All Saturday Lerner fumed. In part it was because he would miss two events: first the Clippers hosting Golden State, then an after-hours party in Silverlake. Worse was that his plans had been derailed not by sickness or car trouble, but by yet another last minute call from his boss.
Fully aware that an entry-level position in what was left of the music business meant ridiculous hours, plus tasks rarely mentioned in job postings, Lerner had never balked at Peretta’s often bizarre whims, notions, or demands. In less than six months he had driven the boss’s kids back and forth to school, picked up dry cleaning, squired bimbos to and from assignations, run out in search of Thai noodles at 3 AM, scored illicit substances, ghosted book reports and term papers, posted bail, and even chauffeured a teary-eyed redhead home after an abortion. All without a moment’s hesitation, or even the faintest of complaints.
What Lerner ever asked for in return, when at last he got up the nerve to broach the subject, was a simple courtesy: a bit of advanced notice.
Instead, without the slightest hint or warning, came a call on what was scheduled to be a rare day off.
“Favor time, Champ,” said an all-too-familiar voice over Bluetooth from a Tesla worth more than Lerner’s school teacher parents ever earned between them in a year. “Guess who’s getting on a London-bound flight this afternoon –”
“And you want a ride to the airport?”
“For that there are limos. Know that blonde I’ve been getting seeing when my wife’s at the beach house?”
“Jocelyn?”
“Nah, she got too clingy. Francesca. The one I took to Vicente when you made reservations.”
“Okay –”
“With Joanie away, I was supposed to spend tonight with her –”
“And?”
“I need you to pinch hit.”
“B-but –”
“Do I hear hesitation?”
“Well –”
“C’mon, do I ask for much?”
Lerner bit his lip.
“Know what?” Peretta continued.
“What?”
“How’s about you pick her up my pretty little old Porsche instead of the clunker of yours. Not bad, huh? Deal?”
Before Lerner could answer, Peretta hung up.
* * *
Though he loved wheeling through LA in the vintage Porsche both times he was assigned to bring it in for servicing, that evening Lerner resisted temptation and drove westward in his beat-up Volvo.
His pique mounting due to condescending looks from drivers in Range Rovers, Jaguars, Beemers, and Bentleys, plus an occasional Prius or Hummer, Lerner finally reached Venice, a once-funky beach community largely transmogrified by gentrification. Turning onto a narrow street near the canals, he pulled up in front of one of the few cottages that had not yet morphed into a McMansion.
Expecting the worst, Lerner got out of his car and girded himself, then trudged toward the front door. There he took a deep breath before knocking.
Accustomed to Peretta’s usual array of ex-starlets, most of whom had been unhappily married to Jungian psychiatrists, periodontists, or forensic accountants before being relinquished for newer models, Lerner was surprised to find himself face-to-face with someone strangely devoid of Botox, jewels, or after-market decolletage.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” asked Francesca, whose wholesome face seemed blissfully free of the warpaint that adorned most of Peretta’s conquests, and whose Mexican-style blouse and simple white skirt bore no signs of Rachel Zoe influence.
With little resistance, Lerner allowed himself to be led into the living room, where he was surprised to hear a golden oldie called “I Wish Someone Would Care.”
“You like Irma Thomas?” he asked.
“I live for New Orleans R&B,” Francesca replied. “Irma, Benny Spellman, the Neville Brothers, Frogman, plus some guy known as Fats. You, too?”
Lerner nodded. “Guess it makes me a traitor to my generation,”
“Or someone with taste. White okay, or would you prefer red?”
“Whatever’s easy.”
“So what do you have in mind for the evening?” Francesca asked after pouring Lerner a glass of cabernet. “Or did your boss show off by having you make a reservation at some ridiculously high-end place?”
Lerner chuckled.
“What’s that mean?” Francesca asked.
“Truthfully?”
“Why not?”
“I was prepared not to like you –” he offered, owning up to a measure of guilt.
“And then?”
“Drive us to some low-life joint in the hope of making you uncomfortable.”
“Which means somebody’s doing this begrudgingly. We can call it off –”
“Nope –”
“Why not? Then both of us can lie to Peretta about all the Champagne and caviar we consumed. Unless –”
“Yeah?”
