Bass Desires: A Novel About Finding the Groove

By D. J. Lufkin

Reduced to holding down the bottom in a lukewarm nostalgia band, the thrill is gone for old-school bass player Jude Barnes. What's more, his materially challenged wife, Rachel, wants more out of life than Jude's enough-to-get-by income has provided over the years. She conspires with their annoying eleven-year-old son, Miles, and her eccentric father-in-law to force Jude into a life of middle-class respectability.

A solution presents itself when caustic college buddy, Donny, fast-talks Jude into working the sell-side of the burgeoning tech-stock bubble. But just as it appears that Rachel has succeeded in transforming Jude into a responsible adult, a mysterious and obstinate diva named Nefertiti arrives on the scene, threatening to unravel Rachel's plans by tempting Jude into one last fateful dance with his elusive muse.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 11, 2006
• ISBN: 9780595854455

D. J. Lufkin

A survivor of the Minneapolis music scene and a variety of day jobs including travel agent, stock-trader and copywriter, D. J. Lufkin still believes the perfect gig is just around the corner.

Book preview

Bass Desires

A Novel About Finding the Groove

Copyright © 2006 by D. J. Lufkin

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-41086-6 (pbk)

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-85445-5 (ebk)

ISBN-10: 0-595-41086-3 (pbk)

ISBN-10: 0-595-85445-1 (ebk)

Contents

Acknowledgements

Create Your Own Soundtrack

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

For long-suffering Lynn, who pretty much gets it. And for everyone who thought they’d be famous by now...

Talent’s worth waiting for when it’s all said and done.

—Joe Strummer

Acknowledgements

Several enthusiastic readers provided constructive criticism and useful edits.

Abigail Allen was kind enough to include a chapter of this book in the literary magazine Phantasmagoria, under the title The Beautiful One Has Come.

Create Your Own Soundtrack

Spinning these tunes will enhance the Bass Desires experience:

Superstition—Stevie Wonder

Just the Two of Us—Bill Withers

Play that Funky Music—Wild Cherry

You Got the Love—Rufus

If That’s Your Boyfriend—Me’Shell

I’m Every Woman—Chaka Kahn

Unbreak My Heart—Toni Braxton

I Feel For You—Prince/Chaka Kahn

Street Life—The Crusaders featuring Randy Crawford

Wishing Well—Terrence Trent-D’Arby

Love and Happiness—Al Green

Smooth Operator—Sade

Tell Me Something Good—Rufus Nefertiti—Miles Davis

(Thank you) Falettin Me Be Mice Elf Agin—Sly and the Family Stone

CHAPTER 1

Nobody is dancing and I can just make out the obese silhouette of Stoltzy the club manager through the haze of stage lights and cigarette smoke as he paces the back of the bar. The silly bastard is looking at his watch and surveying the empty tables and idle wait staff like he’s expecting a sudden rush late on a Thursday. His uncharacteristic and pathetic optimism belies the fact that there’s just no groove tonight, something I feel partly responsible for, even though it’s impossible to get into the pocket with a drummer who always ends his fills a fraction of a beat too late. I hate it when the music’s not happening. Playing in a cover band doing tunes that fell off the charts before I finished high school only makes it worse.

Our sloppy version of Superstition grinds to a halt and Tommy, over-zealous guitarist and unacknowledged bandleader announces the break with the final E chord echoing dully through the room. The house music kicks in and George our hesitant drummer shakes his head-full of dust colored dreadlocks side to side, pulling a joint out of his T-shirt pocket, wetting and twisting each end in his mouth.

Yah Man, he spits in his fake Jamaican accent, you boys are playing like sheet to-night. Ya’ couldn’t find the beat if it ran you down.

We shouldn’t have to look for it, I say. And quit speeding up on the chorus, I hate that shit. Maybe you should practice a little, take some lessons.

George gives me his best angry-brother look, standing up behind the kit like he’s ready to step outside. I can ignore him because he quits the band about once a week, and even though mediocre drummers are easy to replace, Tommy insists on keeping him around, no doubt to lend some authenticity to the proceedings.

Both you guys can shut the fuck up, Tommy says, and George, don’t be smoking the weed in here.

Tommy doesn’t want to screw up the gig. The vitriolic Stoltzy pays bands pretty well and 52nd Street is a decent bar with a name befitting Minneapolis’ delusions of urban grandeur. I like it because I can walk to the place and my feet don’t stick to the floor. I lean my bass against the amp and head down the short set of stairs, turning right towards the door leading to the basement break-room. I don’t feel the need for company, but before I can escape someone who looks familiar steps out of the men’s and blocks my exit. Suit, no tie. I flash briefly on my college sojourn. Noticing me at the same time the guy nods his head.

