Chapter Text
It had already been a long day when you finally were able to climb into bed with your book. The lamp in the corner cast a warm glow over the room and your dog was curled up at your feet already fast asleep. You envied him, with his carefree life and daily obligation of taking as many naps as possible. Your job as an editor of People magazine kept you in the office late at night, working with the journalists to meet deadlines and perfect articles. Your dog’s lifestyle felt a million times more desirable to you right now than your current schedule.
Even looking at the words in your book now made your eyes swim a little. There had just been a big scandal with two B-list celebrities, and your boss wouldn’t let you leave until well past dinner time because he wanted the article finished before first thing tomorrow morning and now you couldn’t turn off the analyzing, editing part of your brain. Every word you read seemed to clash with what you’d spent all day reading, scandals and infidelity.
You were grateful for your job— most people your age still held entry level positions, and it kept your otherwise lonely life busy but damn it was exhausting. Constantly being pulled this way and that by different journalists checking their work kept you forever busy and more often than not you spent your lunch breaks still checking over and editing their writing.
With a sigh you set the book down and stared blankly at the ceiling. It was late; you should go to bed so you could wake up tomorrow feeling refreshed, but you couldn’t bring yourself to actually get up to turn the lamp off. You glared at it, wishing it would turn off from your look alone.
Finally, you groaned and dramatically heaved yourself up and out of bed. Your dog opened one sleepy eye to stare, unimpressed by the disturbance before deciding it was unimportant and falling back asleep.
Your phone rang. You looked at it for a second as it buzzed happily on your nightstand. The only person you could possibly imagine calling you this late at night was your boss, probably needing you to come in early for one more read-through before sending to printing.
“Hello?” You said flatly, already anticipating your boss’s dull monotone.
The response was anything but. Instead, a younger man's voice answered back. “Hi.”
You frowned, thrown off by the unexpected voice and the late hour. “Can I help you?”
“Yeah,” the voice started hesitantly. “I’m looking for some advice. I thought maybe you could help.”
This was weird. You should hang up. This was probably some prank call or someone looking to scam you, and you really didn’t have the patience to deal with that right now.
Something in the speaker’s voice though made you pause. He sounded so sincere, almost vulnerable. Like he’d had to work up the courage to pick up the phone in the first place.
What the hell, you thought. I guess I’m gonna give some advice to a random stranger on the phone tonight.
Later you would blame the decision on your exhaustion, but at that moment it seemed like a kind enough thing to do.
“Ok, advice with what?”
“My job.” The speaker paused again. “No, never mind it’s fine, sorry for bothering you.”
“No,” you interjected before he could hang up, not really sure what drove you to say anything at all. You should just let him hang up and go to sleep. Still, you continued, “It’s fine, tell me.”
He took a deep breath. “Well, I’ve been pretty successful in my job. Done very well at it for someone my age and I have earned a lot of respect from other people in the industry, but I still feel like I have no control over how I spend my time. Everyone always wants something from me, but I feel like at this point in my career I should have enough power to control my own life. People use me. I have no control over the work I do or my schedule or my life!” The words were slow, calculated. Like the speaker wasn’t sure if he should actually be telling you any of this, but was trying to convince himself it would be worth it and was actively fighting with himself not to hang up.
You sat there shocked. Surely this was a prank. Every single thing he said reflected exactly how you felt about your own job. You worked ridiculous hours and gave up all your free time, just to be underappreciated. You were expected to constantly be available, and more often than not, you ended up completely rewriting most of the articles you read.
It couldn't be a prank though. No one knew how you felt, except your mom. You didn't have any friends. The workplace didn't bode well as a place to make friends, and you were too busy to meet anyone else.
“Wow,” you breathed. “All I can say is I know exactly how you feel. Because on top of all of that— the lack of control and respect from the people in charge— there’s also always a pressure to continue to prove that you deserve what you’ve already earned. No mistakes or people will doubt you forever because of your age and lack of experience. So instead you work yourself into the ground, never taking a second off, because if you do, everything you’ve done so far will slip between your fingers. And you spend more time cleaning up other people’s messes just in case they find a way to blame you for them.”
