Jimin pov:
“Oh, for ... Mike, get the fuck down.”
He was wearing his usual shorts and Hawaiian shirt and was up on a ladder poking around in the drop-ceiling in the snack room. His voice was muffled as he replied.
“What?”
“If you’re going to wear baggy shorts and get on a ladder, I’m begging you, wear underwear. We play “Free Bird” here, we don’t enact it. Nobody needs to see that shit.”
He pulled back, took two steps down and looked at me. “Seriously? Didn’t think about that. Sorry. It’s all good. We’re done.”
Big Mike slipped the tile back in place and got off the ladder. He nodded grimly at me as if we were co-conspirators taking down Nixon. Jerking a thumb towards the ceiling, he continued. “Cameras. Right at the fridge. This shit ain’t gonna stand.”
“I’m gonna need a little more than that. What are you talking about?”
“Some son of a bitch stole my Thin Mints from the freezer. I was saving them. My last box. They’re gonna try to play me like that? Gimmee a hand.”
He headed off to his office and I followed him. He handed me some papers he’d printed out and some scotch tape.
“Hang these up around the place.”
PROFESSIONALISM
It’s the halmark of any sucesful busness. Thats why you people cant act like degenerat fucking animals and steal food from other people including me, but also everybody (but mainly me). If my Thin Mints arent returned to the freezer I’m gonna find out who stole them and ruin you’re career. Think I’m joking? Try me. Just put them back and everythings fine. You can buy them online from the Girl Scouts. You got to Next Wednesday.
Sincerly.
-Mgmt-
When I check the cameras and see them returning the cookies, I’ll have them.”
“So, you’re not gonna let it go if they return them?”
“Fuck no. The hell with that. What sort of dick steals cookies?”
“Did you run this by Lini?”
He was clearly irked by the question. “What, I need to ask permission to do shit in my studio?”
“No, I meant to have her type it up. There’s a few ... peculiar spellings.”
“They get the point, right, smartass?”
“That you’re a psycho? Yeah, probably.”
“I’m tired a people walking all over me.”
I doubt anyone’s taken advantage of Big Mike since he was eight-years-old. He posted the fliers himself.
“Leia’s uncle? Kim Namjoon? I unbanned him. He’s coming down today to talk.”
Mike raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Let me know if you want me to deal with him.”
“Thanks, but it’s not gonna be a problem. Tell Lini?”
Going back to my office, I sat down and reread my articles about Namjoon and the rough drafts. Was I rough? Yeah. Was it all true? Also yeah. The main question was, was it deserved? I wasn’t sure. He was a jackass, but music labels produce assholes at record rates. Why did I come down so hard on this one? Why hadn’t I ever spoken out before? I wasn’t too happy thinking that I had abused the small amount of power that I had.
Most of all, it bothered the hell out of me that Leia was so concerned about her uncle and I hadn’t cared at all about what sort of an impact I might have. I’d dealt with a lot of shame in my time, more than enough for most people. To add to that seemed abhorrent. It took me more than a decade to even start to forgive myself for what I had done and now I jump back into being an uncaring, self-centered prick without a second thought.
I think that I may have hated Namjoon because he was me, or the me of 28 years ago. The me that was responsible for the death of his wife and son. The me I’d gladly kill, over and over again. I couldn’t kill that me, but there was Namjoon; talented, sullen, drunken, shining Namjoon. So, I took that shine, took his career and took his self-respect.
Because of something I’d done three decades earlier.
So, I write two articles that helped break this kid down, I completely misread what that dinner was supposed to be and she’s going to hate my guts as soon as she finds out that I was the writer with the poison pen. Fantastic. The worst part of it all is that once Namjoon left that next 90 minutes was some of the best I can remember in the past decade or so.
It’s stupid, the age difference is huge, but it felt like we fit somehow. Em was ... I don’t know. I’m not a teenager. I’m not going to claim that she was perfect or that we were destined to be or something, but I really thought that something was there. Confirmation bias, I guess. She was sort of the best of both worlds. Stable, but edgy, responsible but fun and a good mom who has great taste in ink. What more could I want?
Enough. It was silly. I imagined something that wasn’t there. Fine. Time to move on. I opened up the weekly summary from Lini and checked the scheduling. She did an excellent job of keeping the venue booked as much as possible with artists that were similar. Death metal and church choirs weren’t the best matches. We had six large studios, two very large and five small. It could get busy and a bit close with lots of mandatory mixing.
Lini knocked and then popped her head in. Then she verbally said, “knock-knock”. It was a weird habit of hers.
