another story
The Rivalry
The rivalry between the two friends was no secret, yet remained unspoken; it was like having an intense desire to scratch an area of the body one wouldn’t dare lay a hand on in public. So to keep the peace, the two jingle writers would meet for afternoon tea every Wednesday. Yet as time went on, the harder it was for the men to force docility among themselves. Meeting after meeting, the sitting chairs became more rigid, the air stale, and the tea was consistently growing far too weak. Their rapidly evolving distaste for the shortbread cookies was a microcosm of the developing hatred and resentment festering within their respective dens.
“A game of chess Paul?” Marty had an inclination that he had a good chance of winning.
“I don’t think I’m up to it…how about a round or two of poker? Let’s play for cash, it’ll make this bleary rainy day more exciting.” Paul hadn’t had a paying gig in awhile; like Marty he’d freelance pitching his songs to the heads of advertising and executives of businesses and companies, but lately no one was biting. With the lack of income, he was teetering on the edge of desperation. Knowing this, Marty thought he’d take the opportunity to taunt Paul while flaunting his own marginal success, which comparatively, seemed to be the major leagues.
“Hey, can I play you this song I’ve been working on for Johnson and Johnson? I’d like your advice and criticisms.”
“You’re working for Johnson and Johnson?!” Paul’s became downturned and wide eyed as he slumped down in his chair, trying to conceal his maddening frustration.
“Yea I am...but it’s only for a lousy band-aid product. I’m stuck.”
“Well, lemme hear it.” Paul waited for Marty to turn around before rolling his eyes.
Putting his cup down on the sidetable, Marty took a seat at his piano. The chord progression was extremely catchy but when Marty started singing something was amiss.
I use Band-aid Brand, and I think you should too, yes I use Band-aid Brand and I think you should too…SLAM!
Marty banged his head against the hard cushion of white and black keys, producing a dissonant tone, it resonated from the cobwebbed corners of the den to Paul’s offended ear drums.
“I don’t know Paul, it doesn’t have that ‘jenny say quh’ that I’m looking for, you know what I mean? I think the melody will work, but I’m stuck on the lyrics. I’m so stuck…what do you think?” Marty lifted his crown, turned around and looked Paul in the eyes.
“That’s it…” A smile was growing on his face.
“Hmm?”
“Get up from the piano for a moment,” Paul didn’t even wait to finish his request before he was practically physically removing Marty from the bench. He could barely contain himself. When a jingle writer get’s inspired, it’s best to stay out of his or her way. They tend to take themselves very seriously.
I am stuck on Band-aid Brand, cuz Band aid stick on me
“Hey! That’s a real winner Paul!!! Thank you so much!”
“What do you mean thank you?” He turned around sharply on the bench.
“Thanks for helping me out, I can’t wait to play that in the meeting this weekend. They are going to lose their hats!” Tilting his chair back a little too far against the table tipped a tea cup over the edge of the surface, where it crashed onto the floor, totaled.
The sudden jolt in the atmosphere failed to faze Paul whose brows were furrowing deeper with every passing second. “The phrase is,’ lose their heads’!!”
Leaning to pick up what shards he could Marty guffawed, “Yea, well so what?”
“Look Marty, I need this, you know as well as I do that I need this. I don’t have enough to pay the upcoming rent for my apartment in two weeks…I need this.”
“What are you implying? Need what? If you’re asking for me to lend you some cash then…”
“I’m not asking for anything, I’m demanding we split the commission from this jingle between us.”
“That’s not happening. This is my baby.”
“I won’t take credit for the damned thing, you’ll get full ownership, although ethically I should probably be noted as a co-writer seeing as I so easily helped you out of your predicament. All I’m asking for is a cut of whatever you decide to give me.”
“Paul, I can’t do that. You’re my friend, but jingle writing is my profession and you of all people should know how dedicated I am to the craft. What would it say about me as a composer if it was known somebody had helped me along the way? Do I want to be perceived as someone who needs a mentor in what is supposed to be the one thing I’m most strong in? No, I don’t think I’m likely to adhere to this at all. Look, I feel bad about your situation, you’re my friend after all…if you need some money to get through the month, it’ll be no proble –
“You’re a liar and a thief. I don’t desire charity from people like you.” Paul was sweating around his shirt collar.
It was a sticky situation made denser with the burdensome humidity and the broken air conditioner serving as a promise that there would be no relief. The phone rang in the other room. Glad to escape that boiler room, Paul got up from his seat, with the larger pieces of the tea cup in his hand.
“Look, Marty, I’m going to take this call, but we need to resolve this matter,” he said before passing through the open doorway, making sure to close it behind him.
Still seated at the piano, Paul fooled around on the piano, warming up by going through his scales. He noted how beautiful the tone was, unlike his own, out of tune one. That’s why it came as a surprise when he hit the last note on the low end, it failed to sound. Deciding to address the problem, Paul lifted up the top to get a look. Instead of what he expected, a loose or twisted string, he was surprised to find that an envelope was inadvertently blocking the hammer. He grabbed the envelope and opened it. Inside were photographs. With his jaw dropping he flipped through them for a few minutes. Marty entered the room.
“What are you doing? Give those to me.” He was visibly shaking. A smile developed across Paul’s face, which branded him with a bizarre and unnatural look as the man usually appeared so sullen and emotionally starved. “Paul…my wife…kids, I could lose everything. I could be blackballed if I was outted…I can’t lose my livelihood, you can’t do this to me Paul. I know you’re upset and jealous of my success, we both know it, but we did our best to remain civil despite the resentment, because we’re friends…we’re such good friends…don’t…”
“When and where is your meeting this weekend exactly?”
this is a first draft. any suggestions?