The other end of the line was silent for a few quiet moments and then “You really do get it. I apologize; I had no idea therapists had to work that hard.”
You laughed. “I’m not a therapist.”
“You’re not?” The speaker sounded shocked. “I thought this was a listening and therapy service. I have the flyer for it in my hand.”
You couldn’t help it; you burst out laughing. “Oh my gosh, you called the wrong number.”
The man on the other side of the line chuckled too, more embarrassed than amused.
“Well nice to meet you, random phone stranger. Glad we just poured our hearts out to each other. I guess it is nice to know someone else knows how it feels.”
“Yeah, it actually really is. Thanks, then. For unknowingly being my therapist tonight."
You grinned, amused and completely shocked by the direction your night had taken. “Anytime, anytime.” You trailed off, staring at the wall and considering your next words. “To be honest, I appreciate the honesty. I spend most of my day surrounded by fake people, looking for the next story. It's nice to hear something real, you know?"
The person on the other side of the line hummed in agreement. "Yeah, I know the feeling." He was quiet for a second. "I hope I didn't bother you too much."
"Oh, not at all. I was trying and failing to read my book before bed. The words were kinda all blending together."
"Sometimes some of the best work gets done when that happens!"
You barked a laugh. "What type of work are you doing?" You asked, completely incredulous.
"The type where inspiration can strike at any time, including half-delirious thoughts. Normally those are the ones that make you pause and really consider what's possible."
"I like the way you think. Very whimsical."
"Not sure if that's what I'm really going for, but I'll take it."
You glanced at the clock, frowning at the number you saw. Unsure if your next thought would be welcome, you grimaced but decided to put it out there anyway. At the very worst, he would say no and you could both forget this ever happened.
“It’s pretty late where I am so I probably need to go, but if you ever need to accidentally call the wrong number for a therapy service again, feel free to.”
“You know what, I just might. It’s pretty late for me too, but the work never stops, right?”
You laughed. “Oh don’t I know it. Good luck with your whimsy.”
You gave him your real number and said goodbye before putting the phone back on the receiver.
Suddenly, you weren’t as tired anymore. Your evening surely hadn't gone as expected, but the conversation left you with a smile on your face and a million more questions you wanted to ask.
You finally turned your lamp off and settled into bed, still playing the conversation over in your head. You couldn't decide if you really wanted him to call again, and if so, how soon. You could only imagine what your mom would say if she knew what just happened. Stranger danger and all that. Her warnings blared through your head, and you considered them carefully.
You didn't need to tell him anything personal enough for him to identify you if he cared enough to look, and if it started getting creepy or weird, you could just stop answering. Easy as that.
You kissed your dog on the nose and said goodnight, before rolling over and falling asleep to thoughts of strange phone calls and over-the-phone therapy.
. . . . .
The next week passed without any calls, and while you hadn't entirely forgotten about the conversation, it no longer took up all your thoughts. Your workday was too busy to be distracted thinking about strangers on the phone.
You led the music entertainment department at People, and your reporters were wrapping up their final projects before the Grammy's in a few weeks. That meant meeting deadlines was significantly more important than a normal week. It also meant you were exhausted.
"Boss wants to see you in his office," one of your coworkers said, peaking around the corner of your office.
You nodded in acknowledgement and finished the last few notes on an article you'd already started before heading over. You printed it out and carried it with you to his office. Might as well take advantage of the trip across the office and drop it off too.
Your boss waved you in when you knocked on the door and pointed to a chair in an invitation for you to sit.
You lifted the papers in your hand. "I just finished this. Wanted to go ahead and drop it off."
He nodded and thanked you, taking the stack of paper and setting it among the mess of his desk. He pulled out a different stack of papers from some other pile on the desk and passed it to you.
You glanced down, curious. It was unusual for him to call you to his office just to drop off another story to edit.
