LITMIR.BIZ

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said, his voice distant.

      Oh man, Larry said, turning to face the drummer. Oh MAN, Duane!

       Now, hang on, I didn’t say—

       We’re doing this, Duane!

       Now hang on, Larry—

       We’re buying our own fucking studio space!

      Today, Wonderland is full. The Danes have been hired to produce an album, a rock and roll record, because they’re good at what they do and the space they got is legendary around the city for its “room sound.” Even jazz players have recorded with the Danes, despite the band’s reputation as being crazy. That room might be as professional as my uncle’s liquor cabinet, Clay Daniels once said, but fuck me if it doesn’t sound like gold. The Danes recorded a hit song and two follow-ups in Wonderland. “Make Noise” reached number seventeen on the regional charts and “Killer Crawl” spiked at number six. But it was “Be Here,” at number one, that propelled them. And still, the fact that they served in World War II is the bigger draw. It doesn’t matter that they weren’t on the front lines. To most Americans, being in the army band was just as good as being in the army. And the tag veteran is the reason locals who have no interest in music at all stop in to see what happens at Wonderland.

      Some of these people have become drinking buddies. Others have walked away worried about Philip Tonka, the piano player who took more shots than he played notes.

       Broom off. I’m on the Path.

       What Path?

       Look down. You don’t see it? You’re standing right on it, too.

      Some think the Danes are damaged. They drink more than the veterans of World War I. They never miss a party. And they’re spontaneously writing the postwar soundtrack that’s equal parts angry, joyful, confused, and intentionally ignorant. As in, let’s move on. As in, that was yesterday. The name of their number-one hit song unintentionally sums up their collective worldview.

      Be here.

      Breathe it.

      Be it.

      “Put a blanket in it,” Larry says into the control room microphone. Today they have a job to do. But will they do it?

      “Really?” the kid drummer of the Sparklers asks. Through the glass he looks like a lost child. “A blanket in a bass drum?”

      Duane gets up from the control room couch and speaks into the microphone. His deep voice has always been the most authoritative of the Danes’.

      “Makes it less plastic, son. More of a thud. Trust Larry. Put a blanket in the bass drum.”

      The Sparklers’ drummer, a suburban kid, clean curly blond hair, looks for a blanket.

      “On the cots,” Philip says, pointing through the glass. He sips from a bottle of Ronrico rum. The Sparklers’ guitar player is helping his drummer look. He accidentally knocks the tuning pegs of his Fender Stratocaster against the wall. Because he’s already amped, the sound blasts through the control room speakers.

      “You see those four cots in the back?” Duane tells them.

      The Danes often sleep in the studio; wild nights, wee hours, right where they need to be come morning. The floor is littered with empty fifths.

      The drummer picks up a sleeping bag.

      “No,” Larry says into the mic. “Too thick. Something lighter.”

      Now the drummer is blushing. Thinks he’s being put on. The band’s manager, Arthur, a rich kid from Birmingham, looks bothered. He’s standing by the leather couch in the control room.

      “Fellas, we hired you to make a record, not decorate Fred’s drum kit!”

      “You see that yellow-and-black blanket there, Art?” Larry asks him, pointing with a pencil through the glass to an unmade cot against the far wall.

      “Yes. Of course I see it.”

      “That’s the same one we used on ‘Be Here.’”

      The manager crosses the control room quickly. He takes the microphone from Larry.

      “Freddie,” he says. “How about the yellow-and-black blanket on the mattress by your knees?”

      The drummer’s pants slide down his butt as he bends to get it.

      Philip plants a hand on the manager’s shoulder.

      “You know what your boys need?” he asks.

      “What?” Art checks his watch. He keeps checking his watch. He’s worried about time. Time and money.

      “Your boys need an afternoon out of the house.”

      “No way,” Art says, holding out both palms toward Philip. Philip sees a flash of what Art will look like when he’s older, when managing bands is a novelty item on the shelf of his past. “We’ve been here for two hours and still haven’t done a lick of work.”

      “What do you mean?” Duane asks. “We picked out the blanket, didn’t we?”

      Philip takes the manager by the wrist.

      “Take your watch off,” he says.

      Art covers his watch with his other hand. As if he’s being mugged. By Philip. The Danes have that quality about them.

      “What is it with you, Tonka?”

      “I mean it. Take your watch off.”

      Hesitantly, the manager does. He hands the watch to Philip.

      “What are you going to do with it?”

      “I’m gonna smash it.”

      “Wait!”

      Philip smiles.

      “I’m gonna wear it is what.”

      Philip puts it on his wrist, adjusts the clasp.

      “Hey, Tonka! We agreed on a price, fair and square!”

      “We did,” Philip says. “But that’s half the problem.”

      “You want to renegotiate? Dammit, I knew I couldn’t trust you guys!”

      “Who said anything about renegotiating? Relax. We agreed. Fair and square. The ‘square’ is the problem.”

      “What do you mean?”

      Philip leans over the control room microphone.

      “Gentlemen,” he says. “Set your instruments down. We’re going out.”

      Behind the glass the band looks scared.

      “There’s a hole in your soul,” Duane tells the manager. “Big enough to swim through.”

      “And you’re going to fill it?”

      “Not all in one afternoon,” Larry says, already putting on his leather jacket. He runs his callused fingertips through his long hair. “But we’re gonna try.”

      Art is shaking his head, pleading, whining, as Duane slips into his black leather coat and Philip checks his jean jacket for money. The Sparklers enter the control room, slumped, confused.

      “Come on, guys,” Philip says.

      “Where?” the guitarist asks.

      “We’re going to get inspired.”

      On the way out, as they’re leaving the studio, the phone rings. Philip pauses at the door and looks.

      Some rings, Philip thinks, are more loaded than others. As if a man might be able to hear an important call … before answering.

      He locks the studio up and

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