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Prologue

“You know the monotony of every day boredom? Waking up to a blaring alarm, getting dressed,

eating breakfast and venturing out to do the exact same thing you did yesterday? No less, no

more? Sure you do, everybody does. Everybody has felt the internal groan while thinking about

what lay ahead for the day. That is, except once in awhile. Once in awhile something special

comes along. For a child it’s a surprise McDonald’s Happy Meal on a Tuesday night, for the

elderly it’s a random call from their grandchild to see how they’re doing, but for everybody in

between it can be as simple as one brand new, soul shaking, Earth shattering, hip thrusting jam

on the radio by some special new voice that makes all the monotony disappear. Well, today that

song debuted and you will be grateful for the three minutes and twenty seconds you get to forget

about your boredom and live in a few heart cleansing verses. It’s called “Right with It” and it’s

coming to you in 3… 2… 1…”

The three men stared blankly at the radio as these words emanated from the sleek, shiny device

and bled into the beginning beats of their brand new single. In disbelief during the entire

monologue of the DJ on the other end, it was finally hitting them that the song just introduced

was their own creation. The excitement was palpable.

It was the ultimate review they could have received, major praise from a prominent DJ of a song

that almost didn’t happen and no one realized this faster than Big Baby, the President and head

of Rash Records. Big Baby, as fat physically as he was with wealth, sat in his great big, purple

suede chair and listened to each beat of the song, hearing the KA-CHING of every dollar that

was about to be made off this hit. “Yep, Thank Buddha the song got made!” Big Baby thought,

leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed, more relaxed than he’d been in the weeks it took

to make the new record. “Almost wasn’t made.” That is, he knew, if it weren’t for John, the

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successful former front man still burning bright on the fading flames of past stardom. Sitting in

the studio advising his friend and label President, Big Baby, on some new talent, John knew as

soon as he heard the new kid’s demo that he would make a great pair with his old friend, Clay,

an unparalleled saxophone player. John was the reason that the two men came together to create

this song all while singing on the record himself. “Yep, Thank Buddha for John!” Thought Big

Baby, still as content as ever.

“But then,” thought Big Baby, “there’s also an argument that could be made that, if it weren’t for

Clay, the song wouldn’t have had the unique sound that it did. What an incredible ear for music!

If it weren’t for the smooth saxophone undertones of the song, there would be nothing unique

enough about the tune worth playing on the radio. So I supposed I should Thank Buddha for

Clay as well!”

Still happy but suddenly a bit twitchy, Big Baby thought even more deeply about the origins of

this money maker. “Of course, then there’s Hutten: Young, unknown, and hungry. He was the

writer of the original song, made better and improved upon by the other two men. If he hadn’t

written the lyrics and melody, of course there would be nothing to play. So I guess Hutten

deserves some praise as well…” Big Baby’s face went blank in quiet panic and his naturally slim

green eyes grew large. While he watched the three men celebrating their successful new song,

Big Baby knew he had to clarify something before he could join in on the festivities.

“John…” Big Baby started. John popped a bottle of champagne and chugged it from the bottle,

sticking out his hand to give the “hold on” sign to Big Baby. “What? Did you want it first?” John

asked, smirking at his old friend.

“John… You made sure everyone signed the studio copyright agreement, right?” Big Baby asked

tentatively, fearing the answer.

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John’s grin immediately fell. “Big Baby, that is not my job.”

“I left you to make this record, you idiot! You knew that’s the most basic first step in creating

anything on behalf of the label!” Big Baby shouted.

“Wait… Are you saying we don’t know who gets the copyright on this song?” Clay said slowly,

remembering that step and knowing they didn’t complete it.

“What are you guys talking about? What copyright agreement?” Hutten asked, genuinely not

knowing the answer to that question.

“The label has a mandatory copyright agreement saying that any work created under this label is

property of the label. You idiots didn’t sign one!” Big Baby shouted at the new kid, still in

disbelief this wasn’t completed ahead of time.

All four men looked at each other, processing what Big Baby was saying. If they didn’t sign the

copyright agreement, who owned the song?

It was almost as if all four men came to the same conclusion at once. Someone had to get the

credit, someone had to go on to promote the song as his own, and someone had to claim the

copyright. After all a band without unity is not a band long lived; every musician knows that

rule. The only question: Who truly deserved the main property rights of such a successful anthem

that generations to come would covet?

“So you’re saying…” Clay started, the reality of the situation beginning to hit him, “That no one

owns this song yet?”

“Clay,” Big Baby said, looking first at Clay then at the other two men in the room, “That is

exactly what I am saying.”

Hearing this, John, Clay and Hutten stood up, each with the anger and will to fight for their

copyright. As the first arguments began to be made, before anyone could fire the first shot, he

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knew what he had to do. He knew there was only one person who would diffuse this situation

before it became a major problem for not only all men involved, but also for the label itself.

“CALL IN THE LAWYER!” Big Baby yelled aloud in a voice that boomed across the entire

room and possibly into outer space.

Fifteen minutes they waited until Ray Robinson, Jr., J.D. entered the room. The man had the

swagger of a pimp and the mind of a prodigy. At about 6 ‘2 Ray Robinson was the most

handsome nerd anyone had every seen. Typically in a burgundy sweater, slacks and shoes that

didn’t match his socks, he came into the studio out of his uniform and ready to play. Dressed to

the nines in his black suit, leather motorcycle jacket and Tom Ford sunglasses, he strolled in and

threw his briefcase on the table. Not one for small talk, he got started.

“Alright boys, my name is Ray Ryder Robinson, Jr., but you can call me RJ. We’ll be in this

room for some time, so let’s get to know each other. You want to know my background? I have a

bachelor of arts in Psychological Science and a minor in Music Business from Belmont

University in Nashville, Tennessee. Why psychology and music? Because music has everything

to do with the inner workings of the mind. From there I got my Juris Doctor from Harvard. Why

a J.D. after having a music background? Because those who can’t do, practice law.” RJ paused

his spiel, looked around at the three blank stares, and, satisfied, continued, “Are we intimate

yet? Now, I currently work fifty hours a week as a licensed counselor and you three pulled me

away from a vacation from my clients, from this city, and from the heat, so you better make this

good and easy. I want to hear your backgrounds. This will not be a complex solution. I only need

one answer from each of you, and that is to one simple question: Why should I give you

ownership of the copyright on this song?”

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1. RJ

It was a hot summer day and RJ was preparing his wardrobe for a pending trip to the Midwest.

Why? To get away from the heat, he supposed. LA was never anything short of scorching,

almost as boiling and overwhelming as the egos of the people who inhabited it. Never one who

liked the heat, or the people, he was ready to get the hell out of Dodge. It was always better cool

than hot if you asked him.

It was time for a break. See, RJ didn’t get breaks very often but he felt it was time. After a full

three years out of law school he hadn’t taken a single vacation. He was constantly working, after

all he was a pro bono attorney for the down and out, and crime doesn’t sleep. Not only that, but

he also worked part time as a counselor for the depressed. Every day in both careers there was

some new tragedy, some new victim, some new patient that needed RJ’s assistance, and

honestly? It was exhausting.

RJ smiled to himself just thinking of a nice warm fire on a cool Fall night. He wasn’t quite sure

where he was going, but he knew he wanted peace and quiet, middle America fit that description.

While RJ was happily deciding between his blue argyle sweater and his yellow and grey striped

cardigan, his phone went off.

