Downfall Of Amplification -Phan-

maroon pasts

I rush into the building, my hair sticking to the back of my neck.  God, it's too long.  I need a haircut.  I also need to stop being so late to work.  Mike is going to kill me.  He's the only one allowed to tell me I'm being unprofessional.  Everyone else nods at me like it's all normal.  Of course, it's normal.  It's Howell Productions and I'm Dan Howell.  But I know I'm just the name- the face Mike uses to create business.  I do the flashy work, the fun stuff.  Deciding on bands and artists, working with them until their brand is built up and perfect.  Mike handles the paperwork and all that jazz.  He also helps keep me alive.  Honestly, he deserves a higher pay.

What am I talking about? He get's more than half the proceeds and can walk the street without being bombarded by people asking for more music.  He gets the better deal for sure. 

Walking out of the elevator I'm greeted by my platinum record hanging on the wall.  Bright Lights and Eyes, what a dumb name.  What a dumb song.  Bitter Disappointment hangs next to it, a large version of the album art.  It's a dark maroon color with white wings drawn on the center.  They're not spread and ready to take flight.  They're fallen, chopped off some bird rendering it's main job useless.  The title, Bitter Disappointment is scrawled out in my handwriting with the same color as the wings, a boring white.  Corrupted Connection is written plainly across the top in some manufactured font. 

I'm proud of the songs, not proud of what they did.  They traveled too far, too many people hearing my deepest secrets.  It reminds me of my teenage self singing about love and sex and boys.  I was floating then, my life seemed easy.  When tour ended and I was forced down onto the ground I broke.  Everything seemed extremely hard and the band expected more songs, more hits. We need more Howell!? Everyone would shout.  I poured my everything into that first album and I wrung myself too tight.  Trying to find anything to inspire me. 

I released one single since then, about that feeling.  Didn't go well with the radio.  Maybe screaming to the whole world about how draining their pressure was wasn't a great move.  Flipping everyone off, even the band.  But I wasn't worried about the response, I was concentrating on getting my message across, 'leave me the fuck alone for a bit.'  And a bit became a year and then two and now I somehow ended up having a production company under my name.  Mike was bored with me but too attached to let me be.  He wanted to stay in music but wanted me.  He promised I'd do nothing, just promote the name.  So I did but now I've fallen too in love with the job.  It's easy, mindless work.  Some fresh-faced hot teen comes in and I give them the life they want.  Turn them into something worth listening to. 

I never want that life for myself, ironically enough.  No one tells me what to write, what to wear, what to sing, how to stand, where to go.  I live on my own not bound to anything, especially not music.

Walking through the double doors I see mike from his office window and sigh.  He swings it open and greets me in the lounge, "You're an hour late."

I shrug my shoulders, "Slept in."

"You have work to do."  Mike bites but doesn't seem mad, just frustrated.  He wants me to be better.  Little does he know I can't.  I'm incapable of living up to his too high expectations.

He drops his shoulders a bit, "I think you need help."

I open my mouth to protest but he cuts me off, "I mean an assistant dumbass.  We both know how well it went when Lilly suggested therapy." 

Rolling my eyes at the memory I move a strand of my hair to the side, "I don't need anyone."

"Look, I've been thinking and I think it would benefit you.  Someone to run errands for you, keep you in check."  Mike nods like his idea is genius, it's pointless.