The Delusion

It was an outside line.

“I’ll pick it up,” I told TSA.

“Film Operations,” I answered. It was my ex-manager.

“You’re never going to believe what happened,” she said.

“Try me,” I told her, “I believe just about everything these days.”

“Remember those old demos you did at CBS?”

“Yes...”

I didn’t believe what she told me. The Universe was either playing a cruel joke on me or apologizing for every cruel thing it had done to me in the past.

Columbia Records (a.k.a. Sony) was moving their offices. In the process, the tape vault guy was cataloging the demo library. At the very moment he was playing back my old demos - the ones that ended my music career - Very Famous Producer strolled past the library guy’s door and demanded to know what the song was coming out of the speakers. It must not have registered that he had heard it before.

Very Famous Producer got himself into a pickle. He had been producing the newest CD by the same Very Famous Band who didn’t write any of their songs and badly needed a single. Apparently, the new A&R regime at Sony didn’t hear a “hit” on the CD the Very Famous Producer thought he had just completed. Very Famous Producer took the song - one of my songs from those demos - to the head of A&R. They played it for the Very Famous Band, the A&R staff, the radio promotion people, and the lawyers. Everyone agreed it should be the lead single for the Very Famous Band’s new CD. The only catch was they didn’t own the rights to the song, nor did they know how to get in touch with me to obtain those rights. Why they didn’t just check the white pages escaped me, but I knew from experience how people stop thinking clearly in a panic. Through a complex mélange of meetings - both chance and arranged - and phone calls, they contacted my ex-manager through her husband, a prominent entertainment industry attorney who happened to overhear a lunchtime conversation at The Ivy.

“So what do you think?” Ex-Manager asked.

“I think this is funny as horseshit,” I said. “I don’t believe you, but I do believe you.”

“What do you want for the song?”

“What do you mean?”

“Royalties. You can charge them pretty much what you want, within reason. They really want the song.”

“Do they?” I sneered gleefully. I won’t go into the gory details of record royalties and the crooked accounting methods employed by the labels to prevent paying artists and writers a dime. Suffice it to say the government sets out a statutory minimum rate for cover songs that have already been released on CDs. Songs that have never been released, like mine, are not subject to that government minimum and are fair game for negotiation.

“How bad do you think they want it?” I asked.

“It sounds like they’re pretty desperate,” she said. “They’ve got a release date coming up. And I’m not supposed to even know this, and I shouldn’t tell you because I know how you are, but - not only have they recorded the song, they’ve already pressed half a million copies. Apparently the Producer gambled that they would get the song and went ahead without clearing it. They’ve got a marketing campaign ready to go.”

“All right. Tell them this - I’ll let them have the song for half the statutory rate.”

“Half? You can get more than the full rate.”

“Plus,” I paused for effect, “a record deal for me.”

“They will never go for that.”

“Don’t know until you ask,” I said.

“Okay,” she said, “hold on.” She put me on hold for about a minute. I didn’t realize she was on the other line with them.

“Ready?” she asked when she got back on my line, “one record firm, five options, fourteen points and two hundred thousand advance for the first record, with a sliding scale after that.”

I felt tears welling up in my eyes, but I kept cool.

“I want a deal memo in ten minutes,” I said. She put me on hold again, this time for less than twenty seconds.

“What’s your fax number?”

My heart pounded like an A-Bomb. Ten minutes came and went without a peep from the fax machine. I picked up the phone and started dialing my ex-manager. Somewhere around the fifth digit, the fax line rang. I landed in front of the fax machine before the phone landed on my desk. I almost shit my pants when the first page of Sony letterhead popped out. I shut the door for privacy as the machine spat out the contract page by page. I read and reread each page dozens of times before calling my lawyer. The contract would need his blessing before I could sign anything.

I told no one. The next two days were absolute hell. There was no way I could concentrate on my job, but I resolved to show up and at least pretend while I waited for the business to be carried out. Every time the phone rang I wanted to jump out of my skin. Then finally, near lunchtime on the second day, New-New Girl dialed my extension. Tall Straight Assistant picked up.

“There’s something at reception,” he said. “I’ll go get it.”

The needles and pins were sticking straight up my ass and my throat went dry. TSA returned an eternity later with a large manila envelope addressed to me.

“Something from Sony,” he said, setting it on my desk, clueless. I carefully opened the envelope and emptied the contents on my desk: One copy of the deal memo, with my signature and an illegible signature of some Sony business affairs executive, and a check for seventy-five thousand dollars made out to me ­ the first installment of my record contract.

“Fuck! Fuckin’-A”

“What is it?” TSA asked.

“Congratulations,” I said. “You’re about to get a promotion.” He looked terribly confused as I got up and marched down the corridor to my boss’s office.

