This Is My Love

I pushed my way through the sea of people that walked on the sidewalk, groaning with each person that I had to dodge. I held the case that contained my acoustic guitar out in front of me, and with the other hand, held my music book tight to my chest. I was heading to the studio to meet with a pair of producers for the first time, and I was already late. I was lucky that these guys even wanted to meet with me, since they were the only offer for a record deal that was worth my time.
The guy I spoke to on the phone was named John Hemmings, and he told me that his partner, who is also a big name musician himself, heard one of my demos and wanted me to come in to talk about recording on their label. Of course, he wouldn't tell me who this big name artist was, but told me that I would meet him today, att 3:00 PM, and it was already 3:15.

I huffed as I read the street signs. I had only been in Los Angeles for a year, and still didn't know my way around. I moved here a year after my mother passed away, and though I was hesitant to go, my father practically pushed me out the door after her death, telling me that I deserved to be happy, since I spent five years of my adult life helping him work laboring jobs and play low paying gigs to care for her. I tried to assure him that I didn't feel robbed of anything in those 5 years. I loved my mother and truly didn't mind working myself as hard as I did, since it kept her alive for much longer than the Doctor diagnosed.
I tried to convince him that I wanted to stay with him, and help him get through the grieving, but he only said; "The grieving process is done, my darling. It ended years after we all came to terms with the fact that your mother was going to pass, and you know that. So stop making up excuses to hide your fear, and instead, go make your dreams come true."
I always viewed my father as wise beyond his years. He had always had a way with words, and always knew just what to say to change my mind about things. When I was younger, I always thought that he used it for his own advantage, but now I realized that it was always for mine.

After 10 more minutes of walking, I finally made it. I looked up at the building in front of me that read "Atlantic Records". I pushed the large door open and walked into the lobby. The room was quiet and clean, consisting of a hardwood floor and white walls that were decorated with multiple artist's records hanging perfectly about them. There was a row of chairs lined up against the side walls, and a receptionist's desk sat straight ahead. Behind the desk sat a young woman, who was typing away on her flat screen desktop computer.

It looked so clean cut and professional that, for a moment, I started to doubt if my outfit was appropriate, which was rare for me to do, since I usually didn't give a shit if people like my outfits or not. But, I decided that it was a record company, and if things were still right with the world, the way you dressed shouldn't influence how good people think your music is. So,I slowly walked up to the desk and patiently waited for her to finish what she was doing and give me her attention. Once she did, she looked up to me and smiled.
"Can I help you?" she asked sweetly. I smiled back and nodded my head.

"Uhm, yeah. I have an appointment with John Hemmings. It was supposed to be at three o'clock, but I got a little lost. Will he mind?" I asked her, silently scolding myself for sounding so unprofessional. She simply smiled.
"I'll have to check, but I'm sure he won't mind. His schedule is pretty clear until tonight. What's your name?" she questioned.
"Marley Medley," I stated, using the stage name I had given myself when I arrived. Ano Aniani just felt too odd to use.
This earned another smile from her.

"I love your name," she gushed, before holding up her index finger, signaling for me to wait a moment as she picked up the phone off of it's receiver and pressed a single button. A moment passed before she was speaking to the person on the other end.

"Hi John, your 3 o'clock is here. Can you still see her?" she asked the man on the other end. She listened for a moment. "Okay, great. I'll send her back," she chirped before taking the phone away from her ear and putting it back onto it's receiver.
"He'll see you. I'll show you back to the room," she stated before standing up from her desk and gesturing for me to follow her.

She lead me through another pair of doors, and down a long hallway, which, like the walls of the lobby, was decorated with the vinyls of musicians that had once recorded there. But, instead of the floors being hardwood, they were decorated with wall to wall, blood red carpet.

The hallway seemed to go on forever, and my grip tightened on the handle of my guitar case with each nervous step. Finally, we got to a glass door, and stopped.
"He's right in there," she smiled as she gestured to the door. I glanced from the glass, and then back to her, before taking in a shaky breath.
"Thanks," I breathed out before giving her a nervous smile and opening the door.