Chapter 8: Only the Beginning

The Campus, San Luis Obispo County, California

May 22, 2003

It was a Thursday afternoon in the rehearsal studio of The Campus. Jake, producer of all things KVA, was sitting behind the soundboard, watching and listening as the members of V-tach rolled through their new tune, Could That Really Happen? for him. He liked what he was hearing. The tune sounded much better than the raw version he had initially been presented with (not that that version had been terrible, just not recording quality). He smiled as he tapped his feet to the beat, as he heard them grind out the changes he had “suggested” to them the previous week. Once laid down on the CD, it was going to be one of the album’s most popular pieces.

Jake came in to watch their sessions and make his suggestions on Tuesdays and Thursdays, staying for the entire session. The only days he skipped were when Celia had an OB appointment on one of those days, and even then he usually popped in for a little bit either before or after, depending on what time the appointment was. Nerdly came in once a week, usually on Tuesdays, to give his own two cents worth. He wanted to be there more—he would be there every day if they let him—but he was actually a hindrance to progress instead of an asset to it at this point in the game so it had been subtly communicated to him that once a week was sufficient until they actually started laying down tracks. The rest of the week, the band just kept rehearsing and working up the tunes, implementing the changes Jake had given them and perfecting them. It was a tedious process, but making music was a tedious business. V-tach certainly understood that by this point in their career.

They finished up their fifth rendition of the tune that day. Jake did not clap. He did not congratulate them on a job well done. Nor did he criticize them in any way other than constructive.

“I’m still not quite happy with the last part of the outro,” he told them. This was not criticism of anyone but himself. He was the one shaping the tune for them, and he was the one who would need to suggest how to shape the final ending. “I’m not exactly sure what I’m looking for here just yet. Maybe a little more drum flourish for the final seconds. Maybe a fade-out with a stepped down version of the primary rhythm.” He shook his head a little. “I’ll have to think on it a little bit.” Which meant he would have to go home, smoke some marijuana out on the deck or out in the hot tub, and truly ponder the music.

A flashing light in his peripheral vision caught his attention. It was the phone, which only received incoming calls from the main building or the guard shack. For obvious reasons, it had a visual ringer instead of an audible one. Jake walked over and picked it up. “This is Jake,” he said.

It was Jason, the on-duty security supervisor. “Jake,” he said (he and all of the other security force had long since been instructed to call bandmembers and crew by first name), “your new guests have arrived. We’ve just checked them in and cleared them past the gate.”

“All right, thanks,” he replied. He turned back to the band. “I’m gonna head out for the rest of the day. I need to show the boys around the place and then go check out G’s new pad.”

They all nodded at this plan. Lenny, the leader, told him they would keep working on the changes that had been “suggested” to them.

Jake left the soundboard and exited the rehearsal building. He walked down the path that led to the main building. In the parking lot, next to his BMW and the vehicles of V-tach, was a Cadillac Escalade, a 7-series BMW, and an S-series Mercedes. All were less than two years old and the top of their class. Jake was a little puzzled, however. There should have been four more vehicles.

He used his ID card to open the front door of the main building and then stepped inside. In the lobby were Gordon Paladay (aka Bigg G), his wife Neesh, their child Elijah Teven (called ET most of the time he was not in actual trouble, which he was a lot), James Whitlock, and Lucky Powell. James and Lucky had played bass and drums, respectively, for Jake on his last solo tour. He had not seen either of them since. They were here because G had rented studio time at The Campus to record his next CD. They planned to settle in over the Memorial Day weekend and then start working on Tuesday morning. Jake had already hired two techs to assist them in their endeavor. Cedric “Stinky” Stewart, G’s long time sound engineer, would be in primary control of engineering, mixing, and mastering. G himself would be the producer of the CD.

“Brother Jake!” James yelled when he saw him. “Look at your tight-ass whitey self! You don’t look like some motherfucker who been shot, spindled, and fuckin’ mutilated.”

Jake smiled. “That’s because my white ass is so fuckin’ tight,” he replied. “How’d y’all’s lips do coming up over the mountains? No blowouts?”