J.B.! he barks, I thought it was you, long time no see. How they hangin’? He wipes his hand quickly on his pants and sticks it out.

I take a step closer. No one’s ever called me J.B. except Donny the Beer Man, the guy who organized the keggers that my college rock band played at years ago. I remember him wearing his high school football jersey, collecting worn out one-dollar bills from messy looking students while he pumped the keg at the same time. Never tried to be cool, just wanted to make a buck. He still looks like a frat boy, but is loosing hair, gaining weight, and displays the too much red meat look of encroaching middle age.

Beer Man! I feel him trying to break my hand and pull free, waiving two digits in his face. Easy, I need these.

Donny looks me up and down, noticing that I still have my hair, haven’t gained much weight, and still go to work in jeans and a T-shirt. Yeah, he says, so I see. Still out jammin’ huh? I’m getting into it, great tunes. But you guys could use a singer, nothing personal. Everyone’s a critic, right?

This is just a money band, I say, we’re all jobbers, guys who play around. The ‘70’s thing is hot right now. Tommy knows he can’t sing. Sometimes we have people sit in, some nights we work with what we have.

Reminds me of school days, Donny says. Shit, back then, we all thought you’d be famous by now. What happened?

Donny is laughing, as if I should appreciate the irony of his comment. He remembers me as a stand-out at a small college. I’ve had a few shots at it over the years, I say. Some of us are still waiting for our 15 minutes. It beats working for a living.

I guess so, he says, shaking his head. Come on, let me buy you a beer.

I follow him over to the bar that runs the length of the room, stage right. Another guy, also wearing half a suit, leans on the bar. He’s tall, and looks young, even for the late night bar crowd. He’s sporting the short Caesar haircut and sideburns that say sixties retro; suddenly everyone wants to look like Steve McQueen.

JB, this is Greg, Greg, JB. What you having?

Heineken, I say. Domestics are free for the band, and good enough for George’s cottonmouth. I shake hands with Greg. Jude Barnes, Donny calls me JB. You guys work downtown?

We don’t work, Donny says, we make money. There’s a difference. He laughs and Greg nods in agreement. When did I see you last, it must be getting close to twenty years.

Something like that. I thought you went back out East.

I did, Donny says, got married, worked for the Old Man for a while, got sick of the wife, sick of the Old Man. Friend of mine’s a VP with a brokerage chain. I came back here to run the Minneapolis office for them. Been out here a year now.

I recognized you right away...

This fucker here, he says to Greg, looks the same as he did in college, hasn’t changed a bit. We used to call him Pretty Boy, always had the long hair and girls hanging around. Hey, what ever happened to that stuck-up bitch you were with, what was it, Rachel? She was from Milwaukee, right?

She did a little modeling, got married, had a kid, still looks great.

Donny pauses for a second, figures it out, starts laughing. Oh man, he says, you bought the fucking cow?

Nobody owns the pussy, we all rent. I know how to talk to guys like Donny. We’re picking up right where we left off. It doesn’t surprise me that he’s divorced, as much as that I’m still married, all things considered.

Speaking of pussy, what’s with this town? These Nordic women are colder than the fucking winters. It wasn’t like this in college.

Yeah, it takes more than free beer now, they can buy their own. Try the less direct approach.

No shit, Donny says, looking around the room for someone to hit on. I glance farther down the bar and notice two women, definitely not Scandinavians, drinking Zima’s, smoking, and talking. The nearer of the two, wearing a tight denim dress with a blue bandana head wrap and funky glasses, turns and looks quickly right at me. Donny notices and slaps me on the back.

Hey, Brown Sugar’s checking you out, he says, too loudly. You must get plenty of spare, being a musician and all. Maybe I should get up and sing with you guys, that seems to be the ticket.

I’m out of the game, man. Just got off probation for a previous offense. Drunk chicks in bars are more of an occupational hazard at this point. I look up again, this time via the mirror behind the bar. She’s figured out the angle, and stares me down, taking a long drag on her cigarette. She doesn’t look drunk.

Anyway, Donny continues, I’m in sales, always have been. You gotta ask for the business. Me and Greg been pitching all day, needed to get out and relax, thought there might be some chicks here, but it’s pretty dead.

