Free The Bad Decisions Playlist by Michael Rubens Page A

flowers at least?” I say.
    â€œUm . . .”
    â€œDon’t tell me. You’re allergic.”
    â€œI forgot to mention that one.”
    â€œOf course,” I say. “So, tobacco, gluten . . . and flowers.”
    â€œFlowers. Yes.”
    â€œAnd assholes.”
    â€œThat too.”
    â€œRight. Never mind, then.”
    I toss the flowers over my shoulder, hear the soft sound as they land scattered on the grass behind me. This earns a sort of weary sigh from her. But also another ghost of a smile.
    â€œDon’t worry. I’ll clean them up. Lawn-care professional.”
    â€œGreat.”
    â€œI guess I’ll see you at school. Or New York.”
    â€œWhy are you going to New York?”
    â€œYou know.” I mime playing a guitar and singing.
    â€œOh. Right. Your big music career.”
    Another pause, this one very different.
    â€œWhat?” she says.
    â€œYou know, you were right the other day,” I say. “This would never work.”
    I turn and take the three steps down to the pathway that leads from her door to the street where my motorcycle is parked, not bothering with the scattered flowers, not bothering to look and see if she’s still watching me.

 
I said goodbye before you ever said hello /
    so now I’ll never have to watch you go
    Â 
    Your big music career.
    Just a reminder about what this girl really thinks of me.
    A reminder of who I really am.
    What was I playing at there? Even if I
was
attracted to her, she’d never lower herself to be with someone like me.
    Forget about all of it. Forget about the contract, forget about mowing lawns, forget about tutors and math and Todd. Forget Josephine forever. Because I have a Mission, and my Mission is giving me something I haven’t had in a long time. Hope.
    I’m downtown. I came here on my motorcycle, right after my futile attempts with Josephine. No lawn mowing this afternoon, which leaves me free to complete my mission. I’m going to find Shane.
    I’m going to find my father.
    I don’t know downtown Minneapolis very well, and I don’t know the warehouse district at all, so I get a bit confused by the numbered avenues and streets, some of which start and stop and get interrupted by railroad tracks. I finally locate the building, then search the exterior for several minutes before I notice a door with a small acid-treated metal sign no larger than a hardcover book, letters cut through the steel announcing the name of the studio. The door is beat up and industrial and locked. There’s an intercom button, so I push it, and after the second push I hear a faint buzzing and the door clicks.
    There aren’t that many recording studios in the city. I started calling them. “Hey, the label is sending a package to Shane Tyler​—​he going to be there tomorrow?”
    Twice I got a “Who?”; another two times I got a “Shane Tyler? He’s not recording here,” and on the fifth call I got a bored “Yep.” That’s the studio I’m at now.
    The hallway is exposed brick and wide-plank wood floors, warehouse-y. It leads to a modern-looking reception desk, plopped incongruously in the midst of what looks like an unfinished renovation project. It doesn’t appear that there’s anyone behind the desk, until I get a little closer and see a rocker dude leaning way back in a chair, his legs stretched out in front of him. He goes more with the warehouse look than with the clean lines of the desk. He’s got long hair and a scruffy beard and is wearing a vintage Thin Lizzy tour shirt. He’s reading a copy of
Guitar Player
and keeps reading when I reach the desk and stand across from him.
    â€œHi,” I say.
    He glances up at me. After a moment, he gives me the universal eyebrow raise and head movement that signifies,
Yeah? Spit it out already.
    â€œI’m supposed to meet Shane,” I say.
    I’d