Dum Spiro Spero (standard:romance, 10788 words)
Author: J. Nicklaus	Added: Jan 23 2002	Views/Reads: 3540/2492	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A choice between that which one loves to do, and that which one loves.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

displays idled where the 32-head recorders stopped, and for a moment 
the only sound in the tension riddled booth was the soft electrical hum 
of music’s machinery. 

Mack never turned to look at him, instead reaching over and turning the
rolling chair next to him to face Jalan.  “Have a seat.” Jalan braced 
for the worst. 

The producer’s face showed concern, not contempt. Mack’s reputation had
preceded him into this project. A stern taskmaster who rarely gave any 
ground. Oddly though, he and Jalan had found common denominator in 
their approach to their craft, and had gotten along pretty well. He let 
go a heavy sigh and stared into Jalan’s eyes. 

“What the hell is going on inside that head of yours? You haven’t been
anywhere near the same for the last, what, almost two years now.” 
Mack’s voice was surprisingly mellow, tinged with less professionalism 
than outright concern. “I’m sitting here behind this board watching you 
self-destruct. Don’t take my word for it, ask the rest of the guys. 
You’ve all done well together, and in large part because of your 
involvement, your passion. But I’m telling, right now, it’s slipping 
away man.” 

Jalan sat motionless, hands folded under his chin. 

Mack slapped the padded bumper on the mixing console. “Look at this
thing. I can only do so much with all these sliders and stuff. What 
matters is what’s getting to them, the source. Lately, it’s all been 
pretty low key. I’ve had to use technical wizardry to make this project 
work. Music isn’t technical, Jalan. It’s emotional.” 

“But..” Mack cut him off by holding his palm up. 

“It’s like you have a full glass and an empty heart.” Mack paused to let
it sink in. “You need you back, Jalan. I can’t give that to you. The 
guys can’t give that to you. I’d ask you to help me understand, but I 
don’t know if you even understand.” 

Jalan ran his fingers through his wavy hair. He knew Mack was right.
“I’ve spent my whole life never quite feeling things were ever right, 
never being at ease. Then something happened, and all the pieces fell 
into place. I knew without any doubt, that is where I belonged.” He 
paused to get a grip on his emotions, he could feel his chest 
constricting again. 

“Then all of a sudden it was gone. The coldest shoulder cast in metal,
frozen to the bone. All those feelings I once relied on were left 
bleached and blurred.” 

Unfeeling circuitry stared back at the pair through glowing eyes. Mack
sat with his arms crossed, giving Jalan a moment to unburden himself. 

“Mack, do you remember that old Kodak commercial with the little boy
rolling around with the puppies? Y’know, where he’s laughing and having 
a great time, you can tell nothing else in his little world mattered to 
him. He was so happy. Remember that?” 

“Yeah, it was a long time ago. What’s your point?” 

“Close your eyes for a minute...” 

“What, you kiddin’ me?” 

“Indulge me, Mack. Please?” 

Mack’s brow furrowed a little, slightly annoyed. “Okay, alright.” Jalan
watched as he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. 

“Now, take a deep breath. Just listen to the low hum in this room for a
second.” Jalan paused for a moment, then continued. “Now, picture that 
little boy rolling around in that commercial, then try to tell me 
you’ve never been happy like that before, where nothing mattered and 
you saw things with absolute clarity. Remember how good, how right, 
that felt?” He didn’t wait for an answer. 

“Now, imagine, you’ve closed your eyes again, and when you open them
those little puppies have vanished. All that was just seconds before so 
good, so warm”, he held his breath for a beat, “so perfect...has 
disappeared.” His voice quietly trailed off as the last syllables fell 
from his lips. “Imagine living with that feeling all the time. From the 
quiet, lonely moment you wake up in the morning, ‘til the haunting, 
sallow moment you lay back down.” Mack was silent. A simple look told 
Jalan the man-with-a-reputation understood him. 

“That’s what’s going on inside this head of mine, and the affliction has
spread to my heart as well.” Mack leaned forward, sitting upright once 
again. 

“Why can’t you write like that anymore. Write songs the way you just
spoke to me. THAT, Jalan, is power. THAT is what you do best. Where has 
that gone?" 

The once proud figure sat looking beat and weary in the chair across
from him. Worse yet, he looked utterly heartbroken. Production duties 
aside, Mack genuinely felt for him. “Maybe you should take time off, 
Jalan, The fans, the money, the studio time, none of that matters if 
you don’t have you. That’s what this project needs, what the band 
needs, what you need.” 

All vibrancy seemed to have melted from Jalan’s character. He slowly
wiped a stray tear from his upper cheek. He hated showing his weakness, 
but his weakness is what drove his heart and consequently, his craft. 
He adamantly shook his head. The studio door suddenly flew open and an 
overly exuberant, oft-insensitive guitarist burst in. 

“Dudes! You won’t believe what just happened to me!” 

Mack and Jalan look at each other resignedly. It wouldn’t matter what
they said, Marty would tell them anyways. Marty wasn’t his real name, 
of course. A roadie had branded him with it because he looked a little 
like Marty Feldman due to his bulging eyes and almost freakish grin. 
Producer and Romantic both looked at him waiting for his latest tale. 
Jalan asked the same question he always asked. 

"What did you do this time?" 

"I went through Micky D's drive-thru and pissed off the help." 

Jalan and Marty had been friends since their freshman year of college.
Marty had a tendency to not get angry, but rather try to one-up an 
adversary given the chance. 

"I ordered like normal, drove up, then told the dude at the window
'That's to go'. He didn't find it funny. Soooooo......" 

Jalan just shook his head, he could see it coming. 

"I wrote a check for the amount." 

"You wrote a check for fast food?" Mack asked, almost impressed by the
sheer outrageousness of the act. 

"Yeah, but that's not the best part." 

"I'm afraid to ask, so I won’t” Jalan said. 

"In the memo section of the check I wrote 'For sexual favors'." A
pregnant pause hung between the trio, three pairs of eyes almost 
unbelievably staring at one another. Suddenly Mack burst out laughing. 

“Jesus Marty, you are such an asshole, but it’s funny!” Jalan managed a
sheepish grin. His sense of humor wasn’t totally shot, just his spirit. 
The producer’s gaze shifted quickly from Jalan back to Marty. 

“Marty, give us a couple minutes here, okay?” Mack asked. The smile
slowly melted from his face, professionalism seeming to creep back in. 

"Sure. Later." Marty turned and belched loudly as he exited the studio,
letting the solid door close with a whispered thud behind him. Mack 
began rewinding the tape on the recorder, then turned his attention 
back to Jalan. His eyes never left the reel-to-reel as he spoke. 

"You know of the mythological Greek muses, don't you?" 

