Mike Jones

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You were born Michael Jonathan Berman, the son of a Rabbi and a housewife. you grew up in upstate New York, living most of your life in a small house next door to the Synagogue. You were the only son, and so your father wanted you to continue the tradition of rabbinical studies. You went to yeshiva from a very young age, through high school age.

Your only friend was Jonathan Cohen, son of the mayor of the city. You two grew up together, playing in one room while your fathers talked about politics or some such thing. The two of you were also in the small choir associated with the school. You always liked to sing, and Jonathan and you were the most enthusiastic members of the choir, going around to the local hospitals and whatnot.

You grew up learning all about Judaism, Jewish law and history, but caring very little about the religion itself. When you were young, it was natural, Religion and God, the holidays and everything like that. Slowly but surely, though your faith was chipped away. By the time you were four, he had already lost one grandfather, and one grandmother. He never got to know them. When you were eight, your grandfather died. When you were twelve, his last grandmother died. While your father was still in mourning for your grandmother, your aunt, your father's sister, died of cancer. You couldn't understand how a generous and just god could do this to people.

When Jonathan died in a automobile accident, you fell into a deep depression. You couldn't understand why this was happening. You questioned the existence of God, the existence of the afterlife, and so on. In your mind, there is nothing after death. That made sense to you. The idea of heaven or hell just didn't make sense. You tried to kill yourself on multiple occasions, and was hospitalized twice. Your life was in a dark place for years, in and out of school, going from psychologist to psychologist, taking antidepressant after antidepressant.

Towards senior year of high school, things were starting to calm down. Though you were still depressed, and still had no friends, you had had a moment of clarity. If this life is all there is, and at any moment, it might be taken away, then there's no point wasting it on trying to kill oneself, and being depressed. You convinced your parents to let you go off to college in Massachusetts. You decided that you needed to get away from home, get away from your religious upbringing.

You got into Lashane college and started majoring in art history. You had always liked art, but you couldn't get into the major. Your adviser, Professor Hileman, told you, after almost a whole year of low grades that you should think about switching majors. You spent that next evening thinking, in bed, in the dark (your roommate Scott was a light sleeper), about what you wanted to do with your life. You thought back to when you used to sing with Jonathan. You remembered learning how to read music and the little tidbits of music theory that your choir leader would teach the two of you after practice. The next day you looked into the music major and talked to some of the professors. It wasn't until the next fall that you declared your new Music major.

Your new roommate, Fredrick, a business major, told you that he had been thinking of starting a band. Fred played a little bass guitar, but he didn't know that many people who played instruments or anything. You remembered an offhand comment that Scott, your old roommate played guitar. So you went to Scott's new room, and that's where you met Scott's new roommate, Darren, a journalism major with a penchant for music. Apparently Darren played drums, and he actually has played around with some songwriting.

So it wasn't long before you all started up TMRfOH (Too Much Rock for One Hand). Fredrick played bass, Scott played Guitar, Darren played drums, and you sang. It were a small little group, playing every once in a while at the campus coffeehouse. The music you played was rock with a hint of punk. All the music was written by Darren, and it was awesome. Every time you played, you got a standing ovation. It was about that time that Darren started going out with Jessica.

Jessica was a fan of TMRfOH and tried to convince you all to record a CD and try to play in local coffeehouses and open mic nights and such. No one in the band really wanted to go anywhere with this, they all had a lot on their plates with their respective majors and their plans with their lives. However, Jessica's words hit close to home with you. There wasn't much you could do with a music degree. The thought of taking this hobby of yours and make money with it was an interesting concept. You never told anyone about it. When the band members (including you, who was following the crowd) told Jessica that they didn't want to sell out, she started pressing Darren to at very least sell the music that he had written.

Darren kept all of the music that he wrote in a green spiral notebook. A few months later, when the band amicably dissolved, everyone wanting to focus more on classes and work, you snuck into Darren and Scott's dorm room and stole Darren's green notebook. You heard a little while later that Darren blamed Jessica for stealing it. You felt a little guilty about that, but not too much, they were a good couple, they would get over it. You didn't really know why you stole it, you just felt that you might be able to use it at some point.

That point came three years later when you were living in a rat infested apartment downtown, working as a waiter in restaurant after restaurant. You had lost contact with all of his old college friends, and you had been thinking about your time in the band. You found the old notebook lying at the bottom of a box of your old college stuff and you flipped through it. You remembered how much people liked Darren's music and you thought about your own life. You thought about the record labels that refused to hire you, even at internship levels. On a whim, you tried recording one of the songs on your computer. It was a low quality recording, and you didn't sound your best, but you sang the song. You made a few CDs, printed out a couple copies of your resume and promptly fell asleep.

The next day, you looked at the pile of papers and CD's and called his boss to say that you wouldn't be coming in. You looked online for local record labels and made a list. The first one on the list was Gold Records, a subsidiary of Gold Standard entertainment. You jumped on the T and headed over there. While on the train, you realized what you were doing. You hadn't made an appointment, and you were going to look like some nut. But you went anyways. This is what you really wanted to do, you wanted to sing, to entertain people, and most of all, you wanted to be rich and famous, and this was your chance.

You strode into the lobby of Gold Records, on the 43rd floor of the Gold Standard building, and asked the receptionist who you should talk to to get a record produced. The receptionist laughed, telling you that people come in asking that same question all the time, and you would have to make an appointment with Mr. Stevens months in advance, and even if you did have an appointment, there Mr. Stevens was going off to lunch now and he wouldn't be able to talk to anyone. On another whim, you ran after Stevens out to the elevator. Ending up alone with him in the elevator, you gave him the CD, asking him just to give it a chance, and telling him that your email address and phone number was on his resume. Stevens put the CD and the resume in his bag and politely thanked you while pulling out his cell phone.

Dejected from the obvious rejection, you wandered back to the T and headed back to your apartment. Before getting to your apartment, you stopped in a coffee shop and just sat with a cup of coffee, staring at the wall, listening to the CD that