“We go someplace we actually want to go, and maybe even have fun.”
“Got something in mind?”
“My taste runs toward the exotic: regional Chinese, Korean, Indian, Vietnamese. You familiar with Ethiopian?”
“What’s it like?”
“Never had Fried Missionary? Spices and onions okay with you?”
“Love ’em.”
“No problem eating with your hands?”
Lerner shook his head.
“Or seeing few white faces?”
Lerner studied Francesca for a moment, then smiled. “Let’s do it!”
* * *
As they fought their way eastward through Venice Boulevard traffic while listening to Benny Spellman’s “Lipstick Traces,” Francesca turned toward Lerner. “So what other kinds of music do you like?”
“Everything from Thelonious Monk to The Blind Boys Of Mississippi, Jacques Brel, Amy Winehouse, Southside Johnny –”
“And you’re working for Peretta?”
“You’re not big on what he produces?”
“Know anyone who is?”
“Lots of people buy it.”
“And eat at McDonald’s.” Francesca frowned, then took a breath. “Sorry. I shouldn’t be putting you on the spot.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Then tell me why you’re working for him.”
“I sent out a million emails, postcards, and letters, then made a zillion calls.”
“And he’s the one who stepped up?”
“It was him or some whacko who wanted me to move to Oakland and work for free.”
* * *
Instead of directing Lerner toward the main drag of the area known as Little Ethiopia, Francesca guided him onto a nondescript block of Pico Boulevard, then had him to pull over just past an Indian grocery. Getting out of the car, the two of them approached a storefront with no signage, then entered a cheerful room filled exclusively with Ethiopians.
They were immediately directed to a corner table, where Francesca faced her escort. “Willing to put your faith in my hands?”
“For Fried Missionary?”
“We’ll save that for next time. Anything you don’t eat?”
“Beets.”
“Why beets?”
“A war of wills with my mother when I was young. And if you want the truth, I can live without kale.”
“In the kale capital of the world? But don’t worry, I won’t squeal.”
With no hesitation, Francesca ordered a combination platter and a bottle of Ethiopian wine, then faced Lerner. “So I bet you’re wondering something, but are too nice to ask.”
“Such as?”
“Why I’m seeing a married guy like Peretta.”
“Not really.”
“C’mon –”
Lerner shrugged. “Okay –”
“This town is based, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, on the cult of youth. When you’re getting up there like I am –”
“You’re not old –”
The conversation stopped as the waitress returned with a bottle of wine, from which she poured them each a glass. They toasted and sipped, then Francesca again spoke. “How old do you think I am?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re being kind. Guess.”
“34? 35?”
Francesca laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Lerner asked.
“That’s what my friends tell me to say.”
“As opposed to?”
“42 next week.”
“No way.”
“Which means you’re either very polite or extremely near-sighted.”
They both chuckled, then watched a huge platter of food arrive. Francesca identified each item, then demonstrated how to use the crepe-like bread called injera to pick up a mouthful.
“Good?” she asked after watching Lerner take his first bite.
“Incredible!”
Silenced reigned while they sampled the different specialties on the tray, then Francesca resumed. “So I bet you think Peretta’s got you here as a babysitter.”
“Well –”
“Want to know the truth?”
“I suppose –”
“His intentions aren’t quite that benevolent.”
“Meaning?”
“How well do you know how his mind works?”
“Pretty well.”
“Then what if I tell you he’s afraid that if I get lonely I’ll go out and pick up an out of work actor. Or a produce guy at Whole Foods. Or a towel man at a car wash.”
Lerner grimaced.
“Now is that Peretta, or is that Peretta?” Francesca asked, drawing a nod from her companion. “We talking dirty mind, or we talking dirty mind?”
“Yet you see him.”
“Guilty as charged. Guess I don’t have it in me to go on Match.com or to singles bars. And there’s a limit to how many dinners I want to have with my lady friends. Not to mention that in his own way he’s fun. How old are you?”
“What I tell people? Or the truth.”
“Your call.”
“Depending on the situation, sometimes I’ll say 23, or 24, or even 25.”
“When you’re really 22?”
Lerner nodded.
“Hey,” said Francesca. “In this town you’re not the only one to fudge.”
