Plastic Gods Chapters 11 & 12
"Love"; "Marty Blaise"
Table of Contents
[ Chapter 1 ] | [ Chapter 2 ] | [ Chapter 3 ] | [ Chapter 4 ] | [ Chapter 5 ] | [Chapter 6] | [Chapter 7] | [Chapter 8] | [Chapter 9] | [Chapter 10]
11 - Love
As Aios’s office door slammed shut, Mona was asleep. She was awake by the time Aios got to his computer. Nathan was still asleep, and Mona’s chest was burning. When Aios started rewinding to see what he’d missed while he was gone, Mona fell back to sleep, and by the time Aios paused to watch Soma’s performance at the bar where they met their new agent, Nathan and Mona were both awake, sitting on the edge of the bed. Nathan had a concerned look on his face, and Mona had a splitting headache. She felt like throwing up.
“You know,” Nathan said with a sigh. “We should talk about what you said last night.”
Mona’s throat was tight. “Forget it,” she said. The scene played in her mind. Her slurred I love you and Nathan’s shocked face. “I was pretty messed up last night, Nathan. I didn’t know what I was saying.”
“You know, drinking’s supposed to bring out the truth. Not make people lie.”
“Not always,” Mona said. She looked down at her knees and began swinging her legs like a child, avoiding looking Nathan in the eye.
“So you didn’t mean it?”
Mona felt the urge to lie and save her pride, but then the little voice in her head screamed at her to tell the truth.
“I meant it.” She practically spit the words out.
“Are you sure?” Nathan’s voice was hostile.
“What do you want me to say?” Mona meant for her words to sound scathing, but they just came out whiny.
Nathan took a deep breath. “Well, what am I supposed to think?” His calm but stern voice made Mona anxious.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know what your goal is here. I think we have something pretty, I don’t know—whatever. Pretty good going on. Then you tell me you love me, and then five minutes later you’re completely incoherent, talking absolute gibberish, screaming at me.
Mona’s face turned a powdery white. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, barely managing to choke the words out.
“You don’t remember?” Nathan snapped.
Tears welled up in Mona’s eyes. “No,” she admitted.
“So you don’t remember telling me you loved me.”
“I remember that,” she said.
“Do you actually?”
“Yeah.” A little string of saliva stuck to her teeth and stretched as she spoke. “And then you said you didn’t.”
“What did you want me to say! You were fucked up, Mona. Really bad. I’ve never seen anything like it, honestly.” Nathan shook his head. “Do you remember why you said you loved me?”
Mona didn’t answer. Her memory was fuzzy. She remembered saying it, remembered the moment after, with Nathan’s wide-eyed shock, his declaration that he needed to think it over, sleep on it.
“You were apologizing for telling me to go fuck myself,” Nathan said. “Because you wanted a glass of straight whiskey because we ran out of beer. I told you to stop drinking, which I hope you’ll agree was a pretty normal thing to do at that point.”
Mona labored to see the memory of her fuzzy, half-obstructed, tunneled vision, pushing Nathan out of the way to get to the cabinet. I paid for it. Mona could hear her own slurred voice from the night before in her head. I can drink it if I want.
“Probably would’ve been a good idea,” Mona mumbled.
“Yeah, it would’ve,” Nathan said. “Instead you started chugging from the freaking bottle while giving me the finger. It was really disgusting, Mona.” He shook his head.
Mona didn’t know how to respond. The room was silent for a moment. She was still crying, now so hard that there was no sound coming out of her at all. Her face was just spread wide open with tears flowing down, her head positioned away from Nathan so he couldn’t see.
“I’m sorry,” was all Mona could say. She didn’t want her crying to show up in her voice, so she articulated this as a hushed whisper.
“You’re sorry,” Nathan repeated. Then, louder, “Sorry for what?!” He punched the bed next to him with his hand.
“Give me a minute,” Mona said in the same whisper. She bent over and buried her face in her hands, resting her elbows on her knees.
“I don’t know why it happens to me,” she said. “I feel completely fine, and then, it just happens out of nowhere. It’s really scary.”
“Yeah, it is,” Nathan said. “You shouldn’t ever drink liquor. Honestly, I don’t know if you should be drinking at all.”
“I haven’t been!” she said. “Haven’t you noticed? Me and you have had a couple here and there but…” she trailed off, never finishing her thought. “Maybe my tolerance is low? I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
Neither one of them said anything for a few moments.
