Lawyers, Gigs, and Money
by Dennis
Jane Lane stood behind the bar watching the dregs of the evening crowd complete their various journeys toward alcohol-induced unconsciousness. The Combat Zone, she'd been told, wasn't what it used to be, but Beret at least lived down to the area's old reputation.
I could've gotten a job at the brewpub around the corner, but it was too bougie for an artist. One of the regulars at the end of the bar tried to wave her over—which might have worked better if he'd actually been able to hold a hand up, instead of having it keep going and land in a puddle of spilled beer.
She sidled over. "You know I can't serve you anymore, Sully. You've spilled the last three."
"Ah, camaaaahn," the old man slurred. "One mahfathe road," he added, and then laid his head on the bar.
A marginally more conscious patron three stools down demanded her attention, allowing her to escape. She quickly pulled the Bud he asked for, grabbed the money, and went back to contemplating the hour ahead of her before last call.
One of the less bombed barflies stood up, gave her an aimless wave and staggered out into the warm muggy night. Jane swept up the money he left behind. Twenty bucks, she thought. Not bad for someone who was only here for two hours. She hated this place, but the upside was that habitual drunks tended to be good tippers.
The clock crept along as she slung more drinks, while Sully and a couple of other regulars snoozed away at the end of the bar farthest from the door. She would wake them up at last call. Like I always do.
A twenty-something preppy—probably got kicked out of one of the strip clubs—started to make a scene, so Jane didn't notice the door swinging open again. She'd just got him settled with a well-watered vodka and tonic when a sharp voice sounded from her right. "Wow, this place looks like shit tonight."
Jane turned to speaker, an older man, but fit and not balding, dressed in cargo shorts and a polo shirt. "You're the one who won't sink any money into the place," she said sourly. The Beret's owner, John Daniels, was not high on her list of favorite people at the best of times, and half-past midnight on a Wednesday wasn't even close.
"Seriously, Lane?" The corner of his mouth turned down as he walked along the bar. "I know we're not Scollay Square, but do you think you could maybe clean up the spilled beer?"
"And chase away all our regulars? They like the shithole atmosphere." She grimaced and half-heartedly wiped a spot in front of her. "It's only me that hates it."
"I can change that, you know," he said, sneering.
Before she could respond, the preppy demanded another drink. "Not happening," she said, flatly. "How about a cab, instead?" A torrent of incomprehensible abuse followed. "You're just proving my point," she said and sighed.
Then Daniels cut in. "Give the man a drink, Lane. You're here to serve people, aren't you?"
Her eyes narrowed in rage. She thought about all the leers she'd had to put up with over the years, and all the abuse she'd taken from drunks like the asshole in front of her who were "pufficly fiiine," and all the puke she'd cleaned up when they'd proved beyond the shadow of the doubt that they weren't. She began meticulously gathering up all the money on the bar, stopping to look at her boss only when she'd finished.
"Aren't you going to get the man a drink?" he asked, still sneering.
"Get it yourself," she snapped. "I'm done." Before he could say a word, she was out the door with her arm up to hail a cab. It wasn't until she was almost halfway home before she wondered what the hell she was going to tell Quinn.
Sandi Griffin looked down at the table in front of her and sighed. Only an hour to go today. But then I have to be back here tomorrow. It was Thursday, so normally the band would be playing at LL Wolf's tonight, but they had the week off. So I can go home and be bored.
With a practiced motion, she grabbed a shirt from the tray next to her, folded it neatly, and placed it atop the pile of blouses. Working at Cashman's had never been something she derived much joy from, but she knew she was good at it, which had made it bearable.
Over the last few weeks, since the first gig in Providence, that had started to change. Okay, I started to admit it to myself. Her well of patience with demanding customers, never deep to begin with, had run almost completely dry. She was only folding shirts now because Sarah, the manager, had pulled her out of a confrontation with a snotty teenager who was convinced she was hiding the "real designer stuff" for reasons entirely unclear.
Lina, her closest friend at the store, slid up to her. "That was some blow-up," she said, as Sandi mechanically folded another blouse. "I don't think some of the things you suggested were anatomically possible."
Sandi sighed again. "I shouldn't have lost it. But it's like getting harder every day to put up with the stupid shit." Another folded blouse landed on the pile. "And now Sarah's gonna rip me a new one."
"Speak of the Devil," Lina gestured with a shrug as disappeared. Sarah, a skinny brunette in her mid-thirties, replaced her. "Come talk to me when you're done," she said, a cold frown on her face.
That can't be good. Sandi finished folding the blouses and organized them neatly on the display, and then with a resigned shake of her head made her way to the office, where she knew Sarah would be waiting.
The office door was open a crack, so she poked her head around. Rather than sitting at the room's sole desk—a cheap, plastic thing that looked like an IKEA knockoff—Sarah was leaning on the edge closer to the door. "Come in," she said when she saw Sandi's face, "and close the door."
"Look, Sarah," she said, but before she could get any further into her explanation, the other woman waved her to silence.
"I'm not going to yell at you, Sandi," Sarah said. "It's a waste of breath for both of us. It's obvious that you don't like working here." She raised a hand again when Sandi opened her mouth to defend herself. "It's retail. No one really likes it, and that's okay. But you have to be able to fake it, or at least not make it obvious you hate it. When you got here, you were reasonably good at it. It took a lot to make you lose your temper. That's not true any more. It's almost a daily occurrence now." She paused, seemingly now wanting Sandi's explanation.
Sandi fell back on the tried and true. "I'm sorry, Sarah. It won't happen again."
"That's right. It won't." Sarah's voice was flat. "It's a shame, because you're a reasonably hard worker, and you do actually know your stuff. But fights with salespeople is not what the Cashman's shopper comes here to experience. We can't have it." Her eyes seemed to bore into Sandi.
"Are you, like, firing me?" Sandi had expected a chewing out. But not this.
"You can get your stuff now, and I'll punch you out at the end of your shift," Sarah said, matter-of-factly. "If you don't get your last check in the next two weeks, call me and I'll make sure it's taken care of." Then she walked out of the office, leaving Sandi to contemplate her new status as one of the unemployed.
