476 C.E. - Four: Modulation
476 C.E.
Modulation: In which a piece goes from one key to another; most commonly the relative minor or major, depending on the starting mode.
Apparently, we obtained a website. We, Existential, the band, that is. It was, and I checked, a black screen that read, "The reclusive band members are hiding somewhere in the southwestern USA, recording their debut. Sometime in the near future their manager will accost them with interviews and a photo shoot."
That being said, I supposed I shouldn't have been surprised when Maureen dropped in one morning with a photographer in tow, but I also didn't know we had a website until after she showed up. Surprise!
While I was pretty excited to finally meet our manager, I wished she hadn't picked that day to drop in. I had finally worked up the nerve to present the songs I had written to the others. There were only two, but I had been agonizing over them for the last week and a half, and I had deemed them waxing decent.
Of course, though, when Maureen had traipsed in, glanced at the five of us in jeans and t-shirts, she had demanded that we "get sexy" because this was an all-day thing.
I had to admit, to myself at least, that I was having more than a little trouble with the "getting sexy." The whole idea that gay men are supposed to be fashion-conscious? It lies. I can tell what works for other people, but I have no clue about myself. So, I decided to go enlist the help of our resident female.
"Kenya!" I exclaimed, walking brazenly into her room, "I beg your feminine assistance."
That was when I noticed that she was only holding the shirt she was about to put on.
"Rome? Knocking?" She said mildly.
"Right. A skill that I must work on. If it makes you feel any better, the sight of your boobs does not excite me in the slightest?" I had turned to the side, awkwardly.
"Normally I'd be offended by that statement, but I suspected. Am I right?" She asked with something resembling glee.
"Right about what?" I replied innocently.
Kenya was not to be put off. "You liking cock?" She raised an eyebrow, and apparently the look on my face was the only confirmation she needed.
"Yep, I knew it," she commented smugly, and I summoned up a halfhearted glare.
She finished buttoning up the vest over her shirt, and asked, "Right, so, since you didn't come in here to ogle my boobs, what did you want?"
"Fashion advice," I answered gravely.
"Oh, I can help you with that," she replied brightly, and we skipped down the hallway to October and my room. Literally skipped. Not metaphorically. With arms linked and everything.
She began rifling through my clothes, even though she was the one who had picked out most of them, humming softly.
"Hm…green?" She mused, "No, green will make you look like an elf."
"Are you calling me short?" I muttered back.
"Yes, shorty. Yellow…no, your hair is the wrong shade of brown…" She kept on muttering like that, going through the whole color wheel and finding problems with every single color.
So, she started over. Randomly, she broke from her color talk to ask me, "So, Rome, what kind of men do you like?"
"Did I just become your gay best friend?"
"Yes. Answer the question."
"Um, the normal kind," I ventured.
"Really? Bland. Why's that?" She countered.
"Opposites attract." I shrugged. She snorted.
"I've got it!" Kenya exclaimed, and threw a simple white button up shirt at me, followed by a pair of grey jeans that I wasn't sure how I was going to fit into and a wine-colored scarf.
I quickly stripped and re-dressed, having lost any semblance of modesty in high school and college marching band. Kenya then fussed over my, rolling my sleeves up halfway, smoothing my collar, straightening my scarf, and fixing-AKA-messing-up my hair because it made me look "sexed up" and finishing with a completely unnecessary pat on the rump.
"There we go; you're presentable," she proclaimed, finally, just as Denmark burst in, demanding that we, "Stop powdering [our] noses and get the hell out [there]."
Whoever invented the horrid monstrosity that is a photo shoot needs to be shot in the face, survive, dipped in a tank of very hungry sharks, maimed, covered in fire ants, and infected with Ebola Zaire.
The interviews that followed the shoot would have been almost fun, though, if I hadn't been quite so irritated from a morning of "Work it," "Fierce!" And a myriad of other barked orders. It was entirely too Project Runway.
By the time Maureen got around to me with her laptop, busily typing away everyone's responses, I was mostly in a better mood, though. I liked Maureen, actually. She was one of those people that are just ridiculously easy to get along with. Tall, blonde, and, I supposed, in her mid-thirties, she was a generally pleasant lady. I approved.
