Discovering Emile

Jerry Schaefer, the manager of the Surfers, meets Emile Duncan for the first time in June of 1963. Finished ~12/29/24

Story told from Jerry's POV, a character created by Stooch.

!!! Content warning: !!!

It's not nearly as prominent as other short stories here, but there are some implications of ableism on the part of Jerry.

Click here to go back to Emile

It was the most beautiful and clear voice he had ever heard, and as the manager for an up-and-coming rock group, he'd heard countless. Rough, smooth, low, high... He knew better than anyone that each voice had something to offer, but this one... The strong tenor voice he heard singing along to "Breaking Up Is Hard To Do" playing from the scratchy radio was extraordinary, not least because of where he heard it. This wasn't another club in L.A. where desperate musicians like his own traveled from far and wide to seek their fortune. No, this was a rickety gas station in what was essentially the middle of nowhere. A nameless country town where creative talent had no use. His band should be the last thing on his mind, and yet he could see them now so clearly, that voice perfectly suiting their sound.

It was June of 1963, and Jerry Schaefer had recently been called by his old friend Doc to manage his group, Shannon & The Surfers. He had met the job with scepticism at first, but the youngsters had some chops. If they played their cards right, they could get a good record deal by the end of the summer and make some money. But for now, booking their shows was busy work. He'd only gotten a few days to visit some family up north, and to make matters worse, his trip back to L.A. was delayed by highway construction. His car had nearly broken down trying to get back on the route. But what if all that junk about silver linings was right? What if some mysterious force brought him here just to meet this singer?

At long last, he stood up from the table, looking around. It was an excruciating hot summer day in rural California, and he had hoped to catch his breath while getting some gas for his car. But the voice suddenly reinvigorated him. He had to know the owner of it, to see this angel for himself before it flew out of sight. By now, a newer hit song was playing on the busted old radio and that mysterious man was singing it with so much care that you could've sworn he'd written it himself. But when Jerry came around one of the shelves of cheap snacks, he saw no rock n' roll star. Facing away from him and focused on mopping was nothing but an ordinary country bumpkin, somehow more ragged than the rest he'd seen. In contrast with Jerry's own clean cut and plain button-up and dress pants, the worker had long, unkempt hair and a tattered plaid shirt and jeans hanging loosely from his scrawny body. Jerry was shocked even more as his eyes scanned down, seeing the young man's ravaged shoes in the puddle of soapy brown water.

It can't be. And yet the voice was louder than ever, beckoning him closer like some kind of siren. Questions swarmed in his head all the while. Surely someone with that much skill should be in L.A., not here and wearing ragged farm clothes, right? Before he knew it, he was reaching out for the singer's shoulder, hungry for answers.

"Excuse me, young man, I-"

Just as they touched, however, the singer suddenly shrank away, looking at Jerry with startled eyes.

"Oh, oh-" He began, his gaze darting frantically from the older man to the mop, "I'm sorry, sir. I'm cleanin' now, see?"

Jerry frowned as he looked down himself, watching the other hastily rub the water into the floor for whatever good it was.

"Now wait a minute, you must be mistaken," He stated, shaking his head, "I'm just a customer, you see, and I had a few questions about your singing."

The young man finally looked up again, some greasy locks falling over his confused face. "...Questions 'bout m-my singin'?" He echoed in a thick country accent, to which Jerry smiled reassuringly.

"Why, yes." For a moment, though, he paused, taking his chance to get a better look at the guy. He was a little short and his smooth young face implied that he was maybe 15 or 16. Meanwhile, his lips were on the bigger end and his nose ended in a round bump. But most striking of all were his eyes. They were large, light brown, sad, and almost pleading. Hard to look at, and even harder to avoid looking at.

"Who taught you to sing like that? If you don't mind me asking," Jerry finally spoke, moving closer. The younger man's gaze lowered nervously as he pulled his mop closer.

"I wasn't really taught by nobody. I just like singin'. My family always tell me to stop."

Jerry let out a tiny laugh, "Well, that's silly. You know, I came here from Los Angeles- big city. There's tons of singers there but I don't think even half of them sound as good as you."

At the last few words, the young man perked up, staring back again with his big eyes. "You think I'm good?"

"Well, I walked all this way to tell you, after all," He shrugged before reaching out a hand, "Anyway, the name's Jerry Schaefer. What's yours?"

"Uh- Emile Duncan." He stared dumbly at Jerry's hand for a moment before, finally seeming to remember what to do, hesitantly grasping it. By that point, Jerry slowly realized that something wasn't quite right with this Emile... His dialect was fairly stereotypical for the area, but something about his inflection threw him off. He would randomly pause, slow down, or rise in tone as if all sense of pitch was used up in his singing. Meanwhile, his head would occasionally tilt a little, his eyes wandering towards seemingly nothing. Even the slightly lopsided way at which he stood there concerned Jerry somehow. He tried his best to ignore it, though, hardly losing his determination.

"Does anybody else in your family sing?" He then pressed.

"No, they're too busy with the farm to do somethin' like that. But you said there's singers in Los Andis?"

"Angeles," Jerry corrected him, forcing a nervous smile, "And yes, we have all kinds of singers, guitarists, drummers, you name it, looking for work. Some of them are real famous. In fact, I'm helping a group of them right now. You could meet them if you'd like, I could even make you a big rock n' roll star."

He wasn't even sure why he had said it. Perhaps he got a kick out of making his job sound impressive. But as soon as Emile's face lit up, he cursed himself inside.

"Really? Like the ones on the radio that get to sing a lot?" He practically jabbered, "You'd make me one of them?"

"Well, I..." Jerry awkwardly began, honesty finally catching up to him. Emile leaped with excitement before he could speak, however, his ragged shoes squeaking on the wet floor.

"Oh, thank you mister Jerry! This is 'bout the best day of my life! I could, oh-" Suddenly he frowned, bringing his free hand to his lips, "But my parents said that I-I can't be a musician. They said I ain't good enough and- and too many folks waste lots of time and money goin' to the city 'stead of workin' hard where they're at. They said that."

Jerry sighed, admittedly feeling some sympathy for the young man's story. "I've heard that one before..." He said in a bored voice. Even some of the members of his own group had family who didn't approve. But he could've easily guessed that this particular case would've been extreme. Such were the values of old farming families. The kids didn't know any better.

"And also..." Emile went on, lifting the mop, "I gotta finish wettin' this floor or the boss will get at me."

"Right, sorry for interrupting. I should be heading home now, anyway." Backing towards the aisles, Jerry watched the young man promptly return to his work, appearing to forget that he was even there. For just a moment, he considered pressing Emile further about joining the Surfers. It wasn't long before he caught on to the new song playing and began to sing to himself once more, the country accent and odd inflection suddenly vanishing like ghosts. How perfect that could sound on a demo tape! They'd have a record deal in seconds!

But at long last, he thought better of it and began to walk away, the voice lingering behind him. It simply wasn't worth the trouble. The kid was hopeless. At his age, the country would be permanently seared into his every thought and mannerism. Now that Jerry thought about it, too, he'd seen that offness before- the poor mite. L.A. would only be harsher on someone like that. It was best that he stayed with his family to take care of him. If his clothes and hygiene were any clue, they didn't have much money, but it was better than nothing.

And so, Jerry re-entered the pitiless sun and made for his car, certain that he was doing the right thing by leaving that gas station behind. Even as he drove away, though, "Breaking Up Is Hard To Do" continued to play in his mind...