After a long moment, Sandi gathered up her stuff and headed out. It wasn't until she was on the bus and halfway back to her apartment in Medford, that she thought to wonder why it hadn't bothered her that she wasn't allowed to say goodbye to anyone.
Quinn, when she got back from Lawndale, where she'd been informing the 'rents that she wasn't going back to school, took the news in stride, for which Jane was grateful. The redhead had just tossed her hair and shrugged. "We're getting this place cheap because the landlady knows your mom. The least I can do is tide you over for a couple of months if you need me to. Besides," she added, "we're actually starting to make decent money with the band."
Playing steadily over the summer had definitely pushed GTS out of the "playing for gas money" bracket, which was good. Saturday nights at LL Wolf's promised to give them another bump, since the cover charges were higher on the weekends and so was the band's share of the gate.
Leading up to that first Saturday gig, Jane spent most of her time painting and running when she wasn't playing. They played a decent-sized place in Crestmore Square on Tuesday—bigger than October's, at least—and a new place about a mile north of Daria's apartment on Thursday. Friday, she decided to meet her primera amiga for a late lunch.
"Glad you could make it," she said to the other woman, as she slid into a booth at their favorite bar and grill in Jefferson Square. "I know your schedule's not as empty as mine these days."
Daria, a beer already in front of her, gave the artist a sour look. "Yet you still managed to be late, even though you're now unemployed."
"I'm not any more of a morning person than I was in high school," she retorted with a frown. "Even if I don't have to stay up until three a couple of nights a week anymore."
"Sorry, Jane," Daria said. "It's not your fault that the bookstore fucked up my schedule again. I have to work tomorrow until 6."
"Well, it'll keep you off the streets until it's time to play." Jane quirked a half-smile as a waitress in black dropped two menus in front of them.
"And from practicing, working on new music, talking Quinn off a ledge..." Daria trailed off as she took a pull from her pint glass, and grabbed the menu.
"Yeah," Jane said, not bothering to reach for hers. "This is a big gig for us, and I don't mind confessing that I'm a little more nervous than usual. A burger medium-well and a pint of Harpoon," she said to the waitress, who had quickly reappeared.
"Steak tip sandwich, rare, and another Guinness," Daria added. The waitress nodded and disappeared. "I don't know if it even makes sense to practice tomorrow, but I'd rather I was the one..." Jane could feel the corners of her mouth turning down. Daria must have noticed too, because she quickly corrected herself, "we were the ones making the choice and not my idiot job."
"I'm surprised you never ended up a manager yourself." Jane said.
"With what time?" Daria asked as she finished her pint. "You have to do at least 40 hours a week as a manager, and between school and the band, the best I could ever do was 30. Besides, the more responsibility you have, the more you have to work with the public." She quirked a half-smile. "I get too much of that with GTS as it is."
"Too true. I'm surprised you haven't taken some horrible revenge on me for pushing you out front and harassing you about what you do there."
Their beers appeared and Jane took a healthy slug, just in time for Daria to say, "I made you live with Quinn, didn't I?" and cause Jane to choke on her drink.
When the coughing fit subsided, she shook her finger at the auburn-haired woman's smug expression. "I'll get you yet, Morgendorffer."
"It's been six years. I'm pretty sure the statute of limitations has expired." Jane laughed, and the two chatted companionably about anything and everything but tomorrow's gig while they ate. On the T home, Jane reflected that she hadn't really gotten to express any concerns, but she felt a lot less nervous anyway.
In the nine days since she'd been let go, Sandi hadn't done much but play and write. She hadn't thought a pounding hangover was the best creative state, but after going out with Lina and her other old co-workers the previous Friday, she'd alternated bouts of nausea with playing around with chords and found a sequence she liked. She spent the week putting the chords in the context of a new song and gotten most of the way there.
Aside from the song and the gigs on Tuesday and Thursday, the other thing she did was tell her aunt about getting let go. Her aunt reassured her that she was in no danger of getting evicted, although she would have to pay back whatever rent she missed over the next few months.
Better hope the band takes off soon, she thought to herself en route to Daria's for the gig that night. The gigs had been fine, but they were starting to lose their wonder. They were still doing some covers, along with the originals, and Sandi found the covers mostly boring. Tonight would be more of the same, but the crowd would be bigger, and so would the stakes.
The expression on Daria's usually impassive face when she opened the door told Sandi that Daria was well aware of how important tonight was. "Hope I'm not, like, late or anything." It was almost eight, but Daria'd told everyone she had to work until six, which was annoying. Sandi would've liked to play what she had for Daria and see if they could get it across the finish line.
"No worries," Daria said. "Quinn's here, but Jane's not. I think she's running off her nerves."
"Lucky her. My only outlet is frowning and looking dissatisfied."
"But you were so good at it, especially in high school," Quinn said from the couch.
Sandi wasn't sure if that was friendly banter or a cheap shot. Not for the first time, she wished she'd learned more about friendship when she was younger, and less about control. Regardless, she wasn't going to pick a fight tonight, even though her mind supplied her with a hundred possible comebacks from high school, all beginning with the words, "Gee Quinn..."
She grabbed a diet Coke from Daria's fridge and took a seat on the couch next to Quinn, who started to natter about nothing in particular. Sandi could tell Quinn was as nervous as the rest of them.
A few minutes later, Jane's boots sounded on the stairs. The drummer appeared in the doorway, and Daria wordlessly gestured to the coffee machine. Jane gave everyone a wave, fixed herself a cup, and took a long drink. "So, is anyone else as nervous as I am?"
"I'm gonna go with, like, all of us," Sandi replied before either Morgendorffer sister could. "But we'll manage," she added, with a sudden, uncharacteristic optimism, as they headed toward the stairs to load up. "We always do."
"That's the spirit," Jane said with a laugh, while Daria quirked a half-smile.
After all the nerves and buildup, Sandi had been right. The gig had come off without a hitch, and the crowd was bigger than the ones they usually had on Thursday. Leslie Benz, the owner of the club, had made a point of telling all four of them that Saturdays were theirs "as long as they wanted them." He gave then all a free drink, and they headed out, Jane, at least, feeling pleased.
The pleasure faded to concern over the next couple of days. She'd gotten used to playing three and sometimes four gigs a week, but as far as she knew they had nothing lined up until next Saturday at Wolf's. Quinn, when she was around, had no further information.