“RJ speaking. Please, if this is not an emergency, I am available over email. Please write me

at…”

“The Hell, RJ!? It’s Big Baby! I’m not writing you shit!”

RJ was speechless as his phone slid out of his suddenly limp hand. It couldn’t be.

“RJ! It’s an emergency. I have a fucked up group of guys in a fucked up situation that exists

because I fucked up trusting John Johnson to do anything! I need your help!” RJ could hear Big

Baby’s spit fly out of his mouth after every enunciated word.

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He couldn’t believe it. Three years after RJ made a deal with the Devil, Big Baby, and the head

of the label calls him for help!? RJ was not excited.

“You owe me, RJ! You know you only have your therapy practice because I loaned you that

money! We have a contract!” Big Baby continued.

“You didn’t loan me anything. You hired me as a standby therapist for your talents’ mental state.

What happened over the last three years? I haven’t gotten one call, I figured you put something

in your musicians’ water making them think straight for depressed artists.” RJ said.

“I made that deal a little ambitiously; turns out musicians like to be tortured souls, they’re not

into talking about their fucked up heads. You should be glad, one call in three years and you

made twenty grand, I’d call that a steal for someone like you.” Big Baby laughed.

RJ rolled his eyes practically into the back of his head. He couldn’t believe a deal he made right

out of the gate of law school, broke, alone, and desperate for money was coming back to bite him

in the ass. He’d nearly forgotten about the whole thing. The deal was give five years on standby

psychologist and entertainment lawyer in exchange for the money to get his counseling practice

started. He wasn’t particularly excited to listen to crying musicians cry because they had too

much money to be happy, at least his patients’ problems he could relate to. In the end of a hard

fought financial battle for success, RJ settled for a part time attorney, part time counselor career

and assumed Big Baby had forgotten all about him.

“Honestly, I thought no call after three years negated that entire agreement. I’ve barely even

practiced since I graduated law school. I’m basically a full time counselor now. I’m not the right

guy for this and you clearly don’t really need me. How about I give some of the money back?”

RJ countered.

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“No, that’s the point! I do need you! Bad! You’re the only guy for the job, an experienced lawyer

and a crybaby’s blanket! That’s the jackpot for this problem!”

The line went quiet, Big Baby was waiting for RJ to respond and he did, with a long,

exaggerated sigh.

“Look,” Big baby said, beginning to get desperate. “I have a situation here. I have a hit record,

three fame-hungry artists and an unsigned copyright agreement. I need you to come in and figure

out who I should give the copyright credit to. They’re about to start whaling on each other, I tell

ya! Uncouth barbarians. This will be a big legal problem and cost them and, most importantly,

me a lot of money in legal fees and bad press if this goes to court to decide. I need garbitration.”

Big Baby explained.

“Mediation.” RJ corrected. He sighed and looked up longingly at his framed poster of the

Mississippi River above his bedframe.

“First of all, there’s no credit involved. A copyright is a property ownership…” RJ stopped mid-

explanation, suddenly remembering something that could get him out of this ordeal. “Wait!

Before I made the career switch to psychologists, I gave you stacks of a standard copyright

agreement to have all of your artists sign when I came into your office to make that deal. I even

gave you a template to use to copy when you ran out. How did you let a band create a song

without having them sign that?” RJ asked, genuinely confused.

“Oh don’t shit on me more than I’ve already shit on myself, RJ! I’m grooming John to take over

my position. We were sitting around listening to demos I get dropped off at the studio every now

and again and John heard something good. Son of a bitch has a decent ear. Anyway, I gave this

project to him as a beginner pseudo project as a record executive. The idiot was too eager to

jump start his fading musician career to remember the first thing he’s done every time he’s

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recorded anything in my studio.” Big Baby was tripping over his own words trying to explain

this like a bomb was going to explode if he didn’t do it quickly enough.

RJ rolled his eyes. A multi-million dollar industry and the key players don’t even know what

they’re doing. “Okay,” said RJ, “I’ll do it. Where do you need me?”

“No shit you’ll do it! For the money I’ve given you you’ll lick my floors if I ask you nicely!

Twenty minutes. Back room of the studio.” Big Baby hung up.

“Well, it was a good thought.” RJ said aloud to his half-packed suitcase. “Wait,” he thought. “If I

can solve this one in a couple of days, I can still make my trip. How entitled can these guys be,

after all, they created this song together. Right?”

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2. John

“This is ridiculous.” John practically screamed as soon as the door shut behind Big Baby, Hutten

and Clay.

“Care to elaborate on that?” asked RJ with the poise of a seasoned interrogator.

John began to pace back and forth in the twelve foot by ten foot room. “Where should I start?

The fact that it’s my fault that a label older than Big Baby’s great grandfather didn’t remember to

have us sign the most standard legal document signing our creative rights over to the label? Or

the fact that a kid from nowheresville Idaho and a washed up saxophone player want to take

credit for something that only happened because I saw a glimmer of talent in both of their failing

careers?” John practically screamed.

“Alright please sit down. This an interview, not a marathon.” RJ watched as John made eye

contact with him and slowly sat down, holding the stare as he did so.

“Why don’t you tell me how this all came about? What is your relationship like with Big Baby?

I’d imagine you two are pretty close given he trusted you to produce and distribute legal

documents for a new song.” RJ asked, bracing himself for the litany John inevitably was about to

give.

“Well…” John started, clearly choosing his words one at a time, “We go back. I mean, I’ve

known him since I was a kid, he discovered me, signed me, and taught me the managing side of

the business my entire career. There weren’t ever early nights, even when I’d play with Clay he

would get to go home and I was stuck for another three hours while Baby explained in

nauseating detail how the legal and business side worked.” John looked puzzled as he spoke, as

if he knew something he didn’t care to admit.

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“So he mentored you, that’s why he expected you to know what to do with Hutten and Clay on

this song?” RJ asked.

John feverishly shook his head. “I don’t know! The point is, it’s not my responsibility. It’s not

my label! And beyond that, he knows how bad I need this credit! It could dramatically enhance

my career. Old ass can’t ever help me out, everything is a lesson. I swear he just loves to play

God or something.”

RJ sat down in the chair facing John. He had a lot of experience with troubled musicians in his

day and John was one of the worst cases he’d seen as far as Napoleon complexes went. At five

foot five John was a smaller man with greasy black hair that clearly was plump in its day, now

balding at the scalp. His body was one built on muscle and sustained on sweets in the recent

years, and it showed. RJ could picture a young John, good looking with the air of confidence in

his day, and he could also see how aging no more agreed with John than John did with aging.

“What do you need this credit for, John? What is it going to get you in the long run, beyond a

little more fame and time in the limelight?” RJ asked as John moved his eyes from RJ’s to the

floor.

“What do you mean why? Why does anyone need anything? Because it will give me life! It will

give me motivation! I don’t know if you know this but I’ve taken a bit of a sabbatical from.. uh..

touring, you know? Making hits. I’ve just been busy, and this can be my foray back to what I’m

supposed to be doing.” John looked up, RJ’s eyes were still on him.

“Are you married, John?” RJ asked in a voice curious with a hint of knowing.

“Uh.. No. Well no, how could I have time to settle down? I’m a rock star! You know this life,

well maybe you don’t, you’re not a successful musician. No offence. But my love is for music,

and I’ve never met anyone who embodied that same feeling for me.” John’s confidence was

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wavering, but RJ knew John believed everything he was saying. You can’t tell someone how

they feel, so RJ knew it was time for a break.

