Whisper on the Wind: The 5 Boroughs Series, #3

Chapter 1

H ey, sugar!  Good to see you!  Here for business or pleasure?

You know me, Raina, always on the clock, I respond. 

And I am.  Even now, when most people are pouring into Vintage to enjoy a Saturday night out, I’m here to work.  That’s the name of the game in a fast-paced industry when you’re trying to carve out a corner for yourself; which is exactly what I’m trying to do. 

After years in the music industry, I got tired of being, what I came to think of as, nothing but background noise.  I’ve tweaked songs for artists, recorded with artists who needed a piano, violin, etc. for a track because no one in the band played it, and I’ve gone on tour with a few artists over the years.  Hell, I’ve even done pit orchestra both on and off Broadway. 

But I always felt like I could do more, be more.  So, a few years ago I called it quits.  I decided to stop working for other people and started my own business.  Murphy Cooper Music Corporation, or M.C.² for short, is a small label recording company.  I’m hoping to expand it in the coming years, take on more artists – both solo and bands, and make it a big success. 

It started out as a small office, only me and two other people – Taylor and Flynn.  Within a year, we’d taken on enough clients that we’d outgrown the tiny office, so we needed a much larger space with multiple offices and a studio of our own.  By then I could justify spending a large sum on purchasing and refurbishing the old mustard yellow warehouse on Kent Avenue in Brooklyn.  It takes up half the block and took a lot of work to bring it back from the dead. 

When I bought it, the inside the building was a wreck; crumbling interior walls, broken furniture, and more bird nests (and bird shit) than an avian sanctuary.  The outside needed help too, what with the bricked-up windows and graffiti everywhere.  It took a long time to bring it back to life, but by starting with nothing, it became everything. 

It’s got two rehearsal rooms, a recording studio with all top of the line equipment, a conference room, and multiple offices.  I’ve even got a hidden room; the entrance to which is concealed by one of the bookshelves in my office.  It’s nothing fancy, just a twelve-by-fifteen space that has a queen size bed, a shower, a small cubby for clothes, and a counter that’s about three feet wide with two cabinets above it.  The counter has a small sink on the right-hand side and enough space on top to set a coffee pot and a small toaster oven.  Underneath the counter is a mini fridge and a cabinet under the sink.  It’s great for when I’m too tired to drive home or if I don’t want to drive in crap weather. 

If the business continues to grow at the same rate, I’m thinking of buying the derelict building next door that takes up the other half of the block, knocking it down, and expanding.  A second studio would be wonderful, as would another rehearsal room, but what I won’t expand is my hidden micro-apartment.  Music may be my life, but I refuse to live at work.

However, the one thing I don’t want is having subsequent expansions turn M.C.² into a mega-corporation record company; the ones that churn out crap for profit.  I want it to be something, to mean something.  I don’t care about fame; I don’t want it.  And I don’t care about the fortune; I don’t need it.  What I care about is the music and doing something I can take pride in.

Which is why I’m at Vintage on a Saturday for work rather than pleasure. 

Can I get you a drink? Raina asks as she starts building a Guinness.

For a moment, I get lost in watching the beer as it cascades into the pint glass.  Not until I’m off the clock, I chuckle.

And I won’t be off the clock until after the band finishes playing.  Then again, it depends on how good (or bad) they are.  If I take Raina up on that drink before they finish their first set, I won’t be introducing myself to them.  It’s happened before but this band already got Taylor’s approval.  She heard them a few months ago, and they got a tick mark in every box she has when it comes to potential new clients.  And I trust her opinion, as well as Flynn’s, when it comes to talent.  If I didn’t, then I sure as hell never would have hired them. 

Well, no, that’s not entirely true.  You can’t truly trust someone after an interview.  What I did trust, was knowing that they could and would be the perfect fit for the job; and that once we worked together for a while, I could gauge how much I would let them have free reign in my company. 

Over the past two years, they’ve proven to be indispensable.  They’re knowledgeable about music and how the industry works, but they also have the same deep appreciation for music that I do. 

Somewhere along the way, the pair also became more than trusted employees.  They’ve become friends.  Though, according to the people that I hired after the expansion, we’re an exclusive club because the three of us have first names that can also be last names; to which I always give a sarcastic hardy-har-har. 