"Hey, Rome! As you know, I'm Maureen...we haven't met officially," She said, firmly shaking my hand.
"Hi, Maureen. Is this gonna be like a job interview, because I always sucked those up," I replied, slightly nervous.
She laughed. "Not at all. Do you mind if I sit?" She gestured at the other barstool; I had been hiding out in the kitchen.
"Go right ahead," I answered, taking her laptop while she got settled.
Once situated, she looked at me and said, "Remember, you don't have to give me any information you don't want to. This isn't an interrogation, okay?"
I nodded. "You could tell I was nervous?"
"I'm good at reading people. It's useful in the management business. Alright, let's start with your full name."
"Rome Marquis France, and yes, I am aware that Rome is in Italy," I said quickly, not missing the way Maureen grinned at the last part. I let her finish typing.
"Awesome. And your birthday?"
"April 1st, 1987."
"April Fool's Day? Poor guy..." She remarked.
"Tell me about it," I said.
Her sympathetic look morphed into amusement, and then back to business. "Relationship status?"
"Single. Probably forever," I answered entirely-too-quickly.
Maureen tsk'd. "No luck with the ladies?"
"Girls aren't really my thing," I said. I haven't been in the closet in years…I just don't introduce myself by pulling out my omnipresent rainbow flag and exclaiming, "Hello, world, I'm Rome and I'm gay!"
"Men?" She asked.
"Not lately," I replied blandly.
"Hmm, all right. How long have you been playing music?"
"Pretty much my whole life," I answered, "Although my primary instrument is the cello. I play a few wind instruments on top of piano and cello, as well."
"So you'd consider yourself a classical musician?"
"Well, actually I much prefer modern pieces, rather than classical…or baroque for that matter, but I'm classically trained," I rambled, not entirely sure if that was the answer she was looking for.
She typed furiously, to get down the answer, and I bit back a grin at the focused expression on her face.
"So, Rome, the classical music prodigy…And…I believe October said you aren't a music major?" She asked, glancing up at me.
"Hardly a prodigy," I scoffed, flailing an end of my scarf for emphasis.
"Lies. October also said that you have perfect pitch," she rebuked.
I shrugged. "Lucky that way. Anyway, I'm actually a philosophy major. Which, I discovered after I got my diploma, is the second-most-useless degree."
"What's the first?" Maureen asked, in an obvious off-the-record way.
"Art history," I replied, entirely serious.
"Can't deny that. Hey, I know this is skipping around a lot, but this is really just to fill out the website and get people interested, alright?" She asked, and when I nodded, continued, "Right. So, what are some of your hobbies?"
"Long walks on the beach," I deadpanned. Maureen gave me a blank look, thinking that I was being sarcastic. I went on, "Preferably very early in the morning, before there are any other people around. I generally dislike people. I grew up on the coast of Maine. But I haven't answered your question. Um. I read a lot," I finished lamely.
"Oh! What kind of books?" She asked, glad to have something to go off of.
"Historical, when I read fiction. But typically philosophical works…occasionally delving into science and other nonfictional…ness…" I offered.
"I think I understand," she said with a grin, "Anyway, last question: how did you come to be associated with October and Existential?"
I shrugged. "October and I are old high school jazz band friends. One day, I'm broke in Denver, then he calls, and a week later I'm in a rock band."
Maureen laughed at my blasé delivery, and concluded, "Alright, I think I have enough info on you…we're about done. I'll have this all on the web by…tomorrow, probably, if I work most of the night."
"Awesome," I said, "It was nice meeting you."
"You, too. I've worked with a few musicians before, but you lot have got to be the most polite group of them I've ever met."
"What can I say? We can't all be drug-addicted…" (I was, soft of, but it was for my own good) "…slobtastic idiots."
She grinned again, and I believed that I made a decent first impression. "True that. See you later, Rome."
"Bye, Maureen."
She closed her laptop and began packing things up, and I wandered into the living area, where I discovered October and Denmark engaged in an epic battle of Wii tennis. Having no hand-eye coordination myself, I nevertheless decided to flop down on the couch and enjoy the spectacle.
"Who's winning?" I asked loudly, startling Denmark and causing him to miss. October pointed and laughed.
