Losing Our Edge Read online

  There’s even an article from the New York Times about indie bands getting signed by major labels. It was probably the biggest exposure they ever received. Towards the end of the story, there’s a quote from Mark: “I don’t really care who puts out my record, as long as they get it out there. I just want my music to reach as many people as possible.” He doesn’t remember the interview, or if he actually said that, but he must have. He flips through a few more clippings and discovers that the stories stop after a certain point. The last one is dated 2004, when Bottlecap was featured in a Rolling Stone article entitled “One-hit Wonders from Alternative Nation.” He closes the folder and leaves the room.

  From the landing outside his door, he smells bacon. He also hears his mom singing to herself above the sound of sizzling. He grins and heads for the kitchen.

  Mark walks down the stairs, passing row after row of pictures of himself. He watches himself vary in age with each step. At one step he’s just a baby; at another is the glossy senior portrait he hadn’t wanted to take. All the photos range from his birth to his teenage years. At the bottom, he glances around for more photos, for some picture that wasn’t taken when he was a kid, but there are none. There are only more pictures of him as a baby, as a first-grade student, as a third-grade student.

  “Hello, Mr. Sleepyhead.” His mom is standing in the hallway, wearing a pink and yellow housecoat over blue pajamas. She has a fork in one hand and tongs in the other. “It’s about time you woke up.”

  He leans in for a hug. Mark can’t believe how small she feels in his arms. He knows she’ll be gone one of these days, but he didn’t expect her to disappear bit by bit.

  “Sorry I was so late last night. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  She pulls back and smiles at him. Smiling, she resembles the young woman holding him in all those photos.

  “You didn’t wake me, son. If I can sleep through your father’s snoring, I can sleep through anything.”

  Mark follows her into the kitchen. She flips over a few pieces of bacon and then pulls a carton of juice from the refrigerator. Mark sees slices of white bread sitting next to a large bowl filled with beaten eggs. He helps himself to coffee.

  “Where’s dad?”

  “Went downtown to get his hair cut.”

  Mark grins.

  “Wants to look good for my big concert next week?”

  She turns to him again and, grinning, nods toward the kitchen table.

  “He wants to brag.”

  Mark strolls over and notices a copy of the local newspaper, open to the Arts section, on the Formica tabletop with chrome legs. He sees his own face, staring out in black and white. It’s the story he saw online last night.

  “Jesus, it’s in the actual paper?” He picks it up, quickly scanning it again. “What’s dad going to tell them that’s not in the story?”

  “Oh, it’s not so much about that, Mark. He’s proud of you.” She goes to the fridge, returns with maple syrup. “Went down to the Food Lion this morning and must have bought every copy.”

  Mark laughs and notices that on the fridge there are a bunch of drawings and pieces of paper covered with painted handprints and squiggles.

  “My god,” he says, pointing. “Have you been hanging on to those for forty years?”

  His mom laughs.

  “You didn’t do those, sweetheart. They’re new.”

  “Who did them?”

  She shrugs and then puts two slices of bread into the bowl of beaten eggs. She uses a fork to dip them on both sides and then puts them into a frying pan.

  “You don’t know them.” She turns the French toast over, the top sides now brown and golden. “Grandkids of friends of your father.”

  Mark is aware that all of their friends have grandkids. They go to the weddings of their friends’ children, they go to christenings. During their weekly phone calls, his parents tell him the children’s names whenever a new one is born—Ruby, Jacob, Theo, Stella. Mark feels bad for letting his parents down, for making them different from everyone they know, for closing them off from that part of life. But he doesn’t know what else to do. He’s had a few relationships while he’s lived in New York, but nothing serious.

  His mom puts the French toast on a Melamine plate, along with two pieces of bacon. She places the plate on the table and then returns to the stove. She puts two more slices of bread into the frying pan.

  Mark sits at the table and digs into the meal. As he’s chewing, his phone buzzes. He pulls it out and glances at the glowing screen. It’s a text from Gary, his old band mate.

