“So, label bailed, huh?” Ray says, kicking his feet up onto his desk and gesturing for me to take a seat on the old sofa.

“Yeah, it was time, though. They weren’t doing anything for us,” I say, falling deep into the worn cushions.

“Hmmmm,” Ray says, chewing at the inside of his cheek, and twisting at the end of his graying mustache.

“Oh, come on, Ray…you know we’re good. You know it!” I start to protest, leaning forward, ready to stand on my feet. Fuck this, I didn’t come here to get a lecture. I called Ray because I thought he would understand. He’s the one who pushed me to fight for this, and he’s half the reason I want it so damned bad. If he’s going to tell me I can’t make it now…

“Sit your ass down, hot head,” he halts me. I roll my eyes at him, but I sit back, giving him the respect he deserves. However, I’m not opposed to walking right out of here and slamming his door in his face if he starts to get high and mighty.

Ray leans forward and reaches into his desk drawer, digging through piles of notebooks and papers before finally coming up with a giant envelop full of clippings. He unfolds the top and dumps six or seven newspaper articles on his desk, spreading them out like a winning poker hand. I keep my eyes on him the entire time—I don’t dare look down at the papers, because I know what they are, and I hate that he’s read them.

“Let’s just take a look, shall we?” he says, pulling his glasses from his front pocket just to be melodramatic. This is going to be way more painful than I thought. I should have known—Ray doesn’t lecture. He doesn’t need to. He can put you in your place in an instant just by pulling at the threads of your skeletons and weaknesses.

“This one’s from two months ago. Says here Mason Street and his band left a crowd of nearly 3,000 ticket holders waiting until almost 11 p.m. before finally taking the stage in Oklahoma City,” Ray says, flicking his eyes to mine for a brief second, just long enough to burn in his disappointment. “Oh, wait…there’s more. It goes on to say that when the band finally took the stage, they only made it through one song before the drummer passed out. And then…wow, really? And then Street broke his guitar over his knee and punched his bass player, starting a brawl that police had to break up.”

“Yeah, yeah…I get it,” I say, but Ray’s quick to cut me off.

“No, Mason. I don’t think you do. Let’s take a look at this one,” he says, unfolding the one that’s going to hurt to hear. I’m not going to get out of here without letting him say his piece—so I sit back again and get comfortable. I still won’t look at him, though, so instead I stare at the wall of photos.

“The Mason Street Band was arrested for disorderly conduct after trashing—trashing!—a Reno hotel suite. Damage was estimated at $250,000 and included two windows,” Ray pulls his glasses off and rubs at his forehead. He doesn’t need to finish. “Damn it, Mason. You really don’t know why the label dropped you? You and those…those…those clowns that you call a band. Jesus, boy! It’s a good thing you’ve come home, but I don’t know—”

I turn to him now. If he’s about to say what I think he’s going to say, I want to look into his eyes while he crushes me. “What, Ray? What don’t you know?” I ask, throwing my shoulders up in defeat.

Ray’s slow to respond, spending his time folding up the sad scrapbook he’s kept on me. The worst part…I don’t think there’s a positive article in the mix, and I wouldn’t know where the hell to find one. He slides the folder back into his drawer and leans forward on his elbows, cracking his knuckles while he studies me.

“Kid, you sure made a mess of things. You’re the most talented thing I’ve ever put up on that stage. But your goddamned head is thick, you know that?” he says, mouth tight, and showing only half a smile. “I don’t know if you can fix this, that’s all. But we’ll try, okay? We’ll sure try.”

Ray stands up and walks over to reach for my hand to pull me up to my feet. He pats my back as he guides me back out to the bar. I just shake my head, because I really don’t have any answers. I get how Ray sees things, but he also doesn’t understand what it was like to play, night after night, in some of those joints. Every month there was promise of a bigger ticket, of coming in for an album, recording something new. But then another month would pass, and nothing. The guys quit believing about a year ago, and I just couldn’t keep it going anymore. I quit writing, too.