CHAPTER 5 continued...

“Hi... eh... I am Shane Kevins.” I said hoping she would ask the next question, as I had no idea what I was supposed to be saying.

“Hello Mr. Kevins.” The receptionist replied in an efficient manner.

I suddenly realised, that I probably still smelled of booze from the night before.

“Em … I am here to see Mr. Waltingham.” I said out of the corner of my mouth, trying not to breathe in her direction.

“Mr. Waltingham?” The receptionist’s smile faded, as she looked me up and down in disbelief. I was wearing a pair of old jeans, sandals and a t-shirt.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“Well, I was told to meet him here at 2pm?” I said, unsure of whether that meant I had an appointment or not. I had no idea whether to have an appointment you needed something more, like some sort of proof of appointment. Maybe I was supposed to have an official contract, which provided the exact details of my appointment. Maybe I was supposed to hire a town crier, who would walk into the foyer and announce:

“Hear ye, hear ye! This document is proof that Mr. Shane Kevins has been appointed to meet a ‘Mr. Waltingham’ at 2pm on Monday 28th April in this very building. Hear ye, hear ye!”

I held out the crumpled piece of paper and handed it to her.

“What’s this?” She said, as she looked down at my scribbled handwriting.

“It’s the piece of paper I wrote down the address and time, that I was supposed to meet Mr. Waltingham.”

The receptionist’s eyes immediately hit the roof.

“Right, hold on a minute.” She said in the curtest of tones.

She moved away from the desk and dialled a number on a phone near the back wall. After about ten seconds of conversation with someone on the other end of the line, shock hit her face. She immediately sat up straight in the chair, put the phone down, and came back over to me.

“I am terribly sorry for the wait Mr. Kevins. I just spoke to Mr. Waltingham’s assistant. He is waiting for you on the 15th floor, suite 1553.”

“The 15th floor?”

“Yes. Just take one of those elevators over there, and when you come out at the 15th floor, take a left and his office is at the end of the corridor. Suite 1553.”

“OK. Thanks.”

I grabbed my piece of paper back, in case I needed proof of my appointment again, and joined the flow of people towards one of the elevators. An elevator arrived within seconds. I stepped on with the rest of the office workers. It was amazing how quickly I felt out of place in an office building, which only four short months earlier I would have called home. I was no longer that person, and boy that ship had sailed.

When I arrived on the 15th floor, I went left as instructed and walked down the corridor. It felt vaguely familiar. All around me were grey cubicles filled with unhappy people. They sat hunched over computer screens, desks laden with coffee cups, and files. The fluorescent light bulbs buzzed, drowning out the constant sighs being let out by fed up workers. At the end of the corridor, stood his office.

I arrived at his door. His name was written in gold letters just like my old boss in London. I couldn’t believe it. I had flown halfway across the world, and yet somehow, somebody had made an exact replica of my old office here in San Francisco. I knocked on the door and heard a bellow from inside.

“Yes, come in.”

I opened the door revealing an office just like my old boss's but bigger. The desk stood solitary in the middle of the vast room, behind it sat a man in his late fifties wearing a pin stripe suit and a cowboy hat.

“You must be Mary’s nephew. Shane, right?”

“Yes Sir, I am.” I don’t know why I was calling him sir but there was just something about being in the office that made me do it.

“Come on in. Take a seat son.”

“Thanks.” I said, as I sat down across the desk from him. I couldn’t help but notice how much smaller my chair was then his. Although I am 6’3” and he looked no more than 5’ 8”, he towered over me.

“So, I believe you are pursuing a career in music.”

“Yes, well I am trying to anyway. You used to be a songwriter, right?” He must have noticed that I was confused at the difference between what I had expected and the man, who sat before me.

“What? You don’t think I could have been a songwriter?” He said as he let out a deep guttural laugh.

“No no, it’s not that. I just suppose… I just hadn’t expected to find you sitting here as a clearly very successful businessman.”

“Look kid. Yes, I used to be a songwriter and I was a damn good one, but there was no money in it. I was born with a musical gift but that doesn’t mean that I had to use it. I got sick of music. What if you found you had an incredible talent for shovelling shit? Does that mean you are going to quit your job and become a shit shoveller?”

I looked at him in disbelief, not really knowing what to say.

“Exactly, you wouldn’t. I got sick of songwriting, so I decided to set up my own business instead. I have done pretty well for myself, wouldn’t you say?”

“Well yes, I suppose you have.” I said thinking back on my time in London.

Although I could see why some people would be attracted to his job and lifestyle, I knew I could never go back.

“Right, so let’s get down to business. Your Aunty said you have a demo tape you want me to listen to?”

I was taken back by his directness.

“Eh, yeah, if you wouldn’t mind?”

“Give it here, so I can have a listen then.”

I handed him my Discman and headphones. He looked down at them for a moment. He then quickly swung round in his chair, put the CD into a Bang and Olufsen stereo, and pulled on a pair of Sennheiser headphones. We sat in total silence for ten minutes, as he listened skipping through the tracks. I became increasingly uncomfortable, sitting in front of a man, I had never met, and who was listening to my deeply intimate songs. Once he had finished, he looked up and stared at me straight in the eye. He pierced his eyes, as if straining to look inside me.

“I like it.” He announced.

“Oh, great, thanks.”

“I didn’t say I loved it. I said I liked it.”

“OK.” I said, not really knowing where he was going.

“You have a nice voice. You write nice songs. You play nice guitar and your lyrics are nice. Are you starting to see a theme here?”

“Eh… you thought it was nice?”

“You got it. Your music is nice. I could put it on and listen to it happily as I fall asleep, but there is no chance in hell you are ever going to sell records by putting people to sleep. You need to inject some passion into your songs. Do you have a girlfriend?”

“Well, no I don’t actually.”

“Go out and fall in love with somebody! Become completely dependent on them and then get them to dump your ass.”

I looked at him in utter bemusement.

“Son, you need to light a fire in that there heart of yours. You need someone to make you burn inside. Someone, who can make you laugh and cry all in the same moment. Once you have that, then write some more songs and write them from your heart. Son, you need a muse.”

I wasn’t really sure how to react and he could sense it.

“Look, I am not saying you don’t have potential. If you love music, then go for it. You have the raw materials, a good voice, an ear for a good tune, and a great attitude. When your muse comes along and you start to write songs from the heart, they could be great.”

As I sat on the bus on the way back to Mill Valley, I thought about how different he was from Justin DeBar. Justin was someone, who loved music. It was his life. He loved everything about it but had never really been successful at it. Mr Waltingham on the other hand, had more to his life than music. To him, it had been something he was very good at, but ultimately it was a job and nothing more. It was the first time, I had witnessed the difference between talent and passion so clearly. I just hoped I had both.

As the city drifted away behind me, the rolling hills of Mill Valley approached. I couldn’t help but play his final words over and over again in my head.

“Son you need a muse.”