  Dude, did you see the story the paper published about the show?! Call me or Steve as soon as you get this.

  Mark hasn’t seen Gary or Steve in twenty years. Not since he left the band by walking out on the recording sessions of their major label debut in Los Angeles back in ninety-three. In the weeks that followed, Mark talked with the confused producer, his pissed off A&R guy, a bunch of clueless executives at the label and, finally, a couple of very friendly and expensive lawyers who sorted the whole thing out. But he never spoke to Gary or Steve. He still hasn’t spoken to them in the run up to the reunion show next week. They’ve traded emails, a few texts, but that’s it. Most of his communication has been with Dave, the owner of the label Bottlecap first recorded for. He was given Gary’s and Steve’s numbers by Dave last month, but has so far never used them.

  Mark’s not really up for seeing Gary yet. He knows there’s going to be some sort of scene when he does, and he wants to put that off for as long as possible. Instead of responding, he texts Dave, asking for his address and setting up a time to meet tomorrow.

  Joining Mark at the table with a plate of French toast, she nods towards the phone.

  “Anything important?”

  “Nothing that can’t wait.”

  His mom cuts her French toast into squares, covers the squares in syrup but, before taking a bite, she speaks.

  “It’s nice to have you home, Mark.”

  “Thanks, Mom. It’s nice to be home.”

  Randy is on a break. He’s standing in the alley near the employees’ entrance where the huge delivery trucks usually unload their stock. Right now it’s empty, except for Randy. He clocked out two cigarettes ago and figures he can fit in another. He fishes one out of the crumpled pack and lights it. The first puff tastes good, but after that he can’t taste anything. From the second puff on, it’s just a habit. As he takes a drag he sees yellowed fingers and burn marks from when he drunkenly reached for the lit end years ago. His BlackBerry buzzes. He pulls it out of his pocket. It’s a text from a number he doesn’t recognize.

  Hey loverboy this is Charlene.

  The name doesn’t ring a bell.

  It’s been weeks. I miss you. Want to get together?

  Randy grins but doesn’t respond to the text. As he’s putting the phone back in his pocket, Hector comes into the alley. Hector’s working the same shift as Randy. Bill assigned him to handle restocking while Randy was on a break. Restocking is just about all that Bill lets Randy do any more. Bill used to let Randy cover the cash register but, whenever he did, the drawer would always come out short.

  Randy has worked at Bookstorage for four years. Despite his tenure, his job title’s still “associate” and he’s barely making more than minimum wage. It’s pretty much the same amount he’s earned ever since dropping out of college. The jobs change—he’s had at least a dozen in the past twenty years—but the pay stays the same.

  Hector and Randy nod hello to each other. Hector’s young, barely in his twenties. Randy doesn’t like him because he has that cocky attitude that comes with being young. Hector also reminds him of Cody and Hunter. Randy hates that being at work feels like being at home.

  Hector tosses a half-dozen empty boxes into an industrial-sized Dumpster. Randy recognizes the boxes; he was planning on spending the rest of his shift unpacking those boxes. Hector did it in ten minutes.

  That smug fucking bastard. One d
ay he’ll be my age and then he’ll realize what a prick he is.

  Hector grins as he re-enters Bookstorage. Randy flicks the half-finished cigarette towards the parking lot and enters the store. He clocks back in and fishes the black Bookstorage vest out of his half-open locker in the employee break room. He always makes sure to take the vest off for his breaks, afraid that someone will walk down the alley and realize he works in a shitty bookstore flanked on one side by a chain pet supplies store and a Christian arts & crafts store on the other.

  As Randy puts on the vest, he smells the strong odor of stale cigarette smoke. He walks onto the floor and spots Hector in the new non-fiction section. Hector smirks and points to his watch.

  Bill is manning the cash register. He spots Randy and says, “I was about to send out a search party.”

  Randy doesn’t respond. He just stares at the ground, noticing and kicking at the patterns in the carpet.

  “Why don’t you be in charge of the information desk for the rest of the day,” Bill says. “Think you can handle that?”

