la la land

monuments of infallibility
iI've heard the mumbling of citadels shifting on the Richter scale.
The alleys will flow
marble intercourse
roil the pantheon of subterfuge.
- “Cut That City” (Bixler Zavala)


Pete’s day began at 4am, leaving a mumbling warm body in his bed to dial into a conference call on the East Coast. A band he represented was desperately attempting to get out of their recording contract, having won a Grammy recently, because they’d finally figured out they were being screwed. Never mind that two months earlier Pete had advised them to renegotiate before they began their follow-up record. He sat in his Aeron chair, feet up on the enormous desk he insisted upon in lieu of an actual filing system, eyes closed, listening to the prattle of the designated watchdog for UMG bark at him about penalties, and bad faith, and market worth. Pete figured about one in every ten words this guy was saying was actually worth listening to. It was all for show, the advisory discussions. Because the monolith would not let go without a fight, and if Pete was lucky he could at least lessen the time involved on their work-for-hire arrangement, if not manage a liquidation entirely.

He was in the midst of his third cup of coffee when the lackey finally concurred that a meeting with the principles was in order and Pete agreed to smooth the way, logistically speaking. He went outside to the patio, Eli didn’t like him smoking in the house.

Luckily his cell phone had perfect reception, even out in the wilds of Calabasas. First of all, checking his watch, he figured it was as good a time as any to call his problem child. One of the third years assigned as an intern to Schedlier, Thompson and Green, reporting to Pete as a minder for Jack Perris, had informed him yesterday that Jack was falling behind on some of his legally-mandated responsibilities. The voice on the other end of the line was sleepy and hoarse.

“Pete, it’s 6:12. Our tee time isn’t until one.”

“Jack, you haven’t been to your anger management group in two weeks. Do you know how much ass I had to kiss to make that deal? If the judge finds out, it’s 90 days in County. More for you, probably, because you’ll end up getting into a fight with the first guy who calls you a faggot.”

“I can’t stand the guy who runs that group, he’s an asshole!” Jack replied. Pete would have said he was whining, except his voice was so deep that he could never quite manage the proper tone.

“And it takes one to know one, my friend. Please cooperate, or risk injuring my goodwill. And Eli will cut you off too.”

“Oh dude, no more chili?”

“Not a bean.”

A very loud sigh resounded all the way from Burbank. “Fine. When’s the next meeting?”

“I’ll tell the center to call you. I think it’s Thursday. Oh, and Marsh extends his apologies for yesterday.”

“You’re not gonna make that guy a partner, are you?”

“It’s not up to me. But I agree that he’s egregiously sycophantic.”

“Is he coming today?”

“No. But I asked Josh Drees to come along, I think he might be a good person for you to talk to.”

“Wait, is he the guy who runs that touchy-feely New Age place?”

“It’s a musicians’ retreat.” He lit another cigarette. He had been trying to cut down from a pack to half a pack a day for the past couple months, but talking to Jack was always an exercise in stress management, which was especially easy when vices were handy.

“I don’t need to retreat from anything, dude. I just need enough money to get another damn rehearsal space.”

“Can you just talk to him, please? Maybe he can help you.”

“Whatever. Hey, this chick wants to blow me, so I gotta go. Speaking of, how is Eli?”

“My wife still finds you obnoxious,” Pete commented, as Eli came out onto the patio bearing more coffee. “I’ll see you at one.”

“You are Jack’s worst nightmare?” she asked him, smirking.

“Always. How’d you sleep, princess?”

“After you left I had a weird dream that we were at the Grammys and Tommy Mottola threatened to kill you.”

“Are you sure that wasn’t just a repressed memory?” he asked, pouring himself another cup from the carafe she handed him.

She shrugged, and he smiled at the way the bridge of her nose crinkled. Eli, short for Elizabeth, was a rather plain-looking sort of woman, almost perversely so. She refused to wear cosmetics of any kind and took pains to dress as dowdy as possible. For the anonymous office job she held at a medical insurance firm it didn’t really matter, but Pete had to cajole her to dress up at least once every three months when he was required to make an appearance at an awards show and hold the hand of one or more of his clients.

“Why don’t you just leave me at home?” she always asked him as he dragged her into one Rodeo Drive boutique after another, looking for something elegant, yet simple.

“You’re the love of my life, why would I? Besides, those vows about for better or worse include really long, boring industry events.”

Eli would respond with a dirty look, but then Pete would kiss her passionately, causing her to forget her abhorrence for the entertainment machine. . .until the next time.

Pete looked through some files he had brought out to the table as the scenery they had paid very dearly for began to glow in a new dawn’s illumination. Eli leaned over the railing and watched the birds in the trees bordering the creek that ran behind their property.

