DEACON

Whether I turn out to be the hero of my own life or my own story is yet to be determined. A little while ago, I was summoned by the man I consider my hero. Living under his roof you'd assume it's my father, it couldn't be further from the truth. I met Trace Ellis five years ago by chance while I was couchsurfing at some friendly people's addresses. Long live the Internet.

This fleeting way of living grew old quickly. However, it strengthened my will to find my own two feet and some stability if it wasn't too much to wish for. And so, I started to ask my hosts for odd jobs. It was nothing like the life I left behind in Lexington, but I was proud to do the honest work. It honed my work ethic and handyman skills. One day, those landed me on the doorstep of the most distinguished house or better yet, compound I've ever seen.

At twenty-five, I was able to throw off the strict yoke my father held me under. Being his only surviving offspring, his hopes and dreams were unmercifully projected onto me. My personal aspirations constantly fell on deaf ears with him. My mom's hearing didn't fare any better. Keeping up appearances like she expected, practically from birth on, was shallow and tiring. Done with that suffocating straightjacket, I fled our house and Kentucky in the dead of night. Eventually ending up at said property in Nashville. Its owners, Trace and his wife, Maurin. 

They wanted a remodel of some of their rooms and guest house. Right then, their names didn't immediately ring any bells. I was just grateful their contractor, Rusty, still hired manpower.

Somewhere in between all the slab-on grade foundations, window sills and fine carpentry, the crew discovered I had a growing passion for music. And, that I dabbled in playing and singing. You see, the only things I took with me that fateful night in Lexington; the clothes on my back, my personal documents and my trusty guitar. I admit, without any shame, that there were many times that busking got me the food and clothing I needed to get by.

Sitting around a campfire near the construction site to celebrate the Fourth of July, the men and few women that couldn't or wouldn't return home, hounded me for a song. After enough beers and internal pep talks, I committed myself to a true classic, Fishin' in the Dark by The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band. Before I knew it, people came from far and wide to join in. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that some of them were filming my humble attempt. When I finished I got applauded and patted on the back. It seemed I read the room. It made me feel good that I could enhance the atmosphere of this holiday get-together.

Our contractor must've decided to come by for a celebratory drink. Because after some of the excitement died down, he showed up next to me with his daughter. Clapping me on the shoulder with one of his calloused hands. "Hey man, my wife will be miffed with us when Alyse and I tell her that we've slipped out of the house to see the makings of a star..."

"That's too much honor, Rusty. Thanks though, I'm so new at this. It feels a bit uncomfortable to receive any praise." Not knowing where to look next, I chose the toes of my boots.

"Dad is right, you know?" The teenager added. "You can become a star if that's something you want to aim for, I'd buy your music..." She encouraged me with a reddish hue on her cheeks. It was emphasized by the ongoing fire.

My mother didn't raise a liar so I can honestly say that I've fantasized about having a music career. "And how would I do that, Alyse? What you see is what you get..." Realizing I might have taken it a step too far with her already, I apologize to my boss. "Sorry, I didn't mean to be crass."

"Deacon Jude, you do know that besides working for me, we work for Trace Ellis? I could show him the video I just shot..."

"Yeah?" I drawl sheepishly.

"He's the President of True Tone Records!" Alyse interrupts, because she visibly grew impatient with her father and I. The first round of fireworks exploded above our heads so it didn't really sink in what that could mean for me. I let it go and enjoyed the display above us.

Rusty kept his word. A few days later, I was called into the big man's home office. That meeting changed the course of my life. A handful of Google searches beforehand had shown me that this man indeed was a staple in country music. He could be a very sturdy stepping stone for whatever I wanted or even could've dreamed of. He offered me exactly that. A chance to become an artist. All of it, because of a belter song and a snippet of video.

Now, nearing thirty, I still live under the Ellis' roof as the son they never had. They both took me under their wing and became my beloved mentors and surrogate parents. The three of us forged a family and my music career. We have three albums, live registrations and numerous awards under our shiny belt: I'm doing quite alright for myself. Nashville loves me and I adore what that love brings me.

Looking in the mirror this early morning, the result of that fondness has left its marks. I look like death warmed up. A sledgehammer must've found me, because the hangover I'm nursing is a massive one. I could make an omelet in my own brown hair, it's that greasy. My eyebrows are unruly and my blue eyes are red rimmed and dull.

Normally, I wouldn't really care about my appearance on a day off. However, Trace asked me to come to the office at the label instead of the kitchen table. That has to mean; official business. Indicating I'll have to clean up and be presentable. Hopefully I'll see my best friend there, so I can make damn sure he knows whatever shit he gave me to drink isn't my new favorite.    

