High-Level Meetings

by thoughtsonthedead

bobby billy talking onstage old

“Seventeen shows, Bill.”

“What do I have to do?”

“Play the drums, I suppose. Not assault anyone who’ll call the cops. Stop prank calling Phil.”

“I call in fake reservations to his restaurant.”

“Yeah, they know it’s you. I get texts about it.”


“Whaddya say? One more summer?”

“I have demands.”

“I’m shocked.”

“Mickey still doesn’t get a bass drum.”


“I want to stay in the Maharaja Suite at all the gigs.”

“Pretty sure nothing of that sort exists in Wisconsin, but the hotels are gonna be pretty swanky.”

“I want a new Benjy.”

“Well, you know: find a guy and we’ll put him on the payroll.”

“No. I want the tour to pay for research into cloning a synthetic android Benjy.”

“I’ll call Alembic, but I can’t promise anything.”

“You know I’m gonna put my dick in stuff, right?”

“When have I ever stopped you?”

“Guy with the pretty hair still in the band?”


“Black guy?”

“He has a name.”

“It’s not–”



“Meyers kid still making faces?”

“Uh-huh, yeah.”

“Whatever. Send a plane to Kauai the day before the tour.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Hey, speaking of planes: how come you didn’t invite me to your Super Bowl gig?”

“You would have insisted on being paid, and I preferred to keep the money for myself.”

“You’re getting smart, Weir.”

“Sure, sure.”