Four Broken Strings

Chapter 4 | BEGINNING OF THE MADOCK LIFE

Copyright © 2020 Rubab Masuri. All Rights Reserved.  

December 22, 2016

I arrive at the studio the next day, a little early out of anxiety. Even though I have stopped by the nearest coffee house, obviously to get some coffee. But what I actually need is some weed. But no, no drugs on the first day at work. No drugs at work. No drugs at all. Coffee it is. I should try chamomile tea. I read about it a lot on the web. Wonder if it is strong enough to drown all my woes in. But nor does coffee, so.

I glide silently by the reception, to the control room and settle my self on the couch opposite Kabir's mix station because a recording is going on. I have never recorded in a studio before. Though I had visited one once, an old shabby fifty square foot room with a microphone with a damaged popper with my ex-boyfriend, Reza. But that was a decade ago and I only remember looking at him from outside the glass partition and eating bag after bag of corn chips. This is different though, this is a big label, this is the place where people want to be. And when I will be calmer as the day ends, I will actually be happy that I landed here. In this shiny, pleasant smelling, well lighted, meticulously clean studio. I could fathom that in the future I would find it cumbersome to always wear shoes in here. Or I could bring in a pair of bedroom slippers. As I think about my shoes and crane my neck to inspect the place to find something interesting, I allot my shoes a place underneath a table that is adjacent to the couch I am seated on. It has drawers on each side with fancy knobs, and two huge planners on the wall, all feverishly scribbled upon.

Kabir on his station is patiently and repeatedly encouraging the singer who's in recording and struggling to hit her notes right. She stops, starts again, and is pretty much doing the same chorus that she was when I got in here.

Kabir looks at me, sitting on the couch, looking seemingly purposeless on my first day. I give him a smile that comes out rather tight-lipped and reserved. Lanky enters, and I am glad someone joined in to kill the awkwardness of the moment. He is surprised to see me, not shocked, happy kind of surprised, like he had no idea had joined in. But he did, he knew I was coming today, that he tells me, as he takes a vacant seat next to me. He also tells me, Amber -the singing girl who has hair that matches her name, takes almost a whole day whenever she comes in.

Amber pulls and gathers her hair in her hands and tugs in on the other shoulder, preening and smoothing, an unconscious gesture, I suppose. Now that I look at it from this perspective, I can relate to why some men would find that alluring. She's beautiful though, with huge eyes and puffy lips, topped up with a really good voice clearly. I have this sudden urge to look at myself in the mirror, for comparative critical analysis. But obviously, I don't, because that's stupid. I am beautiful in my own way, at least that's what Mom used to say. I gather it must be really stressful to manage to look like that every day. Then I gather I should get a life, and get up to take a round of the office. I greet Paula on the main desk, She's holding two receivers –talking on one and holding the other over her shoulder like she's burping a baby. She gives a pause when she looks at me like I should have something to say, and whatever it is, I better say it fast. Nervous, I shake my head, and she gets back to the phone, forcing a smile as she listens to the caller. I want to tell her she doesn't have to do that, the caller can't see her.

There is also another adjoining desk beside hers; I don't dare to peak in. The main office is opposite the recording room reads, MADOCK on the door. There is one more room to the side, it reads, FIN and 'icky' scribbled with dark ink upon the faded letters of 'ance'. The kitchen and lavatory are opposite FIN. I stare at the wall beside Maddy's office door, crowded with pictures, some taken at various events, others taken at the studio with famous people.