"Dammit, Rome, sabotaging me! We were tied; now October is winning," Denmark growled, glowering at me.
"I apologize," I said insincerely.
The game resumed, pixilated ball going back and forth in a complete stalemate.
"I must concede that you have considerable skill," October said haltingly.
Denmark barked a laugh, and swung particularly ferociously. "You should play against my wife. I never beat her."
"You're married?!" October and I asked in unison, and October missed his shot, causing Denmark to be able to point and laugh, then.
"Yep. Two years," he replied proudly.
"You…you don't wear a wedding ring or anything," I pointed out, incredulous.
He shrugged, paused the game, and pulled a chain out from under his shirt, bearing, surely enough, a simple gold band. "I tend to lose rings when I wear them properly. My mom still hasn't forgiven me for losing my four-hundred dollar high school class ring."
October, seeming to have given up on the game in lieu of the resultant conversation, put his remote down and claimed one of the armchairs, seeing as I was occupying most of the couch.
"What's your wife like?" He asked.
"Fantastic," he replied, sitting on the coffee table to face both of us. "Felicia's my all-American girl. She's overseas right now…" He finished sadly.
"What for?" I ask, sitting up.
He grinned again. "Air force base in Turkey. She's an air force mechanic."
"Wow," I replied lamely.
Denmark grins dreamily. "I know. Isn't she wonderful?"
"She'd have to be, to put up with you," October said wryly.
Denmark gave October a look, and said, "For that remark, you get to experience failure."
He quickly stood up, unpaused the Wii game, and defeated October, who was still struggling to regain control of his abandoned remote, myself laughing quietly through the whole thing, and stealing rather obvious glances at a particularly nice rear a few feet in front of me.
Could you really blame me?
A few hours later, I had changed out of the skin-tight jeans and button up shirt, and had escaped to the recording studio, where I had taken over the leather couch and electronic keyboard to make minute adjustments to my songs, and possibly start a new one.
I was experimenting with chord progressions, studio headphones on, really focused on what I was playing. So focused, in fact, that I probably wouldn't have noticed a marching band walk in, let alone one overly-tall British bassist.
Of course, not until said bassist lifted the headphones off of my head and placed them over his own ears. I stopped playing immediately.
"No, go on, keep playing," he requested.
"Now I can't hear," I complained.
He 'hrruphed' and unplugged the headphones, setting them off to the side.
I sighed. "I wasn't really doing anything noteworthy. Just playing with chords."
He grinned. "I actually just came in here because I was bored."
"Ah. I was beginning to get there, so thanks for distracting me."
"Anyway, if I might be nosy," Grey began, "Might I see what you're working on?"
I shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. "I guess," I said, "I was going to show them to the band today, anyway, but with Maureen showing up…" I trailed off, and just opened my notebook to the correct page and handed it to Grey. It was a song about, tritely enough, being different, but I had been trying to present it in a slightly left-of-center way. The title of the page read, Alienation.
"Goes like this," I murmured, and I played a watered-down version of the song, melody with my right hand, block chords with my left.
Grey was silent through the whole thing, although I saw him nodding occasionally, looking down at the notebook.
Finally, I had finished, and I heard him inhale. I was prepared for criticism, and knew how to handle it, after years of theory professors picking apart my compositions mercilessly. "Musically," Grey said, "This is really good…but I have some suggestions for the wording here," he pointed to a spot on the page, "if you don't mind?"
"Absolutely," I said, "I'm no lyricist," I said.
"I'd have to agree with you there, but the music itself is really fantastic," he agreed hesitantly, then qualifying more strongly.
"Seriously, Grey," I said, "Rip into me. I've been writing music for a long time, but I've never done anything that I had to write my own lyrics to."
"Alright, in that case, while I really like the idea behind this, the words are mediocre," he said apologetically.
"That's understandable," I said, objectively.
Grey was silent for a long moment. "We should work together. I've written out some lyrics that I can't quite hear the music for. I can imagine we'd make a decent team."
"That sounds like the best idea I've heard all week," I answered, smiling, and, after a moment, Grey caught it, too, lighting up his face. He really was too somber, as a rule. Smiling did him a service.