“Can I talk to you a minute?”

“Sure,” he said, “come in.” I sat down in his guest chair.

“First, I want to thank you for everything you’ve done for me,” I said, “and second, I quit.”

“What?” I held up the deal memo and the check.

“I just got signed.” He stood up and reached out his hand to me. As I shook his hand, he said, “Congratulations. I’m very happy for you.”

I left his office and walked up the stairs one floor and headed for the purchasing department. I rounded the corner into 4’s new office. She was finishing up a personal call obviously to her hit man, or maybe he didn’t even make it the full three months.

“Me, too,” she gushed. “I’ll see you later.” As she hung up the phone, she looked up and saw me. Her expression went instantly from sweet to dour.

“What do you want?” She curtly demanded. I scanned her face and wondered how things could have possibly gone from so good to so bad so quickly.

“I want to ask you to please just think about everything we went through together.” She interrupted me.

“I am not going to do this. Get out of-” I cut her off.

“This could be our last chance. We may never speak again. I’m begging you: Please just think back to all the times you told me you loved me,” I told her, “and please reconsider your decision. Just think about it.” She thought about it for about a second and a half.

“If you don’t get out of my office right now, I’m calling personnel.” I smiled and said, “That’s not necessary. I’m leaving.” I stood in her door for a moment.

“What?” Her blood pressure was rising.

“I could never imagine what this would be like,” I said.

“What?”

“The last time I ever see you.”

Back at my office, I packed up my few personal effects and walked rather unceremoniously out to my Volkswagen. TSA was already in my New Old Boss’s office getting the good news. I waved to the security guard at the gate one last time as I left the parking garage.

•••

You’ve heard the song I wrote a million times. It ended up being the second single released by the Very Famous Band. That record went on to sell ten million copies world wide - the biggest seller of their career. My song wasn’t even the biggest single. That honor went to the third single - the ballad, of course. But my song was used in a dozen television commercials and a few movies that summer. Between that and the record sales, I made a boatload of money.

My own first record tanked. The Very famous Band’s record did so well, though, that I was given a second chance. I switched producers and went for something a little less commercial with the next record. The label put it out, but did nothing to promote it. Public radio stations picked up on it and it started selling by itself to the tune of seven hundred fifty thousand copies. That got the label’s attention. They were able to squeeze another couple hundred thousand units out in the states, but it really took off in Europe. I toured the U.K. and the Continent quite a bit on the strength of that record. I released two more CDs outside the U.S. that continue to sell enough to warrant a yearly tour.

Back home, enough other artists have recorded my songs to keep me in a healthy publishing deal and get my name on the invitation lists of most happening social functions in town.

•••

I tried to apologize to Ex Ass. I tried to explain the condition I was in after 4 broke my heart and how I couldn’t have been any good to her till I got somewhat healed.

“You could have chosen me,” she said, “but you chose her instead.” She was referring to D-Girl, of course. I shook my head.

“Don’t you understand? I was way too fucked up to get involved with someone like you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, ‘someone like me’?”

“You’re a keeper,” I explained. “She was a fling to help me get over my pain, just a rebound.”

•••

“You’re a keeper?” D-Girl laughed. “You actually said that?”

“Yeah,” I said as I sat up on the edge of the bed.

“And how did that work out for you?” She lowered her hips down and guided me inside of her with one hand. I cupped my hand on her breast.

“She didn’t buy it,” I said. “She said that was a double standard I was hiding behind to justify fucking you.” I bit down on her nipple.

“Harder,” she whispered through a breath.

I tried a few more times, but I never got through to Ex Ass. She pretty much stopped speaking to both D-Girl and me.

•••

Back when my recording career was still on the way up, I started sleeping with an executive at my label. It was a smart career move that lasted till I joined the club we members privately call the “W. Riders.” That rocker’s rite of passage was doomed from the start, but worth it. Once it ended, I did what any red-blooded American rock star with a reputation would do - I fucked everything in sight. First, I went back through my friend the Powerful Publicist (who was now on my payroll) and nailed her Sexy TV Star friend. That was not as fun as I’d imagined. After that I hooked up with a lingerie model for a couple months and spent a lot of time in New York. Her chain-smoker’s mouth always tasted like an ashtray and she was not very good in bed, but she was so shockingly pretty it almost made up for it.

I got invited to the Playboy mansion by a club promoter and ended up dating a handful of Playmates. Those poor girls were dumb as a box of hammers, so they didn’t mind doing things like recreating their centerfold pose while I jerked off like a teenager. Yeah, I know. All in all, the sex was awesome. Not as awesome as the stripper phase I went through, though. Honestly, I couldn’t keep up with them, so I went back to actresses and singers - that was all I was meeting. But the poor things have egos the size of Mt. Everest balanced on self-esteem the size of a stickpin. Not that I’m any different, but even I don’t want to date myself. And those two actresses from the cast of a certain bewitching television show were enough to turn me off of women altogether - sort of.