  Randy nods and heads toward the back of the store where a sign reads ASK ME TO HELP YOU FIND YOUR NEXT GREAT READ TODAY. He stands behind a computer terminal that’s used primarily to look up stock. From his post he can see Bill, still behind the cash register at the front of the store. Hector’s jet-black hair bobs up and down as he unpacks the new releases. That would have taken Randy a week, but Hector will probably be done by closing.

  The phone behind the counter rings and, even from the back of the store, Randy hears Bill answer it. While Bill’s talking to the customer, Randy quickly logs into the computer built into the information desk. He quickly switches from the Bookstorage stock program to a browser. He checks his email.

  He rereads Charles’s email from earlier.

  Randy,

  Hey! This is Charles. Chipp, remember? ;-)

  Check out the link below. Remember these bands?! Let me know if you want to go. If not, and you just want to get together some time and hang out, that’s cool too. It’s been too long, dude. Get back to me when you can.

  Charles

  Randy makes sure Bill is still busy behind the cash register then clicks on the link. He leans in and scans the story. Randy can’t believe it—The Deer Park, Bottlecap, The Disappointed—bands he hasn’t thought of in ages. He has records by all of them. At least he used to—they’re in storage at his parents’ house in Maryland. Randy even has a vague memory of interviewing one of the bands a long time ago for the zine he made back when he lived with Charles. They’d gone to college together but were friends from even before that, ever since meeting in high school. They were inseparable for the subsequent six years.

  After they stopped being roommates, Charles started taking classes at night in order to complete his degree. Charles offered to send Randy all the info so that he could go back to school, too, but Randy never took him up on it. Last he heard, Charles was married, had a kid, and was living in Tiger Bay.

  Randy goes back to his email. He writes a quick response to Charles, saying Sure, seeing the concert sounds cool. Just as he’s sending the email, Bill walks by on the way to his office. As he passes, Randy clicks back to the Bookstorage system, trying to look alert. It’s not convincing. Bill just shakes his head.

  Charles can’t find the conference room. The fifteenth floor is just one long anonymous stretch of cubicles, micro-kitchens, photocopiers, reams of paper stacked up like bricks, mail cubbies, closed office doors, and the occasional conference room, none of which is the one he’s looking for. He glances at his watch, a silver Breitling that cost four grand. He bought it as a present to himself when he became Senior Director two years ago. It’s the thing to do when you get a promotion. This means that, at a big company like Trust Insurance, everyone at Charles’s level and above has a nice watch. At lunch, they compare them and pass them around.

  11:57. I’m almost late.

  He rounds another corner and looks for someone from whom he can ask directions, but all he sees is row after row of empty cubicles. Everyone’s already left for lunch.

  I hate the fifteenth floor.

  Charles storms down a hallway that looks the same as every other hallway in the building. He rounds yet another corner and passes a conference room—a smaller one, not the one he’s looking for—which he’s positive he’s passed before. Now he’s convinced he’s going in circles. The Breitling seems to burn on his arm. He glances down. 12:07.

  Up ahead, he spots Jack from sales and Trina from PR getting off the elevator. They’re attending the same meeting he is, so Charles speeds up and falls into step behind them. Charles can tell they’re chatting about the new tenth-floor receptionist whom nobody likes. He joins the conversation.

  “And always with the attitude,” Charles says. “Am I right?”

  Trina turns and says, “Charles, where did you swoop in from?”

  “Oh, you know, the usual.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m glad we found you,” Jack says. “I can never find this goddamn conference room.” Charles notices that there’s sweat running along Jack’s upper lip.

  Finally they come to what looks like a dead end made up of row after row of shoulder-high filing cabinets framed on either side by tall potted plants. He watches as Trina disappears behind what must be a gap between the plant and the filing cabinets. Jack follows Trina, seeming to vanish into thin air. Charles had passed this way at least three times in the past fifteen minutes, but always kept walking.