“I did mean it, though.”
Nathan smirked. “About telling me to go fuck myself?”
“No.” Mona smiled, which only made her tears flow more freely. “The other thing.”
“Don’t do that again, okay? I don’t like that stuff.”
“I won’t,” she said. “I’m really sorry.”
“You promise?”
“Promise.”
12 - Marty
And she didn’t, for a while. That was the thing about Mona—she didn’t lie. She meant exactly what she said the moment she said it; there was just no guarantee that she’d feel the same way in the future.
Things between Mona and Nathan went basically back to normal after that one interaction. In fact, by the time Aios Roe had finished watching the entire set that led them to Marty Blaise, the band was in a professional recording studio, putting the finishing touches on their first album. It was called Hymns, and managed to be scrounged together in only two weeks.
By the time Aios learned who Marty Blaise was, the band had finished listening to their album in full for the first time and had gone to Mike’s bar to celebrate. By the time Aios made it to the album’s recording, the four members of the band were sitting in cushioned chairs in Marty’s swanky, wide-windowed office in a high-rise in a nice part of the city. Hymns was playing, and the agent’s face was impenetrable. By the time Aios realized that Soma had finally had its big break, a smile had spread across Marty Blaise’s face. A peculiar spark that must’ve been dollar signs twinkled in the agent’s eyes.
“It’s fantastic!” he said at the conclusion of the forty-five minute record. “I can’t believe you guys pulled it off! Well, I can—otherwise I wouldn’t have invited you here. But two weeks. I’ve never seen anything like it. Incredible!”
Marty was a pot-bellied, red-faced man with an inquisitive stare that could split your soul and a smile that could only be described as jolly. He’s exactly what one would think of when asked to envision an independently wealthy man whose passion project is being a talent agent. (These stereotypes are relatively consistent across planets.)
“Well, we had some stuff written already,” Nathan said, feigning humility. He’d pulled it off; it was, after all, predominantly his album.
“How long have you guys been a band for? Two months?”
“Two and a half,” Mona said.
“Two and a half,” Marty said. “It’s unreal. I love you guys. Nathan, I could give you a kiss on the lips right now. Mona—well, let’s just say you’re lucky your boyfriend is watching.” Mona’s face turned sour. “It’s a joke! Sorry, I can’t help it. I amuse myself.” Marty flashed a sly, almost endearing smile. “Anyway, you guys are geniuses! You’re gonna make us a fortune.”
“You really think it’ll be commercially successful?” asked Nathan.
“Oh, definitely!” Marty replied. “She’s got the looks and the voice. You’re like a savant. You got a great band backing you. And you guys are different. No one’s heard anything like this before. The world’s not gonna know what hit ‘em. But you’re right, and that brings me to a good point. There’s no real big seller on this album. No single. So you might not like what I’m gonna say next. Are you ready?”
None of them said anything. The expression on Marty’s face intensified and he leaned forward.
“Well?”
“Uh, we’re ready?” Simon was the first one to speak up.
“You need a pop song!” Marty practically exploded as soon as he heard Simon’s voice.
“A pop song?” Nathan said. “But we’re a rock band.”
“I know you’re a rock band; I listened to your record. I’m telling you, you’re cutting your value in half if you don’t put a pop song on this album. You can sell to the alternative rock stations, sure. But you’re not reaching the mainstream, Top 40 stations unless you write a song that’s good enough to be written by Soma but accessible enough to be played at the mall or the supermarket. A number-one hit for you to sing at award shows. Something you can play in the car with your grandma without her asking to turn the music off. I’m not asking you to change anything. But you need to give the masses a hit.”
“Can it be a guitar song?” Nathan asked.
“I don’t care if you play the fucking recorder,” Marty said. “Just make it catchy. Trust me. I know how the business works.”
“Who else have you represented?” Nathan asked.
“Don’t test me kid. Compare this view to the one from the little dive bar I picked you up in.” Mona glanced out the window behind Marty’s desk—you really could see the entire city.
“You need us too, Marty,” she said with a smile, surprising even herself.
“That’s true, you’re the talent!” Marty clapped his hands together, startling everyone in the room. “And that’s why you’re gonna bring me an earworm, alright? Record it. Come back on Friday with it done.”
“That’s three days,” Nathan said.
“I know how to count, kid,” Marty said. “You’re Soma! The band that gave me this album in two weeks.”
