Five Flavors of Dumb - Antony John [26]
I took a time-out and thought cleansing thoughts. Then, since it was abundantly clear that Dumb was a million miles from being soft rock, I wrote to Phil and said that we couldn’t go any further without assurances that there would be some form of payment.
Ten minutes later I received a new message:
Expenses only. P.
Barf or no barf, that was all I needed. Without wasting another moment I ran out to the car, drove to the local library, and checked out a bunch of CDs. While I was there, I e-mailed Baz to say we were working on a new song we needed to record at the session on Sunday. Then I hopped back in the car and drove to Ed’s coffee shop, wondering how I should break the news that he had less than twenty-four hours to compose a soft rock song called “Loving Every Part of You.”
Easy.
“You’re kidding.”
I shook my head. “No, Ed. I’m not.”
“You are. You’re kidding. Either that or you’re completely insane.”
“Technically, no. Although there are times I wonder about that,” I conceded.
Ed sighed dramatically, but forced himself to perk up as a new customer joined us. I figured our conversation was about to be put on hold, so I took a seat at the back of the shop and studied the ancient black-and-white photos of guys in uncomfortable sporting attire holding gigantic oars.
The photos made sense, I suppose, as the shop was called Coffee Crew, a tiny place sandwiched between a pizza parlor and a dry cleaner’s. To be honest, I’m not sure I knew it existed until Ed drew me a map. Half a dozen round oak tables filled the available space, while the warmth of an electric fire lured people to stay a little longer than they might have intended. The seven people who sipped coffee from chunky glasses seemed as much a part of the place as the furniture. I made a mental note to come back again when I wasn’t on business.
As soon as another customer had been satisfied, Ed shuffled over and sat down opposite me. “And I repeat: You’re crazy.”
“It’s just one song.”
“And you want me to teach it to everyone tomorrow?”
“Yeah.”
Ed shook his head like he couldn’t believe we were really having this conversation, but he also began to sift through the stack of CDs I was placing on the table, which told me his resistance was waning. I tried to hide my relief.
“So what instruments am I writing for now?” he asked. “What does Kallie play?”
“Uh . . . I don’t know.”
Ed frowned. “You were the one who wanted her to join. How can you not know what she plays?”
“You voted for her too!”
He sighed and looked toward the door, presumably hoping that a customer would come in and rescue him. “Fine. One song. I’ll only use the chords of C, F, and G, and maybe A minor if you can promise me we’ll have the whole two hours to work on it tomorrow.”
“Deal.” I held out my hand.
“Fine.” Ed looked at my hand for a couple seconds before he finally shook it, his grip pleasantly firm. Before we let go of each other’s hands I noticed dark stains around his fingernails, and looked closer. “Barista’s fingers,” he explained apologetically, watching me the whole time. “Coffee stains, you know?”
“You have nice hands,” I told him, wondering which of us would let go first.
Ed seemed frozen to the spot until reawakened by the sound of the door opening. “I’ve got to . . . you know,” he said, taking his hand away with him. “So get writing that song.”
“What!?”
“Get writing. I said I’d compose a song, but I’m not writing the lyrics as well. That’s all you.”
“What do I write?”
“I don’t know. Look at the CD inlays and read the lyrics, then come up with something similar.”
I was about to protest again, but Ed clearly valued his job enough to serve customers in a timely manner. Over the next fifteen minutes I scribbled away, penning verse and chorus of the most insipid love song ever composed:
Time has passed since last I saw your face,
The memory of your touch
Your smile, your heart, your grace,
The visions that I once enjoyed have gone without a trace.
I didn’t hear Ed rejoin me. I didn’t know he was there at