Black Mad Wheel. Josh Malerman

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       4

      Hey, Philip,” Misty says. “Looks like you’ve already been drinking.”

      It’s always looks like with Misty.

      “I’m all right.” Philip smiles.

      “Looks like you’re recording a band of stiffs.” Misty nods to the Sparklers, who stand awkwardly farther down the bar. “What do they call themselves? The Bland?”

      “The Sparklers.”

      “Jesus H.”

      Larry winks at Misty from over Philip’s shoulder.

      “It’s our job to loosen them up,” he says.

      “You can’t make a record with no grooves,” Misty puns.

      “They’ll groove,” Larry says. Then he shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe they won’t.”

      “Help us out,” Philip says.

      “Sure. What do you want me to give them?”

      “Something terrible. Something strong.”

      Misty considers this. But not for long. It’s not the first time the Danes have brought a band into Doug’s Den on Beaubien Street. She arranges five shot glasses.

      “And we’ll have the same,” Philip adds.

      Misty smiles something maternal. Philip likes Misty. With her short dark hair and strong eyes she looks like she could be his sister. And she’s always been good to the Danes.

      “You planning on getting any recording done today?” she asks, already pouring the shots.

      “We haven’t made it past the drum kit yet.”

      Thurston Harris’s “Little Bitty Pretty One” comes on the jukebox.

      Duane, dancing as he moves, takes half the shots from Misty. Philip grabs the others. They carry them to the Sparklers, now congregated on the dance floor. But still not dancing.

      “You guys like this song?” Philip asks.

      “Yeah,” the Sparklers’ bassist says. Philip catches himself reflected in the kid’s glasses. He looks drunk. “It’s fun.”

      “Good,” Duane says. “So let’s have fun.”

      As he and Philip distribute the shots, the door to Doug’s Den swings open and Ross enters. His hands are stuffed into the pockets of his coat and he’s hunched, as he always is, even when playing the guitar.

      The young Sparklers stare at Ross with reverence. After all, it’s his guitar line on “Be Here” that gave the Danes their instrumental hit.

      “Sorry I’m late,” he tells Philip. “Long night.”

      Philip understands. This isn’t the first time a Dane has pleaded hungover.

      “Ross, meet the Sparklers.”

      Ross checks them out. He knows Philip well enough to know why he’s brought them to Doug’s.

      “You’re Ross Robinson,” the Sparklers’ guitarist says, eyeing Ross’s uncombed curly hair. “I curled my hair so it looks like yours.”

      “You look like a clown,” Ross says. Then he takes one of the shot glasses, downs the whiskey within.

      “Better?” Larry asks.

      Ross wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his corduroy coat.

      “Might be worse.”

      Philip raises his glass, inspiring the Sparklers to timidly do the same.

      Art, the band’s manager, rushes to stop this. His hair is wet with sweat. His tie is loose.

      “Now hang on a minute! We’ve got a session to finish! My boys can’t be whooping it up like this!”

      The music gets louder. Philip looks over his shoulder. Misty is smiling behind the bar.

      “This is all part of the session,” Philip says. “This is tracking.”

      Philip downs his shot, grabs the lead singer of the Sparklers, and dances with him. He places the kid’s hand on his back, asking him to lead.

      The Path has taken Philip СКАЧАТЬ