All three of the musicians cracked up over this remark, which originated from a joke that G had once told Jake (and that Jake had found particularly funny and non-politically correct) about why you did not find many African-Americans (not the term G had used in the telling of the joke) in the mountains. Even Elijah thought it was funny. Jake stepped forward and exchanged a complex handshake with James that ended with a bro-hug. He then did the same for Lucky and G. For Neesh, he exchanged a sis-hug and she kissed him on the cheek. He then looked down at their child.

“You have grown since the last time I saw you, my man,” he told him.

“Fuck the Man!” ET barked right back at him.

“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” Jake said. He held out his hand to the two-year-old and, to his delight, they were able to exchange a complex handshake.

“Your kid’s got soul,” Jake told the couple.

“He does,” Neesh said wearily. “More soul than he can control.”

“Where are the rest of the guys?” Jake asked G.

“You know them niggas,” G said. “They’s just being lazy ass motherfuckers, like usual. They said they’ll be here at ‘some point’ today. I ain’t really expecting them to come rollin’ in until around dinnertime.”

“They’re going to miss my guided tour then,” Jake said.

“Fuck ‘em,” G said. “They were told what time your ass would be here.”

“Yeah!” proclaimed Elijah. “Fuck ‘em!”

“I see you’ve taken a page from the Jake Kingsley school of childrearing when it comes to vocabulary lessons,” Jake observed.

“He’s a brother,” G said with a shrug. “He’s automatically at a disadvantage in this world because he’s being raised by a couple of rich motherfuckers who are out of touch with today’s black culture, one of whom is a fuckin’ corporate lawyer of all fuckin’ things. Can you get any more white and connected to the Man than that? ET needs to establish his street cred early in life to counteract that shit.”

“That does make a certain sort of sense,” Jake had to admit.

“He’s likely gonna be the only motherfuckin’ brother in the school when he starts kindergarten in fuckin’ Malibu in two more years,” G said. “He’s needs to be able to rock his black shit by then if he’s going to be taken seriously.”

“I think he probably will,” Jake opined. “Anyway, I’ve put signs on all the doors letting the guys know which rooms are their rooms. V-tach is staying here as well, but I don’t foresee any issues between the two groups. Everyone is a professional.”

“As long as your peeps don’t start telling nigger jokes, they should be good,” G said.

“As long as your peeps don’t start telling cracker jokes, I would concur.” Jake said.

G chuckled a little. “I’ve missed your white ass, Jake,” he said. “You can dish it out as well as you take it.”

“As long as we’re not talking about anal sex, that is true shit,” Jake said.

That brought a chuckle from everyone, including Elijah.

Since both Neesh and G had been given the tour of The Campus when they had visited during the Christmas break, there was no need to repeat it. They decided to head over to the six thousand square foot home that G was renting for their stay. It was in the hills above San Luis Obispo city, the most exclusive neighborhood in the region, just half a mile from where the Nerdlys lived. They would be the first people of color to ever reside in the neighborhood as something other than domestic servants. As of yet, the word had not leaked out. It was going to be interesting when it did, especially since the persons of color in question were the notorious Bigg G and his wife.

Jake led them there in his BMW since he was familiar with the neighborhood and they had never been there, only seen pictures online. The house was fully furnished and quite beautiful. G had a bit of an issue with the interior decorating scheme—it was far too tighty whitey for his tastes—but was happy, nonetheless.

“I’ll just bring in a few pictures of Malcom X and MLK, some black candles, and some of my African art shit and throw them around for while we’re here,” he said.

“The Moroccan floor rug for the formal dining room would be perfect,” Neesh said. “We can just put it under the dining room table.”

“Fuckin’ A, baby,” G agreed, envisioning it.

“That back yard is amazing,” Jake said. It had a very nice tear drop shaped swimming pool with waterfalls, a fountain, and an attached hot tub. “Once Caydee sees that pool you’re gonna have to deal with her moving in here with you. We won’t be able to drag her out of here with one of those things they used to take down the statue of Saddam over in Baghdad.” The incident in question had, by this point, been revealed as nothing but fully staged propaganda by the people running the war.

“They’ll just accuse us of kidnapping her and grooming her for white slavery,” Neesh said.

“That is true,” Jake had to admit. “How long does your standard grooming for white slavery take these days? Is it something you could accomplish over the course of a recording session?”

