things are that easy?”
Scooter smirked and took his next shot. The four ball ricocheted around the side pocket and popped back out as the cue ball rolled back the other way into the corner pocket. “Maybe I don’t.”
Jake couldn’t tell if the scratch was on purpose or not, but he was starting to think Scooter did everything on purpose. He pulled the cue ball out of the cracked leather pouch and set it on the felt.
“Okay, my turn to change subjects,” Jake said.
“Granted.”
Jake leaned down to peer at the cue ball straight on. It was a matter of angles lining up just right, like most things. He put his hand over the ball and rolled it over to another spot on the felt, letting it play against the cage of his fingers. “Okay, I got this problem with blackouts due to being alcoholic.”
“Granted.”
“So what the hell did we talk about last night? I remember walking up to you, but then it’s like nothing until the next morning.”
“Well,” Scooter said, going over to the railing to get his beer, “you came up and said you liked my shirt. And I said ‘thanks’ and you said something about how you used to be in a band or something and I just nodded and then you said ‘don’t quit your day job.’”
Jake took his shot and missed completely. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. Anyway,” Scooter sank another one without considering it. “I got pissed and threw my shirt at you, said you could have it and stormed off.”
“Oh.” Jake said as he traded places with Scooter.
“Then you took your shirt off and followed me outside and said we should trade, which was hilarious, by the way.”
Jake thought about it. “Yeah, it makes perfect drunken sense. What you had done was such a bullshit move, and I figured I needed to do the same. But now, you don’t seem the type to do something like that.”
“I’m not,” Scooter said, “but I figured it’s what you expected me to be.”
The grass was overgrown in some places and beaten and brown in others. The driveway was cracked in a hundred crooked segments and a rusted basketball goal hung from the side of the house. A dirty net hung from one rung, waiting for only a hard rain to bring it down to earth with the rest of the garbage.
Jake’s station wagon fit the tone perfectly, which made sense, as this is a story. They got out and went around to the back door. Scooter opened it without producing a key.
Inside, the kitchen and living room were stacked high with taped up boxes, all the way to the low ceiling and labeled with six digit numbers. There was no furniture, no pots or pans, no anything besides boxes. Scooter went over to a stack and pulled a cordless phone off the top. He pushed the button to check his messages.
“What is all this?” Jake asked as Scooter held the phone up to his ear.
“See for yourself,” Scooter said, “I gotta take a shit.”
He took the phone with him into the bathroom and closed the door.
Jake pulled down a box at random and picked at the tape. Slowly a corner came up and he pulled it across, bringing part of the box up with it. Inside were seven inch records, a few hundred of them, by a band called Faint Forward. The art was hand drawn and photocopied, and each one had a number on it out of five hundred. On the back were the track list and the words These Are Records.
Scooter came out of the bathroom with the phone still up to his ear. It chattered away but Jake couldn’t make it out. Scooter didn’t seem too concerned with it.
“What is this?” Jake asked again as Scooter hung up the phone, cutting off someone’s aggravated voice.
“It’s my record label,” Scooter said, leaning up against the boxes.
“You have a record label?”
“Yeah, mostly just seven inches, people’s pet projects and stuff, but every once in awhile I’ll do a full length or a compilation.”
“Oh.”
“C’mon, I’ll show you,” Scooter said, gesturing to the bedroom. Jake followed him.
It was definitely not a bedroom. The only place to lie down was a ratty old couch that I saw outside a Salvation Army. There was a desk and a folding chair with a computer, fax machine, and printer. The printer had several sheets of paper sitting in the tray, which Scooter took out and set on the desk.
The walls were covered with pictures of bands playing. Scooter had written underneath them on the drywall. Each picture had contact information and Scooter’s personal opinion underneath in black marker.
Jake took the whole thing in.
“What do you think?”
“Holy shit,” Jake muttered.
Scooter smiled and said, “This is what I do when I’m not working for you.”
Jake looked at the wall and saw more than one of his favorite bands in snapshots, playing shows, loading gear, just hanging out, being normal people. Here’s Scooter and Chuck Ragan. Here’s Scooter and Craig Finn. Here’s Scooter with Sleater-Kinney. He was amazed and troubled by it. Apparently his ten-mile radius world was populated with real live people he’d never even known about except as voices and sounds arranged around his own life.
Scooter explained the whole thing to Jake over ten dollars’ worth of the cheapest beer in Texas. He only did mail order and internet orders, nothing brick and mortar. There were no in-store displays or What’s Hot stickers. The single was not on the radio. In fact, there weren’t singles. It was as pure and un-commercial as any business could possibly be.
If Scooter saw you play a show and liked it he would fund a seven inch and only keep enough to fund the next one and buy food and beer for a few months. The rest went to the bands. It was that easy. It wasn’t a business plan, it wasn’t a marketing strategy, it was wanting to hear good music. It was a mix tape on a larger scale.
It was the only reason Scooter had a computer. For a one-man operation with a limited user base he was wildly successful, but he would never say so. Jake realized it himself as he flipped through the label’s catalog, seeing he owned more than a few of its releases without knowing. Scooter said it was more fun to change the label name every few months than build a brand of some kind. For now it was These Are Records, but it had gone by a dozen other names.
Scooter would always take a few of each release to record stores around town and sell them so they ended up in the used bins. Since they didn’t have SKUs and were from largely unknown bands and an unknown label, he only got a dollar per. They sold for three. Jake knew this because he was one of the only people shopping the used record section in Barker, Texas.
Jake quickly began to discover that even though their lives had the same ruined aesthetic on the outside, Scooter wasn’t in any way empty or invisible—he was just anonymous. He was a success, not in the way a degree conferred or your dad told you about, but at being himself. It scared Jake half to death.
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