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Dylan
Devin,
I’m sending you some clips. They’re rough as hell, and they need some work, but I think we should add them to the album. The other guys agree, but what do you think? Interested to know your opinion.
Dylan
***
“I made these sloppy joes just for you, and you haven’t touched your plate,” Mom groused, thrusting her hand across the table.
I glanced up from the group chat happening in real time on my phone, only to see the deep lines of her frown staring back at me. The rooster-adorned clock above the refrigerator told me we’d been sitting at the table for fifteen minutes, and I had spent that entire time staring at my phone.
“Sorry,” I muttered apologetically, turning it off and tucking it in my breast pocket.
Sloppy joes had been a favorite when I was a kid. Every time Mom asked for a dinner suggestion, there I was, chanting for sloppy joes. She made them often, and I never got sick of them. Not until I was older and playing music for a living, making more money than I knew what to do with, and able to eat at five-star restaurants on the regular. No longer had I wanted the simplicity of sloppy joes—or most home-cooked meals, at that—and I thought it had broken my mother’s heart in more ways than I realized.
These days, I was trying to do something about that.
Grabbing the sandwich in both hands, I lifted it to my mouth and took a big bite. Mom watched intently, looking for a sign of approval, and I nodded.
“Damn, that’s good,” I said for her benefit, but I meant it.
It wasn’t filet mignon from Winston’s or seared scallops from Marea, but not everything needed to be. There was nothing wrong with appreciating both, and there was definitely nothing wrong with remembering what it was like to be the kid I used to be.
“What’s going on in that phone of yours?” Dad asked before shoveling a forkful of baked potato into his mouth.
I swallowed and wiped my hands on the napkin in my lap. “I emailed a few songs over to Devin last night,” I explained. “So, I told the guys, and now, they’re bombarding me with a thousand questions about if I’ve heard from him yet and if I know when we’ll even be able to get back in the studio and whatever the hell else.”
Dad nodded intently. He never understood most of what I was talking about, but I had to give him kudos for trying.
“He’s a busy guy, isn’t he?” Mom asked.
“Well, he has his band and his family, so yeah,” I told her. “He can’t always drop everything the second he gets an email, and who knows? It might be weeks before we can even get back in there.”
Mom nodded slowly, her smile softening with a concealed dash of pride. She knew how desperate I was to get this done, and she knew what a challenge it was for me to accept that it needed more time.
“Well, that just means you can hang out here longer,” Dad said, reaching out to pat a hand against my arm.
“Maybe you two could work on the garage,” Mom commented, looking over the rim of her water glass.
Ah, the garage. It was a snide little comment—a reminder of what we had talked about doing years ago, but never did. Work, accidents, and depression had gotten in the way, and time just kept on ticking by, collecting dust on everything we were supposed to clear out. Dad never mentioned it, probably not wanting to piss me off, and Mom seldom brought it up, knowing I’d give her the same explanation as to why I couldn’t help the old man out.
Dad shook his head. “Ah, leave him alone. He doesn’t—”
“No, we could,” I said, nodding. “It’s about time we got that shit done anyway.”
Dad looked startled, like someone had taken his son and replaced him with someone else. Someone better. And, hell, maybe that was exactly what had happened.
Or maybe I was just tired of feeling useless.
***
“So, let me ask you something,” Devin said as I headed out the back door.
“Shoot,” I replied into the phone, using the cane to navigate the chipped concrete steps leading from the house and into the yard.
“So, these are great—I already told you that—and I think they’re cohesive in the telling of this story,” he said. “But how long does this go on? There are fourteen songs here, right? And this guy has met the girl, fucked her countless times, and decided to be friends with her after she’s moved on. But he’s obviously in love with her—”
