Reaching for the Stars

I, Reggie Fishbourne, had reached for the stars and fallen short. Like a boy, climbing his roof, only to topple off the edge and land in the bush below. I would be lucky to walk away from my current predicament with only a few bruises and thorns stuck in my side.

Have you ever scored a film before?

“No,” I repeated, looking at myself sternly in the mirror. “Never! I have never scored a film.”

Only the echo of reality had been a resounding, “YES!” when Marvelous Meal Motion Pictures had asked me to compose music for their latest movie: Pizza Man. I was in over my head, and I would need a superhero even more ridiculous sounding than Pizza Man to save me. Deep in my fortress of pizza boxes, the stomach howls were about the most musical thing I had under my belt for the project thus far.

Never turn down work. If you can’t do it, figure it out later, my dad had always said—one of the lessons he taught me before he died of cancer last year. I accepted the job three months ago. It was officially: later. I had twenty-four hours to compose one-hundred minutes of music. (How they made a movie about a soaring triangle-shaped-triglyceride that long I’ll never know!)

Hoping it might spark some inspiration, I signed up for a film music course at the community center. Arriving, I slid into the single empty seat, immediately praying I would be able to exit the same way I entered. These were intended for children, not overgrown, failed musicians. Only after I locked myself into the seat for the foreseeable and bloated future did my trained ear pick up on the furious scribbling of notes surrounding me. I realized I was falling into my childhood habit of showing up unprepared for class: no pencil, no paper.

Foregoing the opportunity to bother any of my well-prepared classmates, I rummaged around my desk for supplies, attempting to tune into the instructor simultaneously. Behind him, Maestro Hofflepott was sprawled in chalk on the blackboard.

“Music is the most beautiful fusion of harmony and emotion in the world,” Hofflepott said, his arms swimming around. “When it’s right, it flows through you. You not only hear it—you feel it! No matter the instrument. It can be a cello, an oboe, or a tuba. It doesn’t matter where something comes from, only that its purpose is fulfilled.”

I could have sworn, in that moment, this Hofflepott character winked at me, but I was still preoccupied searching for supplies; I lifted the top lid of my desk and found a small, black notebook inside. Picking it up, and blowing off the dusty cover, I sifted carefully through the pages.

It was filled with musical notes and full arrangements.

Scores of music. Music so glorious and wonderful, I began to imagine it to the accompaniment of Pizza Man, flying over skyscrapers on a sunny day, as he tried to save the city before the cheese melted off his body. Enthralling, I know. This notebook literally contained everything I needed. If my rear-end hadn’t been so wedged in place, I might have fallen right out of my chair.

When I finally freed myself, I raced home so fast my heart was pounding on my chest like a drum, as the hot wind trumpeted my face. If I had more honorable intentions than simply collecting my paycheck, I might have felt like a superhero. Bursting into my apartment I wasted no time plugging in my synthesizer, booting up my computer, and scoring the film. For the next 12 hours I recorded and mixed the tracks. Closing my eyes, I thought about my father. He taught me how to play piano, but I could never freestyle the way he had. The keys were like an extension of him; music was his second language. The session became unexpectedly emotional – I could almost feel him with me. And it was all thanks to the mysterious black book. It succeeded in not only scoring the film, it brought back fervent memories of the best friend I lost to a terrible disease.

There were no signatures or labels on the book, so I wasn’t stealing. If anything, I was doing someone a favor by unveiling their masterpiece to the world (or the 35 people who ended up watching the film). I exported and uploaded the arrangements before texting my boss Judy. When she gave me the thumbs up, I realized how exhausted I was; I slumped into my sofa, vowing to never again eat pizza, and fell asleep.

I didn’t stir until my girlfriend Gloria came into my apartment complaining, “Look at this place! Look at all these pizza boxes. I’m surprised your neighbors haven’t called the police to make sure you’re still alive. What a stench!”

“Nice to see you too.” I peeled myself off the couch and went in for a kiss.

“Nu-uh!” she jolted back, the way a person might when opening a sealed container of rotten meat. “You stink, Reggie.”

“Cut me some slack. I’ve been up for 27 hours. I finished the score.”

“You did?” Her jaw dropped. “How?”

“Don’t sound so surprised!”

“Yesterday morning you were talking about running away to Switzerland! Of all places, Switzerland.”

“I like chocolate,” I shrugged. “Speaking of, did you bring me anything from the bakery?” Gloria owned a bakery and made delicious desserts. I realized she came empty-handed with no sweet aromas combating the stale-cheese scent of my apartment.

“I didn’t want to reward you for failing another job.”

“I didn’t fail this time.”

Gloria looked around, surveying the damage of the apartment, like an insurance claim agent after a hurricane. “Are you going to tell me your secret?”

“Secret?”

“How you pulled this out of your hat? How you even found your hat in this pigsty.”

I sighed loudly. “Fine. But you can’t tell anyone.” I pulled out the notebook and handed it to her. “I found this little gem tucked away in an old school desk at the community center. Everything I needed was right here.”

Gloria rifled through the pages with a puzzled look on her face. “You used…this? To make…music?”

