And so that was what they did. Jake and Laura rode the limo home (both having a few drinks during the trip), went inside and quickly changed into shorts and pullover shirts, and then climbed back in the limo for the trip to Malibu where G’s mansion sat on the beach.
“Nice house,” Laura said approvingly as G and Neesh gave the quick tour of the eight thousand square foot domicile.
“It’s home for now,” G said. “A lot better than that two-bedroom pad I grew up in in East Palo Alto.” He chuckled a little. “I’m not sure the neighbors are too keen on me living here though. I got some tight-ass whitey real estate developer living on one side of me, some fuckin’ Jap executive with Toyota living on the other, and some beaner who’s in the import/export business across the street. They never seem to invite me to the neighborhood get-togethers.”
“I wonder why,” Jake said, as if pondering.
“Must be my political views,” G offered.
“That’s probably it,” Laura said with a giggle.
They retired to the entertainment room, which was the largest room in the house. There was a pool table, a pinball machine, a stereo system that had probably cost as much as Jake’s car, and a whole lot of gold and platinum records on the wall. Huge sliding glass doors opened up to the backyard and the beach. G opened the door to let in the night sea breeze and then turned on the stereo, putting The Very Best of Aretha Franklin in the CD player.
“Let’s do this thing,” G said. “I’ll make the drinks. Neesh, you order the pizza, Jake, you get in that stashbox there on the table and roll us a fatty.”
Everyone went about their appointed task. By the time the pizza guy arrived with two large thick crust combinations with extra cheese, everyone was feeling quite fine indeed.
The annihilated one pizza completely and then, after a few more hits on the joint, even broke into the second one. All the while they swilled down glasses of white wine (Neesh and Laura), run and cokes (Jake) and Jameson on the rocks (G).
“How’s things going up there in Oregon?” G asked after refreshing the ladies’ glasses for the fourth time.
“Rolling right along,” Jake told him. “We’re in a pretty good rhythm now. Most of the basic tracks for the tunes have been laid down now that we got the Nerdlys to stop being so anal about everything. We’re hoping to start working on the overdubs before the end of the month.”
“It is a fine moment when you finish with the basics,” G said. “I still can’t believe they’re all a bunch of fuckin’ teachers.”
“What’s wrong with teachers?” Laura asked. “I used to be one myself.”
“Yeah,” G said. “I know that. And my understanding is you were kind of a tighty-whitey square back in them days, right?”
“Well ... maybe a little,” she admitted.
“I can attest that she was pretty tight,” Jake put in, earning him a playful slap on the shoulder from his beloved.
“Was pretty tight?” Neesh asked.
“Was in the philosophical sense,” Jake qualified. “Is in the anatomical sense.”
“Could we maybe stop making allusions about the elastic qualities of my hoo-hoo?” Laura asked, feigning outrage.
“See!” G said, pointing his finger at her. “That’s what I’m talking about right there. You said ‘hoo-hoo’ instead of ‘pussy’ or ‘box’ or ‘cooter’. That’s tighty-whitey shit. Now don’t get me wrong, I love teachers, even banged a few here and there in my day, and I totally respect what teachers do, but there is a certain stereotype that goes along with the profession. Teachers tend to be square motherfuckers, wouldn’t you say? And when you have a group of square motherfuckers, it’s hard to believe they got the kind of soul that’s required to lay down music. That’s all I’m sayin’.”
“What teachers did you bang?” Neesh asked him, feigning a little outrage of her own.
“That was back in high school, baby,” G assured her.
“I think I need to hear that story,” Jake said.
“I have soul,” Laura protested. “You’ve heard me play the sax, haven’t you, G? Are you saying I don’t have soul?”
“I have heard you play,” G said, “And you got a whole lotta soul, baby. I wasn’t tryin’ to say you don’t. I’m saying you’re the exception to the teachers don’t have no soul rule. I’m saying it’s hard to believe you got five other exceptions to the rule all in one spot up there in Oregon. That was my point.”
“Brainwash has soul,” Jake said seriously. “They are five of the best musicians I’ve come across in my time. Wait ‘til you hear the album before judging, G. They got more soul than they can control.”
“Homey, that’s a bold statement right there,” G told him.
They talked a little more about soul, and about Brainwash, and about living in a house with a pack of children. They all drank a little more as well. And then suddenly G stood up.
“I almost forgot,” he declared. “I got something for you, homey.”
“Something for me?” Jake asked.
“Yeah,” G said. “I meant to give it to you the next time we got together. Hang tight for a minute.” He left the room, heading for the staircase.
“What’s he gonna bring me?” Jake asked Neesh.
“I don’t have the slightest idea,” she said.
“It’s such a nice night,” Laura said after draining the last of her latest glass of wine. “It’s much cooler here on the beach than at our place.”
“I do dig living right on the beach,” Neesh said. “You want another glass of wine, girlfriend?”
“I want to go walk on the beach,” Laura said. “Can I do that?”
“Of course you can,” Neesh said. “That’s our beach out there, at least to the high tide line.”
“Let’s do it!” Laura said, with all the zeal a drunken idea could cause. “Let’s go down to the water, Neesh!”
Her enthusiasm was definitely infectious. “All right,” Neesh said, standing up. “Let’s do it!”
Laura gave Jake a quick hug and quick kiss on the mouth, and a moment later, the two women grabbed a fresh bottle of white wine and disappeared out the sliding glass door. Jake heard their giggles fading away for a few moments and then the night swallowed them up.
G came back downstairs a few minutes later, carrying an odd-looking contraption in his hands. It was a rectangular box, about nine inches wide by six inches deep and perhaps three inches high. Wires protruded from it in several places—Jake could see they were power cords and amplifier cords—and a plastic tube was wrapped around on the top. It looked like an effects pedal except for the tubing.
“Where’d the ladies go?” G asked, carrying the device over and setting it down on the coffee table in front of Jake.
“They decided to go down to the beach and play,” Jake said. “What’s this thing?”
“It’s a talk box, homey,” G told him.
“A talk box?” Jake asked. “You mean like Peter Frampton plays?”
“Fuckin’ A,” G said, sitting back down. “You ever fuck around with one of these?”
“No,” Jake said. “I’ve never even seen one before. Why do you have it?”
“It was a part of my experimentation that didn’t work out,” he said. “I thought that having Rickie run his turntables through this thing and then me having the tube in my mouth might be a new sound I could use on a few of the tracks for Bring It.” He shook his head sadly. “It was a new sound all right, just not a good one. Not only that, but it’s hard to make this thing sound the way you want, twice as hard as just putting out notes with a normal instrument. Anyway, it’s just been sitting up in my composing room ever since. It really is best to use a guitar with the thing and I started thinking about who I knew that played a badass guitar and your name came to mind. It’s top shelf audio tech, homey, and it’s yours if you want it.”