"Jones already went through this, but it still looks like a shitshow. I need it cleaned up and turned in by tomorrow. It needs to be printed by Thursday."
You grimaced. That was going to be tight. Today was Tuesday and you already had other stories to finish for Thursday as well. Looks like you'd be taking some work home with you tonight to meet that deadline. At least the other stories were on the shorter side.
You flipped through the pages, trying to get the gist of the assignment. "Michael Jackson? He just finished the Triumph tour, right?" You already knew the answer, you're a pretty big fan, but it felt like the right thing to say.
"He did, and he just released an announcement for the next album. That's why I need you to take a look at this." He pointed at the stack of papers in your hand. "We know next to nothing about this album. No title, no release date, just that it's coming, but I need it to seem like we know more than we do. We can't make anything up, so I need you to beef this up and give us an advantage over everyone else. 1,500 words."
Oh great, so this was going to take even longer than you thought. This wasn't a simple editing job; this was a complete rewrite with zero facts. Wonderful.
"I'll do my best. We really know nothing?"
"I'll send you what we do know. It's not much."
You nodded. "Thank you. Anything else you need from me?"
He shook his head, so you left, papers in hand. Back at your desk you sat down to read the article and see what you were working with. It really wasn't much at all, and they had tried to drag it out to meet the word count. With a groan, you set the article to the side so you can finish the easier projects due for tomorrow. Hopefully you can finish everything else before tonight and only have to work on the Michael Jackson article at home.
You tried hard to hide your frustration for the rest of the day, but it was nearly impossible. Most of your team avoided you, giving you a wide berth every time you got up for the bathroom or lunch. Why did you always get stuck cleaning up other people's messes? Sure, you led the music entertainment department, but you should not be the one rewriting this story. There were enough competent people in your division that this assignment should not be thrown on you the night before the deadline. It was laziness and fear on their part, and it was ridiculous.
When it finally was time to leave, you managed to get the rest of your work done, so you left the office with the Michael Jackson article in hand and collapsed at your kitchen table with a heavy sigh twenty minutes later. In approximately five minutes, papers, highlighters, and colored pens were spread around you in organized chaos.
You set to work, parsing through what was actually true and good enough to keep and crossing out things that made you smile with how ridiculous they sounded. Your boss wasn't wrong; it really was a shitshow.
You'd probably been working for half an hour with the phone rang from your room. It was probably your mom wanting to catch up and it would be nice to have a break anyway, so you got up to answer.
"Hello?" you said.
"Hello, is this a good time?" It was the voice from last week. The man needing job advice.
"Oh my gosh, I didn't think you'd actually call me again, hi! Yeah, I have a few minutes. I need a break anyway; the words are starting to run together. What's up?"
"To be honest, I also really just needed a break. This week has been a mess, and I might've just agreed to something I'm scared to follow through on."
"Sounds too familiar. I have a deadline tomorrow for a project I know nothing about. I feel like such a fraud trying to write this piece."
"You're a writer? What type of writing?"
"Oh gosh, yeah I guess I didn't mention that last time. I'm a magazine editor. I've been given an article to completely rewrite. The source hasn't released any official statements so there's basically nothing to write about, but my boss needs me to find a way to make it sound like we have insider information without sounding made up. It's due Thursday, so deadline is tomorrow."
"I wish you luck with that. Sounds ... really difficult. Don't think I'll be much help there. I don't read magazines much. I do think sometimes having a deadline makes things easier to get done though. There's pressure cause there's no time to waste."
You laughed. "When your entire career is based around deadlines, pressure loses meaning cause it never ends. Don't worry about it though. I get stuck with stuff like this all the time and it always works out. That's a whole other can of worms though. I won't bore you with the details." You paused. "So, what's this commitment you're scared of? Or I guess first, tell me what your job is."
