THE SESSION (A Short Story) Page 2

  “Have you been doing sessions the whole time?”

  “Most of it. I was playing live when I first came here, and of course in Houston for years before that. But I haven’t played a live gig in several years. Only sessions.” Jeff could tell they were anxious to turn the conversation down another road.

  Paul smiled and said, “Listen, man. You did a fantastic job in there tonight. Your guitar was spot on. I swear, I had chills up my spine on Day Tripper. It was as if George himself was playing it.”

  Jeff took a fast breath, almost a gasp. He tried to hold it back, but they caught it. This was all new territory for him, this giddiness, this praise and acceptance by the biggest band in history. He tried to say something, but Paul took over.

  “No, I mean it. You knocked us out in there. Right, Ringo?”

  Ringo said, “Ah, you were terrific, man. Really something. Your tone, timing, everything.”

  Paul began to gesture with his hands as he spoke. His unopened water bottle became an animated prop. “Your vocals are right in the John range and your tone is perfect. So that’s why we want to ask you… “ He glanced at Ringo, who nodded back at him. “We want to ask you to join us on the tour.”

  A spasm rippled through Jeff’s shoulders, touching the base of his neck. His voice almost didn’t come out when he said, “Join you? On the tour?”

  “That’s right. We want you on stage with us. For the Beatles reunion. What do you say?”

  “You want me to play lead guitar with you guys?” He was still not sure he heard them right.

  “Yes, man. We want you for the whole tour. How about it?”

  “Well, yeah! I’d love it. Hell, yeah, I’d love it!” His smile burst all over his face.

  “Great!” Paul said, and he and Ringo and Jeff shook hands and slapped backs and exchanged broad smiles for a minute or two.

  Ringo said, “Paul and I will have to sit down and figure out the money and all that, but don’t worry. You’ll make a bundle. Over half a million, at least.”

  Paul added, “And we’ll be getting with you later on about the dates and the set list and rehearsals and all.”

  Jeff’s mind reeled as he looked into the graying faces of the remaining Beatles and saw himself playing onstage with them in a series of Beatles reunion concerts. Singing John Lennon’s harmony parts before tens of thousands of energized fans. Not even his most fevered fantasies of his live band days could match this reality.

  It’s going to happen! At last.

  Of course, Marsha would go with him, and when it was over, he would take her anywhere she liked for as long as she liked.

  Then, as he scanned the possibilities of this historic tour, another thought came to him. Maybe she could join the tour later, after I fall into the routine, get comfortable with the guys and the music. Yes, that’s it. Maybe later. And meanwhile, I could…

  His mind wandered back to his early days, before he had any notions of session work. He and Walt and Joe and Larry were an ass-kicking band. They played all the major clubs around Big Houston Town and for a while, he thought they might really do something, you know, get a record deal with a major label. Become famous as a band, with him as the leader, the lead singer. Their harmonies were tight, their songs were commercial, and even though he was by far the best player in the group, the others held their own. Not a weak link among them.

  He’d harbored that dream for a few years until the others guys became plagued with problems: whiskey, ex-wives, cocaine…all the predictable pitfalls that await the professional musician, pitfalls whose only purpose is to derail careers, to shatter dreams, to tamp down even small-time ambitions. The group’s smashup got to him, tore up his insides, walked him to the edge to where he very nearly went down with them.

  He never touched drugs, though—they were a dead end, and he seldom drank excessively, but whenever he thought about the no-talent slugs who were famous and pulling down serious money, he was tempted to drink a lot more. Which he did, on a few occasions.

  The girls, well, that was a different story. They were always there and he remembered how he used to lie awake in his tiny apartment up in the Heights, under the slow ceiling fan, some firm, eager thing lying peacefully beside him. How he used to dream of the lights and the ladies and the limos. And most of all, the music! Spreading his music to every corner of the country, every city. People in the smallest towns far removed from the heated centers of the music business would know him, people who sell insurance and cut hair and work construction would know his guitar work, his singing, his music.

  The way they know Clapton.

  But all those days, all those dreams closed out when he turned to session work. He put it all aside and concentrated on becoming a world-class guitar player. And it was because of that hard work that Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr were asking him to play with the Beatles.

  Yes, he would do the tour and then take Marsha to Acapulco or anywhere else she wanted to go.

  He solidified that promise in his mind, when Paul said, “Let’s go back inside and set up the next session with Tommy. When are you available, Jeff?”

  “I’d have to check, because I have quite a few sessions booked already, but I’m sure we can figure something out.”

  They re-entered the studio. Jeff went over toward his equipment and started packing it up. He could barely feel the floor beneath him. He wanted to run outside and dance on top of their limos, shouting at the black sky, Touring with the Beatles! I’m touring with the Beatles! In his mind, he rehearsed how he would break this incredible news to Marsha. How he would tell her of this rare second chance at the brass ring, how it’s all coming around again, the big payoff now looming in sight, within his reach.

  Pretty soon, Ringo pulled up a nearby folding chair and took a seat.

