Enigma Jones 2

Enigma Jones 2

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I heard the excited chatter as I walked into Dad's workshop. They were sitting in his office, passing the notebook back and forth, while Dad grinned. "He's been writing poems since he was ten. He won awards in high school and even got published in a few magazines and literary reviews. One college in New York offered him a partial scholarship, that he turned down because he loves, as he puts it, 'to play in the mud.'"

Annie looked up, saw me standing there, and launched herself into my arms, Star right behind her. "Oh my God! This stuff is fabulous! Why aren't you doing this instead of pottery?"

"Because while I like to write, pottery feeds my soul. You can't beat the feeling of taking a lump of clay and turning it into a functional work of art, something that can be used for years."

Star wanted to challenge me. "Yes, but eventually, even the best pottery returns to dust. Words can live forever. They can bring people joy, and sadness, and hope, all in equal measure."

I shrugged. "There's not a lot of money in poetry."

Annie was quick to speak what was on their minds. "I sure there isn't, honey, but there is in songwriting. Almost every one of these could be put to music. The right singer, the right arrangement, and you'd be sitting on a gold mine. Just out of curiosity, how many notebooks like this fo you have?"

I shrugged, wondering how to let them down easy. "I don't know exactly. Four banker boxes worth at least."

I thought for a minute Star was going to faint. "If you're not going to do anything with them, can I have them? At least one or two? Annie and I picked out three that might be a hit, but they'll make solid songs at the very least. When can I see the rest of your stuff?"

I think she disliked my answer. "I didn't give you permission to see these, and have no interest at all in turning them into songs. Maybe you should put the notebooks back and forget the whole thing."

Annie clutched one of the notebooks tightly, like she was protecting a baby. "Please, please, let us do something with at least two of them. If they don't come out to suit you, we'll forget the whole thing."

I wanted to object, but my parents spoke up. "Let them play with them, honey. I always thought they deserved a wider audience."

Shit, Mom had spoken. It might as well be written in stone. "Pick three. And stay out of the rest of the notebooks, understand?"

They tried to look sincere and hide their smirks, and I knew right away I'd need to secure those boxes.

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They ended up spending most of the summer with us. Mom and Dad were having a ball, and I have to admit between the girls and Dad, they polished the three poems until even I could see the potential in them.

I hid in my pottery shed during the day, doing what I loved, while the girls helped Mom with her garden and Dad in his business, but every night after dinner, we were in his shop. He'd set up the amps and PA, and Star would balance the sound. There were three microphones, one for Star, one for Annie, and the other for me, Dad, or Mom, to provide harmonies. They worked on the three songs relentlessly, changing arrangements, trying different keys, until they were satisfied.

Dad gave them a gift that had them crying for hours. He had a friend with a studio, and had built him three instruments. He'd been begging Dad to build him a guitar, and Dad called him up.

"Jack, you still interested in me building that guitar?"

"You know I am. You finally willing to do it? I'll pay what you ask and not bitch."

"How about we do a trade? Ten hours of studio time, with you as engineer, at times you chose, and it's yours?"

They dickered a bit, and he agreed, so on a stormy Monday afternoon, we showed up. As we set everything up, Jack and my Dad talked. "You're gonna love this, Jack. Three brand new songs, never heard by the public. They're outstanding, we just need you to polish them up."

Jack, apparently, was a certified genius with a knack for knowing what a song needed and, more importantly, didn't need. He threw one arrangement in the trash, patiently helping them reconstruct it until it was three times better when they did the last take. We used twelve hours, and when we wanted to pay the difference he just waved his hand. "Forget it. This was a lot of fun for me, getting to work on original songs with new artists, especially if they have good product. What's the name of the band?"

We grinned at him and told him we weren't a band, just college friends who enjoyed music. He grinned back, " Not anymore. Now you're serious recording artists, and when you release them, we have to call you something. Think about it. I'll have the masters to you in a week or two. One more thing: Who wrote the songs?"

The ladies couldn't wait to tell him all the lyrics were from me, and we all chipped in to write the music. His gaze sharpened, and he asked if I had any more. Annie laughed. "He's probably got enough material for twenty albums, but he won't let us see them."

"Why not?"

I kind of snapped at him. "Because they were written for my pleasure. Probably half of what I've got has never been seen or read. They're my own private thoughts, and I'm not inclined to share them."

He grinned. "Calm down, brother. Just asking, though I think you're missing a trick. There's good money in writing songs."

Annie and Star snuggled up to me, while Mom stood over us, wrapping her arms over all of us. "We have a trick we haven't played yet. We'll love them out of him."

I mentally said, 'Good luck with that,' but just smiled. It got so bad that I packed up and left, taking my newest pieces and going to an expo three states over. I didn't tell anybody, I didn't ask anybody, I just left. It took almost a day for Mom to call me. "Where are you?"