He was unnaturally quiet for a second and you got scared maybe you weren't allowed to ask about that. Finally, he said, "I do want to hear more, but I won't push you. If you ever want to talk about it, I'll be happy to listen." He took a breath that almost sounded like he was fortifying himself. "I'm an artist. And I agreed to release more of my work soon. No set deadlines, unlike you,"
A humorless chuckle
"And I already have a good amount of it done, but there are expectations now and I just wish I I wasn't forced to make any of these promises."
You hummed, understanding completely. "People weren't expecting anything before, cause they didn't know any better, but now they know which means they'll have big expectations by the time you're ready and that just makes the pressure on you harder."
"Yeah, exactly," he said softly.
"I'm also not sure how much help I can offer, but I guess it helps not to let other people dictate your work. It's yours, not theirs, so they have to wait for your timeline, whether it's 2 weeks or 2 years. Don't release anything until you're completely satisfied with it."
"I bet you wish you could work like that."
"Yes," you sighed dramatically. "Unfortunately, my work isn't for me. It's for others, so I have to work with their timeline. It's not that bad though. I still manage to only release things I'm completely satisfied with most of the time."
"Cause you're a workaholic," he said flatly.
You burst out laughing. "Yes, I guess so. And you're not?"
"I have other hobbies!" he cried affronted.
"Ok, I'd love to hear what phone stranger's hobbies are outside of work,” you said teasingly. “Please, tell me."
He hesitated before responding. "My name is Michael."
You smiled softly and told him your own name. "It's nice to meet you, Michael."
"You too." You could hear his smile through his voice.
"So these hobbies? Prove you aren't a workaholic. I need hard evidence."
"Well, I like to watch movies, and animals, I love animals, and ..." he trailed off, clearly trying to come up with more.
"That's it?" You asked, trying to keep the laugh out of your voice. "Movies and animals. Both of which you probably work with."
The line was silent and you knew you had him. You laughed now, entirely amused.
"Well what about you? I mean, you already admitted to being a workaholic, so what hobbies do you have?" You could still hear the smile in his voice, and that made you smile even more. Clearly he didn't mind being teased.
"More than you, that's for sure. I love to read, all types of books but mainly authors like Jane Austen or the Bronte sisters. I have a dog, so I'll take him on walks through the city. And I also love movies, but sometimes I get bored in the middle, so I don't go to the theatre very much. I watch them at home on the weekends all the time though. And I love music. I collect vinyl and normally put one on every night while I cook. It's very relaxing, you should try it."
“So what record did you pick for tonight?” He asked. You appreciated how completely invested he was in this conversation, always ready with a question to keep the mood light and the conversation flowing with ease.
“I haven’t thought about it yet. I just pick based off what sounds good in the moment.”
“I’ll help you pick. What do you have?”
You hummed and walked over to the stack of vinyl next to your record player. “Let’s see, I’ve got Fleetwood Mac, Billy Joel, Prince, Michael Jackson, ABBA. I can keep going if you need.”
“My vote is for Fleetwood Mac or Billy Joel,” he answered immediately.
“Not a fan of Arrival or Off the Wall?” You asked, pulling Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours from the stack.
“Ehh, they’re both fine. I haven't listened to ABBA before, but I’ve heard it’s good.”
You scoffed. “That’s a shame. You need to go listen right now! There’s so many good songs I can’t even name them all.”
“Have you made your choice then?”
You grinned and pulled the vinyl from the sleeve. “Well before I learned about this tragedy, I chose Rumours so I’m sticking with that. Next time though, I’m putting on Arrival and making you listen to Dancing Queen and Money, Money, Money through the phone.”
He laughed and the sound made you grin. “Ok deal.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he agreed. “I make no promises for how much I’ll like it.”
“Oh, you’ll like it. Everybody likes ABBA.”
The line went quiet for a second as you both presumably thought about music and albums and cooking dinner. There was a soft grin on your face from the banter of the conversation.
"Ok, so you haven't listened to ABBA, but you said you like movies. Tell me more." You walked back to your room to settle comfortably on a chaise lounge you had in the corner.