“Okay, John. That’s it for now. Can you send Clay in here in ten minutes?” RJ asked. John

nodded and left the room in a stride that exuded an overcompensation of confidence for the

vulnerability he just endured.

RJ watched the door shut and quickly pulled out his iPhone. He Googled John’s name and a lot

of articles and advertisements for his old records came up. Not seeing what he needed, he redid

his search: “John Johnson Wife”.

The first article to come up was a GoodReads review from what appeared to be an autobiography

entitled: Love, Sex and Rock ‘N Roll written by Darla T. Carington.

RJ smiled, he knew John had the aura of someone who had lost and the best guess for what a

man of his stature would lose: Love.

RJ read the summary:

“Ever wonder what it’s like to be a rock star? Me too. I suppose that’s why I spent the majority

of my adult life chasing after the love of one. It was the closest I could get to having it all: Love,

Fame, Talent. This is the story of how one man stole my heart and traded it to the Devil for a

chance at the big time.”

“Hm.” Thought RJ, “Sounds like a wound that needs reopening.”

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3. Clay

“Look, man. I’m not even saying I deserve the copyright, I’m just saying John doesn’t.” Clay

declared immediately upon arriving in the room, his eyes on the floor.

“I don’t understand, if you don’t care if you get the credit why would you care who does?”

Asked RJ, looking at Clay. Clay was an odd looking guy. He was definitely handsome, with his

grey hair and dark skin, but he looked like someone who was eternally exhausted. He had dark

circles under his eyes that even the best cover up couldn’t conceal, he was someone who got up

every day, worked, and worked hard.

Clay got up from his chair and stood across from RJ, leaning on the opposite wall with his arms

folded over his chest. He continued starring at the ground for a solid minute before he finally

spoke.

“John’s not a good person. He never has been. I’ve known the guy since I was eighteen, I played

in two different bands with him, and that guy has chosen money over morals every chance he’s

gotten in thirty years. He’s stolen from me at every turn in my career. If we sold merchandise,

he’d make a whole to do out of not getting the biggest cut since he was the lead singer. The guy

has an ego the size of Jupiter and the conscious of Judas.” Clay was working himself up as he

spoke, RJ noticed his hands shaking at his sides as Clay quickly stuffed them in the pockets of

his poorly kept jeans.

“What do you mean he stole from you?” RJ asked, seriously curious as to who John actually is

versus who he talked about being.

“We were living the fast life, man: All women, booze, a different city every night while we were

on tour. John was a bad guy, but he was a fun guy and that fueled our friendship for the majority

of our careers. But then God stepped in, saw what I was doing and switched up my fate. I got this

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girl pregnant, totally out of the blue. Of course I married her, I didn’t have much of a choice.

Then I had all of these responsibilities and expenses, life got hectic and the fun came to an abrupt

end. John told me not to worry and that everything would be okay, meanwhile he’s still taking

out of my cuts for merchandising and concert ticket sales. He stole so much money from me in

the slyest ways, he should get an Olympic medal for it. It was ‘5% here, because I’m the star. 5%

there because if it wasn’t for me this band would be nothing.’ All this ego crap I let slide because

I had kids and a wife and other responsibilities I had to focus on. I didn’t have the time or money

to get into legal battles with John.” Clay was fuming now reflecting on the betrayal. He was

clearly still hurt deeply by his friend who didn’t support him even after all of this time.

“Well so what happened? You guys quit the band, stopped being friends?” RJ asked, assuming

this friendship went the same way all rock ‘n roll friendships are fated to.

“We had it out, I quit. He replaced me and kept the band going for another few years but I pretty

much was the catalyst for the end of the era.” Clay walked back to his chair, sat down and put his

head in his hands. He was spent.

“So if you guys had such a falling out, how did you two end up working on this song together?”

RJ asked.

Clay hesitated. “Basically, I needed the money. Big Baby was the one who called me and asked

if I would do it, so I knew John was involved but I also knew I could stand to be in a room with

him for a couple days if it meant a solid pay check. I haven’t seen one of those sine I quit the

band all that time ago. Five kids I’ve got, man. I have a wife, a mortgage, I’ve been financially

struggling since I got married. I work odd jobs around town, occasionally sell a song or two

when I have the time to sit and write.” Clay was clearly ashamed of this fact, and RJ understood.

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After all if it weren’t for Big Baby RJ would have had to call his estranged parents for a loan to

get his business started and anything was better than that.

Clay continued, seemingly having gotten his second breath. “The truth of it is, I barely saw John

when we were working on this. It was such a good song it just came together so quickly. That

Hutten kid is talented, no doubt about that. And don’t get me wrong, I need that copyright. I need

a win, for me and my family. But at the end of the day, I’m more concerned that John will steal

and get away with it again and I can’t have that.” RJ liked Clay. He seemed like a reasonable

man who was beyond the pettiness of fading fame and quick fortune, he was someone who had

real problems. There was definitely a maturity in Clay that RJ knew was rare.

“I can respect that.” RJ said and put his hand on Clay’s shoulder, a sign of understanding. “I’m

going to do my best to get not only the best legal result here, but a just one.” Clay nodded, head

still in his hands, RJ could feel his shoulders relax. Clay was comforted knowing he wouldn’t get

screwed again.

“Just tell me one thing to help me get through to John,” RJ asked.

Clay laughed. “No one’s ever gotten through to John. I bet his own mother couldn’t even help

you with that one.”

RJ waited for Clay to stop laughing at his serious request before he dropped what he knew was

probably a decent sized bomb. “Who’s Darla Carington?”

Clay’s face faded from an amused smile to a jaw drop. “Wow, you really are as smart as you

think you are.”

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4. Hutten

RJ sat, quietly, hands folded between his legs, patiently waiting for Hutten to look up from the

mock drums he was playing in the seat across from him. All bone and skin, the kid was an old

school rock star. At least, he was trying to be. RJ assessed his floppy dyed black hair sweep

down to his mid nose while he rocked out on the pretend drums. The kid was in his own world.

Like John, RJ thought, but more acceptable because kids are supposed to be delusional.

“How old are you?” RJ finally broke the silence, ready to tackle his next patient.

“Twenty-two” Hutten replied, not looking up or deferring from his set.

“Old enough to drink,” RJ mused. “Must be an exciting time for you what with that and all of

this.”

Hutten didn’t respond and RJ took a moment of pleasure in the silence of a kid living beyond his

means and way out of his league. It was nice how innocent he was; it was nice how little he

seemed to care about anything but his passion. His careless demeanor reminded RJ what it was

like to be starting out in your dream career, just excited to be existing amongst people who share

the same joy. That’s how RJ felt in the beginning of his law career, which he let go when he

stopped resembling Hutten.

“Do you care about this copyright? Do you even want it?” RJ asked.

That got Hutten’s attention. He looked up and met RJ’s stare with his light green eyes, which

looked both warm and cold at the same time.

“Of course I want it, man. I want it so bad I literally can’t stop moving.” Hutten said, as serious

as could be.

“You’re not acting like it.” RJ replied, feeling like he was speaking to a child. In some ways, he

supposed he was.

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“What am I supposed to do? Tell one of my greatest inspirations, John Johnson, that he can’t

have the copyright on a song he basically created? Talk about being between a rock and a hard

place.” Hutten said, nearly cracking a smile at the irony of it. The kid with no start, no prospects,

finally getting a break, with his hero no less and he has to give up the copyright to a song he

wrote because he respects a legend too much to stand up for himself. RJ felt for him.

