So Close, and still so far

Chapter 1: Iain

Present day. Lima, Ohio

Where am I?

That was the first thought that crosses my mind the moment I open my eyes. I wait for the hangover, but when I realize that it isn't there, I scan the room. It is a small, compact, neat space with dark blue curtains that complements the light blue gray carpet. I wake up in my boxers (though I don't mind sleeping on my birthday suit) and find that the double bed is adorned with a matching navy, black and gray sheets.

I flick my wrist automatically to check for the time. When I see that I no longer possess my Rolex, the thought comes crashing back with a painful memory that is even worse than any bloody hangover I've had whether it be at a New York nightclub or in Chelsea, London.

I'm in Ohio.

My name is John Maximiliain Charles Sheridan Hargreave. I'm 24 years old and my life is a complete fucking mess.

As it were, it's just me and the music.

Music has always been a big part of my life. When I was 3, my grandfather was a staunch believer in the Suzuki theory. He taught me how to play the piano by getting me a small Weinstein the size of a Shetland pony and in less than a week, I could play Solace from the Robert Redford movie the Sting. John William Hargreave, despite his billionaire status was a still regular bloke from North Carolina who had an uncanny talent in creating musical jigs. They're what we Brits call theme songs. At the age of 20, he created the ever popular Christmas song "Santa's Reindeer Rocket" which to this day still receives heavy airplay and not to mention heavy royalties. I've been to FAO Schwarz and they've played that bloody song like it was their Christmas anthem. Which I hate to brag, it is. On top of that, he also created the ditty used in the Coke commercials, which is still popular to this very day.

I was really close to Pop (a name I pegged out for my granddad). My parents married when they were too young and my mother had an affair with a social climbing horseman, while my father made millions off for mass producing defunct spy cameras for home use. I've been raised by almost anyone who bothered, so that left my grandfather who still enjoyed playing the piano despite his arthritis. He was a remarkable man with a keen sense and steady hands which he claimed he would've probably even had been a surgeon, if things were different.

In other words, apart from my obvious sheltered life, Pop was what the yanks called a blue collar sort. He grew up poor in a small town but after serving in the war and going to Yale to pursue a business course, where he met my rich, socialite heiress grandmother, Constance. He doubled the family fortune by investing in successful stocks which are still worth a lot to this present day.

In spite of the working-class stigma, my great-grandfather turned to music as his source of comfort and created the most memorable Christmas jig to exist during his time. He wasn't dim-witted either, he patented the song and copyrighted everything before any producers could get their greedy hands on it. He dabbled in music by telling me stories of how he snuck in to Jazz bars when it was considered taboo for a white man to hang around blacks. He even helped the career of bigtime jazz artists of which I won't mention as it's a long list, but heckuva prominent one if I ever did recall. In other words, my grandfather was a firm believer in dreams.

"Iain, always believe in your dreams, no matter what people say. A man should never be dictated of his life, even despite circumstance." he once told me when I was seven years of age, a year before my parents finalized their divorce. I didn't realize it at the time, but that was the last time I ever saw of him. Pop was a chronic smoker and died of complications from emphysema. I had decided then that I was never going to smoke a fag. I also played a song by Ryuichi Sakamoto during his wake. Everyone was moved to tears by my talent. I almost imagined my great-grandmother Alice shed a tear at that time.