Today's Reading
Chip has worked as an editor for a big publishing house in San Francisco since college, but the truth is, he's one of those lucky guys who found a way to monetize the thing he loves most: reading. I suppose, in my own way, I was one of those guys once, too. Only, instead of books, it was music. Playing it, recording it, mixing it, producing it.
It's strange to think that once upon a time music made up the bulk of my world. Before Gabby.
A cool breeze whips dry sand against our calves, and I motion to the backpack I left near a chunk of driftwood by the trail up to the Bronco. My body is in dire need of electrolytes. "How'd you know I'd be out here this morning?"
Years ago, I kept a consistent Saturday morning surfing routine, but my time for hobbies, as the sole guardian of a sixteen-year-old, is a rare luxury. There's always something more pressing to focus on.
"Gabby's away at camp," Chip answers with a shrug before he takes my surfboard once again so I can swipe my backpack off the trail. I pull out my premixed drink and take a long pull as he continues. "When you didn't respond to my text about grabbing breakfast this morning, I checked the surf conditions and tried my luck. As soon as I spotted Maverick, my rideshare driver pulled over and let me out."
We've only just begun our trek, and already my legs have waved the white flag of surrender. Twenty-eight has never felt so old. "So you came all the way out for breakfast?" It's certainly not the strangest thing he's ever done, but the further we climb, the more I begin to crave a sausage omelet with a juicy side of bacon and hash browns smothered in—
"Not exactly," Chip hedges from behind me. "Breakfast is just the vehicle to discuss a business opportunity with you."
"How many timeshare presentations are involved in this business opportunity?" I toss back.
"None. Although, I hear Turks and Caicos is stunning." He attempts to jog in the sand beside me, which only makes him look like he's mimicking a slow-motion cartoon chase. "Actually, I was hoping we could discuss your recording studio."
I crane my neck and narrow a questioning gaze at him. I've been careful not to reveal too much when it comes to my work these days. Not because I don't trust him or because I'm attempting to save face—an impossible task considering the number of spit-wad wars we've engaged in over the years— but because Chip's the sort of guy who would auction off a kidney to help a friend in need. And I've been that friend more times than I care to admit since the accident.
"The recording market is different up here than it was in LA," I say with more ego than I intend as soon as my foot touches the pavement. "Finding the right clientele has been...challenging." It's why the bulk of my current workload is spent producing single EPs with run-of-the-mill studio musicians instead of engineering projects that could keep us afloat for an entire year.
"I'm sure that's true," he readily agrees. "California wine country is certainly not Hollywood." We're only steps away from Maverick when I sense him hesitating. "I'm also sure you've had more outgoing expenses than what you've let on for a while now." I don't confirm his suspicions, but Chip continues, undeterred. "I know you don't like talking about Gabby's prognosis, but I'm not ignorant enough to believe insurance has covered the bulk of her medical bills." He lowers his voice. "I know what you did to pay for her special hearing aids. And while that's commendable, there's only so many vintage guitars you can sell when it comes to—"
"Where is this going, Chip?" I can feel my defenses rising, and I'm certain Chip can, too. I grip my board and prepare to secure it to the roof of the Bronco.
"Audiobooks," he replies triumphantly.
I pause mid-lift and stare at him blankly. "Audiobooks."
"Yes." He holds out his hands. "Hear me out."
I say nothing as I swipe the damp hair from my eyes and hop onto the back bumper to tie down my board.
"Fog Harbor Books just gave me the green light to spearhead our first audiobook imprint, and you're my top pick for a producer. I can do all the preproduction legwork—vetting the narrators and sending you demos so you can check the quality of their home studio equipment, and then once you approve them, I'd send you the raw cut recordings so you can do what you do best: produce a killer product."
After tightening the last strap, I drop down to the pavement and open the back of the Bronco. All I want is to peel this wet suit off, pull on my dry clothes, and drive to food. But first, I need to address Chip's random request. "While I appreciate the thought, Chip, I'm a sound engineer. I work with bands. Singers. Musicians. Wannabe rappers with too much disposable income. I don't do read-a-thons."
...