“Well, you don’t have to. That’s my job. Just tell me about yourself, tell me how this song came

to fruition.” RJ said, trying to ease Hutten’s anxiety.

“Tell you about my fruit?” Hutten asked, perplexed.

“Fruition,” RJ corrected, “How did it come to be? You wrote it, right?”

Hutten, humbled, looked away from RJ. “Yeah, I spent my life writing it. I’ve had a few decent

songs but this is my first hit. Everything else had something wrong with it and after working with

John and Clay I can understand what was missing from the others. They’re so good, man.

They’re pros. I want this copyright, I want this song, but the truth of it is that it wouldn’t exist if

it weren’t for them. John heard it and sought me out! I never thought that would happen when I

dropped it off with the label’s secretary and asked if Big Baby would take a listen, not in a

million years. So do I want it? Yeah, man. Do I need it? Of course. But I don’t think I can take

it.” Hutten replied, solemnly.

They sat in silence for a minute while RJ mulled over Hutten’s attitude on all of this. The kid

wanted it, he clearly wants to fight for it, but he knows he shouldn’t. The first humble, selfless

person RJ’s spoken to in days. It was refreshing.

“Here’s what I’m going to do.” RJ said, walking closer to Hutten and putting a hand on his

shoulder. “I’m going to do what’s right legally and ethically. I won’t screw you.”

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Hutten looked up. “I don’t know what I’m doing here, man. I’ve never been here before and I’m

nervous. I’m not like those guys.”

“I know you’re not.” RJ declared, reassuringly. “I hope you’re better than those guys.

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5. Big Baby

The room was… tense. That was the only word to describe it as RJ sat at Big Baby’s desk going

over his notes while Big Baby stood in the corner starring at him.

“You know, this won’t go faster the harder you stare,” RJ said, not looking up from his papers.

“For twenty grand I would expect faster results.” Big Baby deadpanned back.

RJ sighed. “Look, Big Baby. You have a complex group of guys here and from a psychological

perspective I find them to be quite interesting.”

The silence following RJ’s statement was palpable as Big Baby starred at him in disbelief. RJ

still did not look up from his notes.

“I’m not looking for a dissertation on the emotional fucked up-ness of over privileged, over

talented morons. These idiots owe their abilities to God, and now they are crying over a

copyright. Just tell me who to give it to so I can fire them all as perspective clients and return to

my sanity.” Big Baby said, clearly forcing whatever calmness he was attempting to convey in the

tone of his voice.

RJ finally looked up. “You hired me as an attorney with a psychology practice. Don’t you want

me to solve the deeper issue that is clearly at play here?”

“I want you to tell me how this copyright disagreement plays out so I can move on with my life!

Just do what I paid you for!” Big Baby was losing his cool little by little.

RJ was sensing Big Baby’s patience wearing thin and felt his hand tense up around his pen. This

was not how he wanted to be spending his time when he was supposed to be on vacation and the

entitled attitude of everybody he spoke with was getting a little old.

“What do you want here, Big Baby?” RJ started, standing up and facing Big Baby.

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“What I want…” Big Baby began, about to deliver the same reply he’d given the last ten

minutes.

“No, let me finish.” RJ wasn’t surprised that Big Baby would answer a rhetorical question.

“What do you want here? Because from my professional perspective, everyone involved here

wants something different. John wants the fame that’s been beyond him for decades, Clay wants

retribution for John’s lack of friendship and consideration as well as validation of his talents, the

validation he lost when he chose family over music. Hutten wants the respect of his heroes and to

do the right thing by them, almost more than he wants a career of his own. All three of these

deeper voids that need to be filled laying under the façade of wanting the money that comes from

the copyright ownership. And you? What do you want? To avoid a PR nightmare and cut your

losses or to heal these men and continue to work with them? Because you have a hit on your

hands, Big Baby. You want money, that’s obvious. You will get money, quality work and a

fruitful relationship with these artists you built a career claiming you care about if you dig

deeper. This isn’t a copyright issue, copyrights are easy. Everyone wants something deeper than

that. Unless you want this to continue to be argued, you have some other problems to solve. I’m

trying to do that. Now either leave me alone and let me do the work you paid me for in its

entirety or I don’t need to be here.”

Big Baby, finally, was speechless. He’d never known anyone to stand up to him, not really.

RJ put his hands up, exasperated. “No? Nothing? Not even a nod? Seriously? I cancel a vacation

I’ve been dying for because I’m overworked. Instead of taking that break, I’m working even

more and even harder than I normally do because I actually give a shit about the outcome of this

situation. You bring these guys together, you put your faith in them to make a record, they

deliver, and you don’t even care if they come out of it okay? This is why I quit my entertainment

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law career. I can’t deal with insensitive assholes like you.” RJ gathered his papers and left Big

Baby standing stupidly in his corner with his mouth open. If Big Baby didn’t have the decency to

care about the psychological well being of these guys, RJ knew he had to. And he knew the only

person who could help him piece together and solve the puzzle that was John Johnson, the center

of the madness.

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6. Darla

It was an especially hot, gloomy night when RJ and Darla finally met. Call it a Hail Mary, he

figured as he crossed the street and walked into the diner. He was sure she requested to meet in a

public place in case he turned out to be some kind of psycho, and RJ respected that. He already

could tell she was smart.

He sat down at the booth in the front corner of the restaurant, practically in the entryway of the

diner so she wouldn’t miss him.

RJ opened his menu, he hadn’t had a real appetite in days. He couldn’t stop thinking about these

guys. Three men, all in clearly different places in their lives, come together to make this song

they all need the credit for, for different reasons. That’s a psychologists’ bread and butter.

“Bread and butter?” The waitress asked.

“Oh, hey. I didn’t see you there. Uh, sure.” She puts the basket of rolls and butter packets on the

table and walks away.

RJ went back to his menu, chuckling at the interaction when a girl approaches his table. She was

petite, maybe five foot two, blue eyes and blonde hair. She was in a jean jacket and a light suede

knee length skirt, cute and stylish. RJ couldn’t believe she wrote such a scathing expose on John

Johnson, the girl barely looked like she could kill a fruit fly.

RJ stood up. “Hi, you must be Darla. I’m RJ. It’s so good to finally meet you.” He extended his

hand to shake hers.

She stared at his hand for a solid ten seconds before tentatively shaking it. “I have to be honest

with you, RJ, I’m not particularly excited about this meeting. So please, let’s get this over with.

She picked up a piece of bread and bit into it.

“Uh… no butter?” RJ asked gingerly.

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Darla looked up, still chewing. “I like it raw.”

RJ raised his eyebrows at her, surprised that this is the Darla he was emailing with. He realized

the written word cannot accurately convey tone, if it could he probably wouldn’t have set up an

in-person meeting. RJ sat down.

Sensing RJ’s hesitation, her face softened and she began to smile. “Relax, I’m just messing with

you. I tend to make stupid jokes when I’m uncomfortable.” Darla said.

“Yeah, sorry, let’s get to it. Uhm, I just wanted to know a little more about your relationship with

John Johnson, it seems like it was highly publicized back in the day.” RJ said as he clicked the

top of his pen, ready to capture her every word.

Darla looked puzzled. “You calling me old?”

“No! Not at all! Look at you, you look like you’re twenty! Even if I was it wouldn’t be a correct

statement by any means.” RJ said, genuinely surprised, apologetic, and most of all,

uncomfortable.