“It’s supposed to be hot today, make sure you wear a hat to the course,” she advised him.

“Will do, babe.”

“Are you coming home tonight?”

“Eventually. I have to meet with Dex and Gordon after their photo shoot today, and try to arrange things with Graceload for their renegotiation.”

“I thought you said it was too late for them to resign.”

“It’s never too late, princess, but it’s going to be harder to get them what they want now, since they’ve already accepted money for the next release. You can bet I’m going to bill them up the ass just for making me have to grovel to UMG, those fuckers.”

Eli straddled his lap and ran her hands over his beard. “But that’s why everyone wants you to do their dirty work, honey. You’re the best.”

“Yeah, but when was the last time you said that?” he teased, running his hands over her back and down across her ass.

“You must not have been listening last night.”

“You said I was the best? Damn! What did I do?”

“Come back to bed and I’ll tell you.”

“Let’s pretend I’m from Missouri.”

“I don’t have the proper equipment. And if you keep quibbling you’re going to miss the window of nookie opportunity.”

“This is not quibbling,” he told her as they went in the house. “This is negotiation.”

“That kind of equivocation may work on dumb rock stars, but not on me.” In the bedroom she opened her robe to reveal nothing but her normal, pale and somewhat doughy flesh that he found utterly intriguing.

“Well that’s why I married you, princess. I couldn’t stand the fact that someone smarter than me was just wandering around, unsupervised. Now I can keep an eye on you.”

He removed his sweatpants and was also naked, joining her on the bed.

“Just one eye? I think you might be apt to miss something.”

Their coital meanderings became too heated to continue the verbal jousting, though he was still far from completion when the alarm went off again and she pushed him aside, muttering something about being late for work. He lay back in the bed, smiling. Eli was the only person who was capable of making him feel normal, as the nature of his work dictated that he utilize a certain cold precision in his dealings.

The secret to being a good lawyer is to never, and I mean never, allow anyone to believe that you think you might be fallible. You must always believe you are right, because the more you believe you are right, the more others will start believing it too. And in our line of work, presentation is reality.

His first boss, the well-known entertainment lawyer Julian Borgland, had given all the new hires the same lecture at the initial staff meeting. He had a stare that could inspire inadequacy at fifty paces, but Pete had managed to survive merely because he was ornery and not inclined to let anyone else win if he could help it. His conquest of Eli, for example, was one for the ages. They had been introduced at a party by a mutual friend and her initial reaction was one of complete disgust.

“You’re a lawyer?” she asked, aghast.

“Yeah, entertainment lawyer. My firm serves as counsel for quite a few famous names, mostly musicians.”

“Ugh! No offense, I mean, I’m sure you’re good at your job and everything, but I’ve adopted a policy never to get involved with anyone in the industry. I lack the proper mindset, you see.”

“Meaning?” he had asked, pausing over his drink, eyebrows raised.

“I have a brain.”

“Yes, I noticed. It’s quite attractive.”

“Are you coming on to me?” Her expression had changed from repugnance to incredulousness.

“Naturally.”

She looked around. “Every woman is this room is more attractive than I am, and at least half of them are single.”

“But none of them are you.” He looked her in the eye, a small mischievous smile causing his lips to purse slightly.

“Oh no,” she said, holding up a hand and shaking her head, “that kind of votary groveling may work on your clients, but I’m not an idiot.”

He chuckled. “Well despite your reluctance to be pursued I’m going to get you, so you can protest all you want. I love a challenge.”

Pete winked at Eli and took pleasure in her blush. She looked entirely without guile to him and if there was one thing he truly desired, it was someone he could trust. And he found her arrogance, her complete snobbishness in relation to popular culture, to be absolutely erotic. He knew that if he did win her, it would be because she actually liked him, not because he was connected to the glitz of the dream factory. However, Eli did have her moments. For example, though she had tried her best to hide it, she was thoroughly enamored of one of his clients, a two-man musical collective called Nebulae. They had managed to secure a rabid cult following that in today’s indie-friendly musical climate meant major label attention. Because they were savvy to the culture of greed that was all-pervasive in the industry, they had specifically hired Pete to serve as a sentinel between themselves and their distributor. The deal he had worked out for them was unprecedented, and they were all legally bound for the next ten years in a non-disclosure agreement, because if word got out that Sony had allowed an relatively new artist to not only retain their publishing but also their recording masters, a virtual rebellion would have swept through the labels. Pete knew the only reason they had agreed in the first place was that even a smaller piece of a million was still a lot of money, and these guys were raking it in. They had blown up, on their own terms, and the accountants could crunch big numbers and sleep happily. He brought Eli with him to the private preview for their new record and she had fallen in love with their mélange of progressive meets ambient meets world meets emo and they all go home together, roll with some E and wake up the next morning blissful and sticky. And sure enough, she couldn’t resist a query as she emerged from the shower and readied herself for the day ahead.