“Not if we want the tracks to be laid down on time,” G said. “I guess you’ll have to keep the little ginger girl for now. We’ll train her up and sell her into white slavery later. Maybe her little brother too.”

“I guess so,” Jake said with a faux sigh of disappointment. “Although her little brother is going to be half Venezuelan. That’s not exactly white.”

“I guess we only get half price for his ass then,” G said with a sad shake of the head. “A pity.”

“Have you come up with a name for him yet?” asked Neesh.

Jake smiled. “We have,” he said. “You’ll keep it to yourselves if I tell you?”

“Of course,” Neesh said. G nodded affirmative as well.

Jake told them. Their eyes opened in surprise. “That sounds Italian, not Venezuelan,” G said.

“It’s musical,” Jake said. “It means a humorous or bizarre composition, which is kind of what he is when you come down to it.”

The couple rolled the name around in their heads for a few moments and then smiled. “I think I like it,” G finally said.

Neesh then correctly guessed what they would call the little passenger for short.

“It’s inevitable,” Jake agreed with a chuckle. “We’re already calling him that.”

After getting their bags settled in, they headed over to Kingsley Manor on the cliff over the ocean. Elsa had prepared her chicken parmesan, a Ceasar salad, and homemade garlic bread for them. Caydee and Elijah had a blast playing with each other, though G and Neesh would not let their little boy go out back with her. He was well versed in staying away from the waterline out on a beach in Malibu, but he was not the least bit versed in staying away from an unguarded cliff that led rather quickly down to such a beach in Oceano—a beach that had jagged rocks on it and was covered with water for a good portion of each day and night.

“How are things going with the V-tach peeps?” Gordon asked as he, Laura, and Jake smoked cigars and sipped cognac out on the deck after dinner. They had just burned a joint and all were feeling quite pleasant. Celia and Neesh were inside, entertaining the children until guitar-sing time.

“So far, so good,” Jake said. “We’re still pretty early in the process, but I’m hoping to get them in the actual studio in the next month or so. They have good material for me to work with. I’m thinking another multi-platinum album before the end of the year and then a tour to support it.”

“I like them motherfuckers,” G said. “Good, honest musicians to the core. Their lyrics ring true to me, from the heart.”

“The way lyrics should,” Jake said.

“Goddamn right,” G said.

Guitar, sing, harmika, flute time was held right after Caydee’s bath. The little girl, thanks to frequent lessons from Celia and a few from Jake since he’d returned from tour, was getting pretty good with her guitar. She had learned the D, A, G, and B chords pretty well, but was still working on the C and E, and was hopeless at this point on the F chord. Still, this allowed her to play many of her favorite tunes like Proud Mary, Nights in White Satin, Let’s Pee in the Corner (aka, Losing My Religion) and Whole Lotta Love (which she still believed the first line of which was “You Need Kool-Aid, Caydee girl’s not pooping”). She still had to look at her fingers for the more complex chords, but was getting better at keeping her eyes forward for the simpler ones.

“You’ll be ready to play a kegger at the park in no time, Caydee girl,” Jake praised after the session wrapped up.

“Fuckin’ A,” she agreed.

“Fuckin’ A,” added Elijah.

“Well put,” said G with a laugh.

The next day was a flight day for Laura Kingsley. She had now completed ground school and had 31 hours behind the controls of the Cessna 172 in her log book. She still had at least nine more hours of instructed time before Helen Brody would even think about allowing her to go solo. Still, she had been a good and attentive student and was taking her lessons very seriously, just as her husband had many years before. Helen had already told her that she would likely be able to solo at forty hours.

She woke up and had breakfast with Jake, Caydee, and Celia. After that, while Jake took Caydee to preschool, she climbed into her minivan and made the short trip to Oceano’s tiny airport. At 9:45, right on schedule, the Cessna 172 circled in and landed into the onshore breeze. It taxied over, parked, and the engine was shut down. The door opened and out stepped Helen Brody, ready to take Laura up for another two hours of flight. Today they planned to fly to Monterey for a navigation session (the route involved a few complicated legs) and then do some powered and unpowered stall recoveries off the coast of Oceano and then some touch and goes at the airport itself.