“Those songs were written already,” Nathan argued. “We don’t have a song.”
“You’ll come up with something! I wanna pitch this thing to Paradigm Records on Monday. Remember, I’m on your side. You’re gonna make me a lot of money.”
And they did.
Nathan was completely paralyzed by the request. “How could he ask us to just sell out?” he insisted. “The guy admitted that we’re good because our stuff is authentic! Then he wants us to do the opposite? That’s why none of these rich pricks have any talent themselves.”
Mona was a little more sympathetic to Marty’s cause. She understood that business was business. Plus, she kind of liked the guy ever since he called her ‘the voice and the looks.’ When she and Nathan were alone, away from the rest of the band lest they reflexively reject it, she told him her idea.
“I’ve been working on a few songs, actually,” she said. “Just some mellow acoustic stuff. I’m not sure what the guys would think about it, though. They wouldn’t be involved at all.”
“You’ve been writing songs on your own?”
“Well, yeah,” Mona said. “I have that album, you know.”
“Why haven’t you told me anything about it?”
“It’s personal,” Mona replied. “And not very good anyway. But there’s one song that I think could work.”
“Fine,” Nathan said. He turned away from Mona, apparently annoyed.
“Well do you want to hear it or not?” she asked.
“I mean, sure I guess, I’m just surprised. I can’t believe you’ve been writing songs for a solo album when you’re supposed to be focused on the band.”
“Are you serious?” Mona asked. “I’ve been working on this since before we met.”
“Fine, I get it,” he said. “I mean, I had projects going on before we met too, and I’ve had all my energy focused on this. But it’s okay. I guess some of us are more committed than others.”
“That’s not fair,” Mona said. “Have I ever missed a practice? Don’t we work obsessively together all the time? This is just a little thing I’ve been doing for fun when you’re not around.”
“When you’re not around I write songs for Soma.”
“None of my songs are good enough for Soma! You’re the songwriter of the band. I’m the singer. I can’t write insane instrumentals the way you can. I strum an acoustic guitar and sing about nothing.”
She decided not to mention the little voice in her head that told her that her own songs were the most important thing she could be working on.
Nathan sighed. “Well clearly Soma could’ve used them,” he said. “You should’ve told me. But whatever, I guess. Show me the song.”
“Well now I don’t want to! If you hate the fact that I wrote it so bad, why should I play it?”
“Oh, stop,” Nathan said. He let out his first smile since the ‘argument’ began. “What do you want me to do, beg to hear it?”
“An apology would be nice.”
“What do I have to apologize for? You’re the one writing songs behind my back!”
“Behind your back? I have to report to you every time I want to play my guitar now?”
“Oh come on, you know that’s not what I mean.”
Nathan leaned over to kiss Mona on her cheek. She pushed him away.
“No, no. Not after that!”
“Oh, shut up.”
He started tickling her, and she gently but firmly dug her knee in his stomach, and they both laughed, and Mona felt warm, and the minor ill feeling the couple had felt was forgotten.
“Play me the song,” Nathan said. Mona raised an eyebrow. Nathan sighed. “Please.”
So Mona played her song. Afterwards, without even a second of recuperation, she said, “I think it should be the last song on the album. The whole album is really loud and complex and powerful. It would be pretty cool to end it on a quiet note.”
Nathan didn’t say anything for a moment. He just stared at her, his mouth hanging open.
Mona’s stomach turned. “You don’t like it.”
“Mona, it’s genius,” Nathan said. “I can’t believe you’ve been holding out on me! Do you have any more like this?”
“It’s the only one that would fit the album.”
“No way. Come on! Let me hear another one.”
But Mona denied, and after begging and begging, Nathan gave up.
One might argue that this was a mistake. After all, Nathan worked wonders on the song he was given. He tweaked some stuff, added more. He made the song perfect—it was catchy, emotional, understated, but with the layers and layers of detail that characterized Nathan’s work. It was Soma’s perfect ‘radio song’—accessible, but not poppy. Nathan arranged parts for Simon and Craig, which Mona had to admit were a huge asset to the song.
Marty Blaise loved it. Paradigm Records loved it. By the time Aios Roe finished listening to the album in full, the band was sitting in an even swankier office on an even nicer block, signing a contract giving Paradigm Records—the biggest label in the business—exclusive license to distribute the next two of Soma’s albums.
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