Dad makes music for commercials and TV shows and movies, which is probably one of the best jobs anyone could ever have, especially because he gets to do it at home. We live in a building made for two families but instead of having two families, we have our family on the top half and Dad has his recording studio on the bottom half.
Dad’s studio is crowded with stuff, but not in a way that makes you crazy; in a way that makes you excited. Everywhere you turn there’s something to look at (posters, books, souvenirs) and ask about (“What does CBGB OMFUG mean?”). It’s packed with odd-looking instruments, like a Stylophone, which is a tiny synthesizer that you play with a pen, and a theremin, which makes a spooky ghost sound when you wave your hands over the top of it. Dad’s studio is a factory where songs get made and also a museum full of strange objects and also a secret hideout where no one bothers you and also a place where you can dream about what might happen with your life when you grow up.
I’d much rather be down here than upstairs in our own house, not just because the furniture is newer and the couch is more comfortable, but because I get to be with Dad. He teaches me about old music and lets me bang on the drums and trusts me to refill his coffee mug.
Also, he lets me play his guitars. Dad has a dozen guitars down here, but the one I’m playing right now is my favorite. It’s the Gibson J-160E, the same one John Lennon liked to use.
Everyone remembers John Lennon because his songs play in supermarkets and elevators and arenas and also in commercials and movies and on the radio and across the Internet. He’s remembered in England and in both Americas, and Dad says he’s even huge in Japan. Dad has his music on MP3 and CD and vinyl and cassette. All I have to do is write just one song as good as John Lennon did, a song that can keep playing forever and ever, always reminding people.
But I can’t do it alone. “Are you going to help me, Dad?”
“I can’t right now.”
He’s already got his headphones back on and his eyes are pointed at the computer. It looks like he’s mixing a song, which means he’s setting each instrument to the perfect level.
I’m flipping through my journal, looking at all the songs I’ve written over the past few months, and I’m wondering if there’s something in here I can use. My journal is like having a second copy of all my memories, just like Dad makes a backup of all the music he records. We do this so that if something bad happens we won’t lose our important stuff, which is what happened to Grandma Joan when she got sick.
She was a musician too. One of the last songs I ever heard her sing was an Elvis song (Don’t be cruel to a heart that’s true) and I was really wishing she’d do a better job of paying attention to the lyrics. When she forgot me, it felt like she was taking the end of a giant pencil and erasing me right as I stood there. It must be the best feeling in the world to be able to stop worrying about how much you mean to people. Once I win the Next Great Songwriter Contest, I’ll finally know how that feels.
I tap Dad again. “What if we record ten songs and we choose whichever one comes out the best? Because sometimes a song will sound good when you write it, but then it sounds totally different after you record it. What do you think? Maybe we can record one song every day and then after ten days we’ll still have extra time at the end to make one song absolutely perfect. Also, we need to find a great singer, like maybe Christina. Do you think she’d do it?”
I’m done speaking but maybe Dad doesn’t know it because he’s not looking at my mouth, he’s looking down at his lap and taking a long time to answer. “I’m not going to be here tomorrow.”
“That’s okay. We can start the next day.”
“Joan.”
I love hearing my name but sometimes it means trouble. “Yes?”
“Put down the guitar, please.”
Now I’m really nervous. Dad and me always like to play our instruments while we talk to each other, even though it annoys other people when we do it.
He leans over with his elbows on his knees and he faces the carpet and pulls at his hair. “I’ve been meaning to tell you.” He looks up and his eyes are soupy and his hair shoots into the air like a porcupine that’s lost his points on all sides but one. “I told you I was helping out Grandpa today. Well, I’m going to be helping him out every day from now on. I’ll be working with him full-time.”
“What about working here in your studio?”
He takes a deep breath, which is always bad news, and he says, “We’re closing the studio.”
Friday, April 1, 2011: Dad drops me at school and he hands me my lunch and he says, “We ran out of hummus, so I made you a mustard sandwich instead,” and my face gets hot, but then Dad smiles and says, “April Fool’s.”
But it’s not April. It’s July.
“I don’t understand.”
“I love being a musician,” Dad says. “You know that. Ever since I was your age, it’s all I’ve ever wanted to be. But making a business work is another thing. This new job will allow us to do a lot more. We can fix up the house upstairs and we can sign you up for more classes and before you know it, it’ll be time to send you off to college. Your mother won’t have to work so hard over the summers; she can relax. And guess what—she’s already planning a family vacation. When’s the last time we all got on a plane together?”
Dad gets on a plane every year when he goes to the South by Southwest festival in Texas, and last summer Mom took me to see a doctor in Arizona, but Dad couldn’t come because he was finishing up an important project, and just last month Mom and Dad flew alone to Los Angeles for Sydney’s funeral. But all three of us have never been on a plane together, not even once.
We were supposed to take a vacation last year, but that didn’t happen for some reason. I wasn’t upset about it like Mom was. Planes sound cool but they’re actually pretty boring once you’re in them. Not like a recording studio.
“What about my song?” I say. “You said you’d record it for me.”
“Of course. The plan is to rent out the space, but that’s not going to happen until September, earliest. I won’t start moving out until August. I’ve still got a few projects I’m working on. I’ll finish those up on nights and weekends. After that, I’m all yours.”
This studio used to be an empty apartment before Dad moved his equipment in and before he set up his red phone, the one he answers by saying, “You’ve reached Monkey Finger Productions. This is Ollie.” I look around at Dad’s amazing stuff and I wonder where it’s all going to go and I also wonder where I’m going to go when I want to write my songs or just hang out with Dad while he’s working.
“Hey,” he says, trying to stop my tears before they start. “Remember how you felt when you left Concordia and started at PS Eight? You thought you were going to hate it, but now you love it? It’ll be hard at first, but it’s for the best. I really think so. I really do.”
He pulls me in. I always like to hug Dad but tonight he’s crunching my bones and it’s giving me a scary feeling in my chest.
“Ollie!”
It’s Mom shouting through the speaker on the wall. Dad lets go of me and shows a smile, but it’s not a true one, I can tell.