The air was hot and heavy; smoke
hung in a layer just below the ceiling.
The hum of a large fan mixed with the din of twenty voices and the faint
sound of music in the adjacent studio.
A thin girl with light blond hair
opened the street door, allowing a cool breeze and a shaft of natural light to
enter the dark room.
“Hey, boss!” called one young
man. “Sophie’s here!”
The music in the studio stopped and a
middle-aged man wearing an orange T-shirt emerged.
“Hi, Sophie,” he said to the blond
girl. “Glad you could make it.”
“Hey, George,” she said, her soft
voice like a kitten’s belly. “I’ve only
got about an hour.”
“Then let’s get started,” he said,
leading her toward the studio. To the
crowd of people lounging in the main room, he said, “While we’re working, why
don’t you guys air it out a little in here?”
A bearded man stumbled toward him and hiccupped. “And get Todd a cab.”
“Yes, boss,” they chorused.
Entering the studio, George rubbed
his hands together and said, “Let’s get to work.”
“We’re doing ‘Runaway Train’ today?”
Sophie asked, thumbing through a stack of chord charts.
“Yeah, we’re gonna try to get it
right this time,” George replied, shutting the door. “That’s your mic there, Sophie. Alright, guys, make me proud.” The drummer counted off, and the band started
playing.
The music had definite symphonic
metal tones, but some electronica seemed to have influenced it as well. Sounds of an orchestra flowed from one
synthesizer while futuristic, non-descript noise came from the other. Electric guitar backed the music, but the
pounding bass drum seemed most prominent.
As Sophie’s low, clear vocals began, George smiled, leaning back in his
seat and admiring his lead vocalist.
“Sorry, guys, but I have to run,”
Sophie announced about an hour later.
“Come on, just one more run
through,” George said. “We can do it
this time.”
“I already gave you one more run
through,” Sophie said, taking off her headphones. “I have a job interview and I can’t be late.”
“You’re going to a job interview in
that?” the drummer asked skeptically, eyeing her ripped jeans and slouchy
Killers T-shirt.
“Of course not,” she snapped. “I’m going home to change.” Opening the studio door, she said, “Sorry,
George, but I gotta run.”
“It’s alright, Sophie,” he replied,
dropping her keys in her hand. “We still
on for tonight?”
The corner of her mouth twitched as
she said, “Sure thing, boss,” and passed through the front room, leaving a
chorus of good-byes behind her.
At a corner bar on 12th
Street, a cab was parked on the curb. In
the backseat, the beautiful blonde was applying red lipstick.
“Meess, you going to pay and leave?”
the cab driver asked, turning to look at her.
“I must go.”
“Yes, yes, I’ll get out,” she said
impatiently, capping her lipstick, dropping it in her purse, and tossing some
money over the seat.
She opened the door of the cab and
stepped out onto the warm sidewalk.
Smoothing her hair, she walked into the bar.
“Fashionably late, Sophie?” George
said, sliding off his bar stool and approaching her.
“Always,” she replied.
“How did your interview go?”
“I think I got the job,” she said
smoothly. “Does it always reek like this
in here?”
“It’s just cigarette smoke,” George
answered.
“I don’t smoke.”
“Neither do I, but in my business,
you get used to it.” Sophie smiled and
said, “Only in your end of the business, George.”
“What do you mean?”
“I doubt producers at Columbia
Records encounter as many chain smokers as you do.”
“They don’t encounter as much
talent, either.”
Sophie shrugged and propped herself
on a bar stool.
“Are you gonna be available to work
tomorrow?” George asked.
“It’s Saturday,” she responded.
“We need to finish the record.”
“I’d rather not work on Saturday.”
“If you insist,” he said, sighing.
“I’d also rather not talk about work
tonight,” she added, smiling. “Let’s
talk about something else.”
So they did. All night, until finally they each caught
cabs home.
As Sophie was applying her make-up
the following morning, her cell phone rang.
Glancing at the caller ID, she ascertained that it was her potential
boss, Jonathan, calling.
“Hello?”
“Sophie?”
“Yes.” She applied a second coat of mascara.
“I was wondering if you could come
in and do some work for me this afternoon.”
“Then I got the job?”
“Of course,” he said with a little
snicker.
“What time should I come in?”
“About two? And maybe you’ll be off by six.”
“Will do,” she said.
“See you then.” And he hung up.
“Work on Saturdays,” she muttered,
opening her closet and pulling out a sophisticated skirt and blouse. “Work clothes,” she added, wrinkling her
nose.
A crisp, white sign baked in the
Tennessee sun. Classic black lettering
read “Music News Weekly.”