So Jane stewed and tried to distract herself with painting, which didn't work as well as usual. Now that she was out of work, the days were harder to fill, and it occurred to her that the band was leaving money on the table, especially by not playing Fridays. She knew the others still worked, but there was an opportunity there, and she for one would have liked to take it.
When the phone Monday night. Daria's number came up on the caller ID. Answering, she tried to hide her nervous excitement with a deadpan, "Yo."
"We've got a gig tomorrow night," Daria said. Jane couldn't tell if she was pleased, annoyed, or both. "Lambert let me know a little while ago."
"Well, that's good news! I was wondering what the hell I was going to do with myself all week."
"Learn to juggle flaming paintbrushes?" Daria deadpanned.
"You mean practice," Jane could feel a smile coming on. "I learned in middle school."
"That explains so much. Come by around 4. I'm gonna try Quinn next, but if I don't get her, can you let her know?"
"Sure, I'll let Quinn know," Jane said. "See you tomorrow."
"Let me know what?" Quinn asked, as Jane hung up the phone and turned toward her roommate, who framed in the doorway with a grocery bag cradled in her left arm and her right hand around the handle of a department store shopping bag.
"Daria wants us at her place by 4 tomorrow. We've got a gig tomorrow." She got a thoughtful look. "Wonder why she wants us so early." If Quinn had any answers, she didn't share them. She did, however, share the fresh vegetables she brought home, so the roommates were each able to prepare a reasonably healthy dinner. Even Jane got tired of pizza sometimes.
After cleaning, the two chatted for awhile before going to bed at a reasonable hour. After all, they had a big day tomorrow.
Daria's call had found Sandi at home, where she usually was on a Monday night. They chatted a little and she mentioned the song she had been working on, so Daria had asked if she wanted to come by early and discuss it. Just around three in the afternoon on Tuesday, she rang Daria's bell. As she followed Daria into the other woman's apartment, Sandi reflected on her growth as a songwriter and the irony of her current preferred audience.
They passed through the apartment and down the back stairs to their rehearsal space in the basement of the house. At Daria's request, and with some of her funds, a layer of cork had been added to the drywall that set their practice space apart from the rest of the basement. Sandi wondered whether the building's other tenants were grateful for the relative peace while doing their laundry.
Grabbing the drum stool, Daria dragged it out from behind Jane's kit and took a seat. She gestured toward the older of a pair of mint green Fenders and watched wordlessly as Sandi set up. Once ready, Sandi played a couple of quick scales before segueing into the song. Called "Can I Be Free," it was built around an insistent, repetitive chord sequence. Verses followed one another, five in all, without a bridge or chorus to break them up.
Daria's expression barely changed, but after playing in the band with her for a year-and-a-half, and working together more closely for the last few months, Sandi could tell she'd piqued the other woman's interest. As the last chord faded she spoke. "I don't think there's room for a chorus, but I'm not sure it its, like, finished. I've tried some variations but nothing I've come up with seem to fit. What do you think?"
Daria nodded. "It's hard to tell. If you don't think a chorus fits, I see no reason to disagree. You can always add another verse, or vary the chords and try to make a bridge." She gave her usual half-smile. "Actually, I think my parents would like this one. It sounds a little like Bob Dylan."
"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"
"It's a good song," The half-smile changed to a thoughtful frown. "You have a gift for unusual chord structures that still sound pleasant. Why don't you play it again? Maybe it just needs a fuller arrangement."
They went through the song several more times, but hadn't come to a consensus on what, if anything, needed to be changed when four rolled around. Sandi stayed downstairs while Daria went upstairs to wait for Jane and Quinn. Logically, she knew that they weren't likely to lock in the song in a single hour, but she couldn't help being a little disappointed.
As she followed Daria down the back stairs to the rehearsal space, Jane's weird-senses were definitely tingling. Quinn had been unusually silent on the way over, and Daria had again told them at the door that Sandi was already there and in the basement. Jane tried to ignore the sudden isolation she felt, not entirely successfully.
Once there, she covered her discomfort by blurting, "So what's the big deal that we had to get here early?" before even sitting on her drum stool. Sandi, sitting on the floor, a green guitar—Daria's guitar—in hand, gave her an odd look. Quinn, meanwhile, followed her sister, standing behind Daria and facing the other two.
I knew something was going on, Jane thought, the isolation growing like a pit in her stomach. Lost in her internal turmoil, she missed what Daria said. It was only when Sandi said, "Like, is this gonna matter to us?" that she regained her focus.
"Is what going to matter to us?" she asked.
"Incorporating as a business," Daria said, sparing Jane any sarcasm about having to repeat herself. "Lambert suggested we might want to think about it. And since we were just in Lawndale anyway..."
She drifted into silence and Quinn cut in. "Yeah. Mom thought it was a good idea. I'm guessing Lambert's getting tired of getting paid in wadded up twenties, and if we need to start hiring people, we're going to have to pay them properly, and take out taxes and everything, or someday when we're rich, the IRS will come and take away our pools and private jets."
"Thank you, Quinn," Daria said, shutting down her sister. Jane couldn't help thinking her roommate was putting the cart way before the horse, talking about having—and losing—big money. Daria apparently agreed, as she continued with, "We can worry about our imaginary wealth later, but we do need to think about this now before we break out of the club scene and have to start hiring roadies, sound and lighting people, and whatnot."
"That doesn't answer Sandi's question, though," Jane said. Her isolation shrank a bit, but confusion rose in its place. "What does it mean for us? I really don't think GTS is in danger of needing an entourage anytime soon."
"Well, once we incorporate," Daria said, and Jane could hear the emphasis, "and I'm not saying we're going to do it today, we'll be employees of a GTS corporation and start getting weekly, biweekly, or monthly paychecks, instead of just divvying up the money at the end of the night. It'll also make it easier to pay Brian, and hire other people when we need them."
Jane flicked a glance over at Sandi, who seemed unmoved by the news. Jane herself didn't like it much. "I don't know about you guys," she said, "but I kinda like walking out the door with my day's pay in my pocket. If I'm getting a weekly paycheck, I may as well work a 9 to 5."
