AUTHORESS'S NOTE: Thank you all for reading and reviewing! It really means a lot to me. Please continue read and review. Thank you:)

CHAPTER TWO:

Timothy and Helen Lovejoy gossiped about Maude Flanders' recent five-pound weight gain as Marge Simpson attempted to pull her son off the roof of the restaurant where he was trying to reach some type of miniature rocket he must have thrown up there. Ned Flanders was giving the waiter a hard time because said waiter had never heard of a "capu-diddly-ino-cino" while Clancy Wiggum was too engulfed in his meal of heavily-don pasta to pay much attention to the reprobate robbing the bank next door.

Amidst all of this I sat, waiting for Mr. Oliver to arrive and having no notion of what he would say. I felt in my heart that the whole setup was a scam; I was no singer and never claimed to be. He must have only sensed my affluence and vulnerability, thinking I was some fool who'd buy into any scheme as long as it made me feel talented and appreciated. He was wrong.

Nonetheless, I decided I would hear him out. After all, the entire audience of elitists applauded my songs, so maybe there was something there that I, being consistently affianced with at least a fair amount of self-loathing, was too occupied to see.

I looked at my watch again, with an all too familiar anxiety present cold in my blood. I was not the most social of people despite having years of experience rubbing elbows with some of the most high-class citizens in Springfield, and Mr. Oliver's gregarious nature set me off a bit and did not blend well with my fear that I would somehow be talked into being scammed.

As I repeatedly commanded myself in my mind to regard any offer the man gave me with extreme prudence, I was startled by the sudden sound of his distinct, silvery voice greeting me. I looked up to see Mr. Oliver, looking quite different than he did the previous night. The natty formal suit had been replaced with a surprising combination of worn-out jeans, deerskin gloves, and chaps. The shiny white hair that had gleamed under the mellow lights of Mr. Burns' ballroom was now covered with a cloud-hued, felt cowboy hat. I doubt I would have recognized him if it were not for that unforgettable voice and the fact that he sat down across from me and wished me a good morning.

"Good morning, Mr. Oliver," I greeted, still a bit startled.

"Oh, please. Call me Stacey. Now, Waylon, you want to be a star?"

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes and said, "Not particularly."

"Well, that's really a shame, because I have a feeling you're going to be one," Stacey spurted out as if he had practiced these lines millions of times.

"What makes you say that?"

"You just have that certain quality. I can feel it. All you need is…what's the word…"

"Talent?"

Stacey laughed, "No, you have plenty of that. You just need an advantage. Something especially unique to sell you. You do seem intelligent, and like I mentioned to you before, your lyric-writing abilities may be meritorious, but you need an extra edge. Maybe you could…"

Before this got out of hand, I intercepted, "Stacey, I truly appreciate your interest, but I don't really desire to get into the music business. I'm quite happy at my current job."

"Well, you'll be happier at this one," remarked Stacey offhandedly. "Now what I think we should…"

My patience had been tried and failed. "Look, Stacey, I don't want to be a musician, and I'm not going to leave a steady, well-paying job that I love just for a fruitless chance at stardom. I know I'm not talented or good-looking or anything that is necessary to actually make it in the music world, so please stop tendering me these thinly-veiled flatteries and obviously-fallacious speculation."

Stacey looked at me like he was a little boy who just had his first love break his heart. "Waylon, I really believe you could be a success…more than a success, a true star."

"Save it."

"It's the truth," he exclaimed, slamming his fist dramatically down and immediately recoiling when he realized it was on a fork which he slammed.

"Are you okay?" I asked as he winced.

"No. I'm bleeding." I quickly offered him a few napkins, which he began wrapping around his finger. "Thanks." Then he looked away and cried, "If only mere papers could stop the bleeding in my heart!"

I sighed. "Stacey…"

"Wait…maybe they could!" He smiled and reached into his briefcase, an odd, turquoise piece of luggage adorned with yellow sparkles. He pulled out a contract and shoved it in my face.

"Mr. Oliver! What did I just finish telling you?" This guy would just not let up.

"Please Waylon."

