Squeezing his hand felt like squeezing an eel’s tail: slick and slimy, but also quick to dry anything it touches, like a sponge on a wet surface.
Two men are speaking hastily. Heard wipes his palms on his jeans as he takes a seat across from them. They’re eager to tell him about their plans for the release. “We want a big release with your music. You know our catalog, right? Frankie, Jamie—we’ll put you in the same league as our biggest hitters.”
Heard nods and peers around the office as they continue telling him about the logistics of the deal. “‘Are you familiar with how record deals work? We’ll pay you royalties, so you get a cut of the profits from what sells, but we have to make our money too, right?”
Heard squints at the back room, spotting several pictures of the record label owner in the studio, holding various musicians close. A large smile; an arm wrapped around their shoulders; a finger pointing at them. Even from here, the artists’ smiles appear strained, as if they’d rather be making music than thinking about the building’s pest control problems.
Heard looks again at the owner, who’s cracked open a plastic water bottle without offering him any.
“It’s fine if you want me to walk through any of this.” He motions to the large, disorderly stack of papers on his desk. “This is your contract.”
Should I get a lawyer? Heard thinks to himself. But he quickly reminds himself that the logistics of doing so would only destroy his own creative spirit. He felt trapped in this stuffy brown office, the draining sensation had started with his hand, but was now gripping his entire body—as if a leech were nearly done eating its fill.
“Look. I know that you’re in it to make music. I’ll supply you with the canvas and paints—go crazy—just don’t forget who made this all happen for you, eh?”
The owner throws the bottle in the trash before finally offering Heard a beverage, “You want anything to drink? Water? Alright, one second.” He exits the room and comes back with a styrofoam cup of tap water.
“You know I’ve been seeking talented producers like you for a while. I see an opportunity here. The new music out of Chicago is bangin’, but also a wellspring: everyone’s here for it, the style. It’s really the perfect time to strike.”
“You know what makes a great musical find?” The owner continues, flashing a white, toothy smile. “It’s not just positive vibes or something danceable. No. It’s being first. Finding new territory. We’re trailblazers — pioneers laying tracks for others to follow. Then we charge a finder’s fee.”
He stops for a moment, finishing his second bottle of water. He chucks the water bottle in the trash. It bounces off the rim and nearly ricochets onto the floor, just barely making it in the can. “Hah! I’ve been practicing like Larry Bernard.”
Heard responds, “Don’t you mean, ‘Bird’?”
The owner ignores his comment and shoves the papers in front of Heard. “Alright, I’m on a busy schedule. What’s it going to be? You wanna join our amazing roster and change the world with your music?”
Heard looks for a moment at the contract, then the owner. His bloodshot eyes are unblinking, locked onto him like a hawk.
Heard’s eyes trail back to the studio photos—the forced smiles for the clout-chasing buffoons they signed their rights away to, his pointed finger aimed at their heads. Is this the price for the freedom to create?
Heard’s eyes lock with the owner’s—for a moment they wait. Heard exhales tiredly “Sure. Where do I sign?”