"Umm, yeah, of course." 

"It was said the muses were vengeful as well as inspirational, you
know." Jalan's puzzled stare begged for explanation. 

"When the Sirens challenged them and lost, the Muses plucked out their
wing feathers, thus the sirens lost their wings, and the capability of 
flying, and the Muses gained the ability. Do you see my point?" 

"Not entirely."  Hollow eyes watched Mack thread a new reel for the next
session. 

"You've allowed your muses to elude you. Let them in again. Find your
muses, Jalan, plain and simple."  Stepping forward, the portly producer 
prodded his finger against Jalan's chest. "She's in there. Don't let go 
of her, and don't let her let go of you. I know you understand that." 

"I haven't let go, Mack. I can't. I won't."  For an instant, Mack was
certain he caught a twinkle in Jalan's eyes. It had been a long day and 
a good night’s rest was in order. 

"Buy ya a beer?" Mack offered. 

"Nah, but thanks. Think I'm going to stay here for a bit, maybe try out
some stuff." 

"Alright, but give my advice some thought, okay?" 

"I will. 'Night" 

Mack had already turned to leave, quietly waving as he did. Jalan
swiveled back towards the mixing console and stared aimlessly at every 
dial and meter, needles resting at their point of silence. His thoughts 
turned to the song he had inside, one with no melody, no words, utterly 
bereft of any spark or substance-much as he felt himself. He rubbed his 
eyes and yawned. Sleep would be good, if only fitful. Laying his head 
on the cushioned console, he closed his eyes. Sleep's velveteen shroud 
gently slipped around his shoulders. 

Having quaffed his gastro-intestinally distressful meal, Marty wandered
back to the sound booth so he wouldn't feel so alone. His entrance was 
much less heralded than his prior exit as the large door opened with 
barely a whisper.  His lithe frame stood blocking the door from closing 
when he saw Jalan out cold on the mixing board. He took a deep breath 
and slowly exhaled. He'd known Jalan for a long time, and couldn't help 
but notice he wasn't the same man he'd become accustomed to. Everyone 
knew it. He'd been having a nagging feeling in his gut something wasn't 
right with his friend, felt something foreboding was approaching. For 
all his raunchiness, Marty was the closest thing to a best friend Jalan 
had since she'd left him.  He knew Jalan would wake up alone again, no 
closer to peace than when he fell asleep, and most certainly a little 
further away from it. Slowly he stepped backwards, carefully bracing 
the door so it closed without a sound. Jalan needed the rest more than 
he needed to talk. 

III 

Outside the studio night hung enigmatic and Dali-esque. A starry sky
held court for the Sandman, a sedate breeze coiled around every 
lightpost, thousands of silent dreams bobbed in the invisible sea of 
evening shade. Neon washed the side of the building with its electric 
pallor spelling out the studio's moniker, RMM. 

A solitary car was visible on the black-and-white security monitor
inside the studio. The security cameras really weren't necessary since 
the studio was located well outside the Gabriel Bluff town limits. They 
had been installed mostly to assuage the egos inside the building than 
to deter any perceived criminal activity. If quiet and serenity were 
tangible, then both would have been caught on video this night. 
Uncaptured would be the trace of whispered moments to be, the 
conflagration of spirit rising from the heart, the mirrored-ball of 
emotion as it began to throw shards of sentiment and passion about its 
dreaming host. 

On this evening, inspiration was bestowed with not just one name,
rather, beguiled by three. 

IV 

Within the soundproof room, the sterile dominance of electronics had
slowly but perceptibly given way to the sweet scent of daisies and 
honeysuckle. Flashes of muted, washed out color began to paint the 
walls, giving the booth a hauntingly festive ambiance. One color bled 
softly into the next, so the eye couldn't precisely discern a specific 
color and yet it knew the color belonged, much like a rainbow. To the 
ear would play hushed syllabic tones in the guise of wind through pine 
trees. The room was suddenly ablaze with motionless activity. 

Jalan's cheek had stuck to the leather padding of the cushion, making a
muffled peeling noise as he stirred from his disturbed rest. In his 
half-lucid state, he could swear he heard his name being whispered. His 
conscious-self seemed to be nagging at his sub-conscious, though his 
eyelids remained raptly closed. 

Then the vaguest sensation of someone, something, blowing sweetly on the
nape of his neck. Once again the feudal state of consciousness, but far 
more pronounced this time, mingled with a light floral scent he 
couldn't make sense of. His eyelids fluttered, but not enough to stay 
open. 

What came next grabbed his attention, every cell in his body coming to
life simultaneously. 

An unmistakable pair of hands caressed his slumped shoulders. The hair
on the back of his neck stood on end, assuredly helped along by the 
rush of adrenaline coursing through his once relaxed body. Reflexively 
his body sprang up shooting his head backwards, narrowly missing the 
upright reel-to-reel recorder behind him. The thumping in his chest 
came not so much from any fear, rather from being startled. A quick 
circular glance proved he was alone, yet the events unfolding in front 
of him gave rise to doubt. 

Soft but vibrant color ebbed and swirled around him, bathing the booth
in an ethereal glimmer. Shades and hues coalesced, slowly taking 
formless shape. While his mind tried to make sense of it all, his body 
came down from its previous high state of alert. In light of all the 
strangeness he felt calm. 

Suddenly it occurred to him that this might be a prank. “Marty...” he
half called out. No answer. “Jami?” The band’s keyboard player had 
earned a reputation as a practical joker. She’d victimized everyone 
else but Jalan, so naturally he figured this was his turn. 

Still, no answer. 

Around the edges of the booth the colors began to fade, but almost in
front of him they continued to concentrate and become brighter. Quickly 
his eyes searched everyplace a projector might be stashed. That seemed 
to be the only plausible explanation for what he saw appearing 
practically at his feet. 

A triumvirate of ghostly echoes, each similar in some respects yet
differently hued, wavered before him. Slight facial features emerged, 
along with what seemed to be lustrous hair, arms, neck, and the rest of 
the body—if that’s what it was—draped in an aural robe. All 
unmistakably feminine in form. Not at all fearsome, certainly 
otherworldly, but most of all, soothing. Jalan’s eyes focused into a 
trance-like stare. Unblinking eyes of warmth looked back at him. 

V 

An eternity of moments passed quietly, even the soft hum of equipment
was peacefully overwhelmed by the manifestations. Numbly he watched as 
one of the three moved forward. 

“Jalan” came the soft voice. He knew that voice. The same one that had
always given him comfort, always softened the edges of his tattered 
soul—always healed. Thoughts raced in his head, but none able to find 
their way to his throat. 

“Jalan, do you know who we are?” the voice chimed. 

His head never moved, his eyes answering for him. They begged for
understanding. 

