Page 4 of After Effect

“Is that right?” Baek still looked smug as he stood up and paced over to the window, his hands in his pockets and his back to me. His body language gave nothing away.

“Come here, Corbin.” He spoke calmly. I approached with a cautious step. Baek swept his hand to direct my attention toward the window. “What do you see?”

“Los Angeles.” I stated plainly. I’m sure there was supposed to be a much more romantic or philosophical answer, but I needed a better read on him to know what it should be. I took the safe route.

“It’s more than that.” His eyes were dark as he regarded the world at his feet. “An illustrious and expansive cesspool, filled with mindless people desperate to buy some kind of dream. A city built on escapism and extravagance, where people flock with the hope that reality doesn’t have to be as mundane as it truly is.”

I frowned at his dissertation. I liked this city. I always have. It was my home, my father’s home. My mother’s home. Mark Corbin’s home. It was perfectly imperfect, shamelessly optimistic, driven, and rife with opportunity- if you were willing to throw down the gauntlet and take it. It was a place where all those ridiculous dreams that he spoke so poorly about could actually come true.

I hesitated to speak my mind. I got away with disagreeing with him once, but I didn’t want to push my luck so soon.

“Those are our customers.” He continued, his tone still mocking. “And those are our products. We buy and sell dreamers and their creativity, manipulating them until they’re a generic, marketable blob. It’s a simple formula, if you’re smart enough to figure it out.”

Baek regarded me for a moment, then returned to his desk. “How about this. You can disregard the cleaning bill if you do me a favor.”

“A favor, sir?”

“Right. I have a somewhat… sensitive letter I need delivered. It’ll be off the clock. I’ll give you an address, and you just have to slide it under the door. Simple.”

“I don’t see any reason I wouldn’t be able to handle that.” That’s… unexpectedly easy.

“Perfect. Do a good job, and I’ll have Cynthia set you up with the unsolicited submissions. I’m not one to waste perfectly good talent. If you actually have any.”

“Thank you, sir. I won’t disappoint-“

He raised a hand to silence me. “That will be all. You may leave now.”

I returned to my desk and sat down in a daze. Did that really just happen? Here I thought he was going to chew me out for the cleaning bill, when instead, I borderline got a promotion. Was that some kind of intimidation tactic? But I win in the end, so I can’t see how that would make him feel more powerful.

And not only that- all I had to do was drop off some silly love letter or something, and I’d have a chance at the slush pile. Maybe that was still grunt work, but it put me in a position where I had the chance to shine. Where I could prove myself.

He handed me the letter and an address after work that day. A greeting card sized envelope slipped under the door of an upscale suburban home in Calabasas. Then the following morning, Cynthia set me up on the shared drive, where they kept folder upon folder of submission files. Artists were separated by genre, a few shuffled into a nondescript ‘other’ folder, for those who were harder to define. I started on R&B, then moved onto Pop.

Despite my initial excitement, by the third day, everything was starting to blur together. I had heard the same basic story and structure about a thousand times now. Some melodies were so similar, I started to consider that the same guitarist was being passed around to all of the band start-ups. None of this was sellable. Maybe for a radio hit or two, but nothing that would go the distance. A one-hit-wonder might be a good start for most people, but I didn’t want anyone to think Finch Corbin was ‘most people.’

I moved on to the ‘other’ folder, hoping it might have something more off beat. I read through a couple pitch letters and listened to their respective recordings. R&B with a distinctly metal chorus. Is that supposed to be rap or polka? I think this is the first time I’ve heard a country singer fake a Scottish accent instead of Southern. This must be what it would sound like to have nails and chalkboards as your only instruments. Why would you death growl in the middle of a ska vibe?

My head hit the desk as I clicked into the next submission. Lilly Ainsworth-Cisneros? Let me guess- Alternative Mariachi?

A simple piano melody tickled my ears. It was soft, yet enchanting. I sat up, and pressed the headphones more tightly to my ears. A low but feminine, sultry voice harmonized with the notes, sending chills down my spine.

~I keep dreaming.

Keep believing.

I’m who I’m supposed to be.

But you keep leaving.

And I keep thinking.

You’re still too good for me.~

That tingle crawled up my ears and made my heart beat a little faster. Her voice built an unfamiliar heat in my body, and a tingle ran down my spine. It was provocative, yet warm. Sexy but genuine.

I hit repeat.

I hit it again.

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