“Hey, you said you’d give Dex that book, right? At the photo shoot?”

Pete smiled, impishly thinking of the best way to tease Eli about her little crush.

“I’m sure your lover boy will be waiting for it with baited breath.”

“Oh he’s too young for me. I much prefer ancient bastards like you.”

“Excuse me, you’re no budding blossom yourself, sweetheart.”

“You’ll always be five years older than me, so there’s no use in pretending otherwise.”

“Speaking of pretending, if I find out you think of him when I’m fucking you it’s not going to be pretty.”

She laughed raucously and stood by the bed, allowing her eyes to take in all of him.

“No I don’t think of Dex when you’re fucking me, honey. I think of him when I’m sitting in traffic, dreaming about owning a bookstore and he’s my minion. I watch his tight little ass when he climbs the ladder to reach the high shelves.”

Pete teasingly grimaced, showing his teeth, thrown into sharp contrast by his brown skin.

“You know, we’ve stood next to each other at the urinals. My dick is bigger than his.”

“Oh good, because you know that’s why I married you.”

“All of a sudden I’m thinking that’s not a compliment.”

Eli giggled merrily and blew him a kiss. Then she was gone in a wake of long brown hair and flashing hazel eyes.

“Have a good day, honey,” he called out after her. “I love you.”

“Love you too, Peter,” she replied, then silence, as the front door closed behind her and all that remained were the bucolic murmurings of their environs. He decided enough time had elapsed that he could call Graceload’s manager and tell him the relatively optimistic news. Pulling on his sweatpants once more and traversing to the kitchen to pour another cup of coffee, accompanied by a buttered English muffin and a banana, he went into his office and dialed Greg Towers on his landline, using the speakerphone setting.

“Hey Greg, it’s your favorite litigator,” he greeted him. “Pardon the speaker but I’m having my breakfast.”

“No problem, so what’s the good word?”

“The good word is that it appears we won’t have to actually file any grievance right now. I got the corporate office to agree to take a meeting regarding the contract.”

“Excellent, dude.”

“Yeah well, it only gets harder from here. They’re going to fight us every inch of the way.”

“Sales have gone up 20 percent since last week. I think they see a cash cow they don’t want to lose.”

“Oh I agree, but that doesn’t mean they won’t be assholes about it.”

“Yeah, but you’re a bigger asshole, right?”

“None more noxious,” Pete replied, taking a bite of the muffin.

“So we’ll duke it out. I’m not worried.”

“Yeah well, once of us has to be positive, I suppose. So who do you have lined up for production duties?”

“Jon Sabbron.”

Pete grimaced, running a hand through his long black hair. “Dude, why don’t you just have the boys put their dicks on my desk and let me cut them off? That would be less painful.”

“What are you talking about?!”

“That guy is good for making chick singers sound like they’ve got some balls, but please, any time he works with guys he emasculates them. His sound is just too polished, too processed for real rock bands.”

“He’s hot though. He’s had four hits in the last six months.”

“Just don’t let him write with the band, okay? Make sure they’ve got finished demos when they go in, otherwise he’ll just take over the whole process and you can say goodbye to whatever it is that makes Graceload unique, which isn’t a whole hell of a lot, come to think of it.”

“Ouch, dude.”

“You’re not paying me to kiss your ass. I will tell you the truth, whether you want to hear it or not.”

“Okay, okay. So when is the meeting?”

“I’m going to shoot for Monday, so I can round up some paralegals to crack the books for me. If I can’t jam a bunch of precedents up their asses my initial gambit isn’t going to work.”

“Got it. My calendar is synched.”

“All right, until then, business as usual. Crack the whip, and don’t let them whine about needing time to recharge their creative batteries or any of that bullshit, because you know that’s just shorthand for wanting to slack off: getting high, getting laid, and playing videogames.”

“Don’t worry, I’m on it. Later, dude.”

Pete terminated the call and sat back, sighing heavily. He was looking forward to the golf game, because there was nothing quite as satisfying as hitting things. He preferred golf to something like tennis or baseball because it required less overall physical activity. Just enough to take the edge off his misanthropy. He told himself he didn’t need another cigarette just yet, but went out and smoked one anyway, pondering legal maneuvers and the way his wife looked while having an orgasm.