CHAPTER 106 - Hound Dog (2)

The Bronx. Fox Street.

Tuesday, 23 September 2008.

Longwood, Cooper’s place of temporary employment, was doing As You Like It because Verna had found boxes of matching varsity jackets at a church sale, and naturally, had a brilliant but inexpensive idea.

The girl in the boy’s maroon jacket was seventeen. Her name was Tasha; she worked the register at a pharmacy from two until close, and she was playing Rosalind with her back half-turned to the house, wholly unconsciously. The boy playing Silvius was fifteen, a head taller, and attended a local arts school. Phebe was Verna’s daughter, fresh off her hospital shift.

David Cooper sat in the fourth row. Beside him, a mildly well-known celebrity, Euphemia Fontaine, sat with her ankles crossed, watching the performance in the makeshift black box.

“Again,” said Verna, from the front, with her pages. “From Sweet Phebe.”

The boy went down on one knee, which nobody had told him to do, and begged Phebe at the top of his voice not to scorn him, and Tasha, in the varsity jacket, stepped between them and told Phebe to sell when she could, because she was not for all markets.

The audience laughed.

After that, Verna’s daughter stated she would rather hear this youth chide for a year than hear that man woo in a New Jersey accent, and the audience laughed again.

There was nothing particular about the play—not its billing, not the script reading, not even the house in which it was played.

But there was an energy to it.

A rawness that Cooper greatly appreciated.

Talent, sans time, place, and funding.

When they exited the practice, his former student took a moment to work up the courage to critique the show. “That was interesting. Passionate, but… interesting.”

“Ha.” Cooper felt his teaching tics itch. “That’s rough theatre for you; no money, no real stage, no segregation of sanctity between the audience and the cast—the theatre is the room, it’s theatre, up close, made as accessible as possible. To… both viewers and players.”

Behind them, in the dark, Verna called the scene. The art school volunteer went back down on one knee. Tasha turned to the room, and stayed turned.

“I’m buying you lunch,” Cooper said suddenly. “I owe you that much.”

Eppie looked up, more alarmed for Cooper’s budget than for his invitation. “…Are you sure, sir?”

“Why would I not be sure? Get your bag.”

They walked on foot to a ribs joint, one Cooper said was the best he had eaten since he was a kid.

The shopfront sat unassuming and unnoticed on Southern Boulevard, with six tables, a counter and a smoker out the back that had been going since before the Iran-Contra situation; it belonged to an African-American old-timer called Reuben, who had been himself a part of the Bronx Theatre Company since 1984. Reuben saw them come in, recognised who she was, but did not say a word about it.

Eppie looked glad for that, because the viral marketing for the Bully Boy Shanty was going hard.

“Professor.” The large man, grey at the temples, wiped his hands. “You brought a child. One of your students?”

“I brought a colleague.” Cooper grinned. “Feed her.”

They sat.

Reuben took the unspoken order, then laughed his ass off when Eppie affirmed that, yes, it was she who was the source of the new remixes in the Bronx. Thanks to her “White Girl” self, young boys and men in the Bronx were discovering sea shanties and having far too much fun.

The cook brought out his best.

Eppie’s eyes glowed.

Then she slurped a full rack of ribs with her hands.

Then she swallowed another rack of ribs with her hands.

Then she breathed in the cornbread and the mac and cheese.

Then Cooper asked, “Are you still hungry?”

And the tiny blonde said, “No.”

And Cooper said, “Oof, I can’t possibly finish my rack of beef…”

And Eppie said, “Let’s not waste it, ahaha…”

Then, beside Cooper, Reuben grew afraid.

Cooper did too. There was sauce on her cheek. There was sauce on the tip of her nose. There was sauce in her perfectly expensive-looking hair. What would Curon say if Eppie went home six pounds heavier? Was that still a thing for pop stars? The tabloids certainly seemed to think so.

When she started the corn, Reuben’s eyes turned from wonderment to respect.

Cooper, meanwhile, ate slowly with a knife and fork.