Michael's voice got all soft when he responded. "I watch them with my mom. We get ice cream and popcorn every time. It's my favorite way to decompress after a long day. She likes the older movies, so we just watch her favorites on repeat. They're my favorites too," he finished quietly.
"I love that. You're so lucky to have something like that with your mom. How often do y'all have time for that?"
"Probably once a week. At least when I'm home."
"Are you home now?"
"Yeah."
"Ok so if I want to call you, I should use this number?" you asked, suddenly nervous he wouldn't want you to call again.
He laughed. "Yeah, go ahead. I'll try and make sure one of my brothers doesn't answer it first. Should be fine though, this is the phone in my studio."
Dread coursed through you. He still lived with his brothers? What if you misjudged him and you were talking to, teasing, a boy—a minor? That would be incredibly inappropriate. You grimaced. "Michael... how old are you?"
"24. Why?"
You visibly relaxed. Thank goodness. "I got scared there for a second. You said you lived with your brothers, so I thought, maybe...
"
He burst out laughing and it took almost two minutes for him to regain his composure. "I'm not a child. I just live with my family because we all work together. It just makes more sense to be close."
You laughed too, a relieved breathy laugh. "Makes sense. Ok, good," you said, content. "I'm 24."
“You said you have a dog.” Michael said suddenly. “What’s his name?”
“Charlie." You didn't comment on the abrupt subject change; there wasn't much else for him to comment on anyway. You actually appreciated how he kept the conversation flowing, made it easier for you. "He’s a beagle. I’ve had him for 6 years, since college actually,” you said, getting up from your lounge to look around for the dog in question.
“Wow, I’m sure he’s great. You've had him for a while.”
“Yeah, he is. And … he’s actually standing by the door,” you replied, finally spotting him standing patiently to be let out. “I should probably go. I need to let him out and start my wonderful Fleetwood Mac dinner and then get back to my work. That deadline is still tomorrow and I’m no closer to finishing the article.”
There was some rustling on the other side of the line but a few seconds later Michael just said, “I probably should get back to work too. Enjoy your dinner and good luck with the article.”
“Thanks,” you said softly. “Good luck to you too, with your commitment and everything. I’m sure it’ll all work out great.”
“That'll take a while. I imagine you'll have to show me ABBA before anything major changes there."
You grinned. “You’re right, ABBA is calling your name. Goodnight, Michael. Good luck with everything.”
“Thank you. I want to hear how the article turns out.”
“Ok, I’ll make sure you’re updated,” you laughed. “Bye-bye now.”
You hung up after that and stared at your hand still holding the phone for a second. What the heck? How had that conversation flowed so easily? One second you were talking about work and the next you were picking an album for dinner. The whole thing had just gone from one topic to the next without any awkwardness or embarrassment. Except for your quick freak out about his age, but he'd handled it perfectly and effortlessly brought the conversation back into a comfortable topic. You grinned, completely astounded by what had just happened.
It had been a long time since you had a social interaction with someone your age, let alone one that kept you laughing as much as this one. It was addictive.
Anyone your age at the magazine was either too jealous of your position to be friendly or too married to their work to talk about anything else. And any friends from college had long since faded away into mere acquaintances.
And you knew his name now. Michael Michael Michael. You wondered what type of artist he was. A painter maybe? A photographer? A musician? It felt like he was vague almost on purpose so maybe he was just shy. You hadn’t told him everything about your job either. Nothing about being in music entertainment or People magazine. You couldn’t really blame him for being cautious about what he was telling you; you were still pretty much strangers after all, even if it already didn't feel like it.
You put Charlie’s collar on and took him to the apartment’s courtyard. You watched with a small smile as he pranced around in the grass before finally choosing a spot to do his business.
You hardly heard Fleetwood Mac while you threw together your dinner— a mixed salad with some leftover chicken you’d grilled earlier that week— because Michael still controlled every thought.