I dated a circus performer from Ukraine. Yes, I had sex with a clown. She was a contortionist in training with an alarmingly limber body. I was ashamed that she’d taken the time to learn a bit of English and the only thing I knew how to say in Russian was, “Take off your shirt.” She tutored me in her mother tongue but admitted that “shit” and “cocksucker” were the first English words she learned. I saw her a year later staring in one of those variations of Cirque du Soleil in Vegas. She didn’t remember me.

There was one very famous movie starlet who stayed with me for over a year. That was tricky because at the time she was engaged to another actor who could easily kick my ass. Things got even trickier with a pregnancy scare. She miscarried in her seventh week and broke up with her fiancé. We talked about stepping up our relationship (she did most of the talking), but I figured that she cheated on him and she’d cheat on me. I told her that flat out. She swore up and down that she loved only me and would never, ever stray, but I didn’t fall for it.

“I’m really sorry for everything everyone before me has done to make you such a hard man,” was about the last thing she said to me. Whatever.

I’m not complaining. All in all, I’ve had a pretty good run. Most guys would give their left nut to bag even one of the girls I’ve had. In that respect, I’ve been very, very fortunate. And I remain hopeful.

A few minutes into the ceremony at a wedding for an old friend from my Cannon days, I was staring off into space mentally restoring a 1967 Pontiac LeMans. So deep in thought was I that I’d even imagined the air freshener. ‘Why do I know that scent?’ I remember thinking when a latecomer settling in next to me interrupted my daydream. I swiveled around to greet this guy who had worked in Cannon’s art department. I had known him peripherally but we hadn’t seen each other since I left the company.

“Hey, how’s it going?” I whispered as I shook his hand.

“Great. Great.” He politely leaned back into his chair to allow his date to say hello. It was 4. We simultaneously opened our mouths, went mute, and gave each other a courtesy half-smile. The sedate linen suit she wore was a departure from the wardrobe I’d known her to prefer, especially the vintage white gloves that she made a point of removing. Looking straight ahead at the bride and groom, she slowly and deliberately tugged them off, finger by finger, drawing my attention to her hands. Not quite as subtle as she once was, she punctuated the activity by neatly pressing the gloves into her lap and then resting her left hand on top of her date’s left hand, positioned just so I could see the wedding bands on both their hands.

The ‘what have you been up to’ chat in the receiving line (while 4 powdered her nose) revealed that The Guy From The Art Department had made the leap to Very Successful Publisher of an edgy, glossy entertainment weekly.

I left the wedding early. Four months later, I had my Very Powerful Publicist place a photo in his magazine of me at a high profile, hottest ticket in town event, with the girl who’d topped People Magazine’s sexiest stars list. Every month after that for the rest of the year, I had my Publicist place me in the magazine on the arm of a newer, better-looking girl. So childish, but so worth it.

•••

A while back, I was lying on my side, facing away from D-Girl. She was unsuccessfully trying to quit smoking.

“I have to go out of town for a while.”

“Business or pleasure?”

“Neither. I have to go to Milwaukee. My father died.”

“I’m sorry.” She was - genuinely. “When did he go?”

“This morning.”

“What?” I guess that called for a little explanation, considering.

“I don’t think it’s sunk in yet.”

Then she did it - she reached over my back, held her body close to me, and kissed my ear. That was completely uncalled for. I gave her free reign over one hundred percent of my body, and by that time she had examined every part closer than my doctor even. But she had no right to do that.

“Fuck.” The tears started flowing down my face.

“Shh,” she whispered and rocked me. “It’s all right. Everything will be all right.”

“But he’s my dad.”

She held me and stroked my head till I was all cried out.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

Yes, I did.

“Thanks, but I’ll be okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

•••

D-Girl’s career track has carried her way up the ladder in Hollywood. After the Italians hammered the last nail on Cannon’s coffin, she landed as a V.P. at one of the studios. Now she has a development deal there and produces her own films. I’m really proud of her - she works very hard.

We still see each other at least once a month - more when our schedules permit. She even keeps a drawer of very personal items at my place. It turns out she’s the longest relationship in my life and she’s the only woman I’ve never cheated on. Let me clarify - after a while, we reached an understanding and each cut our other fuck buddies loose. Though we’ve never said the words, I think we truly love each other.

I do all the things for her that she wouldn’t dream of asking her husband. He’s a nice guy, but she can’t trust him. Not with that. We sometimes joke that we’re the only people that we each deserve. The thing is - what we have is perfect. To change would just spoil everything.

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