“Hmmm,” Jake said, starting to get intrigued now. “How does it work?”
“It’s simple really,” G told him. “You put it on the floor and plug your output cord into it like any other effects pedal. When the switch is off, the music just passes through it without alteration to your amp or to the next pedal in your string. When it’s on, however, the output goes into the box where there’s an isolated speaker installed in the middle of a bunch of foam sound insulation. The only way for the sound of your output to get out is through that plastic tube. You take that tube and tape it to your microphone stand with about eight or nine inches of slack up by the mic itself. When you’re playing it, you suck that fuckin’ tube into your mouth like it’s a cock. The sound of your instrument comes out of the tube, into your mouth, and you use your lips and tongue to shape the sound from there.”
“Interesting,” Jake said.
“Frampton’s a fuckin’ magician with one of these,” G said. “Joe Walsh is pretty good too. After playing around with it I got some new respect for those motherfuckers.”
Jake picked up the end of the tubing and examined it. It was about half an inch in diameter, soft, and very pliable. “I’ll see what I can do with it,” said. “Thanks, G.”
“I’m the one who should be thanking you, homey,” G told him. “Bring It is my fastest selling album of all time. A big part of the reason for that is because you laid down those acoustic tracks for me on Step Inside. I feel guilty as hell that you ain’t pulling in no coin from the album’s success.”
“Don’t feel guilty about that,” Jake said dismissively. “It was fun putting that tune together with you. In fact, I was hoping maybe we could do another one.”
“Yeah?” G said, immediately interested. “Like what?”
“We should expand upon this collaboration,” Jake said. “Go to the next level with it.”
“What’s the next level?”
“I’ve been kind of thinking about this a little,” Jake said. “Maybe we write a tune together, both contribute the lyrics, and then sing it as a duet. We can have your boys doing the backbeat with the bass and the turntables but throw in some grinding electric guitar in parts too.”
“Switch back and forth between hip hop and rock?” G asked, pondering that.
“Maybe,” Jake said. “Or maybe we try a fusion of the two sounds.”
“That would be hard to pull off.”
“Hard, but not impossible,” Jake said.
“Maybe,” G said, obviously warming to the idea by the second. “What would we write about though? You a white suburbanite who grew up in a tract house on the right side of the tracks and I’m a nigger from East Palo Alto who grew up getting my head busted by the po-lice.”
“My head’s been busted by the po-lice a time or two as well,” Jake pointed out.
“Not while you was in your formative years though,” G said. “We would need to come up with a hard-hitting song with lyrics that reflect our mutual experiences in life. What kind of experiences in our formative years do you and I have in common?”
Jake thought about that for a moment and then said, “Well, we both got fucked up the ass by the record company suits with our first contracts. There’s that.”
Gordon nodded thoughtfully. “There is that,” he said.
“I bet, between the two of us, we can come up with a decent melody and some hard-hitting lyrics to that theme.”
“Yeah,” G said, smiling. “I bet we could. Let’s start it right now.”
“Right now?” Jake asked.
“Right here and right fuckin’ now,” G said. “Let’s see what we can come up with.”
“I’m pretty fuckin’ drunk right now, G,” Jake pointed out.
“So am I,” G said. “That’s why this is such a good idea. Come on, homey. Let’s play.”
“Well ... do you have a guitar for me?”
“Goddamn right I do,” G said. “I have an old Yamaha hanging on the wall in the composition room right over my piano. It might need to be tuned a bit, but it don’t have much mileage on it.”
“All right then,” Jake said. “Let’s see what we can come up with.”
“Fuckin’ A,” G said. “But first, we better roll another joint. If we’re gonna be composing, I need to be baked.”
Jake nodded. “A good plan,” he said.
Sixty yards away, Neesh and Laura were sitting on a large piece of driftwood just above the high tide mark. The night was clear and pleasant, with a nearly full moon hanging high in the sky to the south. The waves were crashing ashore about fifty feet below the high tide mark currently. Neither had the slightest idea whether it was an incoming or an outgoing tide as neither had bothered to check the tide table for the day. The bottle of Napa Valley chardonnay they had brought out with them was now about three quarters empty. Since they had neglected to bring glasses or cups out with them, the two ladies were passing the seventy-eight-dollar bottle of smashed and fermented grapes back and forth and swigging directly out of the neck.
“I am really fucking drunk right now, Neesh,” Laura said, her words slurred, her teeth numb.
Neesh found this hilarious for some reason and broke into laughter.
“What?” Laura asked, laughing as well.
“You said ‘fucking’,” Neesh said. “You never say that word!”
“I say it all the time,” Laura protested. “But usually when I say it, I’m talking about ... you know... fucking, so it doesn’t come up in conversation much.”
“Yeah, you don’t really talk about sex very much, do you?”
“Not as a casual conversation topic,” she allowed.
“You know, when I first met you, I thought you were such a prude,” Neesh told her.
“I can see how I could give that impression,” Laura said. “What do you think about me now?”
“You’re a lot looser when you’re drunk, that’s for sure, but ... well, you do still come across a little prudish at times.”
“I can assure you, I’m not a prude,” Laura told her. “Maybe I was before Jake and I started ... you know ... fucking, but not these days.”
“No?”
“No,” she said. “It would be almost impossible to be in a sexual relationship with Jake Kingsley and remain a prude. I’ve done it on the wing of his airplane, in various hot tubs, in the back of limos, and I’ve sucked his dick in some very unconventional places.”
“On the wing of his airplane?” Neesh asked, visibly impressed. “How’d you pull that off?”
“Uh ... the plane was on the ground at the time,” she said, wondering if Neesh really thought they had done that in flight.
This caused another peal of laughter to erupt. “I would certainly hope the plane was on the ground,” she said between giggles. “I mean where was it? Were you just parked out on the tarmac when you did it? If so, that’s pretty goddamn wild.”
“It was in the hangar at the time,” she said. “But the door was partly open.”
“Oh yeah? Do tell the story.”
The alcohol had destroyed her inhibitions enough to do just that. “It was after he flew back to Santa Monica after he finished up the mixing and mastering of the first solo albums he and Celia did. We hadn’t seen each other in more than two months. I went to pick him up at the airport and ... well ... after he put his plane away in the hangar, we just couldn’t keep our hands off of each other. I was wearing this summer dress and he brought me inside the hangar, closed the door most of the way, and then he lifted me up and set me on the wing of the plane. He pulled my panties to the side and fucked me right there—hard and fast.”
“Wow,” Neesh said, taking another swig from the bottle. “That’s fucking hot.”
“It was pretty fucking hot,” she admitted.
“Jake’s good at fucking?” she asked, handing over the bottle.