Down a long, dark corridor to a locked door. Through the door and down some stairs to a second locked door. Through the door and past the engineer’s booth. Into the big room with the instruments. Welcome to Jim Christopher’s recording studio.

There was already someone there, putting an upright bass through its motions when Jim arrived. It was Jim’s younger brother, A.J.

“Let yourself in, did you?” Jim said.

A.J. looked up. “Hey, big bro’!” A.J. always greeted his older brother this way even though he was 15 inches taller. He had hands that made the bass look puny, and platinum blonde hair that hung well below his shoulders.

“You certainly look chip this morning,” A.J. continued as Jim sat at the piano. “I expected you to be late, as is your usual wont after going to that bar on Montana Avenue you hang out in.”

Jim tapped his forehead. “Follow it, smart guy.”

A.J. looked at his brother. “You only had...five Bushmill’s,” he said, surprised. “You played darts. You got laid!” A.J. bellowed with laughter, then calmed down wide-eyed as he continued. “You lost control?”

Jim nodded.

“Holy shit! How could you...” A.J. sat down as the last thought hit him. “An empath! You scored a fucking empath?”

Jim nodded again, rubbing his neck. “Very good,” he said, “very good. I’ve never understood how you could see the equations so quickly.”

“Chemistry helps. You were always obsessed with physics. Besides, I pay attention when Larry speaks.”

This was nothing new to Jim. He and A.J. had often discussed A.J.’s faster thought processes, and his ability to see the equations and interpret them from other people. He had the same abilities as Jim, to be sure, but reading the equations of others was a plus. A.J. could only pick out one equation in 500, but experience had taught his how to interpret what he could see quite well. He saw it as trying to crack an unknown language. To Jim it was almost an alien concept.

“What happened when you lost it?” A.J. asked.

“Can’t see it?” Jim returned.

“Foreign territory. I need it for my notes.”

“Oh, all right, if you must know. We floated up, about eight feet off the bed, I’d say.”

“On a one to ten scale that’s pretty good.”

“Oh do shut up. We did it again later with the same results. A wave of emotion hits me, and I’m gone.”

“Emotion?”

“Apparently I’m very receptive.”

“Interesting,” A.J. stood and paced. “I wonder if there’s any math in empathy. I’d like to meet her.”

“She’s only five feet tall,” Jim said.

“You are a filthy minded swine. That’s not what I mean and you know it.”

Jim smiled and ran his hands over the keys of the piano. “I know. Look, kiddo, we got an album to do.”

“Ah yes,” A.J. replied. “The R & R Project!” He sat the bass down, and pulled up a guitar to begin tuning it.

“You know,” A.J. continued, “I never thought this would take so long. Imagine, there’s you, only five years in the business and 13 albums out...”

“Five with my band, remember,” Jim said. “Plus one charity album.”

“Ah yes, let’s keep our accounting straight. You and your chordal abilities and pop sensibilities and the ability to compose a hit song in under 45 seconds.”

“Go on! I like this.”

“And then there’s me.”

“Yes, there’s you.”

A.J. ignored the sarcasm and stood, guitar tuned. “Me!” he yelled, launching into a riff that would have made Jimi Hendrix proud. “The meanest, baddest, honriest, fastest mother-fucking guitarist who ever lived! Hah!” He played one of his patented faster-than-sound licks. Then he stopped abruptly.

“Do the people buy it?” he innocently asked.

“I hope so,” Jim responded, “because this will be a hard album to sell. And keep the attitude up. We have that party in Malibu tonight.”

“Oh, god,” A.J. groaned. “Any party either of us goes to in Malibu turns into a press conference for one of us.”

“Probably both of us. That’s the idea, after all.”

“Oh, god! It’ll go on even longer. ‘What were you like as kids’ and ‘can you explain the difference in your heights’ and ‘who are you fucking this week’ and...”

“The party starts at seven, and it’s now eleven a.m. Let’s get to work.”

A.J. sat down. “Oh, all right. Bring her to the party.”

“I’d planned on it.”

A.J. strummed a chord. “Same song as we closed with last time?”

“Yes,” Jim answered. He played a few chords, and A.J. joined in. Jim hit a switch with his foot and added a drum machine. A.J. manipulated bass pedals. Jim added vocals:

I’m looking out your back door

The edge of the world, it seems so far away

A.J. added harmony vocals:

There isn’t that much more to say

A.J. stopped, and so did Jim.

“The A Chord doesn’t work there, does it?” A.J. asked.

“No, it doesn’t,” Jim admitted. “Neither do the sixths for vocals.”

Both men sat and thought for a minute. Jim brightened a bit after that and said, “Let’s leave convention. Instead of A, how about C major seventh?”

A.J. frowned and played the chords: G, E minor, C-sharp diminished, C major seventh. “It’s pretty,” he said, “but you only have one chord to resolve it back to G, and a D seems rather silly after that move. What do you do now?”

A.J. answered his own question without missing a beat. “How about E-flat?”

Jim stared and thought. “Walk the bass line up to it?” he asked. “then follow it up to the G?” He was a bit more excited about the tune now. “That will work.”

“And” A.J. went on, “I can sing thirds at the harmonies.” He was obviously pleased with himself as the two brothers exchanged their secret handshake.

“Let’s roll,” Jim said.

They ran a new take of the song flawlessly, having long grown used to each other’s quirks in performing. When they finished the take Jim said, “Much better.”

“One big problem though,” A.J. said.

Jim looked puzzled. “What’s that?” he asked.

“The lyrics fucking stink.”

Jim shook his head and began to laugh. “You just may be right,” he replied.