Page 9 of Love Song, Take Two

Tatum

And what it feels like to get your back blown out by some young stud.

Sadie

Worth the money I’m spending on this midday massage, I’ll tell you that much.

Fletcher

Put on your big boy panties, Kelley.

Now, 2024 | Sirena Beach, California

Nobody told him that when he became a business owner, his latent anxiety would suddenly reappear in full force. It didn’t matter that Fletcher had been running Big Waves for the last four years—part-time the first three years and full-time the last year—he still woke up every morning panicking about the little things. Did he do inventory the night before? Had he placed the orders for new equipment? Now, he had another thing added to his list of anxiety inducing headaches—music lessons.

No matter what he did—painkillers, every bottle of water in his fridge and yoga—nothing helped with the throbbing behind his eyes. He had fallen asleep at some point, but it hadn’t been enough. If anything, it made him feel worse.

After a freezing cold shower to wake him up and a large cup of coffee—half of which he spilled on himself—he had driven the twenty minutes to work, only to park and walk up to the front and find that his bag and pockets were empty of keys. So he made the trip back home, grabbed his keys and then opened up an hour later than usual. Walking through the store, he thought back to how he ended up saddled with all these responsibilities, whether he wanted them or not.

When the band decided to finally take a break—“we’re not calling it a retirement, just a much needed sabbatical”—Fletcher had been floundering. Music and The Rescuers were his whole world. His relationship with his family was strained, his ex-wife had moved on and he needed to go somewhere to deal with all these big changes. Almost like he’d heard Fletcher’s pleas his father’s brother, Uncle Hank, called.

“I heard you got old and decided to retire.”

“Takes one old man to know one,” Fletcher fired back with a laugh.

“Come on down and visit this old man, kid. It’s been years.”

“I guess I could. Not like I have anything else going on.”

“Sirena Beach awaits,” Hank said before hanging up.

Either his uncle knew what those words would mean to him or he was being clueless as always, Fletcher took it as a sign. Only someone who’d written a song about a mermaid—a sirena—would know that that’s where he was meant to be. So he packed up his things and went to California.

Growing up in small town Iowa, visiting Uncle Hank was an annual treat. Unlike his siblings, Hank had always liked living along the coast with access to beaches and the surf. He’d heard his father refer to Hank as a hippie countless times, but those were all the reasons why he loved his uncle. Besides being fun and open to almost anything, he lived a lawless kind of life. The only thing he looked forward to every summer was seeing Hank. When Fletcher got famous and toured the country, Hank would come to as many shows as possible. They’d hang out after the set, Hank would regale the boys with stories of his misspent youth and his soul would be instantly recharged.

Hank launched Big Waves Music in the early seventies, the first of its kind music store and recording studio. Tons of small local bands cut their albums in the basic studio in the back, and Hank had become something of a legend. As he moved from city to city, Big Waves Music moved with him, until he finally settled in a small beach town when Fletcher was in the middle of making it big.

So when he got to Sirena Beach, nothing seemed amiss with his uncle. Hank’s first task? Take over running Big Waves.

“Get all your musician friends to visit, make a big scene, bring people back to this kind of life.”

“Which musician friends should I call?”

“Paul McCartney is a good friend, right? How about Paul Simon?”

While he didn’t call any of his friends, he did help Hank repaint the store and put up new signage and organized things that brought customers back to the store. That took them the better part of the year and when Christmas rolled around, Hank asked for one more thing.

“Look kid, I’m too old to play Santa anymore. So I told that Mars fella you’d take over.”

“You did what now?”

Hank patted him on the back with a jovial laugh. “You’re the only person I know that likes Christmas as much as I do. So you’re suiting up.”

“You’re fucking joking.”

“Santa doesn’t cuss. You better work on that.”

Then he became Santa. It was unpleasant that first year, wobbling around in Hank’s old suit, being careful not to trip over his boots and learning how to modify his voice so as not to scare the kids away. It took some practicing and lots of coaching from Hank, but he finally got the hang of it. Just in time for his uncle to drop a third and final doozy on him.

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