This time, Daria didn't spare the sarcasm. "Except for the part where you'd have to show up at nine, dress how they tell you, and do a mind-numbing job for eight hours without running out screaming," she said in a voice so edged it could cut glass.
"I held down a job for a couple of years, Daria," Jane retorted, though in her mind she knew she was going to lose this exchange. Quinn, behind Daria, was frowning lightly, hoping, no doubt, that the conversation wouldn't explode into a confrontation.
"Not one where you had to be at work in proper business attire before 9 AM." Daria's tone shifted, becoming more apologetic. "None of us have, and none of us want to, right?" Out of the corner of her eye, Jane saw Sandi frown, but if Daria noticed, she didn't acknowledge it. "It's just one of the next steps is all."
"Yeah," Quinn added. "I know it's not rock-and-roll enough or whatever, but doing this stuff now can save us from getting bitten in the ass later."
"If there is a later," Jane muttered to herself. More loudly, she added, "Fine. Let's just play."
The gig had gone well enough, Sandi thought, laying in her bed that night. Even thought she'd never felt locked in at any point, and she could tell, with the sense that bassists and drummers get for each other, that neither had Jane, the crowd had seemed happy and so had the owner. Quinn had even made a point of complimenting Sandi's playing, which was odd, but welcome.
That didn't slow her whirling thoughts, though. She'd finally committed herself to the band as more than a means to selfish ends—annoying Quinn, getting revenge on her mother—but tying herself legally to the Morgendorffers and Jane was another big step, one she wasn't sure she was ready for.
Also, Daria's remark about work still rankled. No, she wasn't working in an office, but she'd had a dress code and a schedule and had worked her ass off until burnout and petty management had finally gotten her fired. It wasn't a shot, she thought, or at least she hoped it wasn't a shot, but still it bothered her, even if she wasn't entirely sure why.
The next few days provided no answers. Daria had given her and Jane copies of the draft incorporation Helen Morgendorffer had provided her with, but only one word in three made sense to Sandi. Before a Thursday gig, she cornered Quinn while Daria was talking to Lambert and the club owner. "So what does this," she waved the pages they'd given her, "actually mean?"
"How should I know?" Quinn did one of her uneasy fake laughs. "I'm not a lawyer either." Sandi didn't even bother saying anything. She just glared, until Quinn gave in. "From what Mom said, it sets up a legal corporation that the four of us each own 25% of, and includes the contract we already did with Brian, so his percentages don't change. If one of us wants to leave, the contract tells us what they need to do and how much they get." The redhead must have seen Sandi's frown at the mention of leaving, as she added, "Not that anyone expects to leave of course. It's just good to have that in there."
"Of course," Sandi said, still frowning. "So I can just, like, happily sign this, not knowing what's in it, and trust that everything will be fine."
She was surprised, both at the long pause and the thoughtful look Quinn gave her. "I hope you don't think Daria and I are trying to cheat you, Sandi, but I totally get you wanting to have someone take a look at it and make sure it says what you want it to say."
Quinn sounded very reasonable, but much as she was trying to trust, Sandi had a long history of looking for the hidden knife. Time for a little test. "So could you have your mother call me and go over what's in it?"
"I think it makes more sense if you find someone who doesn't have any connection to us," Quinn said, surprising Sandi again. The bassist knew that calling Helen Morgendorffer wasn't a good idea, but hearing Quinn agree was a surprise. "I mean, talking to Mom would be just like talking to Daria or me. She could tell you exactly what's in it, but if your bandmates can't reassure you, I don't think our mother will either."
The conversation ended after that, when Daria reappeared and they started to play. Sandi was less than reassured—it seemed like Quinn was intent on doing the right thing, but she could've been being sneaky. After all, Sandi didn't know any other lawyers.
But she was able to push it to the back of her mind. The gigs kept coming, they were playing well, and Lambert, who was starting to come around more often, seemed pleased. The Girls even started to rough out an arrangement for "Can I Be Free." When Lambert told them after a Saturday gig at LL Wolf's that he'd gotten them into a room down in Quincy for Tuesday, Daria at least thought of it as another opportunity. Sandi wasn't so sure.
Jane wasn't sure either. From where she was standing, the place looked like it held about 200 people, which was a decent size, but nothing to get excited about. She turned to Daria, who was standing next to her. "Are you really sure this is worth it?"
"Sure," Daria said. "I know we've played bigger rooms, but they were all north of Boston, and this is the same size as the place in Providence. It's not like we're paying the Reptile Room or some other basement on Mass. Ave."
"I guess." Jane said. "We have been getting more gigs, and that's good, but Mystik Spiral used to have lots of gigs, too, and they were all in front of the same 50 people. You should remember, since two of them were us."
Jane felt a hand on her shoulder, as Daria said, "They did get off the treadmill, Jane." She suppressed the urge to shake it off.
"We're further ahead than they were at this age," Daria added. These places are all bigger than McGrundy's and the Zon. Plus, our first out of town gig was in a real club in a real city, not a shitty roadhouse in Carter County."
"That's true," Jane said, feeling better. Daria had a way of doing that for her. "And even if this is a wasted night, I still get the beat the shit out of the drums."
"Easy, killer," Daria said, and turned her toward the small back room this place had for bands. It wasn't much, just a table with five or six chairs, and nothing much on the walls, but sitting down beat standing out the back door, which they'd occasionally had to do. Quinn and Sandi were chatting quietly, about what, Jane couldn't tell. She wanted to talk to Sandi herself, but she would have to wait until after the show.
Within five minutes, a pouchy face, with deep-set, piggy eyes poked in and nodded toward the stage. "You're on."
Jane's first thought as the band took the stage, and Quinn said her usual, "Hi, we're GTS and we're gonna rock your socks off!" was that the lights were cheap. Even as she pounded away at the drums, she could see the floor filling. At the places that invested in stage equipment, the building could be on fire and she wouldn't see it. But as they played, the place continued to fill, which was a good sign. She and Sandi felt a little loose, so as the first set wound down, she made a mental note to stay in the pocket for the second set.
