Late Goodbye

I wasn’t angry. No. That was a too mild word to use. Madness? Nope. Rage? Wrath? To be completely frank, I didn’t think there was a word invented to denote what kind of feelings were running through my veins. To say I was pissed beyond any borders was closest that I could get to an appellation.

I was driving down the Beach Boulevard, when my phone beeped in an awfully annoying manner. I had received a text which said I was producing Avenged Sevenfold. Knowing of my habit of texting while driving, I nearly ran over a child. On the sidewalk. Only this time I wasn’t texting anyone, I was just holding the phone in my palm and reading the text. How could they? Everyone knew I wouldn’t even produce Jimmi Hendrix if he came begging for it on his knees. I despised rock music.

What the hell was John even thinking? I pulled in the parking space of the studio. Warner Brother’s kept me around just because I was a pleasure to the eye, obviously, and I could make a hit out of nothing. I knew the right people, to say the least. A couple of annoying calls and I could get a song aired. Couple of repeat hits and people started to like even a complete crap. I pulled my car into the parking space beside the studio.

Honestly, the artists, most of the time didn’t even know I existed. They knew their engineers, their mentors, their remixers, but they didn’t know me. I wasn’t the most often guest at the studio, to say the least. I strongly believed my office had already dusted over and some big tarantula had moved in. I had to ask for a monthly payment, to think about it. No freeloaders on my watch. As if I was truly watching.

Of course not every song which got it’s way to me got aired. I would be mental if I did so. But then again... I wasn’t the sanest person of them all. It wouldn’t be a wonder if I really decided to make all the songs hits. Honestly? I didn’t even care. My bony ass didn’t leave the company just because I needed money and I was good at what I was doing. Warner Brothers were a pain in the ass company, but, hey, they payed my rent, filled the gas tank of my 1967 Chevy and kept my stomach from growling, in bonus putting up with practically each and every of my kinks.

Not this time. My black beauty stopped roaring when I took the key out of the ignition. I thought I had made it pretty clear I don’t put up with rock musicians. And I could care less if their producer had gone missing or was sipping on some mojito in Bahamas. That was not my problem.

I opened the door and got out of the car. I had forgotten to take my pills. The fingers of my left hand were really bothering me. I tried to get my mind off the pain by lighting up a cigarette as I leaned against the side of the car. Unbelievable. For me? Justin Bieber was a better pick than Avenged Sevenfold.

My eyes slid over the three people who slid out of the studio. Even tho my vision wasn’t the best to wish for, I could make out their faces. M. Shadows, Synyster Gates and that bastard John. I wanted to burn a hole in his temple with the same cigarette I was squeezing out of anger.

„There shouldn’t be any problem. This producer rarely gets in the way of any production.” I heard John say as he escorted the artists to their car, before he noticed me, dragging a smoke after smoke. He seemed surprised for seeing me. Here. At the studio. On a Monday. „I’ll see you tomorrow.” He said before he turned to come my direction, holding some sort of a black folder in his hands.

„You’re just the person I was willing to meet,” The wide smile on his face woke up some homicidal thoughts in me. His blue eyes slid over my face to see I was deeply displeased. I blew a thick cloud of smoke straight in his face as he got closer. He coughed a couple of times.

„I’m not doing this.” My face was completely blank and my words dryer than the air, in Phoenix, in the middle of July. A wrinkle formed between his dark eyebrows.

„You don’t have to do anything, you just have to sign the contract. I’m not asking you to even meet them.” He spoke slowly, like I was completely retarded. A black eye would suit him. It truly would.

„I’m not putting my name on the list for some rock bastards!” My fingers kicked the cigarette butt over John’s expensive Armani jacket wearing shoulder, flying just an inch from his ear.

„You really have to get over it...” He eyed me carefully. Oh yes, this specimen was afraid of me.

„Get over it?” I took the black plastic folder he was holding and whacked his head with it. „Get over your coke addiction and clean your face before talking to me!” I noticed the white spot under his nose. I pushed myself off the car as I went forward, forcefully running in his shoulder as I threw the folder away, the contracts from it scattering all over the concrete ground. „Fucking prick...”

Yup, that was me. The producer of Warner Brothers who in fact was an employee of the year. Dark haired maniac, with cold gray eyes and palest lips who never cracked a smile. And the guy which I left picking up his contracts? That’s the person, who puts the names of artists on my desk. He hates me. Like the rest of the employees of Warner’s, because I’m... well, I’m me.

And now, I suggest you get your head out of the gutter, if you want to stick along. The life of Jill Miller is not some Julia Roberts’ romantic comedy. We will not eat, pray and love.