Idea in Stone | Page 9

friends.
"He called Allen's cell about ten minutes ago to say he'd be a bit late," said Paulo. "He just finished up a contract on Bay Street."
"Holy crap," said Stefan, "not one of those big bank buildings."
"Yeah," replied Allen, "he got the contract for the tower I work in."
"Oh yeah. Did you have anything to do with that?" asked Stefan.
"Well, I told him it was up for renewal. But he won the bid on his own."
"Can you imagine hanging up there on one of those little platforms?" asked Paulo. "And where do they get the water from?"
The three of them sat in silence, trying to figure it out. Allen gave up first, and asked how the others' days went. Paulo described a workshop he was participating in, then Stefan recapped his day at the studio. "I think they're going to can me," he said. Not knowing how to respond, Allen went on to describe his day with a group of estate inheritors bickering over their shares. Allen didn't mind, he said, because he got paid out of the estate for every moment they spent arguing with each other.
"Hey guys," said Rick, coming up the stairs, "how's it going?" They greeted him as he slumped down into a chair. "That was the hardest day I've spent since I started doing this," he said, sipping on a paper cup of coffee the size of a sandcastle bucket. "I don't know if I can keep this contract. It's just too much work."
"Why don't you hire some other people to work for you?" Allen often harangued Rick on this point whenever Rick took on a tone of nobility about being overworked. "It's your business, and as long as you do all the work it will never get any bigger than you."
"If I pay extra people, there won't be enough of a profit left over."
Allen flipped up his Okay, nevermind hands.
"Hey, Stef," said Rick, "I wrote another song last night."
"That's great."
"What's it about?" asked Paulo.
"Oh, well, it's -- it's kind of hard to explain. I mean, it's kind of reductive to take something as personal as a song and, you know, sum it up."
"Okay," said Allen, "so what kind of song is it?"
"It doesn't really fall into a category, exactly. It's -- I dunno. I'll play it for you guys sometime." He turned to Stefan. "Do you think you could talk to one of your mom's people for me?"
Stefan squirmed. "You should really finish your demo first. They can't do anything for you if you haven't got a demo. And I don't know if her agent is really the right person for you. I mean, she's considered folk, right?"
"Yeah, yeah, I know," said Rick. "I've gotta get that demo finished. I swear I'm going to do it first thing in the new year."
"That's great," said Stefan. The others made sounds of approval. Stefan regretted the thought, but was satisfied that he'd never have to present anything to anyone if he waited for Rick to finish the demo of his songs. They were good, the ones he'd heard, though most of them were about his ex-girlfriend. She'd been around for about a year, and sometimes he'd take her out with them, clutching to her to assert his straightness like a love-doll personal flotation device. Then she left for Japan or Malaysia or wherever it was, leaving their relationship sufficiently open-ended for him to imagine it was still going on.
"I hate my job," said Rick.
"Then stop doing it," replied Allen.
"Easy for you to say. You've got buckets of money in the bank."
"Yeah, but I made it. It's not like somebody just gave it to me."
"I think," said Stefan, "that by the time you reach thirty, you're kind of set money-wise. Like, you're poor-thirty or rich-thirty, and it's probably not going to change."
"Oh God," said Paulo. Rick moaned in agreement.
"So which are you?" Allen asked Stefan.
"I guess I'm poor-thirty."
"Ha!" laughed Rick. "That's a good one."
"What? You mean because of my mother?" Stefan shifted in his chair. "She's not that rich, you know. She still has to keep doing records and shows, or we'd be sunk. And besides, just because she has money doesn't mean I do. It's not mine, you know. All my money comes from doing the voice-over work. Soon I might not even have that."
"I still don't think you're poor-thirty," said Rick casually over his drink.
"I don't like this idea," said Allen. "I think that people are always free to be as successful as they want to be. They just don't bother trying."
"Listen to you," said Rick, turning to face him. "You're so self-righteous about your success."
"Yeah, and you're self-righteous about your lack of it."
The evening was supposed to be fun and festive, but at this rate Stefan imagined them going home at the end of it