At the close of his wearisome day sampling hundreds of CDs to give the big break to a hopeful, unwitting composer's work, Tony whistled while walking down the deserted tile hallway toward the elevator, the percussive taps of his Ferragamos a rhythm out of sync with the tune.
He fired the 760Li's massive 12-cylinder engine intentionally squealing the tires as he left the garage and tapped-off the sound system choosing the company of random thought over the radio's music he may have published.
One more forgettable, makeshift meal standing at the island of his loft's kitchen witnessed Tony's spirit's rise, inexplicably, as he hummed while hand-scraping his plate into the disposer and depositing it into the dishwasher with practiced precision.
In his sleep, his legs scissored endlessly between the crisp percales, enough movement to finally to stir him groggy, rolling to his side, facing the window. Hazy pinpoints of light through San Francisco's wee hours fog could never rouse him but this night's bolt of realization brought him from restlessness to full alert as he reached over to jot a few notes on the nightstand's tablet.
Tony's whistled melody in the hall...hummed in the kitchen...was it, the one, the next great artist, the CD he'd ruin his desk to find--a revelation much like the print editor slogging through manuscripts then nagged by style and substance hours after reading a snippet of a stack-buried submission that would, for some unknown writer, find him cloaked with acclaim for crafting America's next best-seller.
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