The following tale is a written record of thoughts running rampant in my imagination that I wish to share with the world - in other words, none of the following is true (and if it is, I don't know about it). Any personalities or entities that parallel any real individual(s) ought not be taken as factual information, but should be recognized purely as a creation of the author.
If anyone is reading this, and alternative material is personally objective to you, or illegal in your area, immediately stop reading and leave. If this doesn't apply to you, feel welcome to respond with praise and/or criticism.
I Got What You Need (Part Two)
Thomas Dublin
I stepped on the elevator. Mark Banks, the record company executive, pushed the 31st floor, and we started our ascent.
"Mr. Dublin," started Mark, "this meeting, in case your agent hasn't told you, is very informal. The group likes to meet with anyone they're going to work with and make sure all involved parties are in sync - pardon the pun."
"Cool, man," I replied. "Oh, and please don't call me Mr. Dublin - it's either Thomas, T, or JPEG."
"JPEG?"
"Yeah. It's a name I acquired through my fraternity. I was a Systems Analysis major in college, so they nicknamed me JPEG."
"I suppose..."
Mark and I rode in silence from that point. I was thankful for not having to talk to this stiff neck. I was already nervous as it is, and a conversation with this faceless suit wasn't helping ease the butterflies.
I got the papers from Jive two days after agreeing to take on the projects with *NSYNC and Backstreet. It took about four hours to sign the papers, but only because I read everything through twice - I am NOT trying to get screwed over by a record company. After all, Q-Tip did say that "the record industry was shady."
Sean must have pulled out his inhaler twice during my signing of the paperwork. I really don't know how this guy made it this far in the industry - I mean, he's easily excitable, he's asthmatic... do I even have to go on? He'll jump out of his Brooks Brothers suit if he hears a pin drop behind his back. But, he somehow has defied the odds and stayed in the game. I suppose that will be one of those unsolved mysteries.
After signing those papers, Sean pulled out some other documents.
"What are those," I asked.
"These are the papers that will legally designate me as your manager, as well as your agent."
"Why do I need a manager," I said. "I don't even have a record deal."
"T, I've worked my ass off to get you work. In many ways, I already do the work of a manager for you; this will just make it official."
"I think you just want to collect another check from my work."
"Thomas..."
"Sean, I'm not signing anything until I get a deal. For now, you'll just have to be content with being my agent. OK?"
"If I were you're manager, I could probably get you a deal quicker..."
"If you weren't a nervous-ass muthafucker, you could get me a deal quicker. But, I ain't budging, Sean. I will manage my own self until I see a recording contract."
Mark and I stepped off the elevator and into a hall decorated with plastic pottery and award plaques. We walked past gold and platinum plaques for R. Kelly, Joe, Mystikal, Too Short, and the Pop trinity - Backstreet Boys, *NSYNC, and Britney Spears. I half expected to see Aaron Carter or somebody to run out of one of the offices, but no one was to be seen.
We take a left turn and walk up to a plump sistah sitting behind a desk. She puts her index finger in the air as she finishes her phone call.
"Yes. We'll get that sent over to you A-S-A-P. Good day," she says, ending her call in the best Standard American English she could muster.
"Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Banks?"
"Monique, is *NSYNC here yet?
"Not yet, Mr. Banks. They're on their way. You all are meeting in Conference Room C."
"Thanks Monique."
"Is there anything else?"
"No, Monique."
Monique turned around to her computer. Mark started down the corridor, and I peeked over at Monique's game of FreeCell.
"Stay up, Monique," I said. I see Monique nod in my direction before running after Mark.
Mark and I only waited fifteen minutes before *NSYNC and their management arrived. First entered a skinny brotha wearing jeans, a Nike shirt, and a Nike baseball cap. Then, two former linebackers followed him.
Then, a blond man with the clearest green eyes I've ever seen. I almost slobbered on my shirt - those eyes are more enchanting in person. He was wearing a pea-colored pullover and jeans. I picked my lip up from the floor (and my mind out of the gutter) before Lance could notice that I was staring. He smiled in my direction, and then took a seat next to the skinny brotha.
Next entered Joey and Chris, laughing at some esoteric comment. They walked straight over to me, and picked me up out of my seat.
"Huh?" I said.
"We just wanted to see how tall you were. Hmmm. what would you say, Chris?"
"I'd put him at about 5'10"."
"Hey, put him down, guys," I hear someone say from across the room.
As Chris and Joey release me, I look up and see JC and Justin standing in the doorway. JC is decked in leather - leather boots, leather jacket, and leather pants; the only thing not leather is the blue turtleneck that complements his eyes. Justin looks like he just walked out of a FUBU ad - seriously. The only thing not FUBU on his person is the baby blue & white sneakers that he was wearing.
"Hey," started Justin, "has anyone ever told you that you look a lot like..."
"Yes. All the time," I said, with a hint of annoyance in my voice.
"Oh. OK."
"Well," said the skinny brotha, "I guess this is an interesting way to meet the group. You get assaulted by two members, and insulted by another. Are you are sure you're ready for the challenge."
I smiled at him, and look at the guys. "HELL NO!!!"
"I know you're joking - BT pulled that one on us already."
"Damn," I replied.
"But," continued Chris, "nice try."
"Not really," Joey said, "that sucked."
"Ha Ha Ha." My fake laugh.
"So, you must be the mysterious Thomas Dublin?" JC said.
"In the flesh," I replied.
Everyone then went around and did their introductions, as if it were really necessary. Even if I wasn't a fan, I always do a little research on prospective projects. But, I did finally learn a name for the skinny brotha who came in with the guys - Johnny Wright; and, the two linebacker brothas - Big Rob and Steelo.