Why did you care so much? You had talked twice, both times not for very long, so why couldn’t you shake the sound of his voice from your head. He was just so easy to talk to— an excellent listener and funny without forcing it. And he put the emphasis on having another call. Maybe he enjoyed your calls as much as you did. Or maybe he also just didn’t have any people to just talk to. People that don’t want anything from him. He called an anonymous 24-hour therapy line for goodness’ sake.
You sighed and rubbed your temples. Enough of this. You pushed all thoughts of phone Michael and turned back to musician Michael and his new album announcement. It didn’t have a release date or name yet, only a promise that it was coming and was already in the works.
It took you until 2 in the morning to finish, but it was worth it. 1,500 words of pure word smithing, dropping hints that sounded specific but really had no substance behind them and beefing up stuff about the success of the Off the Wall tour and the momentum it would give the singer. It was honestly some of your best work given how little you had to work with.
Your boss loved it the next day. He gave you one of his rare smiles and praised your work. “You never let me down. Thank you.”
You nodded and thanked him for the compliment. They were rare, and it felt nice to be recognized. On your way back to your office you were stopped for your opinion on the layout of a spread and by a reporter needing clarification on a correction. You happily supplied both before getting back to the work on your desk. Having finished everything due for Thursday's deadline yesterday, you were able to leave the office early for the day and enjoyed the extra hours of rest at home.
The next few days were pretty relaxing, for once. You spent the weekend curled on the couch with your book and a glass of wine, Charlie asleep at your feet. Michael didn’t call, but you didn’t think about it too much. There had been about a week between your first two calls, so you expected something similar this week too. Who knows, he’s probably a really busy man.
When Monday rolled around you still had a relatively light day. Your celebrities had behaved themselves over the weekend so there wasn’t a ton to report on, and you were eternally grateful for that. You were snuggled into bed Monday night next to Charlie when your phone started ringing. A quick glance at the clock showed that it was already 11 but you weren’t quite tired yet, so you reached over to take the call.
“Hello?” You said into the receiver.
Michael greeted you with your name and an easy hello and you immediately smiled.
“Hi, Michael, what’s up?”
“I spent all weekend stuck on lyrics cause I was wondering if ABBA really lived up to the hype," he said solemnly. There was a rustling in the background behind him, like he was getting set up somewhere.
“You’re kidding. You know you could’ve just called, right? I mean if it was eating you up that much," you rolled out of bed, stretching the phone cord as far as possible so you could sit by your record player in the living room.
"I didn't want to bother you over the weekend. I didn't know if you would be busy."
You shook your head, appreciating his concern but amused that he hadn't just tried. "My weekends are never busy. Call when you want." Charlie was looking at you curiously from his spot on your bed. "Charlie and I spent the weekend reading on the couch, so you wouldn’t have been interrupting anything, I promise."
He laughed softly. "Good to know, I'll keep that in mind for the future."
You could really hear now how much he liked these conversations from the tone of his voice and how he kept mentioning future calls. You were grateful the feeling was mutual.
You both had just clicked. And at this point in your life this budding friendship with Michael was starting to feel a little bit like fate. How else did you two wander onto each other and get along so easily? You were literally only on your third call, but already you felt completely comfortable with him, even though you were basically still strangers.
"I'll call you next time," you offered.
"Ok," he said softly. "I'd like that." He paused for a second, letting the moment settle.
"So, how many books did you get through? I can't say I'm a big reader, but I'm happy to listen."
You grinned. "I spent most of the weekend rereading Pride and Prejudice. It's one of my favorite books ever. I've probably read it four or five times now."
"Five? I don't think I could ever devote that much time to one book. What's it about, then, to be worth spending that much time?"
"You don't know anything about Pride and Prejudice? It's a classic!"
"Apparently, I'm not very cultured. First music, then books, I didn't realize I was this behind."
