So… Ginny Dolman. Little bit of a nutter. I mean, who walks away from a sure thing like Dolman Industries? She talked a lot about some pie-in-the-sky dream of building not just a studio but a “center for encouraging musical growth.” Whatever that means. She doesn’t know squat about music production, either. As evidenced by the minuscule budget she allotted for equipment.
“You know people, though, right?” was what she said to me. “You can find us some deals?”
OK, yeah. I could. Lesser men probably would’ve backed down from the tiny budget she had to work with. I took it as a challenge. Maybe I’m not as much of a lesser man as my every former employer would probably say.
Besides, speaking of former employment… I kinda spent through the earnings from my last steady gig, and I didn’t exactly leave that big, we-shall-leave-it-nameless-to-protect-my-ass-from-a-libel-suit studio with any kind of glowing recommendations for my resume.
Which is to say, I need this job. Budget, challenge, and all.
And, if we’re being frank here, if Dolman had a bigger budget, she wouldn’t be hiring me. I should count myself as lucky.
I managed to wrangle the new boss’s OK to haul a bed up to one of the old offices in the loft. Made it sound like a reluctantly-accepted benefit that would pad out her otherwise-paltry wage offer. It’ll be cool to not have to sleep on a park bench when the landlord finally kicks my ass out from not paying rent for the last three months. So I’ve got that going for me now, too.
I furnished my new digs with a cooler, too. Yeah, there’s the fridge downstairs, but I’m not sure how cool it would be to fill the workplace fridge with beer. The cooler seems like a good compromise. I mean, it’s not like I’m drinking on the job. I never take a drop of it downstairs with me. And if I have a drink over lunch break, I keep it light and make sure it’s not on my breath when I go back to work. Not making that mistake again.
The first few weeks are mostly about tracking down old contacts, talking the talk, and cutting some deals. And then hauling in the gear.
Dolman? She busies herself with some cheap-ass decorating “improvements.”
Deeply ingrained habitual sarcasm aside, I have to admit, I like it.
When she’s not exercising her questionable artistic skills, boss lady pours the rest of her free time into getting the word out.
I finish the studio.
Dolman seems to approve. Hell, I approve. Given the resources I had to work with, I did good.
We actually make a decent team. Maybe.
OK, confession time: Ginny–whom I never call “Ginny” to her face, because she’s my boss–has turned out to be smarter than I gave her credit for, at first. She’s curious. She picks up things. Fast. Also, it turns out she has amazing taste in music. If she wasn’t the boss lady, and I wasn’t such a spectacular screw-up, I might ask her out. As it is, I’m thinking we might just make this studio work.
So that’s pretty much where we are. Things are coming together.
Except that maybe they’re not. Because that scheduling calendar Ginny bought stays empty. And the stack of bills coming in gets bigger. And hey, just for fun, the city planning commission jumps on the dog pile and starts sending warnings–clean up that building’s eyesore exterior or else kind of bullshit.
She needs clients.
We need clients. Because let’s face it, with my current liquid lunch break habits, I’m not landing any other job.
So the competition? That’s my brain child.