Helen, as usual, was all business as she watched Laura perform the preflight checks. There was no unnecessary conversation. Laura did everything on the checklist, calling it out as she did it. Helen had even gone to the trouble to put the pitot covers back on the aircraft just so Laura would have to remove and stow them again.

“We need fuel,” Laura told her teacher. “There’s only ten gallons in the tanks.”

Helen smiled at her. “I did that on purpose to make sure you would pick it up,” she said. “I guess we should head over to the pumping station.”

“I guess we should,” Laura said, finishing up the engine start checklist.

They put another forty gallons of avgas in the tanks, Laura paying for it with her credit card. Shortly after that, they took off, Laura handling everything herself without issue. She routed their course, programmed it in, set all the radio frequencies, spoke on those frequencies, taxied to the runway, and took off at the proper rate of climb without Helen having to say a word. She turned them to the northwest and climbed to four thousand feet. She programmed in the proper squawk code so Los Angeles Center could flight follow them and keep them out of the way of other aircraft.

“This is so fun,” she told Helen once the aircraft was level and in cruise flight. The plane did have an autopilot, but Helen insisted her students always hand fly the aircraft until they were at least thirty-eight hours in.

“It’s what I’ve devoted my life to,” Helen said.

“What about a husband? Kids? Those sorts of things?” Laura asked her. She and Helen had become close enough to each other that it was not an awkward question. In fact, she had found she rather liked her husband’s ex-lover quite a bit. Having been raised by a single father, she was straightforward and honest in a way that most women were not.

“Well ... I have Randy these days and that seems to be going pretty well,” she said. “As for marriage? Who knows? He was burned in a divorce and I’ve always had this kind of phobic fear about getting legally hitched. Not that I’ve had all that many offers. Jake never proposed to me or anything, but he was the only one I ever would have even considered marrying. We never quite got to that level in our relationship. Jenny Johansen fucked that all up for us.”

“She fucked a few things up for us too,” Laura said.

“Anyway,” Helen said, “back before Randy I had my share of booty call boys who were up for fucking me when I needed that particular thing in my life.”

“And that was able to keep you ... you know ... on the ride side of the line?”

Helen shrugged. “It got me by,” she said. “I’ll tell you though—and please don’t take this the wrong way—there has been nobody that has been able to get my motor running better than Jake back when we were together. Not even Randy, who is quite adequate at pleasing a woman. Jake is a pretty tough act to follow.”

“Yes,” Laura said, making a small course adjustment and small change to the horizontal trim setting. “He really is.”

“I really loved him back then,” Helen said. “I wished it could have worked out between us. I just couldn’t take the pressure of being a celebrity’s woman. People always popping up with cameras and snapping pictures of me. Magazines talking about how big my ass was getting. Insinuations that I passed Jake through flight school because he was fucking me. A crazy bitch coming onto my property to try to kidnap and kill me.” She shuddered a little at this last one.

“Yeah,” Laura said. “I’m with you there, sister. At least her ass is in prison for a while.”

“What finally caused you to break?” Helen asked. “You held it together a lot longer than I was able to, but something snapped at some point with you and Jake. Was it the pressure? Was it the bitch trying shoot you in the fuckin’ head?”

Laura shook her head. “It wasn’t the pressure,” she said. “And it wasn’t the bitch.”

“Then what was it? Was it he and Celia? Did they develop some relationship with each other? Or are you actually a lesbian, like the papers say? I know I have no right to ask these questions, but I promise I’ll keep any answers to myself.”

Laura sighed, making another slight course adjustment. “It’s complicated,” she said. “If I tell you this, it has to remain extremely confidential. You can’t even tell Jake or Celia that I told you.”

“Okay,” Helen said softly. “I promise.”

“Jake and I are still married,” Laura said.

“But ... but he’s married to Celia now,” Helen said. “Your divorce was announced and everything.”

“We’re divorced in the eyes of the law,” Laura said. “We’re not divorced in our minds, thoughts, or actual relationship.”

“I’m not following you,” Helen said. “He’s married to Celia now.”

“I understand that. I consider myself married to Celia as well.”

Helen’s eyes got big. She actually forget to do her navigation and position check on her student, she was so astounded. “You mean ... uh ... you and Jake and Celia ... are... together?”