The vocal one looked back at the others, then empathetically turned back
to face him. “We are you, Jalan.” Another pensive pause. “We’re your 
muses, if you will.” 

Clarity dawned on him, lighting up his face. The spirits smiled. He
gestured incredulously at the hovering trio. “You, um, whatever you 
are, are my muses? Part of me?” Three affirmative nods served as the 
reply. 

“Perhaps you would prefer to think of us as your inspiration.” That
seemed to make more sense to him. 

“We’re here to help, to awaken.” Jalan sat motionless, but doggedly
attentive. “How can I be sure this isn’t some elaborate set up. Like 
I’m being taped for a party or something. Prove to me I’m not being 
made a fool of.” 

She came forth again. “This place, this studio. What is its name?” 

“RMM Studios.” 

“You know what the letters stand for Jalan, deep down you know. It’s all
part of what endears you to those around you” she added. He couldn’t 
think clearly, no answer came to mind. 

The blithe spirit shimmered and sparkled as she answered. “Romance,
Mystery, Magic.” 

The words hung in the air like new fallen snow, at once quiet and
beautiful. Comforting words for a hopeless romantic. A genuine grin 
stole across his face. Now he believed. 

“I am Hope” she said, then gestured atmospherically to the one
shimmering next to her. “She is Faithe...” 

Jalan’s cognitive self finally came around, cutting off the muse. “Let
me guess, she’s Charity?” 

Hope smiled, then waved an upright digit left to right indicating no. 

“Destiny?” he guessed again, followed by a silent but effective
headshake from the muse. 

Looking directly at the third muse he ventured one last theory.
“Desire?” 

The third muse gracefully drifted forward. “I am the youngest of your
children, yet the deepest. I am that which you have learned most about 
and yearn for so much.” 

Jalan knew the answer immediately. His lips pushed it out, but barely.
“Love.” 

“Not just yours, Jalan. Her love.” He noticed her voice was identical to
Hope’s, as Faithe’s would be. 

“Consider it, Jalan. We three are the embodiment of what has driven your
very self. Your music, your words, your life, all of it.” Faithe set 
the last piece of the puzzle. “Look at our eyes, listen to our voice, 
feel us.” 

The moment of realization was nothing short of an epiphany for him.
Absent-mindedly he ran his fingers through his unkempt locks. “My God, 
you are her.” Swiveling in the chair to face the console, he rested his 
elbows on the pad and cradled his face in his palms. The muses 
positioned themselves around him, making small shadows move on the 
mixing board. He kept his eyes on the sliders in front of him, but his 
mind firmly on the current revelations. 

“I’ve never believed in perfection, it just doesn’t exist. Anyone
perfect must be lying. Anything easy has its cost. But for a while 
everything was as close to that as I thought it could ever get. I was 
riding the crest of a wave that was all mine. Then it broke. Now...”, 
he stopped for emphasis, and to find the right words. “Now my broken 
spirit is frozen to the core. I’ve been clinging to all three of you 
for so long--hope, faith, and love. It hasn’t been hard to hold on 
because I know she’s my One. But you know as well as I do it ain’t been 
easy sometimes.” 

Hope tried to be reassuring. “We know. Often your belief in us is all
that stands between you and Despair. He is a dark one, Despair.” The 
other two seemed to dim at the mere mention of its name. 

Something seemed to unlock inside him, if only for a moment. "She's not
just a page in my story, she's my one book of dreams. When I close my 
eyes I see her face." The muses seemed to look at each other, and 
smiled, inasmuch as they could. Jalan always talked freely about her. 
Never had anyone else been able to make him babble like a child 
learning to speak such as she had. He opened his mouth to go on, but 
stopped in mid-thought. For a split second he wondered if he was having 
some sort of break down. I'm talking to thin air, he thought. How 
insane is this?. Yet, he couldn't deny it made crystal clear sense to 
him. 

Jalan slowly turned around, massaging his temples, then clasped both
armrests on the chair. He stared knowingly into, through, each vivid 
spirit.  "I'm preaching to the choir. You already know all this, how I 
feel, why I ache. Better than anyone you know of my heart." 

"A vague half-believer in me you are not" Love stated. "You see me
steadily and whole." 

"You believe in my immortality. My light makes you see what you
believe." Faithe added. 

"And I", Hope intoned, "you have not distrusted me, never pursued,
rather held me up." 

A sanguine instant nestled in Jalan's lap, not only words but sheets of
truth and emotion occupying him. Before him stood her very essence-her 
face, her eyes, her voice. His own phantoms bringing tears to his eyes. 
Sniffling loudly he continued, frustration creeping into his voice, its 
pitch rising with each word spoken. 

"You said you were here to help. How? What am I to do? Who am I to turn
to? I feel like I've lost my best friend, my soulmate."  He paused to 
try and stifle a sob, which didn't work. Breathily he finished, "I need 
my angel." A few tears fell against the fabric of the seat with an 
audible plunk. The Muses rippled as if wept upon themselves. 

Faithe wafted over him, coming to a silent stop at his eye level. "We
are here to help you hear you heart again. It is without doubt that you 
feel, but to create you must hear it again." Jalan sat quietly, broken 
yet still determined to understand. All he could hear in the deadness 
of the booth was his own heartbeat. 

His voice a mere wisp of seconds prior, he asked, “How will I know?” 

Love drifted next to Faithe, her aural glow lending sentience to the
air. “How do you know you are in love with her?” she posed. 

Jalan’s eyes turned up, glistening and rainbow hued. “I just know, I...”
Wisdom lit upon his face. 

Love and Faithe sparkled brightly as it dawned on him. Both moved within
inches of his face, seeming to lean forward. He closed his eyes, 
feeling the gentle sensation of sweet breath blown against his wet 
cheeks. Daisy and honeysuckle again danced about him, giving him the 
chance to try and synthesize the sounds of his emotions. At once 
drained and strengthened, he stared at his Muses. 

Hope joined the other two. “Jalan, you have two choices.” 

An uneasy pause languished between them. “So long as you believe in Her,
we all prosper and grow. If you let go, we all perish.” 

Jalan’s response was immediate, affirmative, and just shy of curt. 
“That is NOT an option! How’s it possible to let go of someone who’s 
captivated your heart?” “It isn’t mine to have. It’s hers.” Three 
shimmering forms began to silently blend together again. Love spoke as 
the transformation ensued. “Then listen to your heart and your will 
hear Her, hear Us. Together she will see us, more importantly, she’ll 
feel you—your heart.” Her voice hung in the air like cotton candy. 

Jalan looked around the booth. It seemed to become much more lifeless as
the Muses dissipated. A wave of panic swept over him. 