Darla stared at him, “Sorry, another bad joke. I don’t really trust people who ask me about John.

After the book came out, everyone wanted to know my every emotion. Who doesn’t live for

gossip these days? I wasn’t into it. I shouldn’t have written that stupid book in the first place.”

Darla said as she grabbed another piece of bread.

“Well why did you? RJ asked. “Money?”

Darla stared at him and RJ could tell she was debating whether to be offended or not. “Bad

business advice, let’s put it that way.”

RJ wasn’t surprised by this broad answer. He knew he wasn’t going to get much out of her, she

looked as weary of him as she would be of a naked man in a trench coat on the street.

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“Look, I’m not here to bother you. I told you I’m an entertainment lawyer turned counselor

turned pro bono attorney. I work for Big Baby.” RJ started.

Darla leaned across the table, as close to RJ as she could get, and practically whispered, “That’s

who gave me the bad business advice. With all due respect, why would I want to help that ass?”

RJ leaned back, surprised. “Well here, something we have in common. I’m not sure why you

would help that ass, so why don’t we start by helping me? Big Baby told you to write a book

about what a terrible boyfriend John was?” RJ asked.

“No. He told me not to. I felt like he was taking John’s side in the break up so I did it out of

spite, I guess. You know, young and heartbroken, that sort of soap opera. He knows how I am.

He should’ve told me to write one and I wouldn’t have done it.” Sensing RJ’s confusion, Darla

leaned back and crossed her arms over her chest, “Like I said, young and heartbroken: A perfect

recipe for stupid decisions.”

RJ looked down at his notepad pretending to be reading his notes of the diatribe John went on

while he thought. She had the presence of somebody who was in demand, and knew it. It was a

demeanor very similar to John. She was clearly just like the rest of them: illogical and stubborn.

He didn’t know how much of these people he could take.

“Look, John’s having a hard time. He’s created this song…” RJ started.

“I heard it.” Darla perked up with great intensity. “It’s good.”

“Yeah it’s great, that’s kind of the problem. John wants it to revamp his career, but he needs to

move on from that career. He’s refusing to put the past behind him and move on. Clay, who I

know you were friendly with in the past from reading your book, hates John. They all want the

copyright ownership of the song. I don’t know how much of this you already know…” RJ said,

hoping she would jump in at some point and fill in the blanks.

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Darla blinked and looked away, this conversation seemed to be taxing for her.

“I know all of this. I was there. I wrote about some of it in my book. Clay’s a good guy and John

screwed him all the time, with fame but especially with money. He took every extra cent Clay

could’ve gotten because he felt like Clay prioritized family over the band and all John’s ever

cared about is that god damn band. Thus our break up, and thus the anger that drove me to write

the book.” Darla said, still looking at the wall to her side.

This shouldn’t have been as surprising as it was, RJ knew that. He knew the book was full of this

fury and suddenly the voice behind those words made more sense. She was clearly still holding

onto what happened with her and John, but RJ couldn’t resist. It was his last shot.

“Look, I hate to ask for your help…” RJ began.

“No you don’t.” Darla said. “If you hated to ask for my help, you wouldn’t ask for it. Men never

do what they don’t want to do.” She said defiantly.

RJ sighed. He was the psychologist here. “Look. I’m sorry you feel that way. John’s at a weird

place in his life, his career, and he’s not handling it all that well. From the looks of it, you seem

like you still care about him. Or at least, you care about what happened between you guys. All

I’m asking is for you to come in and talk to him. I feel like you’re the only one who’s ever

penetrated the detached facade he’s always putting up with everyone else. I mean, clearly. If half

of what your book says is true, he loved you. So please just consider coming by the studio

tomorrow at 5pm. If not for John, then maybe for you to get a little closure of what happened.”

RJ looked at her, not sure if she was going to throw a knife at him or leave, but he figured she

wouldn’t agree.

Darla paused for a couple minutes, looking angry, then perplexed, then a little sad, then angry

again. She finally spoke.

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“It’s not fair to ask me to do that. There’s a lot you don’t know, a lot that isn’t in the book.

Honestly, I haven’t seen him in so long because I haven’t been ready to face all of it.” Darla

spoke and RJ listened, and then the two sat in silence. RJ didn’t know what else to say to

convince her to come.

“Look, you seem like a good girl who got screwed one too many times by the same person. I

understand that. In fact, I’ve been guilty of being in both of your positions in my lifetime. Love

is hard, love on a public scale even harder, I’m sure. As an attorney I understand why you’re not

willing to involve yourself in this mess. However, I have to say, as a counselor, I really advise

you to deal with your past. If you don’t have closure of your own story, you can’t write a new

one. So please, just consider coming by the studio. I think it could be very good for everyone

involved.” RJ looked into her eyes, making sure she knew, like his clients, that he was genuinely

trying to help her.

Darla met his eyes and stood up. “I’m sorry, RJ. I can’t help you.” She got up and made a beeline

for the diner door. Once she reached it, she pushed it open and walked out with a purpose, never

looking back.

RJ sighed and picked his menu back up. “Well, that was risky and unpleasant” He said aloud to

himself, “Such is the nature of a Hail Mary.”

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7. The Decision

“Fucking finally!” John threw the door to the studio wide open as he stormed in. “Let’s see my

credit!”

Clay rolled his eyes. “Is there anything that you don’t feel entitled to take for yourself? Or can

you not even pretend to have a little class?”

John turned around and his smile instantly became a frown. “Aw poor Clay, blaming the rest of

the world for his problems. Doesn’t that make you tired? I can tell. Those circles around your

eyes aren’t getting any lighter, buddy.”

Clay walked toward John, about to lose it. “I’ve gone decades without giving you the ass

whupping you deserve. Don’t make me break my streak now.”

John laughed. “I’m not one of your twelve kids, Clay. If you hit me, I’ll hire RJ for double the

money Big Baby is paying him to get you on assault, and you know those are too expensive for

you to afford.” John smirked.

Clay had had it, he wound up his arm, finally ready to release his aggression in a tangible way.

“STOP!” RJ entered the room, half expecting the confrontation that was going on. These guys

had deep seated issues and this was a forum for them to address them.

Clay turned around to see who yelled and John took the opportunity to put Clay in a half Nelson

chokehold.

“Don’t ever even look at me like that. I gave you this song! We’re all here because of me! I’m

not going to tolerate disrespect!” John walked to the other corner of the room and lit a cigarette.

RJ sighed. “You guys, seriously? Do I have to be a kindergarten teacher and separate you to tell

you the turnout of this problem?”

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John let go of Clay. Clay ignored RJ, caught his breath, and turned back to John. “I’M GOING

TO KILL YOU!” Clay yelled as he wound up his arm, ready to hit John. All of a sudden, the

only person who could diffuse John walked in the room.

“God damnit, John. Don’t you ever grow up? I swear you’ve been this stupid since you were

fifteen and trying to fight Bruce Springsteen while he was recording Thunder Road because he

wouldn’t let you on vocals.” Big Baby walked in and sat down on the only chair in the room.

John put his arm down and hunched over, like a dog that just got kicked. “Fine.” John said, “But

he knows I would’ve kicked his ass.”

“Whatever, sit down and shut up. RJ, you have some news to share with the band of dipshits?”

RJ gathered his papers and looked up at the clock over Big Baby. He was dreading this

confrontation and couldn’t wait for this emotional debauchery to end. Darla was the only person

who could potentially calm John down and she made it pretty clear she was not going to be RJ’s

Hail Mary, so RJ was walking into the lion’s den without so much as a chair to defend himself

with.