“Look at this feller,” said Reuben to Eppie, pointing at Cooper, and to God. “Was he really raised here? I’d sooner believe Eppie’s credentials than yours.”

“I was raised by a single mother, Reuben,” Cooper said drily. “Not by wolves, like… our starlet here.”

Eppie laughed with her mouth full. Cooper, watching her, felt strangely warm, even as he knew the bill, even with a discount, would cost him. He had some savings, thankfully, day-rates from Ferroni and his teaching money. If he was careful, they would last until March.

Meaning he had until March to get a job. A real job.

But that was why they were here.

He knew, he felt, that Euphemia had been coming to the theatre a little too much. This meant she wanted something from him, and she was waiting for the right moment to break the news. Of course, he could pursue the matter himself as well—but she was still his student, and Cooper…

Pride and principle were his albatrosses to bear.

“David, I need to ask you something.” Euphemia was finally done, even as her eyes kept drifting to the menu on the wall. “It’s about theatre.”

“I am listening.”

“Don’t take the Riverdale job, even if they get over their own noses.”

Cooper put his beer down. “Interesting.”

Eppie was grinning dangerously. At times like these, it was difficult to believe that she was a child, and he was the adult, and an old one, at that. “Don’t accept anything that will be a long commitment. Dame Vaughan and I are working on something for the city’s theatre scene, and we’re going to need a skipper.”

“Does that make you the captain?”

“You can be the captain if you like.” Eppie snorted. “I am more like…”

The smile grew even more Cheshire-like. “The piggy bank.”

“Banks are falling as we speak,” Cooper remarked. That was another reason he needed a job. A good one.

“So come and work for me.”

Cooper put the fork down.

“I hope this isn’t a jest…”

Eppie’s eyes were hard as blue-tinged diamonds.

“A hundred and fifty thousand a year. Health for four, paid. And five per cent of the Ark Theatre Company, which is worth nothing today, but will be… whatever you make it, I guess.”

Cooper felt his insides perform all kinds of Shakespearean soliloquies.

“Ark Company?”

“My theatre company. Dame Vaughan will be our backer. The money is better than Riverdale. It is better than the conservatory that isn’t calling you back. I guarantee it.”

“Eppie, you know money is not the problem.”

Beside them, Reuben stopped dead, then gave Cooper a cold, long, hard stare. Take the job, hard-ass, his friend’s eyes seemed to say.

“Sir, I need your help.” Eppie made the face. The cat face. The face of the first cat in space. Her giant blue eyes seemed to possess the qualities of a hypnotist. “Can you do an old student… a solid, and just accept loads and loads of money?”

Cooper’s face, middle-aged as it was, went a shade darker.

A sixteen-year-old had just offered him a lifeline, while pretending it was a favour she needed. What he heard was not charity. Charity does not check the going rate and add equity. Was this a trap?

It felt like a trap.

What was it that Timon had said?

Gold? Yellow, glittering, precious gold?… much of this will make black white, foul fair,

Wrong right, base noble…

“Will it involve acting?”

“Yes.”

“Will it involve teaching?”

“Yes.”

“Will I run the day-to-day affairs of the company?”

“Yes.”

These duties, for a small company director, were beyond normal. Cooper knew he could handle it, but…

“What are you going to put on the marquee?”

Eppie grinned again, her smile split from chin to chin. “Original plays, from my fever dreams.”

Fever Dreams…

Cooper almost burst out laughing uncontrollably. “Will it feed people?”

“Small and medium theatres will soon lose their finance,” Eppie said seriously. “We’ll pick up the slack while the banks recover; the Ark will be a full house.”

Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

“You can’t be serious.” Cooper felt his skin crawl. “Everyone means—”

Then Eppie started.

“General manager—that’s you. Production manager, Susanna. Technical director, two carpenters, a scenic painter, a props master. Master electrician. Sound engineer. Stage managers with assistants. Wardrobe supervisor and dressers. House manager. Box office manager, two treasurers, ushers. A bar. Building man. Bookkeeper. Marketing. Subscriptions. Education.” Eppie was speaking as if reading from an invisible prompter floating in front of her. “Then the Ark Company: Twelve to eighteen actors on season contracts. Resident director—that’s also you. Musical director. Dramaturg. Four designers per show—set, costume, lighting, sound. Guest artists as needed.” She picked up the hand wipes. “Two hundred people through the door in two seasons. Paid on Friday. No delays.”