When they came back on, the place was jammed. Even better, she thought, as she counted off the time to "Wherever You Can Find It," and they were off again. Jane reined herself in a little, with the result that she and Sandi locked in tightly. This also helped benefit Daria, who could play a little more freely. By the time they hit "Roadrunner" Jane's endorphins were flowing.
When Quinn called out, "Jane Lane on drums," she broke into an impromptu fifteen-second solo, letting herself run wild for just that bit of time. She locked back into the beat to let Sandi have her moment, and then listened to Daria and Quinn's "Baby Sister/Big Sister" exchange with the usual bemusement at hearing them call themselves "Morgan" instead of Morgendorffer.
Almost as soon as the last "RADIO ON!" faded, she was off the stage and headed for the bar.
Alone in the back room, Sandi waited for the other Girls to return. Daria had undoubtedly been dragged off by Lambert to deal with the club owner, while Quinn was either with Daria or soaking up attention from her adoring public. High school Sandi might have joined her—if only to compete—but adult Sandi was comfortable enough to know she could draw any eye, but disinterested enough to know she didn't want to.
Within a few minutes, Jane had returned, drink glass in hand. Jack and coke, probably, Sandi thought. If it were Quinn, she would've guessed rum and coke, but from she could tell, Jane didn't like sweet liquors. "Aren't you usually more of a beer girl?" she asked as Jane sat down.
"I like to change it up sometimes," the drummer said. "Jack and coke goes down easy after a gig." She took a long sip.
Sandi quirked a half-smile, pleased at being proved right, before moving on to more serious things. "So how do you feel about, like, incorporating? You know, signing a contract and all that."
"Well, you heard what I said before, but I guess I get it," Jane took another sip before continuing. "God knows, Trent and the guys never thought of shit like that. I think it took Max's brother to get them to pull their heads out of their asses."
An idea popped into Sandi's mind. She was ambivalent about Jane as a counterbalance to Daria and Quinn, but she decided to go with it. "So then they didn't do all this stuff before their album came out?"
"I honestly don't know," Jane said. "They left Lawndale around the same time I did, and finally started getting decent gigs around the time we put our band together. That's when Max's brother took over as full-time manager. They've been on the road behind the album for most of the last eighteen months, so they must be doing something right."
"So they probably have a lawyer and accountants and all that stuff."
"I guess," Jane said. "If not, they're probably getting robbed blind. Of course, knowing the four of them, even if they do, they're getting robbed blind." Jane's eyes narrowed, "And why are you so curious all of a sudden?"
"Money. There's an upside to knowing we're gonna like get a steady paycheck." Sandi said. "Quinn told me you blew off your bartending job. Well, I got let go from Cashman's, so you're like not the only one out of work."
Before Jane could answer, Quinn reappeared from around the corner and dropped herself into a seat with a huff. "Why are club owners always so creepy?" She shuddered, a little theatrically, Sandi thought. "Even when they're not undressing me with their eyes, just talking to them makes me want to take a shower."
"Why'd you bother going over there, then?" Jane asked, with a raised eyebrow.
"Daria looked like she could use some backup, and Brian wasn't getting it done." Quinn said. "Besides, I wanted to know what's going on. Someone in this band besides Daria should have a clue, at least some of the time."
"So why'd you leave, then?" The drummer's voice took on a definite edge.
"They're done talking. Lambert left and Daria went to the bar to get a drink. She said it was the closest she could get to washing. Maybe I should've gotten a drink too. Anyway," she added, whether to forestall Jane or because she just didn't notice, Sandi couldn't tell, "Daria'll be back in a minute, and we'll let you guys know what's going on."
As if summoned, Daria walked in, beer bottle to her lips. Finishing her sip, she regarded the other three. "The guy who owns this place owns a couple of other places. Apparently, he called Lambert, because he heard good things about us and wanted to see if we lived up to his expectations. According to Brian, we did."
Sandi wondered at the sour expression on Daria's face. "That's good, right?"
"Maybe," Quinn burst in. "This guy gives off major sleaze vibes."
"Quinn's right," Daria said. "There's oily, there's sneaky, and there's this guy. I don't think I trust him as far as I can throw him. Lambert doesn't either, but the guy wants us to play at one of his bigger places, which could be really good." She shuddered. "Of course, then I might have to talk to him again."
Sandi felt grateful that it was Daria and not she, the President of the Fashion Club, who was stuck being in charge.
The conversation with Sandi stuck with Jane over the next couple of days. She trusted Daria, and to a lesser extent Quinn, as much as she trusted anyone, but signing something that no one but their mother had looked over seemed to Jane like a recipe for disaster. Which was probably what Sandi was building up to.
They hadn't continued their conversation at Thursday night's gig, which bothered Jane, but with Quinn off at work, she had a chance now. Before she could decide whether to take it, the phone rang. "Yo," she answered it, not even bothering to check the caller ID. A familiar voice, this time not monotone, greeted her.
"They fucked up my schedule again," Daria growled into the phone. "This is getting ridiculous."
"What did they do this time?" Jane said. "And was it at least creative?"
"I've got one shift in the next four days, and it's tomorrow from 12 to 8. Theoretically, I could find someone to switch with, but I'm tired of cleaning up after management."
"What are you gonna do? We're on at 9 at Wolf's."
"Thanks for the helpful reminder." Jane could hear the sourness in the other woman's voice. Without a pause, Daria added, "Get in at 12 and tell them I've gotta leave early. And if they don't like it, well, they can fuck themselves."
A sudden thought struck Jane. This could be really, really good. "And if they do let you go?"
"What do you mean?" Daria still sounded irritated, but also a little confused.
"They're not gonna stop fucking up your schedule, Daria. At this point, it's probably even a game to them. Don't you think it's time to leave the bookstore behind and commit to the band? Especially, since you want to turn us into a corporation?"
"I thought you were over that."
"Over, under. It doesn't matter," Jane snapped. "If you think we need to do it, maybe we need to do it. We also need to play on Friday nights, which we're not doing right now."
"Because Quinn needs to work," Daria said, defensive.
"Because you and Quinn need to work," Jane corrected. "You still do three or four days a week at the bookstore, and one of them is always Friday evening. Unless," she added before Daria could say anything, "they fuck up your schedule again."
"Now you sound like Brian." Daria sounded sulky, which usually meant she was either about to give in or totally dig in her heels. Jane devoutly hoped for the former. "He's been at me about it for like a month."