* * *
An hour-and-a-half or so later, out from the restaurant came two people feeling more comfortable than ever in each other’s presence. Climbing into the Volvo, they headed west with a Huey “Piano” Smith & The Clowns song playing until Francesca turned the volume down.
“So what are you hoping to do in the years ahead?” she asked.
“Aside from earning enough to afford more meals like that? Produce.”
“What kind of music?”
“The kind I can be proud of. How about you? What do you do?”
“I’m a kept woman.”
Lerner winced. “Really?”
“No. Though I’ve done a bunch of other things as well, mainly I’m a songwriter.”
“Anything I know?”
“Yes and no.”
“Can I get that in English?”
“Unless you’re a singer-songwriter with a following – or maybe Leiber & Stoller, Phil Spector, or Willie Dixon, if giants like that still exist – when you place a song you’ve got zero control over what happens to it.”
“I’m still not sure –”
“Let me tell you about a guy in New York who’s still around. Not once but twice, while driving with the radio on, he heard almost an entire record before realizing he was the one who wrote it.”
“You’re kidding.”
“One was a song recorded by Janis Joplin, the other one by some Brits called The Throggs.”
“Wild Thing.”
“You know your stuff.”
“I try. So what’s the best advice you can someone like give me?”
“First and foremost, be yourself.”
“And?”
“Instead of going for what’s hot today, shoot for what’ll stand up ten… twenty… thirty years from now.”
“And?”
“Not to sound self-serving, but always remember that everything starts with the song.”
“You think?”
“There’ve been ordinary artists, so-so artists, even not particularly good artists – people who would otherwise be long forgotten – who are remembered because of one or maybe two great pieces of material.”
“Still –”
“Still, nothing. And there are lots of incredible singers with records that are fair to middling at best. Why? Because no one – not even Sinatra, Ray Charles, or Aretha – can overcome a song that’s bad news.”
Lerner pondered for a moment. “Anything else I should know?”
“Sure. Win the lottery or marry rich.”
“Just like you?”
“Bingo! ” Francesca replied with the faintest of smiles. “Now I’ll tell one.”
* * *
As they pulled up in front of Francesca’s house, Lerner turned toward her. “I’ll walk you to the door.”
“You don’t have to.”
“What if I want to?
Together they headed up the path.
“You were a good sport,” Francesca said as they reached their destination.
“I enjoyed it. And I appreciate the advice. Think maybe I could call you some time?”
“Why?”
“To hear your songs the way you would’ve recorded ’em.”
“That’s sweet.”
“That a yes?”
Francesca hesitated for a moment, then nodded.
“Great. I’ll bring empanadas from a little Argentinian place I found.”
The two of them faced each other amidst a silence that grew more and more awkward until Francesca leaned forward and kissed Lerner on the cheek.
“Thanks for a lovely evening,” she said softly.
“Thank you,” Lerner replied before turning and starting slowly toward his car.
Seconds seemed like hours, then suddenly Francesca spoke. “Know what? Why don’t you stay?”
Stunned, Lerner dawdled for a moment before dashing toward Francesca and taking her in his arms. Then, hand in hand, into the house they went.
* * *
Thanked profusely by Peretta after his return from London, Lerner offered little information about his night with Francesca.
Though he often thought of calling her in the days, then weeks, that followed, especially when his restless boss turned his attentions to interchangeable models named Annika, Antoinette, Gabriella, Lola, and Raquel, Lerner never quite managed to get up the courage.
He did, however, keep her advice in mind, using every free evening to go to out-of-the way clubs, coffee houses, and open mic nights in search of the kind of talent he cherished.
When at last he had come across a handful of up-and-comers he believed in, he startled Peretta with an announcement that he was leaving to form his own company.
* * *
As the years when on, every time he produced a record he was proud of, he made a point of sending it immediately to Francesca.
Always, less than a day later, he always received a one-word response: “Yes!”
# # #
Alan Swyer is an award-winning filmmaker whose recent documentaries have dealt with Eastern spirituality in the Western world, the criminal justice system, diabetes, and boxing. In the field of music, among his productions is an album of Ray Charles love songs. His novel ‘The Beard’ was recently published by Harvard Square Editions. http://harvardsquareeditions.org/portfolio-items/the-beard/
Photo credit: Kae Sable