Cooper swallowed. “I taught you this.”

“You did indeed.” Her smile was wicked. “I did Titus’ budgets, remember? That’s three-point-two million a year in salaries, plus another three million for fitouts, adverts and media in the first three years.”

“That’s a lot of money.”

Eppie laughed. “You know, after Bully Boy Wally goes out for a year or five…”

She spoke with a fatalistic pride that matched Caesar’s northern star speech. “If we made ZERO dollars, I could run the theatre for four years. That’s not even counting the money from my Arts Trust, or Dame Vaughan’s Ark grants.”

Cooper’s former student dabbed the sauce from her lips. “Best of all? No one is expecting the theatre to turn a profit.”

Why does she sound so happy…

“Let’s make… an incubation chamber. I write plays. We create original casts. We send them off to Broadway once the show’s a hit! That’s the model, anyway. Profit’s not important, not for us. TALENT. CREATIVITY. ART. That’s the Ark Theatre’s manifesto!”

“It sounds like a fever dream,” Cooper confessed, feeling a little feverish himself. If this was true, if Eppie could do this—and this was the Eppie who brought down LAPA, orchestrated a real-life Mousetrap, and made herself into a nationally renowned name…

The Ark Theatre—the theatre of his dreams.

He felt like a man standing at the crossroads, being tempted by the devil; only the devil had cat ears and a tail and eyes like a Disney doll.

O, full of scorpions is my mind, dear Eppie!

“I’ll look into building our own legal, and our own Talent Agency as well.” Eppie casually dropped the lines like they were basted pork ribs in spicy plum BBQ sauce from Reuben’s grandmother’s secret recipe.

Cooper looked down.

His hands were shaking.

Reuben was shaking his head as well.

“You will write the plays? The Musicals?”

“I will give them to the theatre,” Eppie said. “Though I may be on the credit. They will belong… to the theatre as an entity. It will fund the theatre for a very, very long time.”

Then, there was no more doubt.

Cooper extended a hand.

And in his massive, calloused-knuckled hand came to rest a dainty white thing that was half the size, and still sticky with smoky sauce.

NYC. Sony Music Entertainment.

Thursday, 25 September 2008.

For a week, Curon had laboured tirelessly so that the song’s follow-up sales went swimmingly, and now, it was time for rest and relaxation.

The day before, Curon had watched Eppie do her first morning segment. It was only fifteen minutes, at seven-forty in the morning, to the dead cheer of people who had been awake since five, but Eppie had sold out the show as usual with her stray-cat-strut antics.

Theatre kids… hit different.

Upstairs, Trent was starting to integrate LAPA-style theatre coursework into his boy-band and girl-band cadets.

Good Morning America had asked Eppie about the song, which she then performed live. She had worn a Conti-dress, which was her signature style now, and the hosts had nothing but praise. They asked her about the film, and with the cutest face, she gushed about Aubert and Ferroni, and Kel’s acting.

His daughter had looked a treat on TV. Clearly, the cameraman had been so smitten that his abilities, whatever they were, were reaching new heights. Never had he seen a cameraman follow a singer so closely, so perfectly in focus, so aesthetically, that not even moving between lighting rigs could make Eppie look momentarily blemished.

Then she came home and slept.

Now it was time to educate his daughter, so that she wouldn’t self-immolate on her own hype.

“Listen to this!” Curon loaded up another YouTube video on the Genelecs. Together, the speakers could buy a family saloon, and now they were blasting 64 kbps, mono, sampled at 22 kHz.

On the MacBook, a nineteen-year-old in Rotterdam had put a kick drum under a packet-ship song from 1850 and cut Eppie’s chorus into a stutter: blow-blow-blow-my-bully-bully-bully. And sixty thousand people had become hypnotised.