“That is what I mean,” Laura said.

She then told the story of how it had all began and what had happened since.

“Holy fuck me,” Helen said when the tale was told.

“You think?” Laura said lightly.

She navigated successfully to Monterey and did a landing there. They then returned to Oceano where she practiced stalls out over the ocean and then did fifteen touch and goes before performing a perfect landing and taxi.

“Let’s update your logbook,” Helen said.

“Let’s do it,” Laura said. “You want to come over for dinner? Elsa told me she’s making her stuffed pork chops tonight.”

“She does make a good stuffed pork chop,” Helen said. “I’m in.”

“Remember, not a word about what we spoke of,”

“Not a word,” Helen promised.

The following Tuesday, which was the day Bigg G and his boys officially started laying down tracks for the next CD, was Celia’s next appointment with Dr. Gloria Niven in San Luis Obispo. Jake drove her there in his BMW, arriving ten minutes early for the 8:30 AM scheduling. Unfortunately, for Celia, it was one of those visits. After her vital signs were taken and she gave her pee sample, she was asked to strip down to her socks, put on a gown, and hop up onto the table with the stirrups.

The doctor started the exam with her ultrasound machine. She unceremoniously pulled Celia’s blanket down and rucked up her hospital gown, exposing her swollen belly and her smoothly shaven groin (by this point, either Jake or Laura had to shave her down there because she could no longer do it herself).

“You’re looking good for thirty-two weeks,” Niven said as she ran the ultrasound probe around Celia’s gel covered belly. “Look at that. Still has a whang and a set of huevos. He’s still head down in the standard delivery position. It is very unlikely that he will shift into breech position at this point in the game.”

“That’s good to know,” Celia said.

“Now, let’s check on that pelvis of yours.”

Celia sighed. “Joy,” she said with a grunt.

Jake watched quietly at an act that would have been erotic to watch in any other context. Niven lubed up her gloved hand and stuck four fingers inside his wife’s vagina. Celia grunted at the pressure even though Laura routinely performed the same maneuver on her in different circumstances and Celia loved it then.

“Everything seems good,” Niven said after the hand was withdrawn. “You’re still at zero-zero, mucus plug firmly in place. Everything as it should be. I think we’re on track to have this baby on or about the due date.”

“I can’t wait,” Celia said. “Aren’t first-time moms usually a little late though?”

“That is often the case,” Niven said, “but most first-time moms are in their teens or twenties. You’re over forty. I’m not going to let you go past July 6^th. The danger of placental degeneration is too high. If you’re not in labor by then, I’ll bring you in and induce you.”

“You’ll evict the little passenger,” Jake said.

“Exactly,” Niven said. “Have you done all of the preregistration paperwork?”

“Finished it at the last visit,” Celia said.

“Excellent,” Niven said. “And there will be no flying back and forth to Oregon or any other place that requires an emergency flight to get here at the onset of labor?”

“Nope,” Jake said. “Not this time. We already had the quarterly KVA briefing in LA. The next one won’t be until late July, after the little passenger is on the other side of the womb. We’re here in SLO until it happens.”

“That’s good to know,” Niven said. “I can’t begin to tell you how appalled I was at your plan for getting Laura to us when she went into labor.”

“We made it, didn’t we?” Jake asked.

“And with plenty of time to spare,” Celia added.

“Yes, you did,” Niven had to admit.

“Is that grumpy nurse still working at Baptist?” Jake asked. “The one that treated us like shit?”

“She retired several years ago,” Niven said. “If you have no objections, I’ll see if I can pull some strings and have Danielle assigned to your case when it’s time. It shouldn’t be too hard to do since she’s one of the relief charge nurses there now.”

“That would be awesome,” Jake said.

“Yes,” agreed Celia. “She’s already seen Laura’s hoo-hoo. She might as well get to see mine too.”

“Uh ... right, of course,” Niven said, blushing a bit.

Jake chuckled a little. Sometimes he forgot how prudish doctors could be—even doctors who spent every working day looking at, touching, and inserting their hands into hoo-hoos.

After the appointment, as they were driving home, Jake picked up that Celia had something on her mind. He gently probed at her.

“I was just thinking about the little passenger’s name,” she said.