Inside the air conditioned office, a
handsome, dark-haired man sat behind a computer. Running his fingers through his hair, he took
a drink of his iced coffee. He typed on
the computer, scribbled on a notepad, snatched a piece of paper off the corner
of his desk, checked his watch, and looked up as the door opened.
“Right on time,” he said with a
grin, standing up and eyeing his visitor up and down.
“Wouldn’t want to be late on my
first day of work, would I, Mr. Anders?” Sophie said, smiling.
“Call me Jonathan,” he replied. “I’m glad you could make it this
afternoon. There’s a new band doing a
show in town tonight and I want to catch them beforehand for an interview.”
“Why did you need me?” Sophie
asked. Jonathan grinned.
“They’re young men. They’ll respond better to a hot chick.”
Sophie stiffened, but laughed and
bit her lip.
“Anyway, I’m just finishing up
here,” Jonathan said, sitting back down at his desk. “That’s your desk there; you can check it
out.”
As Sophie took a seat, she smoothed
her skirt and let out an unsteady sigh.
Setting her things on the desk, she began inspecting her new
workplace—opening drawers, testing the feel of the mouse, trying out the
computer.
“Ready, beautiful?” Jonathan said a
few minutes later. Sophie snatched her
purse and notebook and said, “Yeah.”
A cab pulled up to the curb in front
of the Music News Weekly office. A homeless man across the street watched an
attractive couple climb out. His stomach
rumbled when he heard the man say something about dinner, but they soon
disappeared inside the building.
“I don’t know…” Sophie said as they
were greeted by an air conditioned rush.
“Come on, I have reservations for
six-thirty,” Jonathan urged. “You look
so nice; I have to show you off.” Sophie
turned her back and began digging through her purse.
“Well?” Jonathan asked. “Will you go with me? It’s a Chinese place, with authentic food.”
“I’m actually not that hungry,” she
said over her shoulder.
“You will be when you see their
fried rice.” He approached her and
placed his hands on her shoulders.
“Please?” he whispered in her ear.
Sophie stepped away and turned to
face him.
“What can I say?” she said with a
nervous giggle. “I guess I’ll have to
go.”
Triumphant, Jonathan straightened
his tie, checked his watch, and announced, “Then we had better get going.”
George pushed open the door of a
restaurant entirely unfamiliar to him—but a friend had recommended it. On the night he was alone, he would eat well.
After ordering Mongolian beef and
fried rice, he began inspecting the other guests. An older man near the corner ate like he
hadn’t in weeks. George peered further
into the corner, where a couple snuggled in a booth. He was tall and dark, with a look of Chris
Pine about him. Her hair was so blond it
looked white.
George rose with a start, walked
just close enough to the table to see her grey eyes shining out of the shadow,
and left the restaurant.
“Who was that?” Jonathan asked,
resting his fingers on Sophie’s left hand.
“Just my other boss.” In her right hand, her napkin became a tight
ball.
“He looked upset.”
“He was just trying to recognize
you.” Her nails clawed into the napkin.
“He was probably wishing he were
young enough to go out to dinner with a girl like you.” Jonathan stroked Sophie’s wrist.
“Mm.” Sophie grabbed her glass and took a drink.
“Is this your napkin, beautiful?”
A classic, southern woman walked out
of church, greeted the pastor, and yelled at her unruly son. Behind her, a far-from-classic southern belle
turned her cell phone on as she stepped out into the late morning air. A middle-aged man pocketed a rarely-used comb
as he caught up with the girl.
“Sophie!” he called. She stopped and turned.
“Hey, George.”
“So you got the job.”
“They say the job market’s on the
rise,” she commented.
“I doubt that had much to do with
it,” he said with a grimace. She placed
a hand gently on his shoulder.
“I’ll work tonight if you want,” she
offered.
“The guys are hung over,” George
replied. “I’ll give them another day.”
“I’m not doing anything at all
today, then.” She looked at a tuft of
grass in a crack.
“How ‘bout a drink at my house?”
“Just one?”
“Just one.”
The corner of her mouth itched
toward her cheek as she agreed.
George’s house wasn’t large, but it
was neat. He served martinis in martini
glasses and beer in mugs.
At the bar, he leaned close to his
pretty friend.
“My birthday is coming up,” he said,
tracing the rim of his glass with his fingertip.
“Old man,” Sophie teased.
“I’m going to be forty,” he
said. “That’s almost old enough to be
your father.”
“You’d be an awfully young father,”
she answered. “You were only fifteen
when I was born.”
He raised his hand tentatively to
touch her chin.
