Broken Record

Chapter 3: Stevie

Stevie's eyes were bloodshot and her fingers were cramped. The past day had consisted of Red Bulls and non-stop music remixing and editing. Stevie knew she was in deep this time. She wasn't usually able to crank out track after track, but the increasing streaming numbers had her hooked and her ideas were crashing violently into one another, each warranting their own space in the form of a song. When Stevie discovered her skill and affinity for creating musical tracks in high school, she didn't have a clear plan of what she wanted to do in life. She wasn't a singer or a traditional musician. She had never been formally trained and didn't envision herself working as a famous DJ on huge, overly theatrical sound stages. Or worse yet, at weddings. Every fame-hungry, streaming junkie would kill for her remixing skills so that they could land a shot at a record deal or a tour contract with one of the industry's top labels. Or better yet, so that they could start their own label someday. But Stevie never thought that way. There was no endgame or career goal. She just loved remixing music. There was something unique about the inherent challenge of working from a thing versus working from scratch. She began DJ-ing for money in college at various underground competitions and parties, earning enough cash to pay for some of her absurdly expensive Stanford tuition. Eventually, she stopped going to class altogether and spent her days at her creation-station, a make-shift keyboard and DJ set in her dorm room. She couldn't get enough. It was fast-paced and energetic. Alcohol was often involved. She loved that the challenge was isolated to transcending a popular track into something entirely new for listeners to enjoy. And then just as quickly it was over, and on to the next. No future planning, no five-year plan, no aspirations of becoming a pop music icon. Stevie couldn't care less about the things that seemed to drive all of her peers into competitive and pointless life-long races with one another.

But after two years, Stevie's absences in class started to become an issue and she was audited by Stanford's admission group. The natural resistance in her to rules and governing bodies had her packing up her bags and leaving before the school could build a formal case against her. She had all the skills she needed and could acquire more on her own. She was her professors' biggest regret: an absolute savant who wasn't interested in curating her gifts for the history books or the stock market. That would simply ruin the music for her.

For the last few years after dropping out of school, Stevie had been DJ-ing full-time. Usually, she only accepted paid gigs from her favorite local venues or charged the lowest rate possible on different streaming platforms, just enough to get by. She wasn't perfect by any means but she had her own brand of moral code when it came to using other artists' music. She knew what she was doing was technically against the law, but for her it was a creative challenge and not a financial endeavor. She always made sure to keep a low digital profile and let the music speak for itself so that she wouldn't risk leaving a trail, any type of breadcrumb, that could lead back to her IP and her identity. That was cardinal rule number one.

But the digital tracks Stevie was currently laying had her convinced that this could be her best single yet. Even more viral, than her remix of Heart of Ice which was nearing 1 billion streams under her username, MarLow. She was a junkie, an addict, and even though her moral code screamed at her from the back of her mind to abort and lay low, her naturally impressive but dangerous curiosity and competitiveness kept her going. Stevie reached for another Red Bull, abstenly opening the lid without looking away from her computer screen when a loud, aggressive pounding came from her front door.

"What the fuck?" Stevie hissed to herself, nearly spilling her Red Bull in surprise. She closed her laptop screen and tiptoed to the front door. She peered through the peep-hole, her heart racing in her chest.

"Stevie Marlowe. It's the FBI. Open the door or we will open it ourselves. You have thirty seconds." A deep, rigid voice yelled through the flimsy barrier of her apartment front door. Stevie felt her hand shake on the knob, her knees locking. She'd gone too far. The awareness flooded to every extremity of her small, petite body, holding her down like a lead weight. She knew she was in trouble and she was scared as hell. But like a cornered cat, she wasn't the type to go down easily. With a shaky breath, she opened the door and fixed the most bored, apathetic face she could muster on her face.