After Mark went over the paperwork that I signed three weeks ago with the group and myself, he opened the floor for the group to question me.
"So," started Chris, "how's your relationship with your mother."
"What?"
"How's your relationship with your mother."
"Nonexistent. I haven't seen her since I was 16."
"Oh," he said, as he started to blush in embarrassment.
"See, you're going to piss him off, Chris," Justin said.
"No, it's cool," I said. "She wasn't much of a mother anyway. For me, all she was was an incubator."
The tension got so thick that you could cut it with a plastic knife. Chris caught me off guard with his question, but I wasn't offended. I mean, Leanne Dublin has never done anything for me. She dropped me off with her mother and father two days after I was born, and wasn't seen again for five years. Then, I lived with her for three months, but social services took me from her apartment when police broke up a drug party in her apartment.
Grandma and Grandpa, fortunately, were able to get custody from me, and save me from a childhood of foster care (even though I still have issues from growing up in their strict household). After Leanne got out of jail - she did two years for possession - I would see her every other month. Then, two months after I turned sixteen, she went to California with her girlfriend, never to be seen in Dayton, Ohio again.
This silence was getting unbearable.
"So," I start, "who likes 'Haterade'?"
"Oh. I love that song," Justin said. "I love the beat. And the hook is awesome. I love that word - Haterade."
"Yeah man. He's been killing us with that song," Joey said. "All day for the last three weeks of tour - 'Mad 'cause I got it made', 'sipping on haterade'... I'm so sick of that shit."
"Shit, huh?" I said. I think that our friend Joey forgot two things about that shit - I wrote and produced that shit, and that shit is currently number five on the pop charts (number three on the R&B/Hip-Hop charts).
"Sorry, man," Joey said, remembering that Thomas wrote "Haterade". The song is nice and all, but we're overdosed on that song."
"Forgiven. Personally, it's hard for me to listen to my own songs once they hit radio. I've been burned out on haterade for about two months myself."
The guys and I spent about two hours in the Jive offices discussing music - who we liked, who we didn't like; Lance talked about his movie plans; Chris tried to sell me clothes; and Justin, Chris, and I even started a cipher that everybody was feeling - even the two linebacker bodyguards, Big Rob and Steelo. Once we got away from Chris' question about my mama, everyone relaxed, and we ended up having a good time.
Eventually, everyone started to comment on how hungry they were; yet they were tired of hotel food. But, I had an idea.
"Why don't you all come over to my crib? I'll fry some chicken, make some macaroni & cheese, and a pitcher of kool-aid."
"Kool-aid! You've got to be kidding?" responded Chris.
"I don't know why - you're the biggest kid up in this piece, Chris," I said.
"Hey," Justin said, "I'm down. I want to see if your cooking is as good as the songs I've heard."
"It's a plan, then," Lance said, as he walked to the door. "Let's get to moving. I'm ready to eat."
Two hours, two 4-pounds bags of party wings, two pitchers of Grape kool-aid, and a casserole dish of my "off-the-hizzle-fo-shizzel" macaroni and cheese later, the guys sat around my kitchen table contemplating their great culinary experience. Don't sleep - I can cook in the kitchen as well as in the studio. I was cooped up in the house half the day with an old Southern grandmother who worked as a cook for over 30 years - I was bound to pick up a few things.
"Wow," said Chris. "I never had 'mac and cheese' that good."
"No kidding," Justin said. "All I need is some of my grandmother's peach cobbler to top it off."
"If I tried to top this off with anything else," Lance said, "I'll bust."
JC was still hovered over his plate, nodding in agreement with everything that was said. I expected Chris to be the pig, but JC was on his third plate - beating out Joey, who barely finished a second helping.
I walked over to the sofa, where Joey was sitting. "What about you Joe? What did you think?"
I looked over my sofa to see Mr. Fatone knocked out. Well, at least he isn't snoring or slobbering on my sofa. I walked over to my kitchen area and point over to the sofa.
"He's sleep," I said to the four guys sitting around my table. "My skills are so good that he had to go to sleep in order to get away from the thought of it."
"Y'know," Justin started, "You sure do have a lot of mouth."
"And," I responded, "So do you. I just hope, in your case, you have enough Listerine to back up yours."
Justin tried to get mad, but could only laugh at my chiding. I stared at first, but I lost it when he fell out of his chair and started rolling around on my floor in a fit of laughter.
"What's the laughter about?" a voice mumbled from beyond the sofa.
"Welcome back to the world, man," JC said. "Well, what do you guys have planned for the rest of the night?"
"Well," Chris said, "I wanted to hit up a couple of clubs. We don't have any appointments until two o'clock."
"I'm up for it," said Chris, then JC.
"Oh, why not," Lance said.
"I don't know guys," Justin said. "I think I'm going to call it a day."
"What about you, Thomas? You want to go clubbing with us?"
"I think I'll pass this time. I'm going to eat some dessert, then call it a night."
"Cool. We'll see you tomorrow at two."
Everyone headed to the door, except for Justin, that is.
"What do you have for dessert," he asked.
"Oh, just peach cobbler and vanilla ice cream."
Justin ran out to the hallway and shouted, "I'm going to hang out with Thomas a little longer. I'll see you guys back at the hotel."
(Most definitely) To Be Continued...
I'm using the first few parts to set up the rest of this story. It's going to be a little while before the "action", but once it happens, it's going to be something; I guarantee. Any comments, concerns, criticisms, or compliments can be e-mailed to jonedwardlicious@yahoo.com