“Wait...WAIT! Don’t go yet!” he pleaded. 

“Listen, feel...love” the ethereal voice sang. “Give all. Change
nothing. Camelot will come. Be patient.” As quietly as they came they 
departed, faded like the Beatles on ‘Hey Jude’. 

Everything in the booth was as before, yet he saw it with entirely
different eyes now. His gaze caught the whiteboard above the mixing 
console, song ideas and half-completed tracks scribbled like 
legitimized graffiti on its face. The pseudo-reality of what transpired 
only now began to sink in. Had he actually been awake, or was it all 
some psychologically orchestrated dream? Regardless, it was over. 

Or had it just begun? 

VI 

Morning dawned, misty and brittle. Moist silver light spilled across the
non-descript building as its neon lights faded to black for another 
day, while burned off dreams were unburdened from their sleepy hosts. 

Mack steered his dusty El Camino steadily towards the studio, thoughts
weaving and ebbing. He had a knack for knowing when things were working 
or not, good or bad. This time however his instincts were muddled. 
Irritation told him to scrap everything on this project and walk away. 
An undeniable little voice told him something extraordinary was taking 
place. He didn’t like being on the outside of it, whatever it was. 
Another day of laying down tracks and dealing with egos would keep him 
busy though. He idled the car before turning left into the studio 
parking lot, waiting for a pearlescent plum colored car with dark 
tinted windows to pass by. 

VII 

Mack strode through the plain metal door and immediately headed for the
coffeepot. Ritual deemed it necessary to have a morning cup; his body 
made it mandatory. Filling his mug with liquid life, he reached for the 
sugar. It seemed awfully low, but he figured the coffee service people 
hadn’t refilled it yet. Pouring the remaining sweetener into his mug, 
he grabbed a stir stick and carefully walked to the studio. A burst of 
female laughter lofted through the big door as he entered the booth. 

Jami and Marty sat apathetically amidst the equipment. Both sets of eyes
fixated first on his coffee mug, then looked directly at him. Mack got 
the impression there was an unasked question lingering. “What?” he 
asked. 

Marty’s hand slipped up to cover his mouth as Jami replied for both of
them. “Nothin’.” “A little cranky this morning, Mack?” 

Something was up. Experience taught him that much, but his gut confirmed
it. “No, not cranky, and yes something’s going on. What did you two do 
this time?” 

Marty feigned indignance. “I was just telling Jami about an ex’s mom.”
Again, two sets of eyes followed the producer’s mug as he set it down 
on the well-worn coaster at the end of the mixing console. Mack’s brow 
furrowed. “I’ll go easier on both of you if you ‘fess up now.” 

“Seriously, man. We’re cool” said Marty. 

Mack settled into his chair and stared at the duo, eyes shifting from
one to the other.  “So, what’s this about your ex’s mom?” 

“Oh. This one time her mom was getting ready for her "dream" vacation to
Mount Rushmore. I asked her to bring me back a picture of the other 
side of the mountain. When she asked why, I convinced her that on the 
other side of Rushmore are the backs of the presidents, on their knees, 
with their heads stuck into the mountain. She was so excited she 
actually looked for a special tour of the backside.” 

Mack was amazed by Marty’s subtle cruelty, but snickered. “Marty, you’re
a real piece of work. What happened when she found out you made it all 
up?” 

Jami jumped in before he could answer. “Didn’t your ex know any better?”


“That’s why I dumped her before her mom left on her trip. Both of them
believed me. The look of wonder in their eyes was priceless.” Jami 
roared. “That’s a classic!” 

“Yeah, I know.” Marty was all grins, quite proud of himself. 

“Damn Marty, your such an asshole.” Mack just shook his head. Out of the
corner of his eye he caught the reel-to-reel recorder, a third of the 
take-up spool was full. 

“Looks like you two have been busy this morning.” 

Marty and Jami’s mutual admiration party stopped cold. “What?” Jami
asked. 

A thick finger pointed at the recorder. “Looks like you burned some
tape.” 

Amusement gave way to intrigue. “We just got here about 15 minutes
before you did, Mack” added Marty. “I thought you changed the tapes 
every day?” 

“I do. I did yesterday before leaving. I was talking to Jalan yesterday
when...” Mack paused. “That’s right, Jalan said he was going to stay 
last night and work on some stuff. He must have done it.” Confident 
he’d solved the mystery, he reached for his coffee. Neither musician 
saw him raise the mug to his lips. Both were still trying to figure out 
how Jalan recorded so much. Egos competed with logic. It made them look 
bad. How dare he do something without running it by them first. Mack’s 
sudden eruption split the cloud hanging between them. 

“Dammit! Jami!” 

It took less than two seconds for her to go from a cartoonish grin to a
Joker-like maniacal laugh. Marty sat with bulging eyes blankly staring 
at the rollicking Jami, then the irate Mack. The big man easily threw 
the door open and stomped off to the coffee machine. 

“What the hell did you do?” Marty asked. 

Jami took a minute to calm down so she could talk. “I put salt in the
sugar container, so Mack had himself some ocean coffee.” 

“That is so nasty” Marty injected before busting up. 

“I know, but it’s better than what I was originally gonna do. I was
gonna put Metamucil in the container instead. I thought twice about it 
and figured it was a little too brutal.” 

Marty nodded his agreement. 

The pair stifled their infantile enthusiasm fearing added reprisal from
Mack, their timing dead on as he thundered through the door once more. 
Marty and Jami felt like two children whose father just came home. A 
wave of dread fell upon them as Mack turned his bulk to face them. 

“If we are done being moronic, perhaps we could get some actual work
done?” 

Both just shook their heads, grateful to have their dignity and esteem
intact. 

“Good. Now, let’s see what Jalan did.” Mack pressed the remote rewind
button on the console, and the tape reels spun to life. A gentle 
whirring sound accompanied the tape as it quickly disappeared off the 
right reel onto the left. As if of their own accord, the dual hubs 
slowed down and silently came to rest near the front of the tape. Not a 
word fell from anyone as Mack prepared the playback. Lately mediocrity 
had come to be expected of anything Jalan did. So this was another 
opportunity for disappointment for all concerned. Jami and Marty looked 
at each other solemnly, then over to Mack, who was looking from under 
his bangs. He swiveled around and jotted the time code on his 
clipboard, then without looking reached over and remotely started the 
playback. A barely audible “whump” was heard as signal passed to the 
speakers. An almost poetic resonance hauntingly spilled forth. 

Layers of orchestration persuasively lilted upwards, then faded, taken
up again another sliding octave, and faded once more, gliding 
euphorically to an unearthly final strain. Blended upon the last 
strained chord was the dampened sound of percussion and piano, sparing 
but well within the context of the music. Three sets of ears listened, 
absorbed, every note. Mack’s head swam with little flourishes he wanted 
to apply. Marty and Jami both internalized their own parts to play. 
This was more than chemistry, it was emotional, pure and simple. 

