Beatrice Williams cracked her bubblegum loudly as she entered the shiny glass doors of the Jive building. As she made her way through the crowd of milling business-persons and hopeful talents, she smiled to herself as she walked toward the receptionist's desk. The middle-aged woman seated in a typical swiveling chair was clothed in an ancient pinstriped pantsuit, complete with flowered scarf around her neck. Beezus blew a bubble with her gum, catching the attention of the receptionist. The older woman took off her antique glasses reluctantly, a faux smile plastered across her creased face.
"May I help you?" Beezus sighed, returning the falseness of the smile, and tilted her head to one side. She was aware of the fact that this woman only wanted her out of the way as soon as physically possible, a common reaction that had met her here in Orlando, as well as New York, Seattle, Chicago, Phoenix. . .
"I just need to know where Max Martin is," she answered politely, tucking her gum between her teeth and cheek. She anxiously rubbed the worn toe of her well-worn sneaker on the back of the leg of her faded denim overalls. The woman behind the desk stood, her eyes not leaving Beezus' figure, and leaned towards her, pointing with a manicured fingernail to the fourth floor balcony. A man with long, blonde hair tied back in a ponytail was laughing heartily with a trio of younger men, the three roughly her age. One, a tall blonde, was suppressing laughter with much effort, unsuccessfully. The second, a shorter Latino, was chuckling softly behind one hand, and the third was hidden behind a wide pillar. Smiling at the receptionist, Beezus turned away, rolling her dark eyes once out of view. She crossed the lobby towards the pair of chrome and glass elevators, punching the button for the fourth floor and taking notice of her surroundings. A mother scolded her young son, clutching his hand as he bravely wiped away his tears. Several girls, not more than twelve years old, giggled and gossiped about their favorite boy band. Beezus quickly dismissed them, knowing that they held no interest in her and vice versa. The last two aboard the lift were two young men, both attractive in their own separate ways. The shorter of the pair, a few inches taller than she, had dark hair spiked every which way, the tips dyed an outlandish shade of turquoise, and a sleeveless muscle shirt boasting his collection of tattoos. The other, though much taller, had the same spiked hair, only its natural shade of black. His eyes were dark, mysterious, and brooding, and his features chiseled perfection. Beezus smiled to herself, hoping that she would be spending most of the summer around men as attractive as these as an assistant to her uncle Max. As she gnawed on her gum, she found herself eavesdropping on their hushed conversation.
". . .I know, man, but this time she went to far," the heavily tattooed one said, "He shouldn't be so stupid; she's been using him so bad. And she'll keep it up until someone does something about it."
"It's his life, AJ, come on," the dark man reasoned. "If he's willing to spend five years of his life tied to her leash, handing over his wallet at the snap of her fingers, it's none of our business. Let him figure it out for himself." Beezus wished she had found the name of the other man as the elevator chimed for the fourth floor, and wondered if the third friend they were talking about was as handsomely bestowed as they were. Stepping off the lift reluctantly, she glanced either way down the hallway, searching for Max. She spotted him as he was disappearing through a door at the end of the corridor.
"Max, hey Max!" she called, hurrying down towards him. He smiled warmly, letting her enter the office before himself.
"Hey, Trish, nice to see you," he greeted her, closing the door. Beezus cringed; she detested being called Trish by anyone--even her favorite uncle--it sounded too preppy, too young, and too arrogant for her liking. She pasted a smile onto her face and forced an answer.
"Same to you." Flopping into the chair in front of the wide desk, she glanced at the pile of papers before her. She sat up straight, flipping through the stack of song lyrics, mostly scratched and scribbled out, with interest. "What are these? They're actually pretty good. Who wrote these?" Max plucked them from her hands, tossing them carelessly onto the desk.
"Nobody you'd care about, he's a 'pop boy'." He took a seat in the leather chair behind the desk, leaning back comfortably.
"But those are good," she insisted. "How could some lousy pop singer come up with something so deep?" Max shook his head, pulling the papers from her reach and dropping them into a drawer.
"Trish, you may be my dear niece, but by all means, I won't go easy on you," he reprimanded. "These are confidential until the song if released on an album." She hung her head in mock shame, a malevolent glimmer in her eye.
"Sorry, Max." He sighed to himself as she rose to her feet and strolled around the room, inspecting the photos of signed talents that hung around on the walls. A boy band, pitifully plastered with makeup and sporting pre-chosen, matching outfits smiled down at her, only one of five looking somewhat decent. She snorted, quickly covering her mouth to prevent laughter.
"Trish, don't laugh at the poor Boys. That's a very early picture, when they first came to us at Jive." Max rolled his eyes, keeping a close eye on her as she continued her rounds. He knew her taste in music well, and it didn't include any modern popular music at all. Instead, her cd cases were flooded with the Beatles, the Who, Carol King, and assorted others that one would normally consider to be oldies.
"They are not oldies," Beezus had always insisted. "They're classics, golden classics." Although no one would ever try to guess her preferance in music by the clothing she wore. Her parents had given up one her when she reached the age of 15, the year she discovered thrift shops in the area. Ragged jeans, bell bottoms, old themed t-shirts sporting tv shows, Little League team names, and concert logos, and hand-me-downs from her older brother and father. Her hair, cropped short and usually gelled into spikes, was more often than not dyed to match her mood. In the past year, it had been blue, green, bright yellow, neon pink, red, and black light responsive hues followed her through her life. Currently, though, her spikes were their natural brunette, much to the relieve of her family.
"Well, Max, what else am I supposed to do if laughing at these poor, pathetic guys isn't an option?" she teased. Returning to the seat facing her uncle, she propped up her ratty green Converse All Star sneakers on the desk as she leaned back in the chair. "My parents drop me off here, of all places, after New York and everywhere else in the country where there's family. You expect me not to be bored?"
"For starters, your parents had nothing to do with you moving down here to work for me. You are perfectly welcome to leave at any moment, so long as you give me some notice. You're an adult now, twenty-two, and it's not their decision to make or mine to leave. I do see where you come from, Trish, being shipped around the nation all your life. Just don't blame the rest of us, please." He glanced down at her feet. "Oh, and you can move your shoes at any time." He pushed them with one finger off of the desk, and they landed with a dull thud on the carpet. "Then you can go through that door to your right and clean up the practice studios from the writting session I had last night with. . ." Beezus cracked her gum and rolled her eyes, ignoring his ramblings as she headed through the heavy soundproof door, shoving the stopper underneath. She scanned each booth with chocolate brown eyes, bored, as Max left the office to catch someone on their way past the doorway.
"Well, what do we have here?" she mused, slipping into the third studio and picking up with papers from the music stand. She hummed a tune of approval as she skimmed over the words, most scratched out, and in the same handwriting as the stack from the desk.
Trapped in the purple haze of love, I was fooled by what you called caring, and now I stand alone, wondering where I stand. . . Beezus smiled to herself, folding the the sheets carefully and tucking them into the front kangaroo pocket of her frayed overalls. She left the booth, making sure her uncle hadn't seen her purloin the lyrics. The other booths were empty, and she had originally thought all to have been, and she let the heavy door swing shut behind her as she made her way back into Max's office.