"Good. It's about time he made himself useful." Jane wasn't sure how much of her antipathy toward Brian Lambert was general distrust of authority figures, the man's insistence on singling out Daria whenever possible, or the fact that he'd come recommended by Jodie. Whatever the reason, she didn't like him and made no pretense of hiding it.
"This is all going gonna sound great on Behind the Music someday," Daria said.
Worried that Daria was going to defend him, Jane was relieved enough at her friend's snark to bark a laugh. "Yeah, but not as good as Quinn's dating mishaps. Or the drunken fistfights."
"That reminds me, I need to go get a pair of brass knuckles."
"You do that. I'm gonna put some quarters in a sock and call it good." More seriously, Jane added, "I've gotta go. Think about what I said, though. No one's going to stay tuned for the fistfights if everything up to the first commercial is about how we couldn't play on Fridays." She took Daria's huff as a good-bye, hung up, and dialed again.
"Hey, Trent. I've got a question for you..." she said
The ringing phone surprised Sandi. She was considering going clubbing just for something to do, and even if she didn't, spending Friday night on the phone held no appeal. Still, she had no reason not to answer, so when she saw Jane's number come up on the Caller ID, she did.
"So, like, what's up that couldn't wait until tomorrow's gig?"
"I thought you'd like to continue our conversation from Tuesday. You know, the one about lawyers and accountants, and my brother's band."
"I remember them from Brittany's silly party all those years ago, where Quinn, like, broke the glass megaphone." Quinn wasn't strictly the enemy anymore, but the memory still made Sandi smile. "They were pretty bad, though."
"They've gotten better. Enough to record an album and play theaters and sheds, anyway." Jane sounded amused, with maybe a little bitterness. "Of course, Limp Bizkit's selling out arenas and they're still worse than Mystik Spiral ever was. But back to the actual topic."
Stuck for a moment, Sandi felt like she was being put on the spot, but Jane was a logical ally and she had been the one to start the conversation. "The incorporation contract?"
"The incorporation contract. I spoke to my brother just before I called you." This time Jane sounded exasperated. "It took me a while to get through to him that we weren't just going to sign something even if Daria's mom said it was okay, but he finally gave me the contact information for the lawyer they worked with."
"Gonna have him look it over for us?" Sandi said. It made sense, but she now had to confront exactly how much she trusted Jane, who was Daria's best friend and had been living with Quinn since before Sandi came to Boston. "With what money? We're both unemployed, remember?"
If Jane heard the cutting tone in Sandi's voice, she chose to ignore it. "We'll see. I've got a feeling that we can get one to look it over for free, on the chance he can work with us later too. After all, Helen's not an entertainment lawyer, and even if she wants to take us on, Daria and Quinn aren't going to want to be tied that closely to their mom for the rest of their lives."
At least they have the choice. Sandi pushed down her bitterness, as Jane clearly had a point. What the hell? It's not like my parents have lawyer friends, or like I have parents anymore. "Sure," she finally said. "We've got nothing to lose, and I can throw you up to, like, $250 if it turns out they're not willing to help us out or hook us in."
"Cool," Jane said. "I'll probably shoot the guy an email on Sunday and call on Monday if I don't hear from him. I'll let you know after that."
"Sounds good," Sandi said. "See you tomorrow night." After Jane said good night and hung up, Sandi added to her empty apartment, "And now I think I'll go out and get, like, very, very drunk."
The day after Jane's conversations with Sandi and Daria was their fourth Saturday at LL Wolf's. The gig was starting to feel routine, which lasted right up until Daria rolled into her own apartment 15 minutes late and swearing like a madwoman.
"Do you still have a job?" Jane asked, a wry tilt to her lips, while Quinn and Sandi just stayed back.
Daria interrupted her swearing long enough to say, "No fucking clue. They told me I could leave, and then hassled me when I tried to," before continuing her tirade about "fucking retail dictators."
Once Daria's homicidal impulses died down, they were able to load up and get to Wolf's in good time for the gig, which again went well. Daria still seemed annoyed after the show, so Jane and Quinn, at least, beat a hasty retreat. Jane would've liked to talk to Quinn when they got home, but the redhead went straight to bed.
On Monday morning, finding no email response from the lawyer, she called the office and left her name. She also took the opportunity to talk to Quinn when the redhead lounged on the couch watching early afternoon talk shows. "Not working today?" Jane asked as she sat down.
"No point," Quinn said. "I could make more on a Monday rooting around in dumpsters for cans and bottles." She wrinkled her nose. "If I wanted to get all sweaty and disgusting and smell like rotting fruit for three days."
"It'd be a change from the smell of paint, but one I could do without," Jane chuckled. "So thank you for that. When do you work again?"
"Wednesday afternoon. I might do a double if they need me. I can always use the extra money, right?"
Jane frowned at that. "Do you really need the money that badly? We're starting to see some decent money playing live, and we'll see more when we play five nights a week."
"Sure," Quinn said and tossed her red hair. "But until then, I'm gonna keep bringing in as much as I can. I don't know when I might need it."
At this, Jane started to get annoyed. "Don't you think we might be able to get more gigs if you weren't, you know, waiting tables on Friday nights?"
"Huh?" Quinn's doll face suddenly looked baffled. "What—? Why would I—?" she stammered, before gathering herself and giving Jane a serious look. "Jane, did you honestly think I wouldn't blow off my shift or just quit if we got a good gig on a Friday?"
Thoroughly confused, Jane blurted, "I thought you still wanted to hold on to Fridays." Quinn shook her head no. Before Jane could add more than, "But Daria said—" the redhead cut her off.
"What Daria said doesn't matter," Quinn's voice was unusually harsh, "Because Daria never talked to me." More calmly, she went on. "I figured everyone was okay with not doing Fridays for a little longer, because we were all working and doing other stuff anyway. But you're out of work, Daria's bitching about her job, and I don't even know what's up with Sandi."
"She got let go too," Jane said.
"And Sandi's not working either," Quinn corrected herself, "so we could play this Friday and I'd be good with it."
"Then it sounds like we should talk to Daria," Jane said. "Or kill her," she added, her mind going back to her many threats from high school that turned out empty, but hadn't started that way. "I haven't decided yet."