"It's ok, I'll get you up to date, don't worry," you reassured. "Basically in the book, there's a wealthy landowner, Mr. Darcy, who's really proud and follows decorum very aggressively, but he ends up falling in love with a poor gentleman's daughter, Elizabeth Bennet. He makes her an offer of marriage even though he outranks her, but she refuses him because she thinks he's a terrible, spiteful man. Eventually, over time, she falls in love with him by overcoming her prejudice against him and he humbles himself too, and it all ends happily! Obviously, there's a lot more to it, but that's the gist."
"It's a romance?"
"I mean, yeah, but it's also a commentary and critique of society during Jane Austen's time. All of her books are." You pulled a chair from the kitchen table over to your record player so you could settle in more.
"I had no idea," Michael said. He sounded curious.
"I mean, all of Jane Austen's books are my favorite so obviously I think you should check them out, but I'm sure you're busy so if you're going to read one, it should be Pride and Prejudice."
"Alright, I'll get a copy. I have to find a way to culture myself somehow. Jane Austen, ABBA, what else?"
"Speaking of ... are you ready for me to change your world? This album is pure genius. There are very few albums better than this one. We can worry about culturing you later. ABBA first."
"Oh, I want to hear this. What are the best albums out there?" He was teasing you, but there was something else in his voice you couldn't quite put a finger on.
"Oh gosh, I have no idea. There're so good options I can't pick. Rumours was a good choice last week, or maybe The Dark Side of the Moon by Pink Floyd. I don't know, I'm a big fan of any genre, so Born to Run—Bruce Springsteen or Off the Wall—Michael Jackson are both great. I can't pick just one."
"No, no it's a good list." That's all he said, which struck you as a little odd that he didn't elaborate more but you shrugged and let him change the subject without pointing it out. "So ... show me this album, change my life."
You laughed, finding it hard to keep a smile off your face talking to him. You pulled the album out and put it carefully on the record player. You settled into your chair and put the needle down, letting the first notes of When I Kissed the Teacher fill the quiet room. You placed the phone on the table in front of you so Michael could hear it clearly.
You sat there, enjoying the music and humming along quietly as the album cycled through Dancing Queen and Knowing Me, Knowing You. The familiar music made you dance in your seat, letting your hips sway to the catchy beat and snapping your fingers with the rhythm. When Side A ended, with Money, Money, Money, you put the phone back up to your ear, holding it in place between your shoulder and head so you could flip the record.
"Well, what do you think so far?" you asked. "Side A is better in my opinion, but the other half has some classics too."
He was quiet for a second and you could tell it was because he was truly trying to analyze the music and give you a full response. You remembered then that he mentioned something about lyrics earlier, so maybe he was a musician himself. No wonder he was so interested in your music taste then.
"I like it. It's not exactly what I expected and not entirely my taste, a little too disco I think, but it's very catchy. Dancing Queen especially has a nice chorus. The piano is a really great touch; makes you want to dance along." You grinned at that. You always danced during Dancing Queen. "I mean so far it almost feels like a story is being told through the songs, like they could all be connected beyond just coming from the same album. The harmonies are also really soothing. I would say at times the vocals aren't too difficult, but the harmonies make the songs more complex, making it feel like a joint experience between the audience and the artist. But the lyrics are good—good messages and stuff. Overall, it's a good choice. I can see why you like it so much."
You were stunned. You liked the album because it was fun to sing along to. Never in a million years would you have thought of analyzing the harmonies and vocals behind it.
"Wow, you really paid attention. I was just wondering which was your favorite so far but uhh thanks for the analysis." You laughed. "You're a musician, aren't you? That's your job?"
He hesitated and you almost wished you hadn't asked. He didn't seem very keen to answer. "Yeah, I'm trying to be. Still working on building my personal career, so don't expect too much from me yet."
You twirled the phone cord around your finger absent-mindedly. "Ok. You just know a lot about music, so I figured. And you mentioned struggling with lyrics earlier, so it made sense." You let out a sarcastic laugh. "Look at us. A magazine editor and an aspiring musician. We're really bringing in the big bucks, aren't we?"
Michael laughed awkwardly. "Right."