I watch Raina finish building the Guinness and place it on a tray along with a bottle of Becks and two Coronas down the other end of the bar.  Then she makes her way back down to where I am, wiping the top of the bar as she goes.  She’s dressed in a halter pencil dress that’s black on the bottom and white with black polka dots from the bust up.  I’d bet money it’s an authentic dress from the 50s and not a reproduction.  Tonight, her fiery ginger hair is down and wavy, reminding me of a mid-1950s Liz Taylor hairdo.  How about a soda or coffee then? she asks, her hazel eyes twinkling when she stops in front of me.

For a moment, my eyes wander the shelves of liquor that are against the mirrored wall behind the bar.  A coffee would be great, thanks.

One coffee, coming right up, she says with a smile as she heads over to the little coffee/tea station she has set up behind the bar. 

She has a massive, antique, copper espresso/cappuccino machine that is shinier than a new penny.  To the left is an aluminum, Italian-style coffee maker; the kind that you put the water in the bottom and the coffee in the filter in the middle.  Donna’s mother has one that she got as a wedding present a few years before she moved to America.  But unlike hers that goes on the stovetop, Raina’s is a plug-in model.  Then just to the left of that is a sleek looking set of shelves that hold all manner of coffee mugs, demitasse, frilly teacups, and an array of antique looking teapots. 

The fancy stuff only gets used on Sunday when the place is opened from one in the afternoon until seven in the evening.  The rest of the week, Vintage opens at six in the evening for dinner and doesn’t close until four in the morning. 

Here you go, sugar, she says as she slides the freshly brewed cup of heavenly smelling coffee in my direction.  Can I get you anything from the kitchen before we stop serving dinner?

I’m alright for now, thanks.

Should you change your mind, just give a shout, ok?

With a bright smile, she turns and heads down the other end of the bar, and I take a moment to take stock of the size of the crowd tonight.  It’s not even ten yet and already there are a lot of people here.  Judging by the rate the crowd is increasing, this place is going to be near wall-to-wall with people within an hour. 

Hey Len, I say, not bothering to turn in his direction.

Tha’s creepy ‘ow you do tha’! the bouncer responds in a thick Cockney accent.

Nah, I tell him as I turn on my stool to shake his beefy paw of a hand.

Len is 6’ 5", looks about 275 pounds, with no neck and upper arms the size of most people’s thighs.  A brick wall of a guy with a shaved head, he’s dressed head-to-toe in black, including his work boots.  I don’t have the heart to tell him that at his size, even with the shelving and bottles in the way, it’s hard to miss his reflection in the mirrored wall when he exits the front stock room.

I see yer on the clock, he says as he nods towards the coffee mug.

For now at least.

He shifts the stool and small lockbox he’s carrying all to his right and uses his baseball mitt sized hand to wave the bartender Tara over.

When ‘e’s done workin’ give ‘im a nice, large whisky on me, he tells her before excusing himself so that he can get set up at the front door. 

I’ll leave it on the wall for you, Tara tells me as she heads over to write it down on a large whiteboard on the wall next to the register.

Along with everyone else that works here (with the exception of Len), Tara is dressed in a vintage looking outfit.  She’s wearing navy blue, high waisted, sailor pants with a bright white button-down shirt with cap sleeves.  Her dark blonde hair is done up like Rosie the Riveter, but with a blue and white striped scarf to match her outfit and she’s wearing cat-eye glasses.

That’s part of the charm of Vintage, not only is the décor vintage and antique, but the employee dress code is vintage; not retro or rockabilly, but actual, full-blown vintage. 

People start lugging gear out onto the stage and as I sip my coffee, I pay attention to how they get along and how well everything is put together.  Obviously, not everyone on stage is in the band, but it’s always good to get a feel of how band members also interact with a crew.  There seems to be a sense of fun and camaraderie among those on stage; something that has me ticking off a box on my mental checklist. 

As I turn to pick up my coffee, I hear a long-winded sigh.  My eyes dart up to the mirror and I notice that the only people nearby are the cigarette girls that are shuffling out of the front stock room with their trays.  Dressed in black, shiny, collared halter-dresses with knee-length 1950s style skirts, they’re all smiling and chatting away.  Under the guise of stretching out my neck, I tilt my head to the left and right, but my ears don’t pick up anything else.  Huh.  I shrug, mentally, and go back to my coffee.

Chapter 2

A in’t happening!  We’re not changing the name and that’s final!