RJ looked around the room, ready to end this stupid fight. “Where’s Hutten?”

“I’m right here..” Hutten walked out of the opposite corner John and Clay were fighting in, like a

light stepping into the dark.

“Oh, didn’t see you there. Okay, so obviously there’s a lot going on around here. John, you

brought everyone together and basically produced the song. Clay, you created the melody that

was used in the final product, making you the sound engineer. Hutten, you obviously wrote the

original lyrics.”

“No shit. Tell us who wins.” John interrupted.

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“I actually agree with John for once. Don’t worry, it’ll never happen again.” Clay said

begrudgingly.

“There’s no winner, that’s what you guys don’t understand. A copyright is an exclusive legal

right to publish, duplicate, share, etc. a piece of work. The piece of work in question was created

by three people: John, Clay, and Hutten. There’s not one copyright and it’s not a credit,

necessarily…”

“Wait!” John interrupted, again. “What do you mean there’s no winner? What the hell are we

here for right now if there’s no winner?”

Everyone in the room looked puzzled, clearly not versed in any type of contract or property law.

RJ took a deep breath, remembered the ilk of people he was talking to, and laid it out in layman’s

terms.

“Okay, let me start with this question. Do any of you guys really know what a copyright is?” RJ

asked.

Every person in the room was looking away from RJ.

“I mean, it gives the rights of the song to whoever has the copyright. Right?” Big Baby piped up.

RJ nodded. “Yes, good, kind of. If I give, let’s say, John the copyright to this song, he owns it.

He then has the sole right to reproduce the song, distribute it, sell it, perform it, transfer

ownership…”

“I would never transfer my ownership of this song.” John interrupted, mumbling to himself but

audibly enough for RJ to hear.

“Ahem.” RJ cleared his throat, staring at John. John rolled his eyes.

“Anyway, this song, for legal purposes, is considered a piece of property. John would own the

song like he owns anything else. That’s what you guys are fighting for. Which, to me, is a little

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more significant than credit. It’s not just your name on it, it’s literally the ownership of the

work.” RJ finished explaining.

“Shit. Here I thought we were all fighting about whose name would be on it.” Clay said.

“Yeah, well, I guess the stakes are a little higher than that. Now,” RJ continued, “Normally you

guys sign copyright agreements that gives the ownership of the song to the studio. They studio is

the entity that owns the song so they can distribute it, reproduce it, create others based on the one

you wrote, etc.” RJ explained.

“Wait!” John interrupted, again. “I’ve been signing over my ownership of MY songs to you all

of these years?” John asked Big Baby.

Big Baby shrugged. “Do YOU want to be in charge of doing all of what RJ just said? We have a

whole team in charge of getting your song out there, played, and bought. I guess we’ll consider

the fact that it’s on the radio a little Christmas present from me to you since I’m not getting the

copyright ownership on this one.”

“Now,” RJ continued, “There are two basic copyrights to every song: The copyright to the

publishing rights and the copyright to the sound. Technically, because Hutten wrote the original

song, he would own the publishing copyright. Because Clay wrote the melody of the song, he

would own the sound copyright.” RJ paused and looked around, seeing who, if anybody, was

still with him.

“So that’s what I’ve been signing over to Big Baby all these years? My contribution to the songs

I put out?” John asked, sincerely interested in the answer.

RJ looked around the room and everyone else was starring at him with the same type of

anticipation, clearly interested in the legalities of what they sign on a daily basis. Annoyed, but

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not entirely surprised that none of these professionals know what they’re actually doing, he

answered John’s question.

“Kind of. What you gave to the label, not Big Baby, was the copyright of the final product. The

songs you worked on were property of the label to reproduce, sell, etc. You still made money on

those pieces because of the conditions in your contract that laid out the finances of everything.

But yes, the copyright went to the label when you signed the waiver that I created and gave to

Big Baby to make sure all of his artists signed…” RJ looked over at Big Baby, still clearly

annoyed at the events that led to this meeting.

Big Baby rolled his eyes in response to RJ’s glare. “I’m not going to tell you again, that was

John’s job in this case.”

John opened his mouth to respond, RJ quickly picked up where he left off to prevent another

unnecessary blow out.

“So, Hutten and Clay would each own a copyright over this song. That means Clay has

ownership of the sound of the song, Hutten has ownership of the lyrics and original work he

created that this song is based off of. If Hutten had registered a copyright of the original song he

wrote, he would have full copyright of this song because it’s a derivative… er… a redone

version of his… song.” RJ finished, unsure how to explain what a derivative is in a way that

these three would comprehend.

“But… Why should you even get to decide that?” John asked, finally very fearful of the

outcome of this situation.

“Shut up, John. RJ knows what he’s doing. Go on, RJ.” Big Baby said and crossed his hands on

his lap, calm. He was clearly giving RJ his blessing to blow this baby up in flames and RJ

understood that.

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RJ nodded at Big Baby as everyone looked at RJ in anticipation, you could cut the tension with a

knife. In fact if someone would’ve handed RJ one, he would’ve done just that.

He took a deep breath. “So in conclusion… uhm… Hutten and Clay have copyrights to this song.

John,” RJ turned to face John directly, “I know that you heard Hutten’s song and brought Clay

in on the track, and they can definitely transfer ownership to you if they want to, but Hutten and

Clay have the copyright of this song, at least half of it a piece. I know you contributed to it, but

you didn’t create anything on it. Hutten and Clay are joint owners of the song.” RJ stopped, his

whole body tense waiting for the explosion that would be John’s ego erupting.

John didn’t disappoint. The emotional fireworks went off as everyone reacted to this conclusion.

“I should get the credit! I brought you fools together!” John started.

“There you go, trying to steal from me again! You didn’t do shit! If it wasn’t for me there would

be no real song! And I have a family to feed, I need those royalties!” Clay yelled, over John.

“Oh cry me a river, Clay! Why the Hell did I even contribute to this shit if I wasn’t going to get

anything from it?” John screamed, even louder than Clay.

“You mean showed common sense for the first time in your life and helped bring to life

something that was already good! All you can create is exploitation and broken hearts! That’s

why Darla left you!”

The madness continued and the tensions built as Hutten faded back into his corner of comfort

and RJ and Big Baby starred at each other, not really sure how to handle this one.

Suddenly there was a knock on the door, almost inaudible under Clay and John’s screams.

Hutten was the only one who heard it since he had practically inserted himself into the door

trying to get as far away as he could from the frenzy before him.

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“Uhm… guys?” No one so much as heard Hutten’s soft, monotone voice let alone turned around

to address it.

“Guys?” Hutten said, a little louder this time.

No one so much as twitched their head in Hutten’s direction. Hutten watched John and Clay

scream at each other while Big Baby and RJ got in between them, trying to avoid another

physical confrontation between the two men.

“GUYS!” Hutten yelled as loud as he could, his voice echoed across the room and all four men

turned to look at him.

“We have a visitor.” Hutten said as he opened the door wider so the rest of the room could see

who was on the other side of the threshold.

Quietly, one dainty heel at a time, Darla walked in and the room went silent.

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8. The Decision Part 2

The only person whose jaw dropped further than RJ’s was John’s. He looked like he had seen a

ghost- because he had. To him, Darla had died years ago after they broke up and after she wrote

a book trashing him for the world to read. They hadn’t spoken since.

