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Chapter 2 - Pure imagination

Bob James - From Pure Imagination

The receptionist, who had forgotten about me, had to step away from her desk, creating the opportunity.

I hastened past her station and entered the interior corridor where all the offices were located. The corridor was long, with many small offices, and I scanned the labels on the doors quickly: "Bob James", "Jay Chattaway", "Oh my God - Bob James, Wow!!!" I continued my search, going from door to door until I finally found what I was looking for. A small white-on-black label read "TEO MACERO." My head was spinning. TEO MACERO was right behind that door. I had to remind myself that I was Misha Segal, the known composer from Israel. I had an internal debate with myself for what felt like an eternity, but in reality, it was just a split second. "Get a grip," I said to myself. I took a deep breath.

I opened the door and poked my head in. There he was: A short, stocky, Italian fella, sitting behind a desk and reading a score. Musicians used to actually do that at some point. They may not have made a million dollars per project, but they were able to read and write music. His pince-nez was perched on the tip of his nose and his sharp, tiny brown eyes met mine instantly, with a piercing yet whimsical gaze.

“What the fuck do you want?”

“My name is Misha Segal and I just came in from Boston, actually I am from Israel…”

“What is this… Who the fuck are you?” he asked, growing more irritated

“Well, I have a tape here that you have to listen to, because I can’t stay long, I may have to go back to Israel…”

“Get out!!!” he screamed.

“Mr. Macero, please, you don’t understand, I came all the way from Boston… I made this tape…” I implored.

This was not going anywhere. He is yelling at me and I am telling him some dumbass story about Boston and Israel.

At some point, I noticed a very subtle mischievous smile on his face. I think he was dumbfounded and probably a little intrigued. He had never encountered anything like this before. “Can’t you see I am busy? Come back tomorrow, now get the f… outta here!!!”

He frequently used a the four-letter word, but never in a truly malicious manner, I must mention. It conveyed his emotions accurately, nonetheless.

“OK Mr. Macero. Thanks. I’ll…”

“Goooooooo!!!!” he roared and got up on his feet.

I shot out of his office and grabbed the elevator, hoping the receptionist wouldn’t spot me. I paced inside the elevator all the way down. When I finally reached the ground floor, I sprinted out of the building and stopped on the sidewalk. I turned around, gazed up to the top floor of the Columbia records building and let out a piercing scream at the top of my lungs.


I ran home and yelled, “we are staying in New York, WE MADE IT!”

To be continued…

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