had probably witnessed things that changed his life and perspective forever—and he'd never go back. "That sounds kind of unfair," I said humbly, "to the artists." I felt dumb when it came to this serious stuff.
"If I wanted to make an album that's just nothing but belching from beginning to end, I could get some of these guys to fund it because my word means that much. They wouldn't even check on the progress. They'd write me a blank check and go back on vacation."
I started laughing hysterically. "What about when they hear the final product?"
"Oh, they'd be pissed. But I've made them millions—maybe even billions if you count touring revenue—so I'd get another chance. It's why I'm shopping around from now on. I want my artists to work with labels that give a damn about art, not just money."
This was heavy philosophical stuff, and although I didn't know a lot about music, he sure as hell did. It felt like he was just looking out for those who had less of a voice than he did, sort of like a Robin Hood of the music industry.
A few moments passed by where we both sat silently. He was thinking as hard as I was, but I had no idea where he'd go next.
"Listen," he said. "I don't want to sound too forward or anything but please, Effie, come with me up to my suite. I want to show you something."
My mind immediately thought the worst, and I let out an awkward laugh. "Jack, I just don't know if that's the best idea."
"There's no pressure, okay? It would just mean a lot to me. I seriously just want to show you something. It's not a code word for anything else."
God, I really didn't know what I should do. His intentions weren't clear at all, other than his remarks about it not being a big deal. He kept eyeing me, anxiously awaiting my response. I needed to do or say something, to end this tense moment of trepidation as soon as possible.
"Yeah, okay," I said, hoping that I wouldn't regret my decision later. I finished the rest of my drink and left the glass on the bar, a relic of our conversation.
"Let's go," he said softly. I stood up with him and we slowly walked together until we exited through a side door that led back into the lobby. My legs felt wobbly, so I was glad that our pace was so slow.
The skeptic in me ran through every possible negative outcome while I continued along this strange path with him. My body appeared to be acting independently of my brain, not concerned one bit about the things my brain claimed could go wrong. Jack led me into the elevator.
"Hi, Jack," the elevator attendant said. He reached over and pressed 42 before Jack said a thing.
Jack immediately shook his hand and smiled at him. "Martin, how are you tonight?"
"Just fine," he said with a nod. "And madam, how are you?"
"Fine, thanks," I said, trying to remain as polite as possible. This guy was just doing his job, even if he didn't really care how I was doing. The door closed and then we ascended.
There was silence for the first couple of floors, well, until I broke it. "You guys know each other well?" I asked.
"Jack has a permanent suite," Martin said.
"I like it here. A lot. Just wait until you see the view." Jack put his arm around the small of my back and pulled me close against him. My head fell slightly until it was resting against his chest. It was pure comfort.
The ride was quick. A few short minutes later, the door was opening into the hall and Jack was tipping the attendant. "Thanks, Jack. Have a nice night, you two," he said. Once again, he was just being nice. However, I certainly hadn't planned on that moment being the last time I'd see Martin. I'd just see whatever Jack wanted to show me and then leave.
Upon re-examination, I wasn't so sure I liked what Martin had said. It made me feel a little more like a number than a real girl.
He disappeared behind us as the elevator door closed, and Jack took us into the hall. "Why do you have to tip the elevator guy?" I asked. "We could have run that elevator just fine."
"It's just the way it is," Jack said. "They make a living like anyone else, only theirs is primarily from the tips of rich folks."