The rivalry between the two friends was no secret, yet remained unspoken; it was like having an intense desire to scratch an area of the body one wouldn’t dare lay a hand on in public. So to keep the peace, the two jingle writers would meet for afternoon tea every Wednesday. Yet as time went on, the harder it was for the men to force docility among themselves. Meeting after meeting, the sitting chairs became more rigid, the air stale, and the tea was consistently growing far too weak. Their rapidly evolving distaste for the shortbread cookies was a microcosm of the developing hatred and resentment festering within their respective dens.
“A game of chess Paul?” Marty had an inclination that he had a good chance of winning.
“I don’t think I’m up to it…how about a round or two of poker? Let’s play for cash, it’ll make this bleary rainy day more exciting.” Paul hadn’t had a paying gig in awhile; like Marty he’d freelance pitching his songs to the heads of advertising and executives of businesses and companies, but lately no one was biting. With the lack of income, he was teetering on the edge of desperation. Knowing this, Marty thought he’d take the opportunity to taunt Paul while flaunting his own marginal success, which comparatively, seemed to be the major leagues.
“Hey, can I play you this song I’ve been working on for Johnson and Johnson? I’d like your advice and criticisms.”
“You’re working for Johnson and Johnson?!” Paul’s became downturned and wide eyed as he slumped down in his chair, trying to conceal his maddening frustration.
“Yea I am...but it’s only for a lousy band-aid product. I’m stuck.”
“Well, lemme hear it.” Paul waited for Marty to turn around before rolling his eyes.
Putting his cup down on the sidetable, Marty took a seat at his piano. The chord progression was extremely catchy but when Marty started singing something was amiss.
I use Band-aid Brand, and I think you should too, yes I use Band-aid Brand and I think you should too…SLAM!
Marty banged his head against the hard cushion of white and black keys, producing a dissonant tone, it resonated from the cobwebbed corners of the den to Paul’s offended ear drums.
“I don’t know Paul, it doesn’t have that ‘jenny say quh’ that I’m looking for, you know what I mean? I think the melody will work, but I’m stuck on the lyrics. I’m so stuck…what do you think?” Marty lifted his crown, turned around and looked Paul in the eyes.
“That’s it…” A smile was growing on his face.
“Hmm?”
“Get up from the piano for a moment,” Paul didn’t even wait to finish his request before he was practically physically removing Marty from the bench. He could barely contain himself. When a jingle writer get’s inspired, it’s best to stay out of his or her way. They tend to take themselves very seriously.
I am stuck on Band-aid Brand, cuz Band aid stick on me
“Hey! That’s a real winner Paul!!! Thank you so much!”
“What do you mean thank you?” He turned around sharply on the bench.
“Thanks for helping me out, I can’t wait to play that in the meeting this weekend. They are going to lose their hats!” Tilting his chair back a little too far against the table tipped a tea cup over the edge of the surface, where it crashed onto the floor, totaled.
The sudden jolt in the atmosphere failed to faze Paul whose brows were furrowing deeper with every passing second. “The phrase is,’ lose their heads’!!”
Leaning to pick up what shards he could Marty guffawed, “Yea, well so what?”
“Look Marty, I need this, you know as well as I do that I need this. I don’t have enough to pay the upcoming rent for my apartment in two weeks…I need this.”
“What are you implying? Need what? If you’re asking for me to lend you some cash then…”
“I’m not asking for anything, I’m demanding we split the commission from this jingle between us.”
“That’s not happening. This is my baby.”
“I won’t take credit for the damned thing, you’ll get full ownership, although ethically I should probably be noted as a co-writer seeing as I so easily helped you out of your predicament. All I’m asking for is a cut of whatever you decide to give me.”
“Paul, I can’t do that. You’re my friend, but jingle writing is my profession and you of all people should know how dedicated I am to the craft. What would it say about me as a composer if it was known somebody had helped me along the way? Do I want to be perceived as someone who needs a mentor in what is supposed to be the one thing I’m most strong in? No, I don’t think I’m likely to adhere to this at all. Look, I feel bad about your situation, you’re my friend after all…if you need some money to get through the month, it’ll be no proble –
“You’re a liar and a thief. I don’t desire charity from people like you.” Paul was sweating around his shirt collar.
It was a sticky situation made denser with the burdensome humidity and the broken air conditioner serving as a promise that there would be no relief. The phone rang in the other room. Glad to escape that boiler room, Paul got up from his seat, with the larger pieces of the tea cup in his hand.
“Look, Marty, I’m going to take this call, but we need to resolve this matter,” he said before passing through the open doorway, making sure to close it behind him.
Still seated at the piano, Paul fooled around on the piano, warming up by going through his scales. He noted how beautiful the tone was, unlike his own, out of tune one. That’s why it came as a surprise when he hit the last note on the low end, it failed to sound. Deciding to address the problem, Paul lifted up the top to get a look. Instead of what he expected, a loose or twisted string, he was surprised to find that an envelope was inadvertently blocking the hammer. He grabbed the envelope and opened it. Inside were photographs. With his jaw dropping he flipped through them for a few minutes. Marty entered the room.
“What are you doing? Give those to me.” He was visibly shaking. A smile developed across Paul’s face, which branded him with a bizarre and unnatural look as the man usually appeared so sullen and emotionally starved. “Paul…my wife…kids, I could lose everything. I could be blackballed if I was outted…I can’t lose my livelihood, you can’t do this to me Paul. I know you’re upset and jealous of my success, we both know it, but we did our best to remain civil despite the resentment, because we’re friends…we’re such good friends…don’t…”
“When and where is your meeting this weekend exactly?”
this is a first draft. any suggestions?