"I'm at the Greater Atlanta Pottery Expo. I have a booth, and sales are going pretty well."

There was a second of silence, and she must have had it on speaker, because Annie chimed in. "Can we come?"

I could almost see their shock when I told them no. "This is my dream, my vision of my life going forward. I want to savor the experience and not share it with anyone. It may be selfish, and in the future, if you're still interested, you'll be welcome, but right now, I think I need a little break. I'll be back on Tuesday."

The expo ran through Sunday, but I was sold out by Saturday night, and I figured I'd be taking pieces from other potters home. My work was in the midrange, I was recognized, but I hadn't gained status yet. Two galleries were interested in handling my work, and I promised both pieces when I had my next kiln opening. I just hung around Sunday, helping a couple of friends with their booths and generally having a good time, and spent Sunday night and Monday night as a guest of a local potter and her husband. We threw a few pieces in her shop Monday afternoon, just for fun. She grinned, knowing my aversion for face jugs, when I made a three-gallon jug that closely resembled her young daughter, complete with her tongue sticking out and the pigtails she always wore.

Heather almost cried when she saw it, then told me I was wasting my time on regular wares. "Jugs don't always have to be ugly caricatures with goofy expressions and broken teeth; sometimes, they can be art. Think about that the next time you throw mud."

She sent me a picture after she had glazed the jug and pulled it out of the kiln. I might be good with mud, but Heather was an artist when it came to glazing. Her pigtails were black, the bows were red, and her face was flesh-toned except for her lips, tongue, and blue eyes. It became a portrait in clay by the time she was done. It was featured in one of those country living type magazines, ending up on the cover when the writer did an overview of potters in the region.

The magazine gave us credit for the work. "Sissy, thrown by Darrin Osprey, Glazed by Heather Morris." She had some ridiculous offers, as high as five grand, but she would never sell it. It became a big display item when she worked the shows, and she begging me to collaborate with her. We were kicking around the idea.

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The family was pretty quiet when I arrived, afraid to say the wrong thing, I suspect. Mom finally worked up the nerve to ask where my notebooks were. "They're in a safe place. Before you ask, I'm not telling you where. Respect me on this, or I'll leave."

That shook even my father. He looked into my eyes and finally grinned. "Ladies, you heard him. He wrote them, so he controls them. I have to say you're missing an opportunity here, but it's your life."

Later on, we talked in his shop, as I helped him put the finishing touches on the guitar he promised the studio owner. It was a fat-bodied jazz-style guitar with F holes, but it was never meant to be played acoustically. He struggled to find the right pickups and finally built them himself, hand-winding them for optimum performance. The sound was spectacular, and the man cried when he played it the first time. Some of the artists he recorded played it, and asked where they could get one. "It's a Birdbox, specificallly built for me, and it's one of a kind. Sorry, boys."

A woman he was recording begged for it and got quite angry when he said no, so she stole it. She didn't know, but a tracker was embedded under the pickguard. Jack called the police, gave them a statement, and showed them where the guitar was located. She nearly passed out when they knocked on her door with a warrant. Then she denied it was there. They followed the signal to a closet and found it in the back, the case covered with old clothes. The woman was arrested and taken to jail for felony theft, and her lawyers had to get her out. It made the entertainment news, where she denied everything, but the evidence was overwhelming. It cost her $150,000 to get Jack to drop the charges, and she was banned from his studio. One of the reasons she settled so fast is she had done the same thing twice before, getting caught once, and was still on probation. Thereafter, if she used a studio, there was a draconian contract, if she stole something, it was an automatic $100,000 penalty. She had a lot of problems getting top flight facilities to work in afterwards.

Time was running out for the girls. They were due back in college for their senior year while I had already graduated. They took over my old apartment, and I had a sneaking suspicion my parents were covering the rent.

Without me knowing, Mom planned and carried out a virtual campaign promoting Star and Annie, who were playing covers and old blues tunes. She teased a big announcement, waiting until their presence was established, and released one of the professionally recorded songs. I was surprised to see it, even more so when I saw it was copyright-protected under a company called Birdbox Publishing.

The song was a virtual hit. Dad had monetized it, and as the views soared, so did their revenue. They waited two months before releasing the next one, and in six months, it had 2.3 million views. The next one went even higher, and their fans were clamoring for more. Dad surprised me, telling me I got half the revenue as writer, and it was a bigger sum than I expected. Way bigger. Dad grinned at me. "I know you're saving money to get your own place, and I have to tell you this will help you. Give them enough works for an album, and if they hit like I think they will, you'll make a lick. Think about it."

When he stopped, Mom started, and eventually, they wore me down. I capitulated, wondering if I was selling my soul, and agreed. Star and Annie were graduating soon, coming straight to us to go through some of my work and try to find enough for an album. When Mom gave them the news, they could hardly talk in their excitement.

