Seventy-third floor, Old World Records, Lead Producer Edward Cullen: twenty-seven years old. At least that is what everyone sees, I started this company in the forty's to help produce my own music and its changed hands a few times over the years, but now it comes back to me. To throw off suspicion I produce young artists, keeps me looking like a legitimate business. Every once in a while I find some singer or performer that actually makes me some money, it happens about once in a blue moon, so the money I make is usually from my own compositions. The major problem with owning a business for someone like me: having to deal with humans on a nearly daily basis. Today is turning out to be one of those days. I've been in meetings with agents and potential clients since ten o'clock this morning and it is now going on four. Fifteen meetings, all of them I am willing to "consider" or "play your demo for a few people," translation: not a chance.
I've walked the Earth for one-hundred and thirty-five years; I've met some of the greatest composers of the old world and the new world. These… children that come to me now lack the passion for music that those true talents had, and expect me to produce them. They want it for the money, the fame; the men want it for sex. I find myself at a point where I no longer go through the formalities of meeting these people and talking with them anymore. I introduce myself and have them play their demo or perform for me while I probe their mind; learning their intents, life experiences and by the end I know them better than they know themselves. I wish, just once, that I could unfold the life of one of these pretentious brats right in front of them. Tell them every horror of my life and tell them to stop wasting people's time.
On a day like today, it is a tempting prospect, but I cannot bring myself to destroy everything I have created. So I sit at my desk in the over-sized office with too many windows, the thick blinds pulled halfway down so the sun cannot touch me, and muddle through the never-ending drone of wasted air. Every once in a while, choosing a one-hit-wonder so my day can end.
"Mr. Cullen, your four o'clock is here." I hear over the intercom, I sigh to myself and dread this next meeting.
"Thank you James, send them in." I reply as I hear Steven Andrews head for my door.
I suppose there is nothing specifically wrong with Steven; I just find that he tends to be too excited most of the time. This would not be a problem except that he always has the next big star that will "send my company into the stratosphere" and never actually does. But there is something on his mind today that is different than usual, I can only get a sense of it from here but I still think this will be another wasted meet.
The door opens; he steps in and closes it behind him. I stand as he approaches my desk, "Hello Steven, it's good to see you again." As he steps closer, his thoughts are clearer; he really thinks he has something today. "Are you okay Steven? You seem troubled." He's so out of character today, it's beginning to bother me. I see it in his mind now, he's going to stop coming to me if I don't pick up this artist. I guess I've turned him down too many times, he holds up a CD.
"I'm going to play this for you, don't speak, just listen." He walks over to the stereo and puts in the disk. I pick up the remote on my desk, turn up the volume, and brace myself as the opening bars to Think of Me come through the speakers.
I caught a little flack last chapter for the length, so I'll be submitting them in smaller bites like this from now on. Thank you for your comments and support. -Saleil