“You’re so young,” he said. “What are you doing hanging out with an old
guy like me?”
“Expanding my horizons,” she said.
“Trying new things?”
“Learning to love.”
He looked at her for a moment, then
held up the bottle of champagne.
“Another glass?” he asked.
“You promised: just one,” she said,
smiling halfway.
Rock harmonies and cigarette smoke
floated out the open door into the street.
A couple young men and a red-haired girl sat on the sidewalk, playing
their guitars and singing. A
well-dressed man passed by the door and wrinkled his nose.
Inside the studio, Sophie and the
band were perfecting their last song for the album, under George’s
supervision. As the last strains of
music faded, George cut the recording and heaved a sigh.
“That’s it!” he said. “We’ll shoot the pictures for the cover
tomorrow, Sophie.”
“You’ll be taking those?” she asked.
“Yeah. Hey, listen, I’ve got a new song I want to
show you. Stick around, alright?”
“Sure, just get me out of this
room. The heat’s making me develop
claustrophobia.” Sophie stood up and entered
the main room.
At any given time in the day or
night, there were usually about ten aspiring musicians hanging around George’s
studio—more when George himself was there.
They all hoped to get their big break when the boss heard them play, and
while they were waiting, they talked about music and wasted their money on
cigarettes and booze. George let them
stay because they had potential and did odd jobs for him.
Thomas had been around, playing his
guitar, keeping the other wannabes under control, and admiring Sophie for
years. No one knew how he made enough
money to live, but no one asked. They
all wanted him to stay forever. The studio
wouldn’t be the studio without Thomas.
As she took a seat, Sophie let out a
sigh and turned her face toward the door.
Putting out his cigarette, Thomas
came and sat next to her.
“Waitin’ for the boss?” he asked.
“Mm.”
“Role reversal.”
“What?”
“He’s been waitin’ for you long
enough.” Thomas smiled at Sophie’s
surprised expression. “Don’t you know he
heard you sing in Boston five years ago?
He’s been waitin’ for you to grow up ever since.”
“Boston…” Sophie muttered. “I like to pretend I’ve never been that far
north.”
“What’s a high class girl like you
doing in a joint like this, Sophie?” Thomas asked. She turned her grey eyes on him and he
knew. “In a way, you have been waiting
for the boss to grow up, too, haven’t you?” he said. “For him to grow up enough to see that
there’s nothing magical about age.”
“Maybe,” Sophie murmured. And George walked in.
A rare cool day in Tennessee allowed
Sophie and George to spend hours outdoors taking pictures.
“This lighting is amazing, Sophie,”
George said. “The clouds are perfect,
and you look beautiful. It’s a wonderful
day for a photo shoot.”
“Wonderful day for a photo shoot,”
Sophie echoed sarcastically. “I think
six new zits appeared this morning.”
“Ah, I remember the days of acne,”
George said with a smile. “But those
days are long past. Anyone that suffers
from acne would never notice anyone like me.”
“That’s not true,” Sophie
retorted. He turned to look at her. They paused for a moment, each wondering the
same thing.
“Is it time?” he whispered. “Have I waited long enough?”
Sophie approached him and took the
camera from his hands. Setting it aside,
she asked him, “Would you want to take care of a kid?”
“Could you possibly like an old
man?” he asked. But Sophie placed her
hands on either side of his face and said, “He aged well. I’m not sure I would have wanted him ten
years younger.”
George pulled his little girl close
and did what he had waited five years to do: he kissed her. But kisses are like wine—the longer you wait
for them, the sweeter they are.
Inside the Music News Weekly building, Jonathan had just finished a job
interview. She was plump and eager to
please; he didn’t like her.
“Welcome to work, Sophie,” he said
as his favorite piece of candy walked in from the morning air.
“The girl outside said she’d just
interviewed for a job here,” Sophie said as she walked to her desk.
“That’s right.”
“I think you should hire her; she’d
make a good journalist.”
“I’m not inclined to,” he said,
leaning back in his chair. “For one
thing, we don’t have an empty desk.”
Sophie snatched her crisp, new name
plate off her desk and dropped it in the trash.
“Now you do.” With that, she strode out of the office,
across the street into the waiting arms of her favorite boss.
“Sophie,” George whispered into her
ear. “’Runaway Train’ hit iTunes at nine
this morning. It’s already at the top of
the charts.”
“No!” Sophie gasped, looking up into
his face. “Really?”
He nodded. “Darling, you’re a star,” he said.
She pressed her lips to his.
“I love you,” she said.
“Ah, my little rock star,” he
answered. “How lovable you are.”