Almost a full hour passed without a single word between the three, all
communication performed by nods or sideways glances. Somehow what came 
off the tape brought momentum and importance to what they all felt had 
been a fading glory. 

Jami stood first and headed thoughtfully into the studio. Marty paused,
then stood. He stepped to the door and turned. 

“This is it, isn’t it, Mack. This is the big one.” 

The producer quietly nodded, arms already floating above the console,
fingers adjusting sliders, setting mic levels, clearing time codes.  
The guitarist slipped away, reappearing on the other side of the glass. 
Once again the studio was alive and pulsing with activity, more of a 
mechanical nature this time but indirectly influenced by the 
imperceptible. 

VIII 

A warm velvet blanket hung in the sky as Jalan drove, dashboard lights
casting a tranquil jade green. Jalan’s thoughts raced between his 
newfound enlightenment and Mack’s suggestion of time away. Easily torn 
between his love for music and what he so very much needed outside his 
craft, the scales tipped in favor of what he really loved most. 

He took a deep breath and noticed the crispness of the autumn air. He’d
always loved this time of year. Routinely he steered around the bend 
overlooking the town below. Gabriel Bluff was a relatively small town, 
more of an extension to the metropolis 30 miles away. Off the driver 
side he could see the usual congestion choking the freeway, a carpet of 
dull crystal headlights on one side, a blanket of red taillights on the 
other. Like black lemmings into shining metal boxes he mentally hummed. 


Night took its turn on watch as the sun lay down behind the horizon.
Jalan could see the glow of “RMM” through the trees as he approached 
the studio. He thought of one person and smiled. 

IX 

Mack never heard the big door open, his tired mind on the same
wavelength as the hum of the machines he manipulated for a living. 

“You’re here late.” 

The big man lurched suddenly. “Jesus H. Christ, Jalan! Dammit man, now I
gotta check my skivvies.” He closed his eyes for a second, letting his 
adrenaline reduce from a flash boil to a fading simmer. “And where the 
hell have you been?” 

“I fell asleep here last night. Needed to take some time to think.” 

Mack pointed to the thick box on the couch, a reel of tape lying inside.
“Looks like you were pretty busy, no wonder you fell asleep here.” 

“Whatd’ya mean?” Jalan’s eyebrows dipped inquisitively. 

“It’s good Jalan. Personally I’d say it’s your best yet.” High praise
indeed from a perfectionist like Mack.  In three strides Jalan’s long 
legs placed him at the box. He picked up the reel, analyzing it as if 
it would jog his memory. 

“This?” he asked, motioning with the disc. Mack looked over his
shoulder. “Yeah.” “Me, Jami, and Marty sat here for close to an hour 
listening to it. We all felt it, man. I don’t know what happened or 
where it came from, but it would seem you found your muse. It has the 
magic of your early stuff and something extra we couldn’t quite put our 
finger on.” 

This was a decidedly disturbing event. He hadn’t recorded anything,
intentionally at least. “Umm, Mack...I...” His voice almost echoed in 
his ears. He wasn’t sure what made him stop. Mack had been 
half-absorbed in taking notes, so he hadn’t heard anything more than 
Jalan’s disembodied voice. No form to the words just a voice. 

“What were you saying?’ he asked as he swiveled to give Jalan his full
attention. 

Mack’s voice broke his reverie. “What?..Oh, uh, just wanted to say
thanks for the compliment.” “Did Jami or Marty say they’d been here 
early this morning?” 

“No, they got here just before I did.” 

Jalan sprawled on the couch taking in everything around him. Even though
he’d worked with this equipment for years he still marveled at it. All 
the circuitry to process sound; from mechanical to synergetic, mind to 
emotion. In an odd way, the circle had always made sense to him. After 
a couple minutes of introspection, he watched Mack feverishly 
organizing his thoughts into ink and paper. Soon he heard the sound of 
a pen dropping against the clipboard, and a deep exhalation. 

Mack stood up and pulled his jacket off the back of his chair, donning
it as he spoke. “I’m outta here. Long day. You gonna be here tomorrow?” 


“Not sure yet. I’ll let you know.” The producer just nodded while he
fine-tuned the fit on the jacket. 

Mack stopped at the door, his hand gripping the handle, ready to leave.
“What were they like?” 

“Who?” 

Mack looked through him with prescient eyes. “Your Muses.” 

He knew Mack would be the one to ask him, but didn’t think it would come
so soon. He stared at the ceiling, trying to find the best way to 
answer. 

“Angels on a restless wind.” 

A wry smile crept onto the producer’s face. Opening the door he stepped
wordlessly out of the booth. 

X 

As was his habit, Mack left another reel queued up on the recorder for
the next day’s session work. Jalan made short work of slipping it off 
and threading the other one on. Nimble fingers dodged between the reel 
spokes, sliding the lead into the hub slot. A couple turns and the 
media was secured. Making sure the signal was fed properly through the 
board, he turned and studied the recorder for a second, still trying to 
deduce how something got recorded when the studio was empty.  No 
matter, time for that later. A tap on the play button and the reels 
popped to life. 

No sooner did sound fall from the speakers above, Jalan noticed a trace
of floral aroma. He tapped the play button again, pausing playback. 
Ears listened, eyes scanned, nothing but silence and cold machinery 
present. The scent seemed to have evaporated too. Another tap on the 
play key and the music started again. With each stretched note, the 
scent seemed to gather strength. 

He’d only heard a few seconds of track, but he knew it would be exactly
what he wanted. Stopping the tape he released the mechanical brake on 
the reels, allowing them to spin freely. Carefully he backed the tape 
up to the leader, watching the bright LED counter roll back to all 
zeroes. Again, the aroma dissipated. A moments inspiration made him 
lean over to the light switch and flip all three off. Now the only 
light in the booth came from red, yellow, and green status lights. The 
analog volume meters were bathed in tiny white umbrellas of light. The 
soft red light of the play button on the console reminded him of his 
childhood AM radio. Whimsical and nostalgic, he thought. He closed his 
eyes and tapped the play key a third time. 

No discord or dissonance, nor was it somber or brooding. Certainly, it
was eerily mysterious, expansive, rolling like a foaming wave that laps 
upon the shore. Pictures faded in and out of his mind, words milled 
from his emotions. If art indeed aspires to the condition of music, 
then this was Jalan’s own passionate fresco. 

