The Meeting
Sleep felt like a distant luxury as my alarm screamed at 7 AM. Three meticulously crafted beats sat on my DAT tape, each one a calculated step toward an empire I'd already built once. My teenage muscles ached from hunching over the MPC all night – a sensation my fifty-year-old mind had forgotten about.
Mom's note waited in the kitchen, placed carefully next to a plate of eggs she'd left before her night shift: "Proud of you for winning. Still need to graduate." In my other timeline, this note would become a symbol, framed in her executive office at our global headquarters. Here, now, it was just a mother's love and worry scrawled on yellow paper.
The Sony meeting wouldn't happen until 2 PM at Rico's studio, but time felt like a wire pulled too tight. I remembered this day – the first version of it. I'd walked into that studio sweating through my oversized T-shirt, clutching hastily made beats and desperate hopes. I'd stumbled through the meeting, gotten lucky with raw talent. This time would be different. This time, I had thirty years of industry knowledge compressed into three perfectly crafted tracks.
First period was AP English, discussing "The Great Gatsby" – a book about reinvention that hit differently now. Mrs. Torres called on me to analyze Gatsby's pursuit of the American Dream. I almost laughed. What would she make of my story? A teenage producer with five decades of memories, carefully rebuilding a music empire while trying not to break the timeline.
"Mr. Johnson?" she prompted. "Your thoughts on Gatsby's methods?"
"He tried too hard to erase his past," I answered, the irony thick in my throat. "Sometimes the best way forward is to build on what came before, not pretend it never existed."
Between classes, I checked my phone: two missed calls from Rico, a text confirming the Sony exec's name – James Mitchell. In my original timeline, Mitchell would become one of my earliest mentors before dying of heart failure in 2008. This time, maybe I could change that too.
Derek caught me at lunch again. "You looking nervous, man. That beat last night was crazy though. You really got Sony coming?"
I studied my friend's face – young, unburdened by the addiction that would steal his prime years in the other timeline. "Yeah, but that's just the beginning. Listen, about this weekend – I'm serious about working together. I see something in you, Derek. Something big."
"Man, you talking like you've seen the future or something," he laughed.
If he only knew.
The afternoon crawled by in a haze of classes I'd forgotten I'd taken, teachers whose names I'd had to relearn. My mind kept drifting to the meeting ahead, running scenarios. I couldn't come across as too polished, too knowing. Had to let them think they were discovering me, not the other way around.
By final bell, I had my approach mapped out. I'd play the hungry kid from the Bronx, but with just enough polish to intrigue them. Let them see the raw talent first, then gradually reveal the business acumen. Plant the seeds for innovations that wouldn't exist for years, but frame them as dreams rather than blueprints.
Walking home, I mentally rehearsed my younger self's mannerisms. Had to remember to fidget more, to let my voice crack occasionally, to temper my usual boardroom confidence with teenage uncertainty. Success today wouldn't just come from the beats – it would come from playing a role convincingly enough to avoid suspicion.
In my bedroom, I changed clothes three times before settling on an outfit that screamed 2002: baggy jeans, white Air Force Ones, and a fitted Yankees cap. The same thing I'd worn to the original meeting, but this time chosen deliberately rather than frantically.
The DAT tape felt heavy in my pocket as I headed out. Three beats that would open the door to everything – if I played this right. In one timeline, this meeting had launched my career. In this one, it would launch an empire.
Time to make history. Again. But better.