Your Deal

The business of music

“Twenty thousand dollars?! That’s pennies!” Donnen Harbough said. He was medium brown skinned and sported a short fade.

“Do you want the money, or not?” Carnell Bonham said.

“I’m just saying, sure, but it’s just such a small amount. But okay, I have to give up something. What is it?”

“Your father’s notebook.”

“Notebook? I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you do. It’s a small black book. He kept it in his possession. He has to still have it. Ask him.”

Coincidentally, Donnen was already in his car, driving in the light snow to his father’s house in the Wilmington, Delaware.

How to work the industry

“I’m headed over there now,” Donnen yelled into the car’s Bluetooth microphone over the roaring engine.

“Donnie, you should be able to get this money without any taxes of course. This is a good deal, trust me....To begin with, it’s a good look.”

“Okay, but this is all unexpected. I wanted more.”

“Don’t worry, don’t worry. We can negotiate something later on down the road.”

“Alright, alright. I’m pulling up to the house, now.”

Denton Harbough stood in the doorway. He showed gray hairs in a cropped cut that contrasted against his black skin.

“Hey, boy.” He said as Donnen approached, then they walked into the house together.

“Dad, I need something from you.”

“What’s that?”

The price of words

“Some little black book or something,” Donnen said with a slight smirk.

Mr. Harbough withdrew from his son. His smile at seeing him turned almost instantly into a frown, and his brow furrowed slightly conveying fear before his words expressed it explicitly. “I’ll get it, but you have to promise me something: you stop dealing with these shady characters!”

As he finished speaking, his eyes searched Donnen’s face for confirmation that he’d heard him, and was taking him seriously.

“Of course I do, Pop. Now, where is it?”

The tone in Donnen’s voice allowed him to relent with his concern with whom his son dealt.

“Just wait here,” Mr. Harbough said.

As his father walked to another room, Harbough surveyed his childhood home, blowing his own breath into his hands in anticipation. He gazed at the mantlepiece where his father displayed photographs of himself with famous musicians, world leaders, and a variety of music industry awards. Just then, Mr. Harbough came down stairs carrying a box.

“Is that it?” he asked.

“Now you have to promise me you’ll make this an investment in your future. I used this notebook to make my documentary. The box contained every song I’ve ever written. It’s not worth the money you’ll get for it, so I want you to know what you’re doing, my son.”

“I do.” Donnen ripped open the box. and looked at the notebook. To his horror, the pages were all blank.

“What is this, Daddy? What is this?”

“I tried to tell you. Contained. That notebook is just like any other you could find at the store.”

“So where’s the book with your lyrics?”

“I destroyed it. All that’s left is in the cloud. Just kept that as a memento.”

The reality of the situation, and his predicament had finally sunk in. Donnen went from confused to panicked. “Pop! I need to get this deal.”

A mind for making music and money

Mr. Harbough shook his head in dismay. “In order for me to help you, you’re going to need to have to let me show you where you’re headed, and what it’s going to do to you, son.”

Donnen was nearly panting now. “I just got a deal on a label! I’m guaranteed $20K but I need to get that notebook! If I’m gonna get that money, I need to get the lyrics from the book from somewhere else!”

“I’m sorry I can’t help you.”

Donnen grabbed his keys, and left abruptly. He took the empty notebook, and sat in his car for a long time. Then he got back on the road and the phone.

“Hey. Did you get it?” Bonham asked.

“No.”

“No?!”

“Did I stutter? You heard me.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I already did it.”

“What’s that?” Bonham asked.

“You’ll see.”

The book of rhymes

Donnen walked into the offices of the music group to which he would sell the company the small black notebook. He carried it under his arm with the same smirk plastered on his face. He walked into Bonham’s office.

“What the hell? I thought you had this one in the bag.”

“It’s alright. I’ve got something better.”

“And what’s that?”

Donnen slammed the small black book onto the desk.

“Open it,” he said.

Bonham opened the notebook and read word after word, line after line of what turned out to be Donnen’s own lyrics.

“What’s this?”

“Those are all my words. I don’t write anything down when I’m recording. This will be my way of offering one thing for another.”

“That’s your deal.”