Decline

“One million dollars for my album!” I can’t fathom this.

I remain on the toilet, defecating a week’s worth of food—stored nervously due to the obsession of this anticipating meeting.

“Dear Mickle, we found your album extraordinary and would like to meet you… This would be a fantastic start to your music career…”

I remember the email’s words, brightly embedded in my brain, from the executives at My Cousin’s Music Corp.

The deal is fantastic, so why do I feel nervous?

Something reeks, and by the disgusted “Ugh!” of someone who has walked into this five-star bathroom, I know it’s because of what’s coming out of me.

I can either accept their offer or not.

“Your success is imminent,” my mother always told me from the first time she heard me sing.

The hip-hop artist—and now the most prominent musician worldwide—Bullethole said something similar in the meeting: “I guaranteed my success the moment I sang.” The statement reminded me of my mother and was the reason I wrote the album.

But can I sign away my rights to this album to a megastar like Bullethole to sample and get credit on? What would my mother think?

My muscles finally relax, signalling the completion of my bowel movement. I stand and clean myself, trying to be careful to keep my newly bought tux spotless. I have to return it after the meeting to meet the 48-hour return policy.

I walk back into the meeting room, the receptionist mouthing “welcome back” with a wrinkled nose. Inside, the executives, songwriters, and Bullethole beam at me.

“You good?” Bullethole asks as I slowly return to my seat in the green, wool-woven, sci-fi alien-inspired chair. I’d fallen out of it when I first heard the exorbitant offer.

“Yep,” I nod, taking my seat.

I move the chair forward but forget that the bizarre thing is bolted to the floor. So, I lean forward—1, 2, 3—and click the italicized word ‘Decline’ on the e-contract displayed on the iPad.

I leave the building and return to my workspace on Collins Street. I sing the songs I love—my words, my creation—to my audience: the city of Melbourne.

People stop and stare. As the onlookers grow, more people drop money into my guitar case. Maybe it’s the tux I’m wearing, or the flies by my side.

Melbourne will never know the story behind this tux.

I’ll keep it to remind me of my decision to work for myself—and also because I doubt Ralph Lauren would let me return it without getting it dry-cleaned.