"So," I said, getting back to business, "Meet in here tomorrow, and get to work?" I asked.
"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Grey answered, nodding slowly.
The next morning, October woke me up with his phone ringing obnoxiously early.
"Mm hm. Really? Wow, you're good. That was fast."
He hung up, and I growled and rolled over to sleep some more.
"Nope, wakey-wakey, Romey. It's time for an early-morning meeting," October sang, getting up and poking me in the back of the head.
"Fuck off," I replied, muffled by the blankets.
"So vulgar!" October exclaimed, sounding false-hurt. "I'm going to go get the rest of the not-so-grumpy people, and you'd better be more cheerful when I get back. Or I'll sit on you."
"That's threatening," I said, deadpan. My ability to conjure a sarcastic tone is directly related to the rising of the sun. Sun equals sarcastic Rome. Ridiculously early equals grumpy vulgar Rome.
However, I did get up, throw on a shirt, and put on my glasses in time to not be sat on by October (not that I would have minded, just, you know, not in the way he was thinking).
So, the band was gathered in the living room, looking singularly asleep with the exception of the vocalist, who was far too energetic. He had the Wii on, and was going to the internet thingy.
"Maureen called me. The website's up and running. We, naturally, must check it out."
"At six in the morning?" Kenya demanded.
"Of course," October answered.
He managed to type in the web address, and, instead of a blank screen, there was an attractive flash-based layout with the five of us in a shot I recalled from the shoot yesterday, in which we were all outside with some nice mountain scenery in the background. The clouds moved on the website, and random naturey objects were links to different parts of the site.
Overall, I had no clue how she got that up and running in less than twenty-four hours.
A lot of the site was still blank, though, such as the tour schedule, video section, and merchandise store…the discography just said, "Existential's debut album, What it Means to be Human, will be released whenever they finish it."
We went to the bio page last, where all of our short interviews were posted, along with pictures. Some of the answers got a few chuckles, like October's relation status, which read, "married to his music," and Denmark's answer to "How did you come to be associated with October and Existential," which was, "October and I met at a bar and hit it off. I drank too much and threw up all over him. He didn't get mad. It was a sign of everlasting friendship."
Mine was posted last, and, of course, I saw four pairs of eyes roll at the overused Rome-is-not-in-France line. They're sick of it. I've been getting that my whole life. However, I was a little shocked at what Maureen put for my own relationship status, which read, "Guess what, boys. He's single."
"Rome?" October asked, reading that, "Are you gay?"
"Surprise?" I answered.
"Not really. I knew," Kenya said. Denmark agreed, "I guessed." Grey, too, shrugged, and said, "I knew, as well."
"How did you know?" I asked him.
"You wrote some pretty personal margin notes in your books," Grey answered.
"Oh yeah, I did…" I said dumbly.
October broke in, "So I'm the only one who didn't know this?"
I said simply, "I don't feel the need to advertise it. I don't nor have I ever, owned a rainbow flag."
Kenya added, "At any rate, does it really matter?"
"Well, no," October said, "I just had no clue."
"If," I began carefully, "it weirds you out, I'll sleep in here."
"What?! No. I'm not like that," He declared adamantly.
I smiled and met his eyes, "I'm glad. Now, I claim first shower," I added, completely changing the tone of the conversation.
Denmark was on his feet in a second. "Oh, girl, hell no. You'll infect it with your gay cooties."
There was a second when we all looked at him, shocked, before, Denmark laughed, and said, "Guys, calm down. I was kidding. But…" He went serious, "You will have to beat me in there."
"Is that a challenge?" I asked.
"I believe it is."
"Well, you know," I said, "I don't like to play fair. And as a completely stereotypical homosexual man, and therefore a rapist, I have no qualms about following you in there and sodomizing you."
"You wouldn't."
"Wanna bet? That'd be fun to explain to your wife, wouldn't it?"
Denmark was silent. Kenya laughed, and said, "Denmark, Rome just totally owned you."
I smirked. "I'm going to go take my shower, now." I got up and wandered to the stairs with an exaggerated sashay. I put my wrist up and had it flop around limply for added effect.
"This isn't over, France! I will have my revenge!"