Part 7 (1/2)
”I don't have an instrument, Pearl,” he says. ”Which is to say, I don't attempt to claim one.”
I don't push it again, but he has to have an instrument. Franklin insists on knowing a person's instrument before he hires him. Maybe Patrick lied on his application. Which has to be around somewhere, in our files. I tell myself to do some research on Patrick's day off. I'm not sure why I want to know. I just want to know.
At the end of several days, there still aren't any takers for our duo. Franklin comes to me with the sad news. He wants to disband already. I say to him, ”Franklin, give it more than a month. Are you so afraid of failure you can't even try?”
”Yes!” he says emphatically. ”I'm that afraid of failure. Why aren't you?”
”Failure has just never impressed me. That's all. It seems like a temporary condition.”
Franklin leaves the sign up on the wall.
At the end of the week, there are still no takers, and Franklin is truly despondent. He has also called every booker in town, and while they know him and respect him, they say that a bluegra.s.s duo simply isn't a draw these days.
”What are we going to do?” he asks me one night as he's counting the money in the cash register and I'm filing receipts. ”I thought it was the answer to my restlessness. I thought it was going to cure me.”
”Well, we could play an open mic somewhere.”
”You're kidding,” he says with a look of disgust. For him, for most serious musicians, this is like a Shakespearean actor consenting to do a diarrhea commercial.
”Well, think about it. I mean, what if someone hired us? We don't know any songs. We've never played together,” I say.
”If someone hired us, we'd learn some. We'd throw something together.”
”So let's throw something together and play an open mic. Let's do some Ralph Stanley songs. Or the Carter Family. I could teach you.”
He smirks. ”I know those songs.”
”So let's play an open mic, just for practice. There's a good one in Venice, a place called the Cow's End.”
He raises an eyebrow. ”Is it a bar?”
”Coffeeshop.”
”Oh, for G.o.d's sake.” He looks as if he might vomit. ”Trying to play over the sound of a cappuccino machine?”
”Starting at the bottom is half the fun,” I tell him.
”Yeah? What's the other half?”
”I don't know yet.”
He sighs, blowing the beleaguered breath through his lips. ”All right. You do the research. Tell me when and where.”
I say, ”While we're at it, doing research, what instrument does Patrick play?”
He looks at me. ”You don't know?”
”No. Do you?”
He thinks about it, his eyes roaming across the cork ceiling. ”Horns?”
I shrug. ”That could be it.”
We don't have any horns to speak of at McCoy's, unless you count recorders, so he could keep that particular talent hidden well enough.
But then Franklin says, ”I don't think it's horns.”
”Piano?”
”G.o.d, no,” Franklin says. He has an irrational distrust of the piano, for reasons he can't sufficiently explain.
”If he's good at something, he could be in our band,” I suggest.
”No,” he says emphatically. ”The band is you and me. Period. The whole point is that I can only start small. Two people is all I can handle right now. If it works, we can build.”
”Okay.” I relent, a little flattered by his insistence. ”But he does play an instrument? You're the one who thinks he's a theory nerd.”
”I do think he's a theory nerd, but he has to play something. I'm sure he told me when I hired him. I can't remember.”
He continues to count the money, his guitar-callused fingers flipping through the bills. After a moment he looks up and says, ”I'm still thinking about dumping Clive.”
”Still? Why?”
”I don't know why. I don't trust him.”
”Is he stealing?”
”No, of course not,” he says, finis.h.i.+ng up with his efforts and putting the money into a locked safe. ”I just don't trust ba.s.s players.”
”Why the h.e.l.l not?”
He shrugs. ”They aren't trustworthy.”
”They hold the beat,” I say.
He rolls his eyes. ”They think they do.”
”But they do. They are the last line of communication between the guitar and the drums. Singers rely on them. They are important.”
”They have an elevated sense of themselves.”
”Maybe they're right to.”
”They are always trying to take over the universe,” he tells me.
”Well, the bottom end is the spine of music.”
”Spine my a.s.s,” he says, and I laugh, knowing full well that he misses the humor.
He says, ”Where's the bottom end in bluegra.s.s? I'll tell you where. In the guitar. It's the only place they use the guitar as a percussion instrument, which is what it is.”