For a full 20 minutes he sat silently with his eyes closed, absorbing
every nuance of the music, every sweeping strain, each small supporting 
note. Entire songs weren’t here, but the atmosphere certainly was, 
unmistakable impressions left. He soaked it up like arid desert soil 
during a heavy summer rain. A dreamer, an unwoken fool. In dreams no 
pain could kiss his brow. He so much loved this dream. Soon, he’d begin 
his waking journey. 

Dreamily his eyelids opened. Muted pastels wrapped vaguely but warmly
around him. Old friends returned as a hint, not as viable as before. 
The impact was felt though. All three muses worked through Jalan that 
evening. Mere thoughts unfurled into poignant feelings, words painted 
over with stained-glass images. For the first time in a long time his 
hope buoyed. This was to be no message in a bottle. It was meant to be 
an offering of his heart, not for a moment—for a lifetime. 

Jalan was exhausted, but proud. Carefully he backed the tape up to the
end of the last track to be sure Mack didn’t record over it the next 
day. The translucent ethereal rainbow had long faded, as had the scent 
of daisy and honeysuckle. He’d go home and dream again, a little more 
soundly tonight, knowing he’d taken one step closer to Camelot. 

XI 

To the casual observer the next morning would have looked to be a replay
of yesterday morning. Mack, Jami, and Marty sequestered in the booth 
excitedly pouring over Jalan’s work from the evening prior. The renewed 
vigor and enthusiasm was palpable. The trio had reached a new plateau, 
the future was looking very bright indeed. Even a couple of the session 
players remarked on it. Mack was hiding something though. Tucked away 
in his producer’s intuition was a feeling of loss. He wasn’t sure why, 
but it wouldn’t go away. As a professional he would finish this project 
without blemishing this moment for the rest concerned. He perused 
Jalan’s hand-scrawled lyrics while Marty and Jami chattered between 
themselves.  One particular latin phrase stuck out. With everyone 
distracted, Jalan slipped into the studio undetected. He knew Mack 
would have left a particular mic open to catch ambient noise. With a 
stealth he hadn’t used since he was a little boy he crept up to the 
microphone and closed his eyes. 

“Are the stars out tonight? I don’t know if it’s cloudy or bright...” he
crooned. Three bodies jumped, simultaneously startled. He could see 
Marty cursing and giving him the middle-finger salute. Jami smiled. 

Click, hum. This time the sound in the headphones was reassuring. 

“If you’re finished Mr. Garfunkel would you join us in here, please?” 

“How do ya like that! One take!” Jalan couldn’t help himself. Carefully
he hung the headphones from the neck of the mic stand and headed for 
the booth. 

No sooner had he got inside and Jami had her arms around him in a bear
hug. Her smile was infectious and her voice giddy. “You’re back!” He 
hugged her back and outwardly smiled, inside was a different story. He 
hadn’t told anyone, he couldn’t. 

“Dude! We were starting to think you didn’t love us anymore” was Marty’s
indignant welcome. 

Jalan walked over and pinched his cheek. “Awww, you know me better than
that.”  Marty looked genuinely annoyed. 

“Seriously, man. I have to tell ya I like what you’ve done.” The
guitarist gestured at the tape. “If I thought there was an easy answer 
I’d ask how you did it.” 

Jalan leaned against the padded console armrest and thought for a
moment. “You should know the answer already” he directed at Marty. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Where do you write from, as a musician?” 

Marty considered the question. The conversation caught Mack’s ear, and
he turned to watch, as did Jami. “I suppose from experience, emotion, 
maybe trying to put across a message.” 

“Fair enough, but remember why we love music. It makes us feel, Everyone
responds to it in their own way, but basically it’s from feeling, 
right?” 

“Yeah, okay. So what’s your point?” Marty wasn’t one for thoughtful
discussion. 

Jalan pointed at the now infamous reel of tape, then pulled a chair over
and sat down facing Marty. “You asked me how I did it.” A quick check 
at Marty’s eyes told him he had his attention. “People may forget what 
you said or what you did but they will never forget how you made them 
feel.” “That  is how I did it.” 

Light silence hung suspended in the room. 

“That’s cool.” Marty managed, rising to head back into the studio. He
dug in his pocket for a guitar pick, then used it to pick his teeth. 
Jalan and Jami followed behind him as he left. A gentle hand set upon 
his shoulder as they stepped through the door. 

“As much as I and everyone else wished you’d have let go, I want you to
know I admire your heart and tenacity. You must really love her.” Jalan 
had learned to depend on Jami’s quiet support. She, of all of them, 
understood his motives. 

“I do, Jami.” He paused as she gave a warm smile. “Remember Christmas
when you were a kid, those times when there was one present, one toy 
you wanted so bad you could taste it—but you would do something stupid 
a few days before Christmas so you thought Santa wouldn’t bring it to 
you?” 

She nodded. “Oh yeah. I wanted an Easy Bake oven when I was a little
girl. God how I wanted that thing! About a week before I got in a fight 
with my sister and I tore apart one of her dolls. Seemed like everyone 
was mad at me. Thought for sure I wouldn’t get it.” 

“Did you? I mean, get the oven.” 

“Yeah” she replied dreamily, eyes playfully rolling. Jalan grinned. 

“Remember how you felt when you saw that big box under the tree. That
was the first one you wanted to open, but your parents would make you 
wait to open it last.” 

“I hated that!” 

“Yeah, but when you tore into it, and saw what it was...do you remember
how that felt?” 

Jami closed her eyes and softly sighed. “I felt like the happiest kid in
the world.” 

Jalan gently lifted her chin so her eyes met his. “That’s how she makes
me feel.” 

He saw her eyes smile, as only a woman’s eyes can do. She uttered not a
word, but gave him a reassuring hug, then disappeared into the studio 
with Marty. Jalan pensively watched through the small window in the 
studio door as she settled in behind her bank of keyboards. He’d miss 
her the most. 

Ageless faith supported his fatigued spirit as he quietly turned and
entered the booth again. 

XII 

Musician lingo and guitar tuning emanated faintly in the background as
Jalan sat down next to Mack at the board. All the knobs and dials, 
sliders and channel readouts, all of it still held an indescribable 
charm and magic for him. 

“You guys about ready?” Mack called through the intercom. Both nodded. 

“Alright, give me a few minutes then we’ll roll.” Marty put his thumb
and forefinger into a circle as he turned the tuning key on one of the 
strings of his guitar. 

Mack turned and stared at Jalan. “You know I don’t usually say much
about lyrics.” Jalan nodded his affirmation. “Something here caught my 
eye, and I heard it on the tape too. I don’t think they did” he said, 
motioning with a thumb into the studio. 

“Which was?” 

“Well, my Latin is pretty rusty. You said Dum spiro spero, right?” Jalan
gave another affirmative nod, locking eyes with him. For the first time 
in as long as Mack could remember, he saw the man smile warmly as he 
translated. 

