I wiped my brow. Why was it so damn hot inMinnesota? I’d never been to Minnesota other than to play shows in Minneapolis or Saint Paul. We’d played Minneapolis only a few days ago before heading to Chicago for the last show of the tour, which of course had turned out to be the last show period.
“I hope it’s OK that I gave out your fax number,” Gretchen said, showing Marion her binder. She turned to me and explained, “I have a real estate deal pending,” as if I’d asked. “I don’t know why bankers and lawyers and Realtors cling to the Stone Age technology that is the fax machine, but apparently they have to send some documents that way.”
Gretchen was definitely a suit, even if she didn’t look the part.
“And this is the day I have that meeting booked,” she said, tilting her calendar toward Marion. “I want to make sure that’s still OK.”
“All good. I’ll keep an eye on the fax, and you’ll be in charge of your own schedule here. I’m just grateful that you could fill in on such short notice.” Marion turned to me. “And you, too. The campers are going to be thrilled to meet an actual working musician.”
I made a vague hum of acknowledgment. I wasn’t sure that was an accurate description of me anymore, but I didn’t want to get into it. I just wanted to get into some air-conditioning,take a cool shower, and crack open the bottle of Maker’s Mark I had in my bag. Also, what the hell was this camp if the other staffers weren’t working musicians?
“Hello.” A tall, skinny man wearing a mud-splattered black T-shirt approached. “You must be our final two colleagues.” He strode over to Sugarplum and stuck out his hand. “Danny the Potter.”
“Gretchen the Dancer.”
Well, shit. I guess thiswasn’tband camp.
“I love your hair, Gretchen the Dancer,” Danny the Potter said as they shook hands. “There’s a painter here who has blue hair. They should have sent a memo.” He ran a hand through his shaggy blond mane.
“Are there any other musicians here?” I asked. Not that I cared. I wasn’t planning on making friends, and when it came to music, I wouldn’t be collaborating on my next project or maybe on any other project again ever. What had seventeen years of collaboration gotten me? A broken-up band. A broken-up friendship.
“Just you,” Marion said. “Which was why we were so glad you could step in when we lost George.” She turned to Gretchen. “And you when we lost Imani. It was touch and go for a while there, but I’m so relieved everything is going to be OK with them and the baby.”
I had no idea who Imani or “the baby” was, but George was George Tran, a classical pianist my sister knew from her New York artsy circles. George knew the owner of this camp, who I gathered was some sort of socialite artist-wannabe. I was triangulating that information with this Marion person, who was wearing one of those sculptural dress-tunic hybrid garments favored by wealthy women of a certain age. When George had to bow out of his plan to be here this summer, he’d leveragedhis networks to suggest a replacement. And my sister, not looking forward to my spending the summer moping in her guest room, had voluntold me. Really, though, Auden hadn’t had to twist my arm. I had heartily agreed that my newly unemployed ass could do with a change in scenery. I needed a fucking break.
So here I was. A summer off the grid. Peace. Nature and shit—I slapped a mosquito. Hopefully in a large enough dose for me to write enough decent songs—no, enoughgreatsongs—for an album. Over my dead body was Scott fucking Collier going to be the only ex-member of Concrete Temple coming out with a solo album.
So I needed to write some songs. That was my priority. Then I would come out of the woods and sort out all the legal and contractual shit. Decide what my next move was going to be. Professionally but maybe also literally if Karlie, my ex, didn’t get out of my fucking apartment.
“The blue hair belongs to Maiv Khang, our visual artist—she’s a painter,” Marion said. “Then we have Danny Frangopoulos—you just met him. And you, Gretchen.” Marion was counting off on her fingers as she listed the summer’s artists in residence. “At least we have you for the first session.” She made a frowny face.
“Yes, sorry,” Gretchen said, “I can’t leave my dance studio for that long.”
“I know, I know. We’ll figure out something for the second session—I already have some leads. But for now, we’re so happy to have you. We also have a novelist and an actor—there are six of you total. You’ll meet everyone at sunrise circle tomorrow.”
Sunrise circle. I did not like the sound of that—the circle part or the sunrise part.
“The counselors will be joining us after lunch. We’ll go over schedules and procedures then.”
“And the kids come Monday, right?” Gretchen asked.
Hold on. Kids?
“The kids come Monday,” Marion confirmed.
I had thought this was going to be band camp for grown-ups. Aging dudes who never got over Pearl Jam and fancied themselves rebels even though they’d just made partner at their accounting firms.
“As you know,” Marion said, although I, of course, did not know, “you artists won’t have extensive duties as it relates to the campers. But we are going to have some training on policies and procedures tomorrow, as well as a session on CPR and first aid.”
Fuck. This was what I got for not reading the fine print. Or any print.
I slapped yet another mosquito, eyeing the Sugarplum Fairy. Why wasn’t she getting bitten? She looked sweet enough to rot a man’s teeth. In addition to the candy-tipped hair, she had heart-shaped lips, pale skin, and a pretty fucking cute nose—when she wasn’t wrinkling it in disdain. She looked like a Disney princess fused with Katy Perry circa 2010. She looked like she could make small woodland creatures do her bidding as she sang girl-power anthems while dressed as a lollipop or some shit.
Slap.
“Teddy, you’re getting eaten alive!” Marion said. “Let’s get you to your cabins—they’re screened.” She turned to our airport chauffeur. “Lena, can you take them?”
They’re screened.That did not sound promising. I mean, it sounded better thanThey’re not screened, but I was the guy who always turned the hotel thermostat down to sixty-five. Back in the band’s early days, when we’d all bunked together in oneshitty motel room, the guys and I had always done battle over the room temp.
