“Thanks,” I said. “And very classy.”
“How far along is she?”
“Almost five months.”
“This is a pretty sweet life you’re leading,” he said. This was good form, I knew, rather than honest sentiment. Nolan had no wife, no kids, and was content. “I mean it,” he went on, “the house, the garden, great wife, kid on the way … I’m glad to see things are going so well for you.”
For a while I’d hesitated before asking my friends to come visit me here in Newfield. In the nine years since college, Nolan, Evan, and Jeffrey had all become remarkably successful. And as long as I’d been a struggling New York musician, I believed that my world made sense to them. They understood risk taking if the rewards were big enough. But I couldn’t help feeling uneasy about them coming here to the suburbs and seeing my current life through the lenses of their own.
I felt ashamed, suddenly, for feeling this way. Friends understood. It was what made them friends.
“I’m a lucky guy,” I said.
“Glad you know it.” Then Nolan clapped his hands once and leaned forward in his chair at the kitchen table. “All right—so talk. What’s the big mystery?”
I’d asked him to arrive in town before the others because I wanted to discuss something important.
I opened my beer and took a sip. “No big mystery. I’ve been kicking around a business idea and wanted to run it by you.”
“I’m listening,” he said.
I had done a lot more than kick the idea around, so I launched right into it: I wanted to start a small record label. The vital parts of a record company were the ability to make a great record and to promote it. I knew how to make a great-sounding record. And Cynthia was the best PR person I knew.
I explained that the owner of the studio where I worked had already agreed to let me record there off-hours for utility costs and a percentage of sales. For fifty thousand dollars, I figured, we could record and promote our first two CDs.
“I know some great musicians out there,” I said. “All they need is some exposure.”
“How much money have you raised so far?” Nolan asked.
“Raised?” I shook my head. “We’ve been able to put a few thousand into savings. But now with the baby coming, we wanted to see if we could move things along.”
“So you’re asking me to invest?”
I didn’t like asking Nolan for money. Jeffrey, actually, was the wealthiest of my friends—but Nolan owed me. During his first run for state senate, I’d moved to Missouri for the last four weeks of his campaign. I’d given him my time, because that was all I had.
“Ten thousand,” I said, then quickly added, “I know it’s a lot. But you’d be part owner, of course.”
“That’d be interesting, owning part of a record company.” He sipped his beer, set it back down on the table. He looked at the label for a moment. At last he said, “But I won’t invest ten thousand dollars. I’m sorry.”
So much for that.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I understand.”
He frowned. “Do you?” He drank from his beer, set it down again. “You’re going to run into costs you never expected. That’s how business works. So if you think you’ll need fifty thousand, then you ought to be raising a hundred. So no, I won’t invest ten thousand. But I’ll invest twenty.”
He finished his beer, got two more from the refrigerator, opened them, and handed me one.
“You’re joking,” I said.
He laughed. “You’re my friend and a talented guy. I believe in you. Why on earth wouldn’t I invest?”
I had no answer. “So twenty thousand, just like that?”
He snapped his fingers. “Just like that.” He grinned. “Now, if we can get twenty grand each out of Jeffrey and Evan, that’d go a long way toward getting those first two records off the ground, wouldn’t it?”
It sure would. And maybe I’d mention it to Evan at some point over the next few days. But Jeffrey clearly needed a vacation, and I intended to give him one without hitting him up for cash.
The majority of Newfield’s citizens commuted to New York City, where for eight or ten hours they pushed and pulled the levers that made America run. Newfield Station was at the center of town. I parked the car, and Nolan and I waited for Jeffrey and Evan to arrive on the 4:12.
In the past, we’d met up in Palm Springs, Hilton Head Island, Bermuda. Once a year, I didn’t mind splurging. But now I was trying to save, and so back in January I’d asked them all to consider coming here. My friends worked long and hard, and I didn’t like asking them to downgrade their vacation on my account. Yet without a single complaint, they’d all agreed to forgo an exotic locale for a weekend in Jersey.