Sticks | Page 6

and he just laughed. "Are you crazy, or what?"
"She won't care if you give it to me. I'm the guy from the CSR session--"
"I know who you are," Rosen said, and hung up.
He left a call for her at the Warner offices in Burbank and with Foolsgold's agent. He tried all the K. Staceys in all three LA area codes.
He called Rosen again. "Look," Rosen said. "Are you stupid, or what? Do you think you're the only kid in town that's had a piece of Keven Stacey's ass? End to end you guys would probably stretch to Tucson. Do you think she doesn't know you've been calling? Now are you going to quit hassling me or are you going to fuck over what little career you may have left?"
*
The check for Keven's session came in the mail. It was on CSR's account and Darryl had signed it, but there was no note in the envelope with it. On the phone Darryl said, "Face it, bud, you've been an asshole. Gregg Rosen is way pissed off. You're going to have to kick back for a while, pay some dues. Give it a couple months, maybe you can cruise back."
"Fuck you too, Darryl."
LA dried up. Stan hit the music stores and the musicians' classifieds. Most of the ads were drummers looking for work. The union offered him a six-month tour of the southern states with a revival of Bye Bye Birdie.
Jesus, Stan thought. Show tunes. Rednecks. Every night another Motel 6. I'm too old for this.
The phone rang.
Stan snatched it up.
"Stan. This is Dave Harris. Remember me?"
Harris was another session drummer, nothing special. He'd filled in for Stan a couple of times.
"Yeah, Dave. What's up?"
"I was, uh, I was just listening to a cassette of that Keven Stacey song? I was just wondering, like, what the hell were you doing there? I can't follow that part at all."
"What are you doing with a cassette of that song?"
"Uh oh."
"C'mon, Dave, spill it."
"They didn't tell you? Warner's going to use it as the first single from the album. So they're getting ready to shoot the video. They didn't even tell you? Oh man, that really sucks."
"Yeah, it sucks all right."
"Really Stan, I didn't know, man. I swear. They told me you couldn't make the gig."
"Yeah, okay, Dave, hang on, all right? I'm trying to figure something out, here."
*
Stan showed up at the Universal lot at six in the morning. He cranked down his window and smelled the dampness in the air. Birds were chattering somewhere in the distance. Stan had the pass he'd gotten from Dave Harris. He showed it to the guard and the guard gave him directions to the Jungle Lot.
A Port-A-Sign on the edge of the road marked his turnoff. Stan parked behind the other cars and vans under the palm trees. A crew in matching blue T-shirts and caps was positioning the VTRs and laying down an Astro-turf carpet for the band.
He started setting up his drums. This was as far as his imagination had been able to take him. From here on he was winging it. His nerves had tunneled his vision down to the wood and plastic and chrome under his hands and he jumped when a voice behind him said, "They gonna fry your ass, boy."
Stan turned to face a six-foot-six apparition in a feathered hat, leopard scarf, chains, purple silk shirt, green leather pants, and lizard boots.
"Jackson?" Stan asked carefully.
"Something wrong?"
"Jesus Christ, man, where did you get those clothes?"
Jackson stared at him without expression. "I'm a star now. Not trash like you, boy, a star. Do you know who I was talking to yesterday? Bruce. That's Bruce Springsteen. He says Clarence may be splitting and he might need me for his next tour."
"That's great, Jackson. I hope it works out."
"You laugh, boy, but when Rosen see you, he gonna shit a picket fence."
Rosen, Keven, and some blond kid pulled up in a Jeep. Stan slipped deeper into the shade of a palm tree to watch. Keven and the blond kid were holding hands. The kid was dressed in a white bush jacket and Bermuda shorts. Keven was in a matching outfit that had been artfully torn and smudged by the costume crew. The blond kid said something to Keven and she laughed softly in his face. The director called places and the rest of the band settled in behind their instruments.
"Where the fuck is the drummer?" Rosen shouted.
Stan stepped out from behind the trees.
"Oh Christ," Rosen said. "Okay, take ten everybody. You, Stan. Off the set."
Stan was looking at Keven. Say the word, he thought. Tell him I can stay.
Keven glanced at him with mild irritation and walked away. She had hold of the blond kid's hand.
Stan looked back at Rosen. A couple of grips, ex-bikers