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Heather and I had been collaborating quietly, me throwing the jugs and giving them to her for glazing and firing. Not exactly sure what I was doing, I looked at a lot of faces on the internet over the months, looking for ideas. I threw a jug of a Japanese beauty, highlighting her fine features and giving her a traditional hairstyle,including hair pins. Heather experimented until she had the skin tone as close as possible, empathizing her luminous eyes and demure expression, putting lotus pedals around the bottom. The results were terrific. I did an American Indian brave, a real Indian woman with Bollywood beauty, a Moorish warrior complete with turban, looking fierce, an Irish princess that jumped out at you, a dozen other nationalities, and quite a few children. I threw them all, numbering them and adding my trademark beside Heather's, and sent them to her for glazing. It took her five months to get the glazings to suit her, and then we fired them in her old groundhog kiln, monitored the heat closely, taking shifts to make sure the heat stayed within parameters, and then let them cool off naturally.

She had tears in her eyes as she brought them out. Breakage was always a possibility for a variety of reasons, but all of them made it, and they looked quite impressive when we lined them up in her studio. Her husband, who had resented the time she spent on them, swept her up in a big hug and then shook my hand with enthusiasm. "I'll never begrudge the time she spends with you again!"

I grinned, happy he was happy. "Yes, you will, but I think in the end, we'll learn a little balance."

Heather hadn't spoken to anyone about what we were doing, even though she was still hounded. She surprised everyone when she premiered them at a West Coast showing in a little town outside of San Francisco, famous for its annual pottery fair. Heather was overwhelmed by the response and hired security guards to keep a watch when the expo was closed. It paid off because he caught two different groups trying to break in.

The kicker was they weren't for sale. Heather was good friends with a gallery owner, one that had three galleries spread across the country. They were featured in Atlanta, Philadelphia, and Chicago, each piece to be auctioned off at events held every two months or so. Heather and I were at the gallery in Atlanta, warning the owner not to identify us so we could gauge honest responses. It was a high-end affair tied into a charity, and we'd donated a piece to them. David and I looked pretty spiffy in our tuxes, but Heather absolutely stole the show with her beauty. I was used to seeing her in jeans and stained, often ragged tees, and I told Dave she cleaned up really well.

He grunted, watching the men jockey to get her attention before ignoring them all and latching down on her husband's arm. That sent most of them away, but one persistent bastard hung around, whispering as he offered them ten grand for a night with her. Dave grinned and held out his hand, and the idiot took it. Dave was a mason, brick and stone, with powerful hands, and when he let go, the man and his entourage left, going straight to the E.R., where he was treated for one broken and two cracked fingers. Nothing was ever said of the incident.

They did the charity event first, and our piece was third to last. After some spirited bidding, it fetched $28, 000. We were so stunned we just stared. It seemed we had been promoted from potters to sculptors.

Then the gallery announced they had eleven more pieces, which could be viewed on their website for sale. The bidding would open at $8,000, and the auction would last 72 hours. In the end, between all the galleries, we made 62,000 dollars each, after taxes. Plus, we had tax credits for the pieces we had donated to charity auctions in every city.

When the money cleared, we stared at each other before Heather, Dave, and Molly, the little girl who started it all, grabbed hands and danced around in circles.

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With what I had already made off my pottery, I now had just a hair over a hundred grand, so it was time to house hunt. Five months later, I had twenty acres in a rural community just above Morganton, North Carolina. It was down a dead-end road, the remnants of a small farm. Best of all, it came with a barn, and several outbuildings, and a small log cabin only ten years old. The previous owner had visions of being a homesteader until he discovered how much energy it took to be self-sufficient. I still owed fifty thousand, but my mortgage payments were reasonable. Mom and Dad were both pleased and saddened when I showed them the property, happy because I had a successful career and sad that they now had an empty nest.

I was pretty close, half a day's driving, so it wasn't like I wouldn't see them often. One of the buildings was perfect for a studio, and I had already made arrangements for craftsmen skilled in old-time building to put in a groundhog kiln. My relative in Catawba County sent me three dump trucks of clay, which I carefully covered. That clay would last me a couple of years.

With all that was going on in my life, I had all but forgotten about the songwriting project. I'd given Annie three boxes, figuring there were four that could be crafted into songs. They had contacted Jack, and he agreed to produce and engineer them when they were ready. Mom called me, asking where I was in my pottery. "I just finished the last batch. They're in the drying shed now, and in three or four weeks, I'll have some for Heather to glaze. The rest is just utilitarian ware, cups, bowls, plates, things like that."

"Good. Come home. The girls are here and want your input. You committed to this, so be here long enough to finish it. We're waiting."

I'd put it off as long as I could, but it was time.