Geez, Brent.  Just sit and listen to what the guy has to say first.

Thank you, Aaron, I start.  Listen.  I understand why a band name like Free Tacos works.  When I was in college, there was a band that called themselves Free Beer and Chicken Wings.  They’d post signs up all around by the schools near where they were playing. Everyone would flock to the bars thinking they were going to drink and eat for free.  It fills the seats, so to speak.  And, luckily they were good, so people would stay to listen even though they felt duped.  But if you want this to go any further, no one is going to take you seriously with the name as it is.

No, and that’s final! Brent booms. 

I have a hard time not grinding my teeth.  Trying to explain things to these guys is near impossible.  I’d have better luck trying to find Atlantis than getting these guys to see sense.  I decide to change tactics and give it one last try.

Ok.  Let me ask you something.  Have you ever heard of a band called Polka Tulk Blues Band? I ask as I glance around the table at their blank expressions.  Anyone?  No?  How about the band Earth?  More blank expressions that are looking a bit bored now.  No, again.  Hmm, ok.  How about Black Sabbath?

Duh.  Everybody knows Sabbath, Brent snidely remarks as he rolls his eyes.

It makes me wish I’d never introduced myself to them last Saturday night.  They all seem to fall into the category of self-absorbed entitlists with overinflated egos whose parents never told them no.  Brent, being the worst of the bunch.

"So, if everyone knows Sabbath, how come everyone doesn’t know the other two bands?" 

"Tsch, probably because they sound like a bunch of dorks," Brent chuckles and looks at his bandmates for gushing praise.

Dorks, huh?  What if I told you that the Polka Tulk Blues Band and Earth were both names Black Sabbath went by before they made it big?

I raise my eyebrow as I observe their stunned faces then get up from the table.  With a wave to the coffee shop’s owner, I head out the door.  Making my way up Grand Street, I turn onto Kent and head back to the office.

Hey Bex, I wave as I head past the front desk.

She gives me a curt nod, then glares at the people waiting in the lobby as if daring them to bother me.  She’s in her early twenties, but underneath the young façade, she’s an ornery, no-nonsense, old lady that could make a drill sergeant weep.  I absolutely adore her.

I make my way down the hall and up to the stairs to the second floor, all the while greeting and being greeted by people that work here.  None of them call me Mr. Cooper.  It’s either Murphy or Murph; sometimes it’s even a hey, man.  I enjoy having that relaxed setting around here.  I think it makes for a better work environment.  Sure, they know my word is law as it’s my company.  But no one feels intimidated by an authority figure type boss, which leads to more open discussions regarding clients and projects.  No one feels like they have to tell me what they think I want to hear.  They all speak their mind which is why, at least in my humble opinion, M.C.² has been such a success in the short time it’s been around. 

Pushing open the glass doors in the middle of a glass wall, I head into the area dubbed the Executive Suite.  It’s a large open room with hardwood floors.  The walls are a soft cream with a bright white chair rail.  The sections of the wall under the rail are a red that’s a cross between brick red and maroon.  Along the left and back walls are four doors.  Three of the doors lead to offices; Flynn’s in the far-left corner, Taylor’s in the far-right corner, and of the two in the middle, the one on the left is my office.  Everyone that works here assumes the other door leads to a storage room.  And as our admin Takumi’s desk is catty-corner by the two middle doors, it would make sense.  However, the four of us in the Executive Suite know that it’s a false door and it’s kept locked so that no one opens it searching for office supplies only to find that there’s a solid wall on the other side. 

Part of the reason it’s set up that way is that it’s visually appealing having two doors on each wall.  Without the false door, the room would look off.  Anyone that paid attention long enough would realize there’s ample space unaccounted for between my office and Taylor’s.  Though, if any of those people were as dork-level geek as I am, their first thought would have been Prisoner Zero.

To balance out the entire space, so it’s not so heavy on the one side, the corner opposite Takumi’s desk has a round glass-top table and two large, puffy, beige, leather couches.  It gives the room a less sterile feeling.

That was fast, Takumi says as he glances up from his computer screen.

Not fast enough, I  tell him.  See if Taylor and Flynn are free, then move up our meeting an hour if possible.  Order lunch, add yours to the order if you are staying in.  From wherever, I respond in answer to his unspoken question.