“Yes…” I said, frustrated with her bewilderment. I knew she couldn’t read notes, but it wasn’t rocket science. “There’s music on every page.”

“No there isn’t,” Gloria said firmly. “These are baking recipes. There’s nothing but sweets, treats, and… oh wow, Floot-Flagrant-Furbelow-Bauble-Ball Pastries, made with malt and shallots! Sounds delicious.”

“This is music!” I shouted, pointing at the notes. “See. That’s a C-sharp.”

“No, that’s Strawberry-Rhubarb pie!” she shouted back, jousting my finger away. She lowered her eyes at me and whispered, “I know you’re under a lot of stress. Did you put special mushrooms on your pizza last night? I think you’re seeing things.”

We argued over the true essence of the book, our quarrel leading us outside, (as Gloria had to open her bakery soon) where I noticed two men in dark suits with tinted glasses sitting on a nearby bench. I hadn’t seen them around my apartment before, but behind their outstretched newspapers, they were probably watching us duke it out.

When we arrived at the bakery, Gloria immediately set out to prove me wrong. She crafted an exquisite Banoffee Pie, a previously unattempted recipe, claiming it was from the notebook. I entertained a slice, and the idea that it was quite possible I was seeing things. We needed to add a third party to the mix. Enter our friend Adrian. He was a structural engineer who came in for coffee and pastries every day at 10:00 AM.

“Yo, Adrian, take a look at this,” I said, as he walked up to the front counter.

“Reggie, I really don’t have time today. I’m in a real crunch. I have to build this bridge and I can’t figure out how I’m going to make it work.”

“Coffee and pastries on the house for a week, if you indulge my sour-smelling boyfriend,” Gloria negotiated on my behest, sliding Adrian’s usual across the counter.

“Fine,” Adrian sighed, rubbing his eyebrows and taking a swig of his coffee.

“Pick a page, any page,” I said. Adrian grasped the book and thumbed through it, progressing from slightly perturbed to mildly curious, ultimately landing on super intrigued. After a few minutes Adrian sat down and took off his jacket. He even unwrapped his apple turnover and began munching on it as he read. While he was captivated by the contents, his eyes never lifting from the book, it gave me time to notice a car parked on the other side of the street. It was black, plain, and unassuming. But inside, sat the two men from outside my apartment. Were they following us?

“Where did you get this?” Adrian asked, finally looking up, a great, big smile plastered over his face.

Gloria and I eyed each other. “What do you see?”

“This is the math. This is what I need to fix the bridge.”

Gloria and I met eyes again. It was at this moment that we knew I had stumbled upon something extraordinary. This notebook didn’t contain music, or recipes, or even math; it contained whatever the reader needed to see. Before we could discuss the ramifications of such a book, my peripheral vision caught the window again. The two men in suits were crossing the street.

“Adrian, quick, let me see your briefcase.”

“What for?”

“Just trust me. Eat your pastry.”

Thirty seconds later, the two men walked in.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Gloria smiled. “What can I get ya’?”

“You know why we’re here,” the taller man said, glaring at me. “We’ve been tracking that windpipe Hofflepott for years. We know he gave you the book.”

“Who are you?”

“We’re WMO. Wartime Mission Operations.” They flashed their badges.

“Fancy,” I whistled.

They didn’t waste any time. The taller man snapped his fingers and the shorter one frisked me, taking out a small, black notebook from my jacket pocket.

“Found it,” short handed it to tall. Tall opened the book and snorted.

“How to keep cheese crumbs out of curly beards… how to tail someone without them noticing…”

“You may want to bookmark that last one,” I pointed. “You guys could use a refresher in that area.”

“Cute,” tall smirked, tossing the notebook aside. “Where’s the real book?”

I shrugged. “Switzerland?”

Tall snapped his fingers again and short came at me. I punched him in the vagus nerve, causing him to drop to the floor. I learned this move from the book only moments ago. The composition of its pages changed with the development of the situation to some simple, but effective fighting techniques. I lowered into a warrior stance, beckoning tall to come forth.

Instead, he took out a gun and pointed it at me.

“Piiiiiiiizzzzzzzaaaaa Maaaaaaaaannnnn!” I heard a voice scream, followed by a loud THWACK! Tall slumped down on the tile next to his partner, leaving my boss Judy, standing in his place, holding a large Pizza Man statue. “I came to congratulate you on your magnificent score.”

“Thanks, Judy. Pizza Man to the rescue!”

After a long visit from the WMO director, we learned the two agents had gone rogue (supposedly), and they were arrested, suspended, and would be imprisoned for "a long time." As for me: it turns out getting harassed by the government can land you a $20,000 payout, as long as you sign a piece of paper pledging not to sue them in the future.

I donated the money and the magical black notebook to the cancer research foundation at the University of Michigan. Like someone once said: it doesn’t matter where something comes from, only that its purpose is fulfilled. I can’t think of a better way to honor my dad. To finally reach the stars.

...Until Judy inevitably calls me about scoring Pizza Man: Supreme Sequel!