|
Writer's Bloc. Another Sci- fi Short Story by Scott
March 14, 1990
WRITER'S BLOCK
========================
It was a typically wet foggy afternoon in downtown Vancouver. Still it
was much better than the choking smog of L.A., Bobby Simms thought to
himself. All in all his agent had been right. He had to escape the pressure
cooker, the cut thoat business of trying to make it as an aspiring
songwriter down there.
Looking out the window of his second floor flat at the relative calm
in the pace of the people as they strolled below, the relaxed way they went
about their routine, he could understand why he almost lost it six months
earlier.
Well, things were definitely looking up now. He had just submitted
five of his best new songs to his agent, Freddy Jefferson. Two months of
hard work after he had finally settled in here, and the old creative juices
had started flowing again.
Speaking of that dear old snake of pal, Freddy, Simms thought to
himself, it should be any time now he'd get a call telling him that some
publisher had gobbled the tunes up, hopefully for a hefty advance. Here's
hoping, he mused.
When the phone rang early next morning he knew it had to be Jefferson.
He picked it up and there was that deep, trust me voice on the other end.
"Bobby, what's shaking kid," said Freddy.
"Not much Fred, just trying to keep it flowing," replied Simms.
"Well listen kid, I want you to come down to the office this afternoon
and have a little chat, okay," Freddy said.
"What's the matter" Bobby replied, "Don't they like the songs."
"No, not that, the tunes are killer," He answered, "it's just that,...
well, why don't you come and see me, alright."
"Yea, okay, I'll see you in awhile." Simms said, and put the phone
down.
I wonder what that's all about, he thought. The tunes are good, no
they're great. The best shit he'd ever written, and probably the best shit
around.
Bobby Simms got out of the cab in front of the squat, Victorian-style
building that served as his agents office. It didn't look like much, but
many of the people in the business preferred the quaint older part of town
to the sterile air of the high rise office towers.
As he stepped up the sloping stairs to the front doors, he still
couldn't figure out why Jefferson wanted to see him in person. If a
publishing deal had been reached, he'd come down here to sign, but also,
Freddy would've told him on the phone.
Once up to the third floor, Simms headed down the long, high hallway
to the last door at the end, Freddy Jefferson's office. He went through and
smiled at Freddy's receptionist. Janey was taking a phone call. She covered
the receiver with her palm and waved Bobby through with a wink and a nod.
There as usual was Freddy hulking behind his desk. A red- faced man
with curly, blondish hair and bushy mutton-chops.
"Bobby, come on in kid," He barked. "Have a seat, I'll be with you in
just a sec.
"C'mon Freddy, just tell me what this is all about." Simms said. "The
tunes are great, there should be no problem at all getting interest this
time."
"Okay Bobby, relax and sit down, I'll tell you what's going on."
Jefferson replied. "I sent all five songs you gave me to all my usual
people. Manny and Roger in L.A., Joey in Chicago, Chapel in Montreal, to
everybody. It's good stuff and I was sure we'd get a big bite."
"So what's the problem then." Simms responded.
"Well, it's like this," Freddy said. "It first started with Joey, he
called back and said he was really hot on this one." (He held up a copy of
"THE WAY THAT YOU DO IT", One of Bobby's comm-ercial rock songs, real A.M.
potential.)
"Then Joey told me there was a little problem," Jefferson went on.
"Joey told me he'd done a standard search and, well, the tune has already
been registered. By some guy named Ron Walker in Minneapolis."
"That's impossible," Simms shouted as he rose out of his chair. "I
wrote that song three weeks ago, the only people who've even heard it are
my landlady and you."
"That's another problem, Bobby," Freddy replied. "The tune was
published over six months ago, and that's not all." He held up another
page. "This one registered in Toronto three months back, that one over
there in Miami almost a year ago. Sorry kid, but I checked them all
myself."
"But that can't be," Simms said, almost frantically now. "I know I
wrote those tunes, in my flat over the last two months. besides I've never
even been to Miami or Toronto, but what difference does that make. Those
are my songs."
"Listen Bobby," Freddy replied. "I'm behind you, kid, but you have to
understand..."
"Cut the crap Freddy," Simms interrupted, "I know I almost lost my
marbles back in L.A. Who wouldn't in that zoo, but that's all history now.
I know myself. I know I feel fine, and I know my songs when I write them."
"Sorry again kid," the agent said, "but what can I do. I can't sell
them. You know they'd kick my butt so far out of the music business, I'd be
lucky to sing a nursery rhyme to my kid without getting sued."
"That's bullshit, all bullshit," Simms roared, "I know a con-job when
I see one. Screw you Freddy, I'll find out how you did this and then
you'll get kicked farther than you can even dream of.
Bobby Simms went racing out of the building. His head was spinning and
the taste of panic was in his throat. As he ran down the street he thought,
"How could this happen, I remember writing those songs, I know they're
mine. Things had been going so good since the time in L.A. What's going on,
what's happening to me."
As he bolted down the road, he caught his foot in a crack in the
pavement, and went down hard, smacking his head on the curb. Things started
spinning wildly now and darkness closed in. He felt as if he were going to
pass out......
Bobby Simms woke up screaming, his head was pounding and he was
drenched in sweat. Trying to gain his orientation, he looked around the
room. He fell back in the bed with a sigh. He was still in his flat in
downtown Vancouver. Dragging himself out of bed, his main feeling was one
of relief that the memory burned into his brain had all been just a dream.
Thank god, because since moving up from L.A. last month he finally
felt ready to start writing again. He actually felt full of energy and
ideas. He'd show Freddy Jefferson and all the others, Bobby Simms hadn't
lost too much to write great work again.
In fact, Simms thought, as he poured himself an orange juice from the
fridge, no better time than right now to start putting some of those great
new ideas down on paper.
As he ambled over to his typewriter he looked out the window. Typical
wet, foggy Vancouver day, he thought, but anything's better than that
pressure cooker in L.A.
He sat down at his desk, placed his hands on the keyboard, and
started to type...
Michelle, my belle....
These are words that go together well.........
Scott Sutherland....
May 4, 1990
|
|
