"You know how much we make," he said. This was an old argument too. "Five hundred dollars a set at D Street and six hundred a set her at Willies. Other clubs usually pay us somewhere in between."
"All of which doesn't amount to squat when you divide it up among the five of you and take out taxes, does it?"
"No," he admitted. "It really isn't that much."
"It's less than what people on welfare make," she accused. This wasn't strictly true, of course, but it wasn't all that far off either.
Nor was Michelle the only one to have made this argument to him. His own parents, the two people in the world who he should have been able to count on to support him in anything he did, were constantly asking him when he was going to get this "rock band phase" out of his system and go back to school.
"I know you love making music, honey," his mother had told him the last time he'd been over for dinner. "And it's obvious you and your band are very good at it. I mean, we've seen you play, right? But I think your talent would be put to much better use as a music and voice teacher, don't you? Can you imagine, sharing your gift with the young? Wouldn't that be beautiful? But to do that you need to get your college degree and your teaching credential. And that means going back to school."
Nor was he the only one under such parental pressure. Bill's mother, who was Jake's mother's best friend and fellow philharmonic orchestra-mate, regularly instilled similar lectures on Bill, although her suggestions included using his piano skills to try to land a position with the Boston or the Philadelphia or-dare they dream-the New York Philharmonic.
"Look," Jake told Michelle now, "I know I barely got a pot to piss in right now. But I'm doing what I love to do, don't you understand that? I love being a musician. I love getting up on stage and hearing those people applaud and yell for more of the music that I'm playing, that I wrote and composed, that I fucking sing. There's nothing else in the world that feels like that. Nothing. And until that thrill I get by doing this goes away, or until the people stop wanting to hear my music, I'm going to keep doing it. Do I think I'll ever make it big? Probably not. Matt's sent that demo tape we made to about two dozen agents trying to get someone to represent us and we haven't even got so much as a rejection letter in return. Does that change my mind? No. Because right now I'm living exactly the life I want to live. I'm having the time of my life, Michelle, and how much money we're making doesn't have a goddamn thing to do with that. I'm sorry if that doesn't fit in with your plans of a decent boyfriend."
There were more tears running down her face now. "It doesn't," she said, shaking her head. "It doesn't fit in at all."
He didn't know what to say. There didn't seem to be a right reply here. God, how this hurt. He could feel the pain like a physical thing, welling up from his gut, spreading throughout his body. He felt a tear running down his own cheek now. He brushed it angrily away.
"I have to go now, Jake," she told him, standing up. "Will you think about what I said?"
"What's to think about?" he asked bitterly. "You're asking me to choose between my music and you."
She shrugged, sniffing a little. "If that's the way you want to look at it," she said. "When you're ready to be with me on my terms, give me a call."
"Yeah," he snorted. "And when you're ready to be with me on mine, you do the same."
She didn't answer. She gave him a sad smile and climbed the small ladder to the door. She opened it and slipped out into the night. Jake did not go after her. He knew when the point of futility had been reached.
He fumbled around in his pants pocket for a moment and finally came out with a crumpled pack of smokes. All of the cigarettes inside were bent and broken. He straightened the end of one and fitted it onto the filter of another. He dug in his pants again and finally came up with a lighter. He sparked up, smoking slowly while he cried.
"Point of futility," he mumbled to himself, a part of his mind already composing the barest beginnings of lyrics to go along with that phrase, that concept, while the rest of him grieved. "How's that for a fucking tune? The point of fucking futility."
He stayed down there for almost twenty minutes, long enough to rig together and inhale three cigarettes, each one shakier than the last. Finally-once he felt himself under control (and with that phrase, The Point of Futility, still dancing in his brain) he got up and cleaned up the mess he and Michelle had made, leaving the yacht more or less as he'd found it.
He locked up and walked slowly back to Willie's, towards the booming of bass from the jukebox, towards the sound of revelry in progress. When he entered the smoky room he didn't make it more than a dozen steps before five girls and a couple of guys surrounded him. All began babbling about how great of a show it had been, how he rocked, how they were good enough to "make it" if they could just get a break. He mumbled his thanks to them and separated himself as quickly as he could, finding his way to the bar, where Chris the bartender brought him a rum and coke without even being asked.
"Thanks, Chris," he said. "You got a pack of smokes back there for me too?"
"Bet your ass," Chris told him. He reached under the bar and came up with a red and white hard pack that contained Jake's favorite brand. He slapped it down before him along with a clean ashtray. "Should I put it on your tab?" he asked with a smirk.
Jake chuckled back. "By all means," he replied.
The "tab" he was referring to was non-existent. Willie supplied free drinks to the band members (but not their groupies) as long as they remained on the premises since their presence encouraged people to stick around after the show and order drinks of their own. Cigarettes and cheeseburgers and hotdogs had never actually been specified as being on the house but the bartenders all liked the band to hang out too for the tip volume they produced so they interpreted their instructions rather loosely.
Jake downed half of his drink in a shot and then fired up his first intact cigarette of the last hour. As he blew out the first plume of smoke and tapped the ashes into the glass tray, Matt came over, a cigarette hanging out of his own mouth.
"Hey, Chrissie," Matt shouted, banging an empty glass down on the bar, his words more than a little slurred. "Fire me up again, brother!"
"You got it, Matt," Chris replied. "Another Jack and Coke."
While his drink was being constructed Matt sat down on the stool next to Jake and put his arm around him, pulling him up against him. "What the fuck's the matter with you?" he asked. "You look like shit. Get ahold of some bad weed?"
"Naw," Jake said. "I'm all right."
"The fuck you are," he said, pulling him tighter against him before releasing him. "I've seen happier faces at a fuckin' funeral." He looked around for a minute. "Where's your bitch at? She bail on you?"
He nodded. "For good," he said. "We broke up."
Matt looked at him, his eyes widening a little. "You mean... like... broke up?" he asked. "You and the little Catholic girl?"
"Yep," he said, taking another drag. "She couldn't take being with the poor Bible-degrading musician any longer. She told me to call her when I decided to cut my hair and go back to school and be a respectable fucking member of society."
Matt absorbed that for a few seconds, nodding sympathetically. "That's some shit," he said.
"That it is," Jake agreed.
"Tell me something," Matt said.
"What's that?"
"Did you get to tear off one last piece before she went?"
Jake looked at him agog for a moment and then burst out laughing. "No," he finally said. "She got me to eat her pussy for her one last time and then went into her spiel right after."
Matt was truly appalled. "That is just fuckin evil," he declared.
"No shit."
"Well, at least you'll leave her with a happy memory, huh?"
"Yeah, I suppose."