“THIS,” said Curon, watching his daughter go red, watching her shrivel from cringe. “IS A HIT.”

Eppie was on the couch. She had been upright forty minutes ago. She was now lying across it with her feet on the armrest and her face in a cushion.

Curon put on the MDR-7506, one cup only, and started moving dials and pushing buttons on his Neve sidecar.

“STOOOOOOP—” came the plea.

The wedding version was two minutes of camcorder footage from Bayonne, New Jersey, so Curon knew it HAD to be soul-crushing for an art snob like Eppie. In the video, a bride, a groom, the wedding party and a grandmother in a wheelchair were doing a line dance to the shanty. The grandmother led the chorus. The music was some DJ’s house beat remix of the Bully Boy Shanty, synced to his set for the wedding.

“ARRRRRRRRRRH—” Eppie was a woman wandering through ash and lime.

Naturally, every guest joined in, from grandpas to children.

“YOU DID THIS,” Curon shouted over the music, setting the windows to shudder. “I am adding the tuba. THE TUBA.”

There were so many remixes of the Bully Boy Shanty that Curon wondered if they had started some kind of cottage industry.

A ska band in Sacramento. A chipmunk version. A version slowed down so far it sounded like a whale, which was funnier than Curon expected. A high school choir in Minnesota doing it straight. A marching band did it as pre-game. Fishing boats now had a new anthem. A church in Georgia that had swapped in Jesus, SOMEHOW.

And the video responses were equally astounding.

A guy in Minnesota had synced a WASHING MACHINE to the beat, one that was slamming itself to death, and made a HIT out of playing his guitar against the failing mechanism. A girl singing in Portuguese performed it to her dog, who joined the chorus by howling.

The magic of it was the fun. Curon loved music-making. He knew very well that, too often, somewhere between the money and the success, the fun had gone out of it. Yet, for The Bully Boy Shanty’s A&R meeting, they just told him to let her rip.

The people who forgot how to have fun were suddenly having fun.

The final video died.

Curon allowed the matter to rest. He had an idea.

On the couch, his daughter was already half-dead.

Her phone went.

Eppie dug the phone from under the cushion on the third ring, looked at it, and sat up. Curon saw her sit up and closed the laptop.

Eppie took it on speaker. “Hi, Jack. I am with Dad.”

“Eppie,” a flat, dry voice answered. Ferroni sounded exhausted. “Norbert has made an assembly. Two hours forty, no sound, no colour, title card in Courier because I haven’t decided. We have a film.”

Curon whistled. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks, Fred,” the voice on the speaker said. “Just letting you know where we are. Park City first in early October. If they pass, then Berlin in February. If Berlin passes, Austin in March. Tribeca in April, that’s NYC, and finally, Cannes.” A pause. “Cannes because Aubert will have us covered; he said he’d keep Vasseur on a leash, away from Eppie.”

“Good man,” Curon said. “And Sony, did Davis work his magic?”

“Yes.” Ferroni sounded relieved. “The classics arm. Our lawyers exchanged contracts about distribution. I told him I was cutting. He said, Take your time. Ha!”

They made some more small talk, then Ferroni hung up.

Sundance, Berlin, Tribeca, Cannes! Curon felt his insides shudder. Her first film and it’s in Cannes? Maybe Venice, then Toronto!

Eppie looked immensely pleased.

This won’t do. Curon decided, and it was time to take her down a peg.

“Eppie!” Curon caught the girl’s attention once more. “Hear me out. I’ve been sitting on this, and Ferroni just handed me the button.” He turned the screen to her. “End credits. For your film.”

“What?” The girl looked horrified.

“End credits of the picture,” Curon told her again. “For your final scene at the nice school. The one with the ivy. In the uniform—blazer, tartan skirt, the knee socks. Just imagine, you walk up to the door, the screen cuts to black—”

He hit the space bar.

A far-away radio played, like a sea radio lost somewhere, powered just enough to hear.

There once was a ship that sailed the sea,

The name of the ship was the William of Tyre;

The winds blew high, the winds did blow,

O blow, my bully boys, blow!