“Knock, knock, boss. Mr.Kim is here to see you?”
“Yeah, fine. Thanks, Lini. Namjoon, c’mon in.”
He sort of slouched in and sat down opposite me.
“Water? I’ve gotta mini-fridge.”
“Nah, I’m good.”
“Okay. So, let’s just assume that we were both having a bad day when we met and we got off on the wrong foot. Why don’t you tell me where you’d like to be professionally and how you think I could help you get there. If I like what you’re saying, maybe we can work something out.”
“Right. Uhm, I’m not sure where to start, to be honest. I guess ... You know Gary Clark Jr.? I mean, not know him, know him, but you’re familiar? I want something like what he has going on. He’s respected, man. You know? He plays these festivals and he puts out his albums and he does fine and shit, but the people that know? They really fucking know. The average guy at the mall probably doesn’t know who he is, but I do, you do, the right people do. That’s what I want.”
“That’s ... respectable. Hard to believe, but respectable. He’s not in the tabloids, he’s not tossing couches off hotel room balconies like it’s 1985, he’s not insisting that everyone kisses his ass. You sure that’s what you want? You made for that grind of touring and playing out 250 days a year?”
“Dude, you’re talking like it’s a chore. That’s my fucking dream, man. Em and Leia are all I’ve got here. If I can stay in touch with them and come home to them once in a while, I’d be in heaven. What I want is to be a fucking professional. I want people to think of me ... All right, I’m not kissing ass here, but I know what you do. I know that you sit in on recordings for old friends. I know that people depend on you because first off, you’ll do what you’ll say you’ll do and second; because you’re fucking amazing. Speaking of that, how come Em doesn’t know who you are?”
I paused. “It’s ... that’s not me anymore. At all. It would be, I don’t know, giving her a false expectation or something.”
“Just telling her how good you are?”
“No, but that drags up all the old shit and why I don’t play out anymore and, yeah, just not interested. I’m the studio guy now.”
“Okay. Whatever.”
“So, tell me what went wrong.”
He sighed. “I started believing the hype. Part of me did. Another part of me was constantly worrying about when they’d realize I was a fraud. I hid from that in the bottle and in being Kim Namjoon, all capital letters. You know what I mean? If I’m the star, it doesn’t matter what they say or think, ‘cause they aren’t. Not so much, right? Didn’t quite work out. Some dick from Guitar World had it out for me like I slapped his mother. Guy’s name is Llama. Like some sort of goat or something. He tore me up and people started talking shit online. The label lost interest. Yeah, not good.”
We kept talking and he finally broke it down to three things. He wanted to be respected as a professional. He wanted to be as good as he could possibly be and he wanted Em, but especially Leia to be proud of him.
“You’re saying the right things,Namjoon. I need to see you walking the walk. That fair?”
“Yeah, totally.”
“Okay. I’ll pay you a grand a week. You’re going to be the studio guitar bitch. Anytime anyone needs a guitarist, you’re it. I don’t care about style, I don’t care about how good the band or performer is, I don’t care about anything other than you’re playing your best every time with a fucking smile on your face. We’ll find time every day to work together one on one. Good deal?”
“Sure. Good deal.”
“Namjoon, you gotta be sober. That going to be an issue?”
“Uhm, no. I haven’t touched anything in more than three weeks and I’m going to keep that up. But maybe we should start Monday. That’ll give me a month dry. Sort of a nice, round number. It’s not too bad. I just need to sorta get my head straight. I don’t want to be flipping out on people here because I want a drink.”
“Okay. If that’s an issue, Big Mike can help. He’s my sponsor.”
“Your ... Seriously? You’re in a program?”
“Yup.”
“Uhm, I don’t think I’m at that point, but if it’s worse than I thought, I’ll let you know.”
I believed him. He didn’t have the signs of an issue so bad he’d get DTs or serious withdrawals. He went home and I told Lini and Mike. He’d be stringing instruments, teaching lessons, playing for anyone that needed it and anything else we could think of.
Towards the end of the day, I got a text from Em.
How many kids would be performing?
Not sure. 10? Maybe?
She soon replied.
U sure she’s ready?
They will all be at her level. She’ll be fine.
I had to wait at least five minutes for her reply.
Okay. Please set it up. Don’t make me regret this.
Smiling, I made the call to arrange for her inclusion.
♛┈⛧┈┈•༶TO BE CONTINUED ༶•┈┈⛧┈♛
This is all fictional...
And there is no hate at any bts member or any other idol.
Saranghae💜💜