Enchilada Ed

24

When Ed really should have been in third period Chemistry, he drove aimlessly around town, wondering how to explain his suspension to his parents. Even if he stressed the fact that it was non-disciplinary, his dad would probably think he was lying. Mrs. Durante would vouch for him, probably. She wanted him off the school premises if nothing else. Ed rolled to a stop behind a red light. He checked his phone.

An iMessage from Mike:

YO, bitch. Still at the studio with Fizzy. Want to make some noodley jams after schooljail?

Another iMessage popped up as soon as Ed had read the first one:

Or at least trash pop? idc whatever

Visiting Mike would be better than doing nothing. Ed flicked on his left turn signal. The light turned green, and he headed in the direction of the recording studio.

***

"Give me it," Mike bent his head down and threw up his beckoning hands, "I want what you got, just give me it."

"You don't even know what I got," Ed looked through the isolation booth's window at Mike, "I don't think I can do this."

"Jesus," Mike took off his head phones and opened the isolation booth door, "Fine, get your ass out here."

"I really can't sing," Ed walked out into the sound room and sat down on a stool in front of the soundboard.

"This is the easiest song Hall and Oates every wrote, give it a try."

"But Daryl Hall's a soul singer," Ed winced, "he has an actual range."

"The Hall and Oates song is just a warm-up so I can see how much auto-tune you'll need," Mike fiddled with some buttons on the master output controls, "For the real cut, I got a couple songs nobody's used yet for you to pick from. And if those are too difficult," he rolled his eyes, "I wrote you a really shitty one this morning about a hoodie."

"Come on, little Fenchel," said an enormous man with a zagged orange fauxhawk, as he sat down onto a couch on the other side of the sound room.

"Fizzy Zhang, back from the powder room," Mike rolled his swivel chair backwards toward the couch, spun himself around, and grabbed Fizzy's hand, "this is my main man over here."

"You have to have some talent," Fizzy said to Ed, "Your brother is one of the best musicians I've met, and I used to play in the Philadelphia Orchestra. That soul has to come somewhere in the genes."

"It's probably recessive," Ed muttered.

"Bad attitude," Mike snipped.

"Look at it this way: you already have a big platform," Fizzy added, "why not monetize it?"

"Monetize it, bitch," Mike directed Ed back into the isolation booth.

***

"You could probably only give me the hoodie song, then?" Ed asked as he walked out of the isolation booth, "Based on the looks on your faces-"

Mike stared at the floor. Fizzy's eyes were wide with horror.

"No," Mike shook his head, "no, no. You'd require too much auto-tune. I was hoping at least for T-Pain-level auto-tune, but," Mike finally looked at Ed, "this is embarrassing."

"Well I don't know what you were expecting," Ed nodded.

"I wouldn't even let you record as a vanity project."

"I said that I-"

"I wanna make money as much as the next guy," Mike massaged his left temple, "but, I gotta keep my integrity. I mean, damn, where did that come from?"

"Are you finished?" Ed knew he couldn't sing, but Mike's reaction was starting to get excessive. Ed was a guy, and he couldn't sing, but he did have feelings. Guys who couldn't sing still had feelings, after all, even if they weren't expected to.

"I want a DNA test," Mike chortled.

"Really?" Ed scowled.

"Nah, nah. We all know he was adopted," Mike bugged his eyes at Fizzy.

"Okay, that's it," Ed headed toward the sound room door, "I'm leaving."

"Yo, wait," Mike followed him in his swivel chair, "don't leave just yet."

"Yeah?" Ed turned around (perhaps foolishly) expecting an apology.

"Could you get me some Jujyfruits from the vending machine?" Mike pulled a dollar from his wallet, "they've really started to grow on me."

***