It was his personal radio-mix, sounding like a haunting, static-filled song coming through the fog.

Then—the remix started. The kick drum came in.

Bronx, bombastic, unmistakably the work of the Master of Masters, Mister Curon of Sony B-M-G.

Curon threw both arms over his head, like a club DJ. In his golf polo, the visuals were nausea-inducing.

The beat dropped.

The tuba kicked in.

The song went up.

Eppie went down.

Off the couch, sideways, sliding like a cat gone soft, until she was on Curon’s carpet, mewing, making a sound that sounded like she was fighting her obliques.

“—and over the credits,” Curon went on, above her. “For Marcel’s send-off, there’s no better song. This bit, we get Kel to rap it, East Coast Style.”

A double-beat hit on the first; the tempo quickened, leaving space for rapid vocals.

“Stop—”

“Then, near the climax, the whale—that’s you— answers—”

On Thursday the 25th of September.

Euphemia Fontaine died from cringe, signalling the end of one of Sony BMG’s more glorious chapters of the 2000s.

End of book.

After Eppie’s wake, they ate pizza from Papa Joe’s.

Curon cared little for healthy eating.

And Eppie didn’t care.

They lay on the couch in a food coma—Curon flat on his back on the couch with a bourbon on his chest, and Eppie on the carpet below him, exhausted by all the music and the grease.

The elevator chimed.

Trent Davis came in with a folder under his arm and his reading glasses in his breast pocket, and stopped and looked at the two of them.

Eppie knew that expression.

It was the expression of a man who came home and saw that his dog and his cat had gotten into the pantry.

“We could hear you… every time the lift was going up,” Davis said drily.

“It’s soundproofed, Trent,” said Curon, to the ceiling.

Davis stepped over Eppie’s legs to get to the other side of the couch, then stood for a second, surveying the two piles of refuse in vaguely human shapes, staining his good shoes. “Euphemia. Up.”

Eppie got up, spry as spring in Central Park.

He gave her a folder. “Culver City. Wednesday the first. Merric Webber has your fish. He asked for the job. I didn’t offer it; he rang me. I didn’t refuse.”

He gave her another folder. “Saturday the fourth you sit your examination, which you will pass, or else I am telling Dr Vaughan you’re an actual dropout, and not a volunteering one.”

Then he passed her one more folder.

“This is… a favour, to me, to Fred.”

Curon sat up.

Eppie took the folder. Inside were what looked like legal documents and a business card. Lucia Lancet’s card. “Miss Lancet has asked whether you would accompany her to Louisiana. Her grandmother would like to meet you.” Davis let it sit while she and Curon digested the words. “The request came through Lucia, but it’s the Richards’ house asking. Will you go?”

Curon clambered back onto the couch. “Delphine Richards,” he said.

“The witch herself, yes.” Davis looked uneasy, which was rare.

Eppie tucked her aesthetically pleasing mess of a hair back behind her ears. Corbin Risk had dug deep, and the trail had ended with a buyer in Louisiana.

Davis had been all geared up to try and make it up to her, somehow, only she had neutered the bad news and turned the whole situation on its head with a single shanty.

“Sans Souci. After your examination. Lucia will take you,” Davis continued after she did not object. “I am… seventy-five per cent certain you’re getting an apology.”

“And the other twenty-five per cent?”

Davis shrugged. “It’s 2008, what can she possibly do?”

“You don’t have to go,” her faux-father said.

“No, no, I’ll go.” Eppie smiled back. I need to know what the hell’s going on with the song. And why the [System]’s so caught up.

“Good girl.” Davis exhaled with relief. “Well then, carry on with your antics. Keep the screaming down. HR has been asking.”

Their CEO left.

Curon looked at her.

They both could guess what the other was thinking.

“Well,” Curon said. “Pack something with sleeves.” Her father paused, then clarified. “The Lancets’ private jet always runs the air con too low…”

“Oh…” Eppie held the three folders to her chest and felt suddenly nostalgic.

A private jet? Her eyes grew warm. Oh… how I’ve missed thee…