"No."

"Please? Pretty please? With sugar and whipped cream and those semi-sweet milk chocolate chips on top?" begged Stacey. "Tell you what. I won't continue begging you to sign the contract. But at least give the business one try. Just one try, and if you don't like it, or if it doesn't work out, it will be no money lost from you."

I hesitated and considered my options. It is just one try, Waylon. It couldn't really hurt, could it?

But I'd never want to leave my job.

But you won't have to necessarily; no one's making you quit, just see how it goes.

But I already know that I would never leave Mr. Burns, so why even try?

Because at the very least, it could be a worthwhile experience. At least you'll learn whether or not you really do have a secret talent.

I guess.

And who knows? Maybe you will become a star. You know you've always wanted to be one. No matter how much you deny it.

Yes, but…I would never leave Mr. Burns.

Are you sure about that?

"Waylon? Are you okay?" asked Stacey, snapping me out of my trance.

"Um…yes, I'm fine," I began, taking a sip of the now-cold latte I had ordered. "And…I will give it a try."

"You will?"

I smiled for the first time that day and shrugged. "Why not? Like you said, I have nothing to lose."

Joy instantly returned to Stacey's eyes. "Oh, this is wonderful, Waylon! You won't regret it!" He then almost just as immediately transmogrified back into his confident, casual self. "Now all you have to do tonight is write me a song. Tomorrow you can bring it to my studio and we'll have a look at it, see if it's the kind of thing we're looking for. And if not, no worry! I have a whole team of writers that could fix it up, but I would prefer it come from you and your heart because that's what really makes a song good."

So, I did when Stacey instructed me to do. That night when I got home, I pulled on a warm sweatshirt emblazoned with the word "Stanford" across it (just to remind myself that I was an educated man capable of writing something worthwhile) and put on some spiced-butter-rum-scented candles to inspire a literary mood inside me.

It was difficult for me to become comfortable within my own skin enough to actually write something. I knew that I had to rid myself of all the soul-forged manacles I had wrapped around my wrists if I was ever going to get the attached hands to move across a page. The primary problem was that I was deeply afraid of what would spill out of me and my pen if I were to actually write; I was scared of what I'd find out about myself if I really looked, which writing almost always forces one to do

Nevertheless, I knew that it had to be done. And I had recently broke out of my fear-induced shackles enough to write the song I sang at Mr. Burns' party; I'm not even quite certain why, but as the party was approaching, I found that writing actually soothed my inner tornado. So, I hoped now that my anxiety regarding the entire music situation would offer me some magical form of literary zest.

And quite magically, it did. After inhaling a few deep breaths of air and setting my mind at peace, I was able to let go of almost all my preconceived doubts and apprehensions: I was able to let myself write. I didn't care about how wrong it felt to write what I was writing. I just let the words come and didn't think twice.

Until the next day when I realized that all I had to show Stacey were love songs written about men. Or in my case, one specific man. I was positively humiliated giving this talent agent these songs that would in all probability sicken him, but I just told myself that what I had written was just my mind's way of telling me that a career in music was simply never meant to be for me.

"Waylon, maybe I'm not reading this correctly, but…it sounds like you're writing about…" began Stacey as he scanned my first song.

I hung my head. "You're reading it correctly, Stacey. I'll go now."

"Wait! Don't go. You're gay?"

"I don't label myself," I instinctively answered.

"So, you're gay then?"

I attempted not to let my frustration with this age-old question show. "I…have gay tendencies, yes. So, like I said, I'll go now."

"What are you talking about, going? Being gay…that's your advantage!"

"What?" Advantage? I'd never heard anyone describe it that way.

Stacey's crystal blue eyes bulged as he began to pace around the room excitedly. He could barely contain this excitement, which I had no comprehension of. "A confused country star. Defying the stereotypes. A role model for the questioning. A sex symbol for the new generation."

"A sex symbol? Me? Hold on there, Stacey…"

"No, I won't hold on, Waylon," he said, looking in my eyes and seemingly seeing stars. "I've said it before, and I'll say it again: you, my friend, are perfect."