Post by minty on Jun 28, 2012 21:26:03 GMT -5
India was in the better of her default moods, today. Grumpy, angsty, irrational... it varied by the hour. She had a meeting with a prospective agent. Not that she expected much to come from it, as, in her previous experiences, most agents were real dicks. She didn't want anybody tying her down. In fact, she was perfectly satisfied as an independent artist without any agent at all. Sometimes one would drop her a card, though. Something like that. And then she'd feel inclined to oblige them. She'd had to take the bus to a stop near here and walk the rest of the way over. God. I need a car. Or a freaking bike. She padded the last few steps up the double doors of the agency in the worn black lace-up ankle boots she swore by and went on in, folding up her Ray Bans as she walked to hang on the neckline of her shirt. The place was small and not-too-special looking. Some of the cooler agencies and recording studios had been all decorated with pop art and colorful walls. This was just blah. It didn't bother her much. Most of those cooler places only looked good because they had the money. India didn't want any rich guys shoving their mainstream pop ballad crap down her throat. No thanks. It was just as well this place was boring. She didn't want big. She didn't want fancy. She didn't want money. What did she want? Really, India had no idea. She wanted a band. Some good concert venues to hang at. To check out the local party scene. And that might be it.
The waiting room looked like an orthodontist's office, but smaller. It was really small. It had four cheap chairs, a fern in the corner, and a little table with magazines. Wow. Weirdest agency ever. In New York, people usually at least tried to make themselves appear hip. This place was not trying. Or maybe she was just too picky. After about three minutes of sitting there, tapping on the side of the chair, she began to wonder if she was even in the right place. No, this is definitely it. For crying out loud, it said R&T Record Agency outside. Was she supposed to have gone in one of the doors of the wall adjacent to her? They were closed, unlabeled doors. She groaned. The whole situation was beginning to irritate her. She'd arrived about ten minutes late to begin with, thanks to the public transit system, and now it was three twenty. She was scheduled for three o'clock. It was only supposed to be a half-hour long meeting. She stared back to the double doors, wondering if she shouldn't just leave. If nobody had come for her by now, nobody was going to. Wait? Did I get the time wrong? Maybe he'd said three-thirty. Or four, even. Did he say four? She leaned back in her chair and reached for a "People" magazine. Almost as soon as she'd grabbed it, she tossed it back. How does anybody read that shit? She scooted to the edge of her seat and clasped her hands together. 3:28. India reached her hand inside her fringed suede hippie bag, pulled out a pack of Malboros, and struck her lighter. She didn't like Malboros. They were cheap. It definitely occured to India that smoking in the waiting room was not exactly "polite" behavior, but she'd gone from her version of "happy", which is about like a cat thrown in the swimming pool, to pissed. She didn't really care too much about her manners now. 3:29.
