Enchilada Ed

2.

Mike sometimes let Ed hang out with him at the recording studio while he finished mixing tracks. Ed had to concede that Mike did have a cool job. Sure, he wasn't a big shot in the music industry- the indie label that gave him the songwriting contract wasn't in NYC or LA- but Mike liked to tell Ed that he (and the bands with which he worked) was creating the Linden Valley sound- just as Prince had done for Minneapolis in the seventies, or what McFadden & Whitehead did for Philadelphia a decade before that. Linden Valley might be a stop-gap before the nationwide big-time for a few of Mike's acts, but Mike would always prefer the creative freedom that came with younger labels, at least that's what he said. And Linden Valley's music scene was certainly young.  

Linden Valley's corner of Pennsylvania's rusted former steel region survived the post-industrial nineties as a bedroom community for New Yorkers or Philadelphians willing to make a one-and-a-half-hour commute in exchange for cheaper rent and greenery. As the population hit one million around the beginning of the new millennium, internet start-ups and regional corporate headquarters popped up beside abandoned textiles factories and the vegetated remains of steel mills. The oddest development in Linden Valley's Lazarus-trick, however, came at the hands of Hollywood directors and producers. The old steel town soon found a strange second life as an easy facsimile of middle America for any movie set: close to major cities, yet not far from checkerboard fields or pastoral farmland, and chock-full of sprawling, lemonade-stand suburbia. Mike was not the only creative to claim the city, even if he assumed responsibility for its sound. Most of the days when Ed was allowed in the studio, he would wonder how one person -or even one group of musicians- could create an entire city's sound. Today, though, all Ed could think about was Audra.  

"You don't get it. She's beautiful," Ed spun in his swivel chair.

"So?" Mike set down the pair of headphones he had been holding to his right ear. "Do you wanna bag beautiful bitches or average ones?"

"Bag?" Ed lifted his eyebrows. "That sounds kind of creepy."

"It does not," Mike snapped, "it's common parlance."

"Common parlance for serial killers." Ed said. "I'm going to bag that bitch. What exactly is the etymology of that? Does it come from body-bags?"

"No," Mike looked disgusted. "Don't be stupid-"

"Like trash-bags?" Ed chuckled. "Like I'm going to cut up her corpse and bag each part before I dump her in the lake."

"Okay, that's really creepy you little weirdo," Mike balled his rather large fist, "Do you want my advice or nah?"

"I'm sorry Sensei." Ed stretched his feet on top of the edge of the soundboard. "Teach me your ways."

With one arm, Mike cradled the master output controls and with the other he swatted away Ed's skate shoes. "I can't even trust you in here, can I?" he glared. "This equipment is precious."

"Ooh," Ed teased. "I'm a music producer, I sit around in Yeezy sweatpants all day, so important, I save lives-"

"Okay, out." Mike grabbed Ed by his dark hair and yanked him to his feet, "we're leaving."

"Ouch, bro," Ed winced, "that hurts."

"Well," Mike dragged Ed out of the sound room and into the hallway, "you hurt my feelings."

"Your feelings?" Ed smoothed down his hair.

"I already got enough shit from dad about my job," Mike crossed his brawny arms, "don't need it from you too."