“Okay, who’s surprised to see me?” Darla asked sarcastically. Her blonde hair was tied up on top

of her head and she was dressed in all black head to toe. She didn’t look approachable, and no

one could believe she was actually there.

The silence was piercing. Nobody knew what to say. Darla walked around and sat down in Big

Baby’s abandoned leather chair. With the rest of them standing around her, she looked up at

Clay.

“Darla…” John started

“Clay!” Darla interrupted, “You still smoke?” She asked as she pulled out a cigarette from her

pocked and stuck it in her mouth.

Clay smiled. “Oh good, you haven’t changed. He walked over and gave her his lighter out of his

pocket. She stood up and the two embraced.

“Darla…” John started again, numb from shock. RJ looked over at John, RJ had a thousand

questions for Darla so he couldn’t imagine how John was feeling.

“John, please don’t make this a thing. I just came to see what all of the fuss was about.” Darla

said while she sat back down and lit her cigarette.

“Darla, why are you here? You said it wasn’t fair of me to ask you to come help us. Don’t get me

wrong, your timing couldn’t have been better. But how come you changed your mind?” RJ asked

gently, recognizing the emotional magnitude of the situation.

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Darla took a couple puffs on her cigarette before she answered. “I told you, I wanted to see what

all of the fuss was about.”

“Darla…” John said again.

“Darla, Darla, Darla! Is that all you can say to me?” Darla snapped, her cool exterior fading.

John went silent, apparently that’s all he could say.

Darla stood up, angry all of a sudden at John’s lack of communication. This clearly was not what

she wanted by coming here.

“We had a baby, John. And all you can say is my name?” She looked him in the eye, her face

inches away from his, waiting for him to respond.

“I… I…” John was flabbergasted. He physically could not spit out words.

Darla nodded at him in defeat, turned around and began walking with purpose towards the door.

“Darla!” John yelled after her. “I’m sorry.”

Darla, still facing away from John, stopped in her tracks.

“I’m so sorry. I couldn’t handle it when we lost the baby. I know it was early on, I guess it

probably wasn’t even technically a baby yet. But it broke me. All I could do was focus on my

music, it was the only thing that helped. I know you needed me, and I know I wasn’t there. I’m

sorry.” John said, looking at her back, desperate.

“John…” Clay suddenly spoke up, watching this interaction from the sidelines. “I had no idea.”

John hung his head, starring at the ground, and turned to address Clay. “Yeah. Shit fucked me

up. You were busy being married and having kids, I didn’t want to bother you with it.” John

shrugged, not meeting Clay’s stare.

Darla turned back to the group and put her arms around John, embracing him. “I’m sorry for the

book.”

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John embraced her back and they both started crying. RJ looked at Big Baby expectantly, giving

him a “what the fuck” look. Big Baby ignored it and watched intently as John and Darla cried

into each other.

After a couple minutes they unlocked from each other. As soon as they did, Big Baby ran up and

brought them both into an embrace. “I’m so sorry, you guys.”

Watching the three reunite, RJ spoke. “You didn’t know about this Big Baby?”

“I knew about it. Darla told me the day she left, I tried to talk to John about it but he wouldn’t

say a word about it, just kept talking about the album he was working on at the time. After Darla

left, there was no getting through to him. So I played along and we kicked rock ‘n roll’s ass the

next few years. He was hurting and channeled it all into his craft. I’m not sayin’ it’s right. But it

was understandable.” Big Baby turned to John. “I’m sorry about this whole contract thing. I

shouldn’t have pushed you into a career you weren’t ready for.”

John met Big Baby’s stare. “I’m sorry I let you down. I’ve been doing a lot of that over the

years.”

He walked back over to Darla and hugged her again while she quietly sobbed into his shoulder.

This was clearly a long time coming.

“So that’s why you acted like such a… I’m sorry, but such a jack ass all of those years to me?

Because I had what you lost?” Clay asked, incredulous that he was finally understanding the

origin of a feud he’d been fighting for years.

“Man, it was just hard to be around it. I shut it all out, the possibility of ever having what you

were living. Darla left and she took that piece of me with her. And after her book came out a year

later, I stopped caring about everybody.” John admitted, his face suddenly gentle as he shrugged

at Clay.

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“I’m so sorry, John. I had no idea.” Clay said.

“You couldn’t have. I didn’t tell anybody and even if you did know I wouldn’t have ever

addressed it. I’ve been lost for a long time save for my music.” John said, rubbing Darla’s back

as she continued to cry.

“That’s why you wanted this song so badly, isn’t it?” RJ asked. “It’s all you had.”

John looked at RJ and nodded silently in admission. He kissed Darla’s forehead that was still

nestled in his shoulder. “I’m sorry, you guys. I don’t give a shit who gets this song. I need to take

Darla home and have a conversation I’ve been avoiding since 1989. That is, if she’s okay with

it.” He looked down at Darla who detached from John and looked him in the eye, her eyes still

watering. “I’d like that.”

John put his arm around her and they started walking towards the exit. When they got to the

threshold of the door, John turned around. “RJ, I’ll sign whatever documents you draw up.

Hutten can take the song. And Big Baby? Do you mind if I come in tomorrow? Talk about that

Producer career I screwed up with all of this?”

RJ looked at Big Baby who nodded. “We’ll talk. Call me tomorrow.”

John nodded back and walked Darla out of the room.

“Woah.” RJ said. “Didn’t see that coming.”

Big Baby turned and looked at him. “I can’t believe that just happened. I tried to get that to

happen for a solid year when all of this was going down, too fresh I guess for either of them to

deal with.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” Clay asked Big Baby. “I could’ve…”

“You couldn’t have done anything, Clay. No one could. The kid needed to forget and Darla was

willing to let him, why wouldn’t we?” Big Baby said definitively.

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“So that’s in then?” RJ asked. “Hutten and Clay each get the copyright on the song?”

Big Baby looked at Clay and began making a case for him to get more than he was getting in this

agreement, suddenly caring about his emotional relationship to this song after understanding

John’s.

“No.” Clay stopped him. “Look at me. I have a family, a healthy wife, a bunch of kids. I got to

do the ‘fame’ thing and I got to leave it in peace. I don’t need anything more. Hutten should get

it. He’s a talented kid, he deserves a chance for everything I got. John and I had our time.” Clay

looked at Hutten, still standing in the corner, ghost white and clearly overwhelmed by everything

that he’d just witnessed. “Baton is yours, kid. Do something good with it.” Clay picked up his

coat, walked over, and shook Hutten’s nearly limp hand. Clay smiled. “Thanks guys, I’ll sign

whatever you want me to as well. Big Baby has my address, send me the documents when you

have them.” Clay walked out of the room and suddenly there were three.

“Well, you heard them.” Big Baby said. “The song’s yours. And despite this craziness, I would

really appreciate if you’d consider signing with the label. I can make you a star. I know this

wasn’t the best first impression, or attempt to whoo you into signing. But, you’ve danced with

the Devil! You can do anything now.” Big Baby walked over, put his hand on Hutten’s shoulder

and held out his hand.

Hutten starred at him in disbelief and looked over at RJ, looking like he was waiting for

somebody to call “Cut!” and tell him this was all a staged play.

RJ smiled sympathetically, he felt the same way. “I can draw up the papers tomorrow, I promise

no agreements will ever go unsigned again if you sign with this label. I think Big Baby learned

his lesson.”

