“Are you serious?” Keller asks through clenched teeth. “You’ve been fucking us without lube for months.”
“Since we own your asses, we can fuck you any and every which way we like. Personally, I like it dry—tighter that way.”
Josh jumps up and points at Benji with his phone. “Fuck you, man. If we walk—”
“If you walk, you’re in breach of contract. You owe the label every cent you have been paid out to date, plus any projected earnings. But we know you’re not gonna walk. You’re gonna do something for us. Something you’ve owed us for a while.”
I reach for Josh, who’s running his hand through his dark hair, and he sits back down. Jeff places a hand on his shoulder and squeezes, silently telling him to calm down.
Leaning back against the couch, I cross my arms and try not to look like I’m grinding my teeth, which I am. From his smile, I’m guessing Benji’s cooked up something extra special for us this time.
“You’ve been in breach of contract with your Teddy Run for a few years now. Anytime you or your songs are played, the label is owed royalties. This essentially means you owe us royalties for the last few years. We’ve been letting it slide, but since you’re not playing the game anymore, now we’re enforcing the terms of the contract. We want you to charge a cover fee at the gate of your little Teddy Run this year as well as the stuffed toy.”
I know I’m gaping—I just can’t help it. Grappling for calm that is almost beyond my reach and willing myself to stay rooted in my seat so I don’t put my fist through this motherfucker’s face, I turn to face Jeff—he’s the calm one in our group, the levelheaded one—sure he’s going to shake his head at me and tell me to stay calm. But what I see on his face now tells me he’s not going to be the one to keep me on an even keel.
“This is fucking insane.” Keller has unwrapped his arms and is digging his nails into the back of the couch. His voice is eerily quiet and tells me he is closer to losing his shit than I am. Keller used to have serious anger issues when he was younger and works hard to make sure his temper remains on lockdown. Today, we might be pushing that boundary.
“The Teddy Run isn’t about making money. It’s why we charge a stuffed toy for entrance. We get nothing out of the deal, and even pay the overhead out of our own pockets,” I say.
Benji leans forward, his shirt straining over his paunch. “Right, but we don’t make any money out of this either, and I’m not fucking Mother Teresa. We’re in it for the money.”
I run a hand through my hair. I’m going to fucking lose it. The Teddy Run means everything to me. To us. When Emily and I broke up, I went into a downward spiral, only staying sober long enough to make it through a gig or a concert. My grief consumed me, and I couldn’t see anything but my own pain. When I got fucked-up drunk after a show at the Wiltern, Gail, owner of All Pins Down, the bowling alley where we got our start playing on her small stage, took me back to her place. The following morning, she dragged my ass to an orphanage to pick up kids for a day of bowling at her place. What I experienced that day was the wake-up call I needed. Seeing kids with next to nothing, experiencing so much joy from one day out, was a massive reality check. The orphanage was barely making it, relying on donations from local stores to keep them afloat, and yet they were the happiest people I’d seen.
The following day I got the guys together and we went to a local toy store, loaded up our arms, and delivered teddies to the kids. Then we sat down and planned our first Teddy Run. We started with five hundred and fifty people in the parking lot of All Pins Down. We kept it small to work out the logistics, but the next year we hired a venue and had over two thousand people, and so we progressed. Sure, we’re giving back, but I need to do this for myself as much as for the kids. I need to have the anchor—something that reminds me to look for the joy when things get rough. I need the kids to remind me of that. I need this, and by the looks of my bandmates, they need this just as much.
Unable to sit still any longer, I stand and pace to the window. “What’s it gonna take, Benji? What’s your price?”
I turn to face him even though I’d much rather stare out the window at the cars and people the size of ants way down below in the real world. The world where hopefully people haven’t sold their souls like we have. I’m taking in slow, steady breaths, focusing on every