“It means While I breathe, I hope” 

The simple but powerful phrase confirmed what he felt earlier. He’d
borne witness to the extraordinary in the last few days, but still was 
unsure about what was awry. Mack wouldn’t ask him directly, out of 
respect, but he knew something was unspeakably wrong now. Looking 
through the thick pane of glass the other two seemed to be bantering 
back and forth. Mack nodded in their direction. 

“And what about them?” 

Jalan coughed roughly. “Jami understands and I think she knows. A womans
intuition, ya know?” Mack let go a knowing laugh. “Marty...he’s going 
to be upset. He’ll get over it.” 

“You’re gonna leave one helluva legacy. It’s cliché, but it’s better to
go out on top.” 

“The thought crossed my mind.” 

“Are you absolutely sure you can’t see it all the way through?” Mack
asked. 

Jalan wistfully turned his head to look once more at the studio, and
kept looking forward as he spoke.  “If this is the last place God made, 
then hers is the last face I want to see.” Slowly, he turned and faced 
his mentor again. “I don’t need my muses to tell me that. I hope you 
can understand, Mack.” 

“It’s a sad but undeniable part of life Jalan that anything loved can be
lost.” The big man clasped his big hand on his right shoulder, making a 
wide sweeping motion with his free hand. “What matters most, beyond all 
this, is what makes you happiest.” Mack looked straight into Jalan’s 
eyes, they seemed like multi-colored marbles. “You did not challenge 
the muses, so you have retained your wings. Fly where you must while 
you can.” He dropped his had from Jalan’s shoulder, and turned back to 
his work. Jalan covered his mouth as another winded cough caught him 
off guard. 

The pair sat quietly for a couple minutes, then Mack broke the heavy
silence. 

“Have you thought about a name for the album?” 

“I’ve known it for a while now, but I’m sure Marty and Jami will have a
problem with it.” 

“Let me worry about them. As far as I’m concerned, this is your baby.
They’re a big part of it, of course, but it’s your passion in it, your 
fire.” 

“Thank you Mack. I really appreciate that.” Jalan slowly stood up and
extended his hand. The big man stood as well, firmly returning the 
handshake. 

“Ars longa, vita brevis.” “It’s all I can really remember of my latin”
added Mack. Jalan smiled again. 

“Art is long, but life is short.” Mack gave Jalan a rare smile and
nodded acknowledgment. 

“Thanks for everything Mack. It’s been a slice.” 

“That it has. Vaya con Dios, my friend.” 

Jalan somberly turned and grabbed the door handle. 

“Hey, what about the name, you never told me” the producer barked out. 

Confidently he replied “One Life With Bijou”. 

“I like it. Don’t know what it means, but I like it.” 

“Bye Mack. Take care.” He turned to leave, his feelings mixed between
loss and relief. 

“You too” Mack said towards his back. 

Passing through the door for the final time, he knew his best work was
in the best of hands. 

XIII 

Just above the exterior metal door the neon RMM predictably buzzed.
Jalan stepped across the door’s threshold and into the beginning of his 
heart’s desire.  A beaded night sky of speckled mystery and wonder hung 
in his blue eyes. He nestled into his jacket and let go a deep breath. 
A small cloud appeared then vanished as warm breath met moist, cold 
air. His soul sang a lullaby as he walked to his car. Fitting that he 
should begin the pursuit of his dream during the autumn of his life. 
Perhaps he’d find his heart’s summer in time to stave off winter’s 
discontent. 

He coughed again as he settled in behind the wheel and turned over the
engine. The damp air wasn’t making his cough any better. 

XIV 

“Why did he have to take off now?” shouted Marty. The news of Jalan’s
departure did not sit well with him. Mack and Jami had talked prior to 
Marty’s arrival that following morning. She was disheartened, even 
heartbroken, Mack thought. But she understood. She’d known it was 
coming for some time. She watched Jalan’s resolute determination for 
well over a year, and knew he would leave. His heart was too big not 
to. It saddened her that he left when they were just hitting their 
stride as a group. Marty however, only saw things one way. 

“How the hell could you just let him leave Mack? He broke his contract
and left us high and dry!” If Marty had something he could’ve thrown, 
he would have put it through the window of the booth. No small feat 
considering its thickness. 

Mack stood up, leering at Marty. He’d allowed him to vent long enough,
the time for order and understanding had come. “First off, I had no say 
over what he could or couldn’t do. I was hired to produce and 
troubleshoot, not to babysit.” The producer painted emphasis on an 
invisible canvas as he spoke heatedly. “Number two, Jalan DID leave 
within the terms of his contract. He knew he fulfilled it, as do I.” 
“Three, I shouldn’t have to say this, Marty, but it’s high time you 
began to think of others instead of yourself.” Mack had allowed himself 
to step over the boundary between professional and personal, so he 
backed down before spouting off further. He didn’t budge from standing 
in front of Marty though. The guitarist tried staring him down, red 
faced and angry. He knew Mack could take him out with one swipe of his 
huge hand, but the testosterone pulsing through him was testing his 
restraint. Mack’s unblinking stare eventually won out and he threw 
himself bodily onto the couch. Jami breathed a sigh of relief. 

Order had been restored, but the emotion remained. 

“Look you guys, I’m as unhappy about this as your are. I was really
psyched to see where this could go. Truth is, I’m still excited to see 
where it will lead, but it’s too bad he won’t be here to share it with 
us. Let’s be professionals and do what we are paid to do. I don’t think 
any of us want to throw in the towel. Am I wrong?” 

Marty ashamedly shook his head. “No, of course not.” 

Jami made it unanimous. 

“Alright then.” Mack pointed back at the white board above the console.
“From what I can see we have three tracks left, and then the real fun 
begins. Let’s make him proud and do it right, shall we?” 

The guitarist stood and heaved himself through the booth door, still
reeling and obviously pissed off. Jami was on his heels when Mack 
stopped her. 

“Hey, I know it didn’t come up and probably best that it didn’t, but did
Jalan ever discuss a name for the album with you?” 

She gave a look that said she was trying to remember. “No. No I’m sure
of it.” 

“He gave me one, and I’m sorta trying to figure it out.” 

“Shoot... What did he say?” 

“One Life With Bijou.” “Does that ring any bells?” 

“It’s a name he always remembered her by, that’s about all I really know
about it. The rest of it is pretty self-explanatory I think.” Jami 
smiled again and quietly left the booth. 

Now it made sense. 