Stoltzy barges right in. You guys don’t draw for shit, he says, poking a fat finger in my chest. I’m losing money just being open. Stoltzy’s sweaty brow is permanently tensed, like he’s a nano-second away from a coronary, the reason he’s known by every musician in town as Fuckface.

Nobody draws mid-week, man. Maybe if you weren’t consuming your own product, there’d be a drawer at the end of the night, I pat him puppy like on his beer gut.

Fuck you. You’ll never work here again. Where’s Tommy?

Beats me, I’m just the bass player, check the women’s can.

Stoltzy storms off and Donny looks concerned.

That the owner?

No, thinks he is, just runs the place. His job is to sell drinks by any means necessary. I look down the bar again in time to see the two women slide off their stools and head for the door. I shouldn’t care anymore, but I take their departure as a knock. George has spotted them and breezes by in futile pursuit as I turn my attention back to Donny. So, you guys are stock brokers?

Yeah, Donny says, Chapman Burnham, a few blocks from here. You play the markets?

Not really. I’m around the house during the day, I follow it a bit.

Donny motions around the club, So this is your job?

Pretty much. I play music, do a little writing on the side.

You’re not one of those house husbands? Donny looks at Greg and they both laugh again.

Not exactly. The family business stills pays regular dividends.

Oh yeah, Donny says, now I remember, old money, 3M stock. Grand Dad built the gym at the college. I knew it wasn’t just your looks. Chicks smell money. He takes a hit off his beer. And you fucking bagged Rachel. Well, I’d like to see her again, I bet she’s got some hot looking friends. You’re a little younger than me, right? When did you graduate?

I didn’t see any point in finishing a journalism degree. It shouldn’t take four years to learn how to write three paragraphs.

Donny laughs and slaps the bar. Yeah, who needs fucking college when there’s a trust fund. What’s the point in taking English classes anyway?

It’s come in handy. I read a lot.

You need another hobby, Donny says, who manages your money?

Some old guys in St. Paul.

You’re missing out, letting the old fucks invest your funds. You could be cleaning up right now.

It’s in a trust, not much I can do about it. There also isn’t much left to work with, but Donny doesn’t need to know that.

Tommy saunters up with his woman of the week in tow. Hey man, I say, this is Donny, an old buddy, and, ah, Greg.

Donny sticks his hand out. You’re a great fucking guitar player, I mean that. Who’s your friend?

Tray-she, she says, slurring a bit.

"Hi Très Chic, where’s your friends?"

I think they stood me up, she says, pouting and crossing her arms. Tommy puts a hand on her waist.

It’s early, he says, the place’ll fill up. Fuckface was just telling me we need a gimmick, matching outfits and a new singer. I told him he can blow me.

Be careful what you wish for, I say, giving Tommy a knowing glance. In contrast to Donny, he’s in good shape, still has all his hair, enough to wear in a ponytail. He works out and looks ten years younger than he is.

Anyway, five minutes, Tommy says, always the man in charge.

For what? Donny says.

Last set, I say. "Gotta play to get paid.

Hah! Better than paying to get laid. Donny pulls his wallet out, handing me a card that mentions discount brokerage. You come down and see us at the shop, he says. We’ll get caught up. Nice meeting you Tommy. Tracy, you hang here with us, we’ll keep you out of trouble while the band’s playing. What you drinking?

Tommy squeezes her arm. Don’t go anywhere baby. Then, looking at me, We need to talk about George. He heads towards the break room.

Baby, Tracy says, pouting again, who’s a baby? She wiggles up on to the stool pulling on the hem of her jean skirt as she sits down next to Donny. Vodka, vodka seven.

I’m out and around, I tell Donny, I’ll stop down.

Fridays are good around three. Donny is eyeing Tracy, and looking for the bartender at the same.

Just so you know, I say, Her boyfriend has a black belt and no sense of humor.

Donny laughs and slaps the bar again, a caricature of his East Coast self, and

I wonder off after Tommy.

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It starts early the next day, it being the sort of discussion Rachel and I are having with increasing frequency. I drive Miles, our 11 year-old, to summer school. We’re late, because Rachel insists that he’s tired and needs to sleep in, and then more so because half way to school he announces that it’s band day and he doesn’t have his trumpet. Besides inheriting my pale waspish looks, Miles has concluded, as all single children do, that his parents are basically servants. So I turn around and make the trip twice, log him in at the office and drop him with the other almost sixth graders, all boys, sentenced to summer session because they’ve neglected their schoolwork in favor of their predilection for video games and gangsta-rap. I get home to find his mother in the kitchen finishing up a phone call, noticeably irritated.

