Free The Bad Decisions Playlist by Michael Rubens Page B

thought about what would be the best approach. I could have said, “Is Shane here?” but that would likely have inspired suspicion. “I’m here to see Shane” could also have raised questions. “I’m
supposed
to meet Shane” indicates that someone else made the decision, that I’m only here to carry out my assignment. At least that’s how I hoped it would be perceived.
    Rocker Dude stares at me. I’m guessing he was the bored voice who answered the phone before. I hold my breath. Then he makes another exasperated eyebrow raise/head movement that’s the universal gesture for
So why are you just standing here and distracting me from my “Five Yngwie Malmsteen Solos You HAVE to Know” article?
and goes back to reading.
    â€œThanks,” I say, and walk past him down the hall. I’m not sure exactly where I’m going, but I don’t want to pause, in case Rocker Dude finishes his research and decides maybe he should actually do his job. The hall is sloppy drywall, lined with framed articles and band posters and the occasional gold record. I get to the end and take a left. The hallway extends another twenty feet or so and then dead-ends into a closed unpainted metal door. When I get to it, I pause, unsure what to do, and then hear voices. Loud voices. Loud, angry, shouting voices. Getting louder.
    I step back from the door, and it’s lucky I do, because in that instant the door bursts open toward me like it’s been kicked and slams into the doorstop, rebounding halfway closed, and gets kicked open again. Then I have to flatten myself against the wall to avoid being speared in the stomach by a hard-shell bass guitar case, carried by a guy who is talking over his shoulder as he storms directly at me.
    â€œYeah, well, guess what?” he’s saying at someone behind him, “
I
don’t need this crap either!” Then he marches past me without as much as a glance in my direction.
    â€œRob! Rob, c’mon!” says a woman, and she emerges from the doorway in pursuit. She’s maybe in her early twenties, and very pretty, sandy brown hair, in jeans and a T-shirt. Rob stops and turns to her.
    â€œAmy, I’m sorry, I can’t. I love you to death, but I just can’t,” he says.
    â€œRob, c’mon, we can work through this.”
    â€œNo, I don’t think we can.”
    â€œWe
can.
”
    â€œNo, we
can’t,
” says a new voice, and then there’s Shane, who has tromped out of the doorway and planted himself right in front of me, not registering my presence. “We
can’t
work through it, because you don’t know how, because you don’t know how to be a professional!” he says, jabbing a finger at Rob.
    â€œOh,
I
don’t know how to be a professional?” says Rob, putting down his bass and stalking back toward Shane, ignoring Amy as she pulls at him and says, “Rob, c’mon, just leave it!”
    â€œLet me tell you about being a professional!” says Rob, reaching Shane, and then the two of them do that thing where you stand too close to each other and point fingers in each other’s faces and shout angry sentences simultaneously with barely a pause to breathe, while Amy does her best to interject and split them apart. I’m right there. I’m so close, I could put a hand on each of the disputants’ shoulders without straightening my arm, but I’m invisible.
    This is a totally different Shane from the one the day before, the cautious, needy supplicant. I note that he has a bandage similar to mine on his forehead, which I’m assuming covers a wound caused by a Renaissance festival mug.
    â€œI can get another bass player in an hour!” Shane is shouting.
    â€œYeah? And, what, your third drummer? Your fifth guitarist? It’s been
weeks
of this crap!”
    Amy is facing me directly across the hallway at handshake distance. As she tries to keep