Sitting at my desk, I turn on my computer screen and start going through the emails that have accumulated since this morning.  There aren’t many, so I breeze through them easily.  Taking a green box off the shelf by my desk, I start going through the pile of folders that are in it.  Those are all the things that need quick sign-offs; mostly orders for equipment, office supplies, and final approval for stuff I’ve already seen a few times.  As I finish with each folder, I dump it in the outgoing grey box I keep on the corner of my desk.  I’m halfway through the urgent pile in the red box when Flynn walks in, plops down in one of the chairs in my office, and informs me that Taylor is on her way. 

By the time she gets here, I’ve gone through the urgent pile, Flynn reached a new high score on his donut popping game on his phone, and lunch has arrived.  As we make our way through our sandwiches, we go over everything from last weekend and this week.

Aaaaannd? Taylor asks, her honey-brown eyes bright with excitement.

And what? I ask back.

What did you think of Free Tacos?

Musically, I liked their sound.  I liked that they didn’t only play covers and that their original stuff was good.  I spoke to them after their first set and met with them earlier today.

I had a good feeling about them, she beams.

I didn’t after speaking to them today, I comment before filling them in on the dreadful encounter.  I won’t be signing them.

Win some, lose some, I guess, Flynn laughs mockingly.

It’s not a competition.  Geez, Flynn.  What’s with you lately? Taylor tosses back at him.

This weekend and next week, what’s on the agenda? I ask, trying to diffuse the tension I can feel building up in both of them.

If either of you wants to meet up, I’m going over to Brick City Mortar tomorrow night, Flynn says.  They’re turning their Friday nights into open mic for blues and jazz, so I thought I’d check it out.  Next week I’m working on the dates and venues for Machete Daisy’s northeast summer tour.  I’ve also got Speculated down in the studio Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday.

I’m going down to A.C. for a much-needed weekend away, Taylor declares.  Busy week ahead.  I’m ‘this close’ to getting Agnostic Jesus Freak on the Warped Tour lineup this year.  Easier to cut a tough steak with a plastic spoon than it is to convince Gary to let a virtually unknown squeeze in.  Another gentle nudge or two and it should be all systems go.  Then starts the fun of getting all the promo set up, including a photo shoot and band merch to sell while on tour.

Better make sure your girls’ weekend doesn’t get too wild than, Flynn chastises smugly.

For a second, Taylor’s eyebrows tip down in anger before she stands, picking up her briefcase and the remnants of her lunch.  Not that it’s any of your business, but it’s a weekend getaway for two, she tosses back before turning on her heel and marching out the door. 

A moment later, her office door slams shut.  Flynn gets up from his chair, swipes his plate off my desk, then stomps out of my office.  A moment later, his office door slams shut. 

With a sigh, I take a bite of the pickle on my plate and return to clearing bins of folders.

Chapter 3

W hat can I get you fine gentlemen this evening? the bartender at Brick City Mortar asks as she grins wickedly at Flynn.

Taking a towel from somewhere under the bar, she leans forward to wipe down the bar in front of us.  She arches her back so that her butt is tipped up and gives the bar-top an unnecessarily hardy scrub; causing her triple-Ds to shake vigorously.

"Amateur," my brain snorts.

Since we’re technically not working, we order a round of beers.  About five minutes after the bartender wiggles over with our beers, she comes back with the jalapeño poppers and buffalo chicken tenders that Flynn ordered.

"If you need anything at all, she purrs at Flynn, you let me know."

Completely oblivious, Flynn responds with an okay, thanks and she heads down the bar.  I study him for a minute as he scratches his gingery-brown beard and notice that he’s staring at the food as if it holds the answers to all the questions in the universe.

Start talking, I say after taking a sip of my beer.

About what?

Whatever it is that’s got you disengaged.

Huh? he asks, thoroughly confused.

Usually if a bartender is flirting with you, you’d flirt right back.  Tonight, you didn’t even notice.  And given that lately you’ve been a quick-tempered grouch around the office, it leads me to wonder what’s gotten into you.

Nothing, he shrugs, as he picks up a piece of chicken and takes a bite.

Taking another sip of my beer, I sit in silence knowing it’s better to wait him out.  Ignoring him, I turn towards the dais type stage.  It’s a mass of well-orchestrated chaos.  In the middle of it all, is a clipboard-wielding woman wearing a Brick City Mortar shirt with STAFF emblazoned on the back.  She’s orchestrating the setups for each