"I'll put the rest of the album on now, if you want to finish it," I offered, sensing that he was ready to move off this topic. Maybe whatever he was working on wasn't going very well and he was embarrassed. Maybe his new commitment wasn't going as well as he wanted, and his music was a sore subject.
"Yeah," he said brightly, reinvested in the conversation now. "Go ahead."
You put the phone back down and finished the album, letting you both linger on the last notes of Happy Hawaii before picking the phone back up.
"Any more thoughts on this half?" you asked, ready for a shorter response than the first time since in your opinion the second half of the album was much weaker than the first.
Instead, Michael went into a 5-minute-long analysis of each song, what it contributed to the album as a whole, and what he made of their discography. You listened attentively, soaking in the passion he clearly had for music.
It fit in so easily with the visual you were forming in your mind of Michael as a person. He was intentional with everything, every word, the way he listened and spoke, and music as well. He was funny and personable, adaptable, consistent. He didn't mind being teased and could give as much as he took. He was passionate and could recognize and appreciate passion in others. They were such strong qualities, and you deeply appreciated them all.
"Wow, Michael. I'm speechless. I never would've thought about any of that. I just like to sing along most of the time, but that's a whole new way of experiencing music." You were in awe of his talent to even recognize all of that. You had no idea all those details went into an album.
"You said it was one of your favorites. I wanted to treat it with the respect it deserved then," he said simply, like he hadn't just spent almost an hour listening to the album and then proving how seriously he had listened. Just you saying you liked it was enough for him to devote an hour out of his evening giving it his undivided attention.
"That's really nice of you to say, Michael. Thank you," you said, full of sincerity.
You could hear him tapping away at a piano through the phone, vaguely in the melody from Fernando before it shifted into something you hadn't heard before. Maybe it was something he was working on now.
He didn't say anything else, so you took the opportunity to fill the comfortable silence yourself. "So, tell me a little bit about how making music actually works. I've always wondered."
He played a few more notes before responding. "Ok," he said softly. "Anything can start a song. Sometimes it’s a snippet of a conversation that could work really well as a lyric, or a random rhythm created from disjointed sounds on the street. It really doesn't matter, but when I hear something inspiring I have to write it down right away or else I'll forget it. Once it's down, you have to build the pieces around it. If it's a lyric, you have to write the story around it first then figure out how you want the music to feel behind it. Is it a sad song, or a happy one? How should your audience feel listening to it?"
"This is already more than I could ever do on my own. That's really impressive, Michael."
"Most people only ever see the final result. They have no appreciation for the hell that goes into the process to get there."
"That makes sense. I think I'm guilty of that."
He laughed. His laugh was light, making him sound young and joyful. "I'll help you appreciate it more. We can go through your vinyl one by one if we have to."
"That's a big commitment. I probably have at least 75. You sure you're up for it?"
"Might as well start now." You could hear him tapping away at the piano again and it made you smile. Seems like that might become more common as a background sound in your conversations moving forward. You didn't mind; it was actually pretty cool to get to experience even a part of his creation process.
You glanced at the clock. It read 12:42 and you felt your heart drop. "Michael! It's late!"
He was quiet for a second, probably checking his own clock. "It's only 12:45. That's not too bad."
"Are you kidding?" you cried, hurrying down the hall back to your room. You climbed into your bed, trying not to jostle the phone too much. "I have to wake up at 5:30 tomorrow for work. I'm not going to be able to keep my eyes open tomorrow."
"Well, you better get to bed then."
"What are you going to do?" you asked suddenly, curious.
"There's still time to work tonight. I'll probably stay up for a couple more hours, see what I can do."
You blew out an exasperated breath. "Delirious thoughts are sometimes the best ones, right?"
"Exactly," Michael agreed, full seriousness.
You shook your head at him. "Good luck with that. I can't say anything, I was up until 2 last week finishing that article."
"The article! How was it?"
"No, no, I need to sleep. I'll tell you about it next time."
"But-"
"Next time," you promised. "Goodnight, Michael."
"Goodnight."