  On the other side, at the far end of a long hallway, is a door through which Charles can see Dylan, Brooks, and a few others from the twelfth floor. Jack, Trina, and Charles enter the conference room. Trina immediately gravitates towards Tanya and Bonnie, two more women in PR. Jack, unable to find anyone from the sales department, sticks close to Charles.

  Charles is relieved to see that the meeting hasn’t started. Everyone’s just standing around exchanging pleasantries, gossip, and talking about how they spent their weekend. Charles walks over to where Dylan and Brooks are standing by a window that overlooks downtown Kitty.

  “Charles, looking good this morning,” Brooks says. “I like the tie.”

  Charles grabs the tip—red silk with purple and orange paisley—and looks at it as if he’s never seen it before.

  “What,” he says, “this old thing?”

  Dylan leans in, punches him on the shoulder.

  “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. I think you deserve that promotion. Not more than I deserve it, of course.”

  Charles just grins and punches him back before he takes a seat. Brooks and Dylan sit down, too, on either side of Charles. Jack—who had been loitering at the edge of the trio—suddenly looks put out, like they’re playing musical chairs and there isn’t a place for him to sit. He meekly moves across the room and is forced to take a seat with his back to the screen.

  “Loved the report you wrote, Charles, about the west coast sales projections,” Brooks says. “I think they’re inflated, too. I bet you get a trip to headquarters out of that.”

  Charles thinks that Brooks is being genuine but, around the office, you never can tell. Some people are out for your job; and if you don’t figure that out in time, they’ll get it. Brooks has only been at Trust for six months and doesn’t quite know his way around. Charles figures that’s why he’s cozying up to him, learning where the fault lines are, finding out who’s important and who’s not.

  Brooks is a smart kid. I should ask him to lunch.

  Someone Charles doesn’t know—he looks slightly familiar, but Charles doesn’t remember who he is or where in the company he works—gets his attention from across the table and says, “I just sent you an email.”

  “Great,” Charles says, “great!” He then turns to face Dylan, pretending to ask him something but can’t because he’s playing Angry Birds on his iPhone. So Charles decides to check his email instead.

  He has three new emails from people he doesn’t know. He wonders if any
of them are from the guy across the table. All three emails are bullshit, and Charles deletes them without responding. He checks Gmail and sees that Randy has written back. Charles writes a quick response, telling Randy to get a ticket to the concert while pledging to do the same. Charles looks up and sees Sharon—a junior employee on Dylan’s team—enter the conference room. She slips Dylan a file folder and then takes the last seat at the table. Charles thinks it’s odd that Sharon, who’s not even a manager, was invited to the meeting.

  Keep an eye on Sharon. And Dylan. They’re up to something.

  “Gentlemen,” O’Brien says (even though there are women present), “let’s begin.”

  The lights are turned down and the blinds are drawn. The room takes on the red glow of the Trust logo: a red fireman’s shield resembling a coat of arms containing the icons of a car, a house, and the silhouettes of a nuclear family—man, woman, little boy and girl.

  O’Brien starts by discussing Trust’s share price and current place in the market. He then highlights a few ads for the upcoming fall marketing campaign before going into Trust’s Q2 results and this branch’s Q3 goals. After about ten minutes it seems like O’Brien’s getting through his slides at a good pace, and no one’s asking any questions, so Charles is hopeful the meeting will last less than the scheduled ninety minutes.

  Charles’s phone buzzes in his pocket. A text.

  He feels self-conscious at first—checking his phone while O’Brien’s in the middle of what’s supposed to be an important presentation—but Charles can see that a number of others are doing the same thing, staring at their phones or else typing away on laptops. This happens all the time during meetings. No one ever pays attention. They treat whoever’s speaking like a TV; looking at their phone is their way of changing the channel. The strangest thing is that nobody seems to mind, not even O’Brien. Charles is even sure that at one point—during the middle of his own presentation—O’Brien himself glances down at his own phone.

  The text is from Grace.

  The contractor we liked just confirmed he can start on the roof by June. But we need to book him right now or we may lose him to another job. And he’s going to need half up front.