“You don’t like it?” he asked. “You’re the one that came up with it.”

“I love it,” she said. “It’s perfect. I was wondering if you love it as well. If Teach loves it.”

“It took a day or two to get used to,” Jake said honestly. “It is unconventional, to say the least, but it is not a fucked-up name, and it breaks down into a totally cool nickname. Just like with Caydee, we will never use the full name unless he’s in trouble and have to go all parental on him.”

“Cap is a really cool nickname,” she said with a smile.

“That’s not what’s really on your mind though,” he said.

She gave him a sideways smile. “You are good at reading me,” she said.

“As you are with me. Now what’s up? Worried about the increasing cost of jet fuel because of increased oil prices from the war of occupation in Iraq?”

“Uh ... no,” she said. “It didn’t even cross my mind.”

“It crossed Jill’s,” Jake said. “I got a stern lecture from her to fly less because it has gone up more than two dollars a gallon over the last month.”

“That is something Jill would notice,” Celia said. “Even if we haven’t been flying much lately.”

“I should make a few flights just to piss her off,” Jake said.

“Actually, that is kind of what is on my mind.”

“You want to fly somewhere?” he asked. “Didn’t we just tell Dr. Niven we weren’t going to do that?”

“Not now, but after Cap is born. I want to take you and him to Venezuela so my parents can meet him.”

“Ahhh, I see,” Jake said slowly.

“You don’t think that’s a good idea?”

“Venezuela is not one of the safest places in the world right now,” Jake said. “Your president is kind of turning into a ruthless dictator type of dude. There’s a travel advisory about Americans going there.”

“It’s not that bad,” Celia scoffed “Especially not in Barquisimeto. You know I talk to Mama every Sunday.”

“Right,” he said with a little roll of the eyes. “After you come back from the fictional Catholic services at the church you’ve never actually been to.”

“I donate money to them,” she said. “The Father is very grateful for my contributions.”

“I’m sure he is,” Jake said. “That’s not the point though. What are we talking here? I fly us to LA, we drive to LAX, fly commercial to Houston then Caracas and then Barquisimeto, all with an infant in tow? Or do you want me to fly us in our own plane to OKC, then Miami, then the DR—where we will have to deal with the dog and the panty examination—and then to Caracas, because they’ll insist we stop there first, and then Barquisimeto, again, all with an infant and everything associated with an infant in tow?”

“Wow,” Celia said softly. “When you put it that way...”

“Maybe there’s an easier solution,” Jake suggested.

“Like what?”

“How about we fly your parents to us? We’ll get them first class tickets for the whole deal and they can fly private from LA to get them to us. They can stay as long as they want. Moms like to help out with the newborns for a bit, don’t they? My mom sure did when Caydee was born.”

Celia frowned a bit. “But ... they would be living with us, seeing what is really going on. The whole point of this was that they wouldn’t consciously know about that.”

“What’s going to be going on?” Jake asked. “They already know Laura and Caydee are still living in the house. We just keep ourselves restrained while we’re there. Laura takes off the wedding ring and sleeps in the guest suite next to Caydee’s room. We’ll be polite to each other, sit down and have dinner together like normal, do the Caydee things, and then separate once she’s in bed.”

“But that would mean that you and Teach can’t have sex while they’re there,” Celia said. “If you go sneaking her into our room my parents are going to pick up on that.”

“Then we won’t do that,” Jake said.

“I’m assuming we’re talking about right after the baby is born,” Celia said. “That means I’ll be out of commission as well. That means no sex for anyone.”

Jake shrugged. “We’ve all gone without for longer. It’s not that big of a hardship. And besides, you and I will still be sleeping together when we’re not up with baby. I can always jerk off on those big titties.”

“You will not do that while our son is using my boobs for his food supply!” she said firmly.

Jake gave a slightly disappointed nod, one mixed with acquiesce. “Maybe your belly or your thighs then.” He knew better than to suggest her mouth. She had no objection to getting his motor running that way but did object to finishing that way. It was part of what made Celia Celia. “Anyway, my point is that we love each other and can make sacrifices like this for each other. It won’t be for that long. I haven’t talked to Laura about this, obviously, but I cannot see her objecting to a little harmless, though slightly painful, charade for a month or so.”