Let me call you back, Rachel says, removing the cordless from her ear and clicking it off. She stands there for a second, looking at the phone and weighing it in her hand, as if considering the receiver’s potential as a weapon. The product of a Swedish mother and an Italian father, Rachel’s genes are locked in mortal conflict, the cold Nordic and the hot tempered Mediterranean vying for supremacy. The struggle is played out on her endlessly expressive face, perfectly framed by straight light brown hair, parted down the middle. She’s worn it that way long enough for it to come back into style again, along with fitted shirts, flared jeans, and, I suppose, ‘70’s music.

Why didn’t you tell me the salon called with an opening, she says, glaring at me as if betrayed.

Sorry, spaced it out. Anyway, I don’t know why you need to get your hair done all the time. It’s expensive, and it looks fine the way it is. Rachel hasn’t modeled for years, but the maintenance costs keep going up.

Look at these, she screeches, beginning to sound hysterical, and holding out two inches of split ends between her fingers in the universal I need a trim gesture. Look at these. What the fuck’s the matter with you? Hector had an opening. And you better not be telling me I can’t afford to get my hair done. Did you pay the Visa bill?

Sure, I lied. Who’s Hector?

A new guy at the salon, from the Bahamas. He says I have the best hair he’s ever seen. Now I’ll be lucky to get a fucking appointment in a month.

As it’s become a less frequent activity, fuck is becoming Rachel’s favorite word. It usually has something to do with my lack of concern around cosmetic issues; how she looks, how the condo looks, how the car is running. I have no problem with any of it, but Rachel is in a mood. Apparently it hasn’t occurred to her that a hairdresser tells everyone they have great hair then charges them double. I’m more concerned about the spectre haunting the condo, which involves us running out of money, a fact that I don’t especially want to get into with her on a Thursday at 10 AM. Mornings don’t work for me.

Of course, playing in bars pays next to nothing; Rachel and I have always gotten by on the trust fund and part time jobs. I normally cash out as soon as the spendthrift clause allows, in semi-annual installments. We’ve been in the habit of running up debts in cycles; use the plastic, make the minimum payments, then pay everything off and start over. Now we’re getting to the end of the road, and I don’t want to deal with it. She knows all this.

Rachel slams the phone down and stalks over to the sink, keeping her back turned to me. Have you given any more thought to getting a real job? she says, rinsing off the breakfast dishes. This is getting old. You knew the trust fund wouldn’t last forever. Unless you think that you and your buddies are about to become famous, you’d better get out of here for a while today and start looking into it.

I’ve got a few ideas, I say, exaggerating slightly. "Ronald’s been after me to go full time at the Weekly."

Really, she says, what would you do there, fact check the personals?

Damn, aren’t we in a mood today. It would be an assistant editor thing to start, pulling copy together, following up with the reviewers.

What’s it pay? She closes the dishwasher and turns it on.

I don’t know, I admit, figuring it has to be barely half of what the trust has been paying. I’m going to go over there today and get more details.

Well, Rachel says, hands on hips, and shaking her head, I don’t know, you need to get your shit together. A change of routine would be good for both of us. I’m getting sick of this. I work and take care of Miles, and I’m trying to get this place looking decent. You could be doing your part, making an effort.

What about your gig at the gallery? Rachel works very part time for a custom furnishings business, another hobby that doesn’t pay well, but it’s her hobby, not mine.

What about it? I’d have to go full-time to build a clientele, and Miles needs direction. She doesn’t bother to add that she doesn’t think he’s getting it from me—another common theme.

I wander into the den, or what Rachel calls the Media Room; the one place in the condo that I can hide. I’m trying to figure out why she’s being so bitchy lately, menopause should be years away still. I switch on CNBC and watch the ticker go by until I see MMM at 73 %, off 5/8, a down day. I’ve been hoping beyond reason that a sudden run up might buy me another year or two of relative leisure. Instead, the stock continues to move sluggishly up and down the charts, oblivious to my need to wring a few more dollars out of the remaining balance. The summer of ‘98 isn’t going the way I need it to. I step back into the kitchen.

"Like I said, I have to run over to The Weekly, see what’s going on, hand in some reviews. I’ll probably be a couple of hours."

Take your time, Rachel says, still sounding terse, I’m going over to Karen’s later. There’s a house by them she wants me to see.

A house? She’s made it sound like a threat. Are we in the market for a house?

It’s obvious that you need some motivation, she says.

"You want to motivate me by tripling our debt ratio? The credit