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Big Baby chuckled. “That’s right, John Johnson won’t be in charge of any more documents.

Who knows if he’ll ever even want to walk into another studio again when Darla gets done with

him.”

“No.” Hutten finally said, his voice a little hoarse from standing in silence for so long. “I’ll only

sign if John’s a part of it. He really did make this song great, and he’s right. If it wasn’t for him I

wouldn’t be here. I’ll only sign with the label if he does.”

RJ and Big Baby were stunned by Hutten’s sudden assertiveness. This was not the shy,

backbone-less kid RJ had interviewed a few days before who was willing to give up his song

writing credit out of intimidation.

Big Baby smiled and slapped Hutten on the back so hard he practically fell forward. “I knew

there were balls in that little body somewhere! I’ll sign John, if he’ll agree to it, of course. Two

talents in one bargain, I’m in.”

Hutten laughed nervously and shook Big Baby’s hand. “I hope he says yes.”

“Didn’t you hear him?” RJ asked, grinning from his victory. “He wants to sign whatever we ask

him to.”

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9. Epilogue

John

“Babe, what are you doing?” John asked, watching Darla sift through the boxes of his old band

merchandise he only just recently brought himself to put away.

Darla jumped, she wasn’t expecting to see John yet, he’s typically already at the label at this

time.

Darla racked her brain for a clever lie. After five seconds of John practically starring into her

soul with those big brown eyes, she gave up.

“Honey, you can’t get rid of this stuff.” She gently walked over and put her hand on his shoulder.

“Okay, I understand everything that’s happened lately has been kind of confusing and moved

pretty quickly, but you just told me I had to move on from the past.” John put his hands on her

waist.

“And you have. You’re on your way to running the label. You’re producing amazing music.

You’ve crossed over to the dark side of contracts and sound boards. You have moved on.” Darla

said.

“Exactly, and I have you,” John said, smiling. “I don’t need this stuff anymore. It’s another life.”

“No, love,” Darla insisted, “It isn’t. It’s a huge part of you, and represents huge

accomplishments. It’s okay to be proud of and hold onto those. It should be hung up and you

should look back and be happy at this evolution of your life. It’s impressive and I want to

celebrate it.” Darla nuzzled her face into his neck, hoping he was amendable to her idea.

John gazed past Darla at the photographs behind her on the couch: All black and white, smoggy,

a rock star at its foreground. He thought about the concerts, feeling the cool air of being 10 feet

above the crowd, hearing the blaring music in his ears from the speakers behind him. Seeing the

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thousands of faces in front of him, trying to make eye contact with the one person who looks like

they need it the most, the person who’s feeling every note. That was a good time, a really good

time.

“Fine, Babe. We’ll keep it out, but not for me to reminisce! We’ll keep it out for you to

remember how awesome I am next time you get mad at me!” John said as Darla pulled out of his

embrace.

She grabbed his face and gave him a kiss. “Okay, whatever you say!”

She grabbed his hand and they started walking out of the room, she wanted to show him the old

band poster she framed for the kitchen hallway. As she started talking to him about all of her

plans for where to put the memorabilia and how the black frames of the pictures will go nicely

with the black hardwood floors of their brand new home, John smiled- realizing how much

happier he is now with her and working for the label than he ever was in any of these pictures at

the height of his fame.

Clay

The sun was setting on a clear blue night, the only sound for miles was the laughter of children

and Clay was happy. He couldn’t believe after decades touring with a band, and then living

decades almost at poverty level with his wife and four children, he was finally here.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” His wife Katie asked from behind him. He turned around and smiled.

“Sure does,” he said.

Kate smiled back. She walked up, kissed his cheek and handed him a glass of fresh squeezed

lemonade. This was a nice life: On a ranch, with their children and grandchildren, miles away

from the noise of every day life.

Clay turned to her and raised his glass. “To John!” He said.

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Katie met his glass with hers. “To John.” She said.

Clay started laughing. It was crazy that those words were coming out of his mouth, but after

years of stealing from Clay, John finally repaid his debt to him.

“I can’t believe he set me up to write music for the label. Boy, I could never care about a

copyright again as long as I get the royalties the label gives me in exchange for it. John gets his

copyright, kind of, and I get this.” Clay looked around at his family, “I never thought life could

be this good.” Clay said, in total disbelief and gratitude that this was his reality.

“People come around,” Katie said. “He owed you.”

“And now, we’re finally even.” Clay took a big gulp of his lemonade, put his arm around Katie,

and took in the pending sunset.

Hutten

“There he is! The man, the myth, the psychology sell out of the year, my man!” Big Baby

shouted across the semi crowded bar, the one connected to the arena he was about to go to,

clearly not worried about embarrassing the blushing RJ as he took a seat at the table.

RJ smiled. “Here I am. A much friendlier introduction than I’m used to by you, by the way.

Thank you.

Big Baby belly laughed. “Yeah well now that you’re a therapist turned big time lawyer, I figured

I would buy you a man’s drink.” He pushed the glass full to the rim of clear liquid across the

table for RJ.

“First of all, I don’t drink gin. I actually don’t know anyone who drinks straight gin, man or

woman, so it’s odd that would be your drink of choice to get me. Second of all, I’m not that big

of a sell out, I’m working for your label, aren’t I?” RJ said, realizing these aren’t exactly humble

beginnings of a grounded lawyer. Essentially starting his entertainment law career with one of

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the biggest labels in the country was more akin to selling out than sticking to his morals and

caring for the less fortunate. RJ laughed at the irony.

“That’s right! I gave you your psychology business and your law career! So I’ll take that drink

back!” He reached across the table, grabbed the gin and took a hefty swig.

RJ laughed, “Well I’ll tell you what, working with rock stars isn’t as bad as I thought. Dwayne’s

been helpful helping me learn more about trademark law, too. I invited him tonight but he had to

sit in on a recording session with John, for some new kid John just discovered. He’s doing well,

huh?”

Big Baby looked away from RJ, feeling a little serious and sentimental all of a sudden. “John’s

doing great. He’s a great producer and doing better mentally and career-wise than he has in

years. So are you, you’re a much bigger asset to the label than Dwayne ever was. You got us out

of that copyright jam and helped catapult John, Clay and Hutten into the right careers. Thank

you.” Big Baby looked up and locked eyes with RJ, showing how much he meant that.

RJ smiled awkwardly, not knowing Big Baby to be a softy, or at least ever to show that side of

himself. “Hey, you reignited my passion for law and helping others. Life was pretty monotonous

a few months ago. I should be thanking you.” Both men looked away, uncomfortable with the

genuineness of their conversation.

“Hey speaking of catapulting careers, should we go?” RJ asked, ready for this love fest to

subside.

“Yeah. Let’s go.” Big Baby threw a few hundreds on the table and started walking out. As the

two men walked through the bar and into the adjoining arena, they thought about John: A

successful producer for the label and a real partner to Darla. They thought about Clay: Working

his new career from his home, writing music and selling it to other artists, every song with a

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strong sax chord he sometimes ended up playing. He was finally at peace with the strength of his

career and his family.

And as the stage lights came on and the artist came out to the applause of thousands of cheering

fans in the crowd, they thought about Hutten. Here they got to realize first hand that if you want

to find Hutten, just go to the biggest arena on a Friday night, buy a seat, watch the lights dim

while the spotlight hits the stage and watch the person whose voice is exuding the magic that

makes everyone forget about the boredom and monotony of their every days for a few,

remarkable hours.