Fuck, I'm a mess." I confirm with my image in the mirror. Luckily, I'm not spotting a girl in my bed. Or two. "Better luck next time," I mumble. In this instance, it's a relief. "Get on with it, Blye. They don't have all day..."

Forty-five minutes later, I'm sitting across from Trace, our personal lawyer, Beatrice Cohen, my best friend and A&R manager, Quentin Hix, and even Maurin. All suited and booted. "This has to be an incredibly serious talk if Beatrice is here from Miami." I nod in her direction. She gives me a faint smile.

"Although, I cleaned up and wrangled my hangover...," I stare at Quentin, "...I feel underdressed. What's going on? Is this an intervention?"

"DJ, darling," Maurin kicks off the conversation. The nickname she only calls me doesn't give me a snuggly feeling in this situation. Something major is on the horizon. She seeks support from her husband by grabbing his hand. "As you know, I live with a rare and near-impossible bone cancer to treat..."

"Yes, I do. A big lump of your spinal tumor is removed, you can live with what remains. What has any of it to do with this intervention?"

"Stop it, Deac. We aren't sending you away," Quentin reassures me. Or he tries to at least.

Maurin seems relieved with the reprieve he gave her. She sighs before she continues. "I know I can, that's exactly why we're having this meeting. I want to live, live to check off my Bucket List, prior to actually kicking it. Together with my husband."

"And that's why we've sold True Tone Records, son." Trace delivers the punchline.

"WHAT?!" I veer up. "Am I the last to know, what is this shit? I thought I meant more to you than just an employee on your payroll!"

That's why, son!" Trace bellows, standing over the other side of the table. "We didn't want to burden you with a guilt trip out of loyalty like your father!"

I'm stunned by his words, it's making me weak in the knees. I plop back down the leather chair with my head in my hands. "What the hell? Where does that leave me? How did I not know this?"

"We kept it from you on purpose," Mrs. Cohen puts in her two cents. "We kept the sale under wraps and by some Music City miracle, we've pulled it off. Outsiders don't know yet."

I groan. "Do I want to know who bought True Tone?" Looking at everyone individually, Trace cracks first.

"Merle Corbin. He paid ten figures, so I can make my wife's every dream come true while being solely her loving husband."

"Are you serious, Trace? Don't get me wrong, I wish you and Momo the best things in life. But, you've sold True Tone Records to the guy that had to sell his first stale million dollar business to save his failing airline? The same guy that prefers playing tag in space over securing his livelihood on our green Earth?"

"Yes, that one," Beatrice states matter-of-factly. "That's why I'm here. Let's get back to the question where that leaves you."

I have no time or chill to process this. I'm frozen in place. To me, it seems everybody grew two heads. As a renowned Intellectual Property lawyer Beatrice is clearly used to this. She drones on, while a cold sweat seeps over my back into my button-down.

"You could stay at True Tone Records..."

"I'll never work for a maverick like Merle Corbin. No matter how many ideas or how much money he's got."

"Right, well that leaves two less favorable options," Beatrice claims. "You could buy your music catalog or leave the label with the talent you have and the guitar you own..."

"Throw me to the wolves, eh Mrs. Cohen? These are some Taylor Swift versus Big Machine proportions. Except, I don't have six albums or $300 million to spend!"

"You could always ask your f..."

"You don't have any right to utter his name!" I let her know with a seething voice and a pointed finger.

"Rein it in, Bea," Trace warns her sternly.

"Oh, so now you suddenly want to act fatherly, Mr. President? You've kept me out of the loop all this time and I'm willing to bet, cunning Merle Corbin added an ironclad clause to the final sale contract. One that forbids you to help anyone on this record label financially. Because that man wasn't born yesterday."

A flash of hurt and truth crosses his face.

"I'm at a Catch-22, left to fend for myself... 'I won't let you down, I will not give you up, you gotta have some faith in the sound. It's the one good thing that I've got. I won't let you down, so please don't give me up. Because I would really, really love to stick around...' Do you remember saying those words to me, Trace? I believed you as a man and a father figure. In the end, I'm back in a fucking suffocating straightjacket!"

Both Maurin and Trace have misty eyes. Mrs. Cohen and Quentin are awkwardly huddled together. I'm sure they thought this meeting would go differently by the grimace on their faces.

"We never thought of it that way, I'm sorry we blindsided you," Maurin tentatively walks towards me with open arms.

"I love the two of you, Momo. Always," I say, sneaking a glance at Trace while I embrace his wife. "But, I don't like you very much right now." 

"As is your right. We'll survive, we're a family. Speaking of family..."

Quentin cuts in before Trace's sentence is fully spoken. "Oh no old man, what did you do?!"