Tuesday saw them out in Worcester, which was a good thirty miles from Boston proper further than Quincy, where they'd played the week before. The club was owned by the same guy, but Sandi was feeling much better about this week's gig. The club was further from Boston, which means word was getting around about them, and this place was about twice the size of last week's, which hopefully meant twice the money. She thought they'd do even better if they got a Friday night in a room that size, but money wasn't that tight yet, so she could afford to be patient.
The "dressing" room at this place was bigger than the one in Quincy, with more space for the band to spread out. Quinn stood in one corner doing exercises to warm up her voice, while Jane relaxed and regarded the ceiling with her long legs in front of her. Daria sat next to Sandi and stared straight ahead, looking like she was trying to burn a hole in the wall with heat vision or something.
"Something bothering you?" Sandi asked quietly.
Daria didn't seem to hear her for a moment, but before she could ask again, the guitarist blinked and turned her head. "Oh, Sandi. Sorry. I was just thinking about things."
"Anything you want to, like, talk about?"
The silence stretched long enough to make Sandi wonder if she's overstepped. Daria was definitely someone worth knowing, but she could be so damn prickly.
"No, that's okay," Daria finally said. Then with a half-smile, she added. "Thank you for asking, though."
That was the last conversation until they were up on stage. The place wasn't quite full, but it was the next thing to it—a sign that Lambert was right to have them play here, no matter how sleazy the owner was. During the first set, the crowd wasn't electric or anything, but they were dancing, and Sandi managed to stay locked in with Jane even without the feedback that a really good crowd provided.
During the break, Sandi ended up sitting next to Daria again. She'd already decided to let the guitarist have her space when Daria turned to her. "So what do you think of the crowd?"
"Not bad," Sandi said. "They're not, like, the highest energy, but they seem pretty into it." At Daria's slight frown, she added, "At least they're responding to the beat. Otherwise, Jane and I probably couldn't, like, stay locked in."
"There is that," Daria said with a sigh. "It just seems a little, I don't know, workmanlike to me. Usually, I can feed off a crowd, but so far, it's been 'ho-hum, another gig.' I don't want this to feel like another job. I already have one of those."
"Why?" She suddenly realized she'd never told Daria about getting fired, only Jane.
"What do you mean, why?" Daria arched an eyebrow, her voice getting a little sharper. "The same reason you have one. I need money."
"We're each making more at the gigs than I ever made in a day at Cashman's." Sandi could hear the bitterness in her own voice and hated it. "And I don't even work there anymore. I got let go right after you and Quinn got back from Lawndale."
"Oh," Daria said. "I'm sorry to hear that. I didn't know."
"Whatever," Sandi tried to shrug it off. "But if I'm not working and Jane's not working, it might be time for you and Quinn to think about not working, so we can play, like, every night." She watched as Daria's eyes went to her sister, before adding, "Or at least as many nights as we can."
Before Daria could respond, the manager poked his head in to tell them the second set was in five minutes. Sandi remembered how creepy the Morgendorffers had found him the last time they dealt with him, and everything she could see confirmed their opinion. His hair was so moussed that it looked almost spackled, and the tiger print shirt with its first two buttons unbuttoned screamed "sleaze." That was leaving aside the two gold necklaces designed to draw attention to sparse chest hair.
She caught Quinn's eye as the guy turned around and rolled her eyes at his retreating back. Fashion victim is too kind for this clown, she thought. But what the hell, he's paying us to play. Onstage, she forgot about him, and all the other bullheads and sleazoids they'd already had to deal with, and lost herself in the music.
The gig on Tuesday had ended well enough. The crowd had definitely gotten more enthusiastic as the night went on—or at least drunker, as Jane had said to Daria as they did the load out. After that, Jane spent the week playing a fascinating and frustrating game of phone tag with the lawyer Trent had pointed her to. After four misses, she was almost ready to accept their failure to connect as a sign and get on with life.
The next Tuesday found Jane alone, looking to kill time before another gig in Worcester, at a different club. Quinn had disappeared, and Jane's morning call to the lawyer had gone unanswered, so she'd had a run and settled into some serious painting. Geometric patterns in bold colors grew intriguingly on the canvas in front of her, until the phone rang, ruining the moment.
When she emerged from the bedroom, the caller ID showed Daria's number. "I hope you're not calling to bitch about your job," Jane said as soon as she picked up the phone.
"Let me guess," Daria retorted, "bad timing?"
Jane threw herself on the couch. "Well, my latest masterpiece is stuck at three-quarters done, I don't know if I'll get back in the groove to finish it, and I can't think of anything you couldn't have waited to tell me until tonight."
"I've been doing a lot of thinking."
"Oh, really?" Jane quirked an eyebrow up, though Daria couldn't see her. "I've been doing a lot of painting and running. Maybe I should've called you first to share this groundbreaking news.'
"Funny, Lane," Daria said, but without heat. "Sandi told me that she she's been out of work for a month or so, now." Jane waited, not speaking. Daria had always been quick on the uptake. "I guess that's not news to you. Why didn't you say anything?"
"Not my story to tell," the drummer said. "I figured it was up to Sandi to tell you."
"Even though it's been like a month?"
"Hey, it's not like you asked Quinn about work any time in the last month."
"Funny you should mention Quinn," Jane could swear she heard a bit of shame in Daria's voice. "Seeing as how she read me the riot act about work yesterday. I don't suppose you had anything to do with that?"
"Not really," Jane said, shifting the receiver to her other ear. "She told me you hadn't talked to her, but she didn't tell me she was going to do anything, and I didn't tell her to say anything."
"Well, she did. Her vocabulary has expanded. I guess I know now how it feels for you guys when I go off on a tirade." After a pause, Daria added, "minus the malaprops. I think she called me narcoleptic at least once."
Jane had to laugh at that. "I'm surprised you let her get away with it."
"Well, she did have a point." Daria confessed. "And I guess, so did you. I assumed I knew what Quinn wanted to do without asking her, because then I could pretend it wasn't just me holding us back."
"So what are you going to do about it?"