  “You ever done any major touring, Jeff?”

  “I did a few dates with Rod Stewart about twelve years ago. That’s it.”

  “Aw, you’re gonna love this, man. This is gonna be the tour to end all tours. I mean, they’re gonna have to think up new ways to make first class even better.”

  “I can imagine,” Jeff said. “I know it’ll be great.”

  “Great is right. Paul and I are psyched, you know, man? We’ve waited a long, long time for this. Hell, the world has waited. And you’re gonna fit in perfectly.”

  Paul’s voice rang out over the in-studio speakers. “Ringo, could you please come in here for a moment?”

  Ringo smiled at Jeff. “Be right back. Or better yet, come join us in the control room when you’re done packing up.”

  While Jeff put away his equipment, he glanced at the big window to the control room. Paul and Ringo and Tommy stood around talking at one another, but the smiles had vanished. Paul pulled out a cellphone and made a call. Still no smiles.

  A few minutes later, Jeff strolled in. Paul had just ended his call.

  “Jeff,” he said, “listen, man. I’ve got some bad news.”

  “Bad news?” He looked around the room. They all looked like someone had died. The way they eyed him, he had a funny feeling he was the corpse.

  “Our deal is off. Eric is coming back on board.”

  “Eric? Clapton?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. He called during our session and has had a serious change of heart. I just now spoke with him. He wants very badly to be on the album and do the tour. He’s given me his solemn word on it.”

  “But…but, I thought…”

  “I know, man, I know,” Paul said. Real sorrow showed in his voice and on his face. “But Eric is, well, you know, Eric Clapton. He was our first choice.”

  Ringo chimed in. “We’re really sorry, man. You did great, and you would’ve been great on the tour, but we’re gonna have to take Eric back in. You understand, I’m sure.”

  Thing is, Jeff did understand. As much as he didn’t want to face it, Paul was right. Clapton’s name in conjunction with the Beatles would send ticket and album sales through the roof, lighting
up the sky over the city.

  The name of Jeff Dryden, however, wouldn’t sell shit. He was just a session player. A nobody.

  “You’ll still be paid for the session, naturally,” Paul said, “but we won’t be using your tracks. No hard feelings, I hope.” He stuck out his hand.

  Jeff took it. He took Ringo’s hand, too, managing a smile.

  “Well, at least I can say I was with the Beatles for a few hours.”

  “You can,” Ringo said. “And Paul and I are damned proud of it.”

  Soon, Jeff was out the door and in his van, cruising blindly homeward through empty Los Angeles streets.

  • • •

  Back home, he tiptoed upstairs. He slipped out of his clothes and threw them on the floor, instead of hanging them up like he always did. Marsha slept on her back, snoring lightly. The green numbers on the clock said five minutes to six. It was still dark out.

  The slim shaft of the street light still crept over her face. But something was different. Folds of flesh around her neck seemed bulky, loose, consuming her once-flawless skin. They showed signs of spreading freakishly up her neck and into her face itself.

  Her neck never looked this bad, did it? Did it?

  For the first time, he saw grotesque, feathery lines etching downward into her upper lip, adding about ten or fifteen years to her appearance.

  Wha—were these ugly lines always like this? Creasing her face that way? Why hadn’t I noticed them before? And what’s up with that flabby shit on her neck? Why doesn’t she take better care of herself?

  He looked at her and sat on the edge of the bed, hoping she would stay asleep.

  She came half-awake, though, and turning her head toward him, she said through the sleep in her throat, “How’d it go?”

  His mind raced, searching for words. None came.

  The phone rang, startling him. He glimpsed the caller ID. Paramount Studios right up the street. He flipped the ringer off.

  Marsha asked him again, “How’d it go?”

  He got up and headed downstairs. As the first gentle touch of dawn peeked through the blackness outside, turning it a dark shade of gray, he went into the kitchen. He smiled as he opened a cupboard.

  The green gin bottle grinned back at him from the top shelf.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  After thirty years as a professional musician (piano), Mike Dennis left Key West and moved to Las Vegas to become a professional poker player. He turned to writing when his first novel, The Take, was picked up by a publisher in 2009.

  His second book, Setup On Front Street, was the first of a set of noir novels called Key West Nocturnes. These books will lift the veil on Key West and reveal it as a true noir city, on a par with Los Angeles, New Orleans, or Miami. The Ghosts Of Havana is the second book in that set. The third, Man-Slaughter, is coming soon.

  In addition, Mike has begun the Jack Barnett / Las Vegas series, centering around a reluctant ex-private investigator in Sin City, USA. The first entry in that series, a novelette called Temptation Town, is now available. The second installment, Hard Cash, is coming soon.

  Mike also has a collection of short stories, Bloodstains On The Wall. In addition, his stories have been published in A Twist Of Noir, Mysterical e, Powder Burn Flash, Slow Trains, and The Wizards Of Words 2009 Anthology.

  In December, 2010, Mike moved back to Key West, where he enjoys year-round island living.

  http://mikedennisnoir.com