The Mixtape Scene

On the streets of Wlimington, Delaware, Desiree Union ran down the block. She didn’t have rocks in her socks. She had discs in her hands.

“Two for six. Two for six,” she barked out at the corner occupants.

Her music had been recorded, mixed, and mastered and she was the sole street team representative.

“I’ll bite. What you shilling?” a security guard asked Desiree.

“It’s my latest mixtape. Market’s Open.”

“I’ll give it a try.”

“You can get two for six dollars,” she announced.

“I’ll buy four.”

“Thanks, sir!”

The guard grabbed the product and ambled down the street. After he was out of sight, a thief ran down on Desiree.

“Give me all of it or your thoughts are going to be on your sneakers,” he said and clutched the CD’s with a bag.

“Stop that man!”

“Just when the security guard left, too, goddamnit,” Desiree cursed at herself.

She walked to her car which had a ticket in the windshield.

“Shit!” Desiree picked up the ticket.

“$125?! Goddamn!”

Desiree was unbroken and unbowed. She plowed through the day with the two hundred tapes she had pressed up on her computer. She was the executive producer, songwriter, and engineer over the entire project. She had taught herself to make music after she graduated from college. She studied business administration like a bastard. She knew the details of how to sell all while sharpening her artistic powers.

These latest setbacks required her to not have her soul broken. She huffed. That exhalation meant the bits of frustration quelled under the storm of past occurrences.

The day was shot, but she wasn’t. Desiree plowed forward knowing that she could keep her mind set on making it as an instrumentalist. She could play strings, woodwind, brass, and percussion. She let other people rap over her beats. The profits from her sales were supposed to go to these other artists as well.

Desiree went to the studio.

“So where is everything?”

“We had to pack up your stuff. Rental note and all. I hope you understand. Sorry,” said engineer Trrenton “Sultan” Burstyn.

“This is a hell of a day,” Desiree said it aloud but wanted to keep that to herself. When she blurted it out, she felt a twinge of regret coursing through body.

“It's like that sometimes, Des,” Trenton replied.

She then set down her bag of CDs and began to contemplate on how many artists came through her doors to bless her records. Desiree could sense an aching, an burning pain in her mind that superseded present condition. With all the strength and might left in her soul, she started cooking beats with the remaining beat machine and mixer.

The sounds she generated began to rest with her in a great way. By adding the orchestral moments, she found her groove. In her ecstasy of creating sounds, she rediscovered her powers as a musician. Her artistry pushed her to make bongo beats match viola strings.

With all the excitement of making music never expected the lights to remain on but the last music maker failed. She tapped the buttons incessantly. There seemed to be some spooky voodoo playing against her. No, it was nothing of the sort.

“I’m sorry, Desiree. A lease is a lease,” Brunson Helm sighed.

She was not forlorn as she attempted to pick up the machine.

“That stays, too,” he said.

In her car, she tried to start it and nothing happened. With everything seemingly working against her, she popped one of the CD’s she made into the disc player.

She reclined and smiled as a tear ran down her right cheek.

“Sorry, ma’am,” Yogi Court called. “No more parking,” he pointed to the sign indicating the time.

“My battery’s dead. You have cables?”

“No.”

“Can I just sit here until the tow truck comes?”

“I don’t think that will be a problem.”

Desiree brushed away the tear and called a wrecker to tow away her car.