Daria's next words were shocking. "I'm not quitting my job." Before Jane could say anything, Daria added, "I've already talked to Lambert about finding us Friday gigs, though. Quinn basically demanded I do it, and you already told me you wanted to play Fridays. I figured Sandi won't mind either."
Puzzled, Jane said, "But you're not quitting your job, and you work Friday nights."
"Yeah, well, I can still use the money until we get a Friday gig," Jane could picture the Mona Lisa smile on Daria's face, "and then I just stop showing up."
"A little out of character, no?"
Jane was surprised at the edge in Daria's voice. "They've been using and abusing me for months. Now it's my turn."
"Easy there, killer. There are no Friday gigs in jail."
Daria did that half-laugh thing she did. "Relax. Leaving the bookstore high and dry is enough revenge for me. Listen," she added. "I'm gonna get going. I'll see you tonight."
Jane didn't have much time to celebrate Daria's surrender, because the phone rang again. "Cambridge morgue, you cut 'em, we shut 'em." At the voice on the other end of the line, her flippant tone became serious. "Yes. This is Jane Lane..."
When Sandi got to Daria's, it was Jane who greeted her with a "Hey." She saw neither Daria nor Quinn when she followed the drummer in.
Normally, she would at least think about grabbing a Diet Coke, but something about Jane's stance made her edgy. "So," she said, drawing the word out. "Is there something you wanted to talk to me about?"
"I finally talked to the lawyer today," Jane replied without preamble.
Hiding her relief—she would not have welcomed another lecture on her playing—she merely arched an eyebrow. "And?"
Instead of answering, Jane started to laugh—ruefully, Sandi thought.
"Well?" Relief was rapidly turning into annoyance.
"Sorry." Jane said. "It's just after all that angst, and not entirely trusting my best friend..." She paused again, giving Sandi a serious look—a weighing look, Sandi thought. "The lawyer said it was one of the tightest and fairest documents he's ever seen. He said if half the bands out there signed contracts like this, he'd be out of job."
Of all the things Sandi expected to feel on hearing about the contract, pleasure wasn't one of them. But here I am. Knowing that Daria and Quinn were playing fair with them, and that they could put this nonsense behind them made her feel like a weight was gone from her shoulders—the last bit of her mother's mistrust fading, maybe. She was ready to sign, ready to really commit in a way she hadn't before. To Jane she only said, "So I guess we can sign then."
More good news was waiting downstairs. "Lambert finally came through," Daria said after Sandi and Jane had gotten themselves settled. "We're playing Friday at that new place, AP's, by Confederation Square."
"It's about the same size as Wolf's," Quinn cut in from next to her microphone. "And they've had trouble booking, so if we can fill it on Friday, we can probably write our own ticket there, at least for a while."
"If we want to," Daria added. "Lambert said he was working on some other things. Not sure how much stock to put in that, but he did sound pretty excited."
Sandi felt an unaccustomed smile bloom across her face.
The capacity was the same, but the space was smaller and longer than LL Wolf's, which made it seem like the swaying bodies were more densely packed. On stage, GTS had no idea if the music was filling the space well enough for the people in the back to feel it, but they could feel it, and that was enough.
The first set had been mostly covers, to get people to stay. If the size of the crowd was any indication, it had worked. This set had been mostly originals, and the crowd hadn't thinned. The Girls would have been happy, if they weren't too busy playing to think about it.
Sandi's softer song, "My Eyes," had given way to "Shards," which got the crowd revved back up. "Don't Take It Out on Me" and "Little Girl Found" both had a raging intensity, and "Wherever You Can Find It" dialed the energy back just a bit, priming the crowd for the final assault.
"One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six!" Daria shouted and—Bam! Bam! Bam!—hit the chords that opened "Roadrunner," which they still used as the closer for their first gigs at new places like this one. The Girls heard the roar from the crowd and tore through the song even more fiercely than usual.
As the sound wound down, they varied the intensity of the "Radio on!" call and response, starting loudly before lowering the volume to near silence. After a few bars, they began to increase the volume. When they reached full volume again, Daria shouted the now traditional intros, "We're GTS! Jane Lane on drums!"
Jane rose from her stool in acknowledgement, still flailing away.
"Sandi Griffin on the bass." As ever, Sandi stood stock still.
"Baby Sister Quinn Morgan giving us the words," Quinn bobbed her head in time to the music before breaking in with, "And Big Sister Daria Morgan crashing out the chords!"
Another roar went up as the Girls roared through the closing frenzy, finishing with Daria's "Right! Bye, bye!" After a moment, the lights went up, and the Girls left the stage space to find themselves face to face, not only with the club owner, a heavyset man with Hispanic features, but also Brian Lambert.
The owner spoke first, the trace of an accent from somewhere in Latin America detectable in his voice. "Good show! You keep them coming in like that, you can play Friday nights forever!"
"Or at least next week, I hope," Daria said.
"Sim! Sim!" he said. "Yes. Next week definitely. Your manager," he gestured to Lambert, who topped him by at least six inches, "he thought you would want to come back."
The darker man nodded. "Figured it was a match made in heaven for now."
As the owner headed off, four sets of eyes all fastened onto Lambert, but it was Daria naturally who spoke. "What are you doing here?"
"Figured I'd catch the second set, see how you sounded." He actually smiled. "You were great tonight."
"Cut the shit, Lambert, and answer the question" said Jane, clear hostility in her voice.
If he was bothered, he didn't show it. "Figured I'd make it easier to pay me." He held out a wad of bills and handed them to Daria. "I took mine first tonight." Before she could divide them up between the Girls, he added, "I also wanted to tell you to get ready."
"For what?" Daria asked, an eyebrow raising, as if involuntarily.
"For the trip to Manhattan. You're playing there Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday." The smirk that had been hiding in his expression burst into full flower as four sets of eyes widened and identical looks of shock painted four faces.
Author's Notes: The seventh full GTS story, this look way less time than the last one. The title is taken from the great Warren Zevon's "Lawyers, Guns, and Money." Much thanks to my beta readers, JPAGC and EntrancedCat, who found all my mistakes and helped me tighten things up, and to everyone still reading 22 years after the show went off the air.
Disclaimer: Daria and all characters are copyright MTV 1997–2002. I own nothing and am merely along for the ride.