XV 

Inside a month they had finished the studio work. Two months later the
post-production was completed. Within a year after that One Life With 
Bijou was released and had surpassed everyone’s expectations or wildest 
dreams. It seemed haunting that the songs best received were those with 
the most enigmatic origins. Jalan’s passion was now an indelible if not 
small part of music history, as was his musically exposed heart. His 
presence was missed, but business dictated bringing that passion to the 
masses. Mack, Jami, and Marty found a stand in for Jalan in the hopes 
he would return. He was a most capable performer, but lacked the 
emotion their friend brought to the table. 

An ominous cloud of mystery hung over Jalan’s disappearance. Absolutely
no one had heard from nor seen him. Calls were made, visits paid to 
where he used to live, e-mails sent to long dormant accounts. It began 
to be assumed he had passed on somehow. Many people were baffled as to 
how someone could so thoroughly elude the media and the lure of fame. 

In the three years that followed Jami had memorized the liner notes
after reading them countless times. Jalan’s acknowledgements were 
mostly obvious, with the usual nods to equipment vendors and various 
support people. But one part in particular puzzled her most. So much so 
she even brought it up to Marty backstage one night. 

“Hey Mar, did you read this?” she’d asked, pointing to the line in
question. 

Marty leaned over with his guitar still slung around his chest and read
the line under his breath. “I’d like to express my dearest gratitude to 
my one angel for three gifts-Hope, Faithe, and Love.” He leaned upright 
and shrugged simultaneously. “No clue. I’m tellin’ ya that guy was 
whacked. He wasn’t the same because of her.” 

Jami reached back then soundly slapped the back of Marty’s head. “You
are so incredibly short sighted sometimes, Mar.” “Look at where you 
are. I’m not saying you’re not talented, but you know as well as I do 
that if it wasn’t for what he went through, and what he felt for her, 
we wouldn’t be here now.” 

Marty rubbed his head at the point of impact as he shuffled away. “Yeah,
alright, whatever.” 

Jami just shook her head in disgust. She knew how deeply Jalan felt. One
rare afternoon when they weren’t writing or performing, they sat and 
talked. He rambled on and on about this woman, at one point pausing to 
think, staring blankly into the distance. She’d never forget what he 
said next. 

“How I wish for that summer's kiss, to let its warmth thaw the ice that
has become my souls winter.” He stared for a couple seconds more, as if 
in a trance, then just as quickly snapped out of it. It seemed cheesy 
and contrived at the time, yet now, in light of current events, it 
brought clarity. It also made her skeptical that he hadn’t passed away 
like most believed. Regardless, she hoped wherever he was he knew of 
his creative success, and perhaps he’d found personal success as well. 

XVI 

From the vantage point of the night sky, the earth below seemed to
sparkle and twinkle as if mirroring itself. In one small town the 
lights flickered and glowed a little less than most, light absorbed by 
the dense foliage. Birds settled in their arboreal homes and the 
occasional dog barked, but it was largely quiet, save the soft spring 
breeze sliding through the countryside, lightly fragranced with 
honeysuckle and daisies. The nearest highway was about ten minutes away 
served by a winding dirt road. The setting was idyllic, so much so that 
the couple bought the old barn and converted it into a warm, welcoming 
home. 

Seven year old Jocelyn sat on the old swing under the tree, clutching
her favorite doll, its hair faded and fabric body worn thin from years 
of hugs. She watched her parents sitting next to one another on the 
porch swing where they spent many evenings together. Tonight, her 
father had his arm around her mother’s shoulder holding her close, 
mom’s head rested on his shoulder. 

The couple could hear the chime of the grandfather clock through the big
sliding glass door. Jocelyn saw her mothers head raise up. 

“Jocelyn” she called. “Time for bed.” 

“Awwww, mom!” 

“Don’t  ‘awww mom’ me, now scoot. Daddy and I will be in shortly to tuck
you in.” 

The little girl rarely made much of a fuss, and this evening would be no
different. Scurrying away from the swing she trotted to the porch. She 
heard her father’s voice just as she stepped on the wood planking. 

“C’mere a second.” Even as a little girl she found something warm and
reassuring in his voice. 

She jumped up in his lap and nestled in his embrace. 

“Who’s daddy’s little girl?” 

“Me” she smiled. 

“That’s right. Don’t forget it!” 

“I won’t daddy.” 

He gave her a big squeeze and set her on her way to get ready for bed,
then turned and kissed his wife. They watched her skitter through the 
door and disappear into the huge living room. 

XVII 

With youthful enthusiasm she jumped into bed and sat there
crossed-legged waiting for her parents to come in as they did every 
night. She placed the earbuds into each ear and plugged the headphones 
into the small CD player she always kept under her pillow, something 
she learned from her father as a toddler. 

They walked in just as she was slipping under the sheets. “Goodnight
mommy, goodnight daddy.” Her mother bent down and gently kissed her 
cheek first. 

“Goodnight sweetie. Pleasant dreams.” She was rewarded with small arms
around her neck and a wet kiss on the cheek. Her maternal smile lit up 
the room like a wind-swept rainbow. 

“’Night sweetpea”, followed the father, gently brushing her hair back
and kissing her on the forehead. 

“Daddy?” asked the little voice. 

“Yes?” 

“Will you tell me a story? The one about how you and mommy met?” Turning
to his spouse, she could see the smile in his eyes. 

“How about tomorrow night, okay?” “What do you want to listen to
tonight?” 

Jocelyn seemed to accept the standing offer for the next night and
turned her young thoughts to deciding which CD to listen to as she 
drifted off to sleep. 

“Ummm. I know, I KNOW!” she said excitedly. Mom already knew the answer
based on her reaction and had the CD in hand before she could blurt it 
out. 

“THAT ONE!” she yelped. He turned around to see her holding One Life
With Bijou. 

“That’s mommy’s favorite too, you know.” 

“I know. Because you wrote it for her, huh daddy?” 

Jalan turned and smiled. “She helped me write it, in her own way.”
Taking the disc from its case he gently pressed it into the player and 
closed the lid. 

“Go to sleep now. I’ll see you in the morning.” 

“ ‘night daddy” she repeated. 

“ ‘night sweetpea.” Jalan pressed the little triangle on his daughter’s
cd player, and it quietly whirred to life. Then the two of them slipped 
out of the room and turned off the light. As he partly closed the door 
he let out a long, deep sigh. 

“I am the luckiest man in the world, angel.” 

“Tell me again why”, came her quiet reply, her arms finding their way
around his waist. 

“Because I have you and her.” He paused to kiss her softly on the
temple. “I get to be there if you wake up in the night just to hold 
you. I get to watch the first morning light fall on your cheek. This is 
where I belong.” 

Even in the darkness he could see her eyes glisten. This was his dream.
This is where he found the answer to the question he didn’t know as a 
child. This is where his muses sang. 

And while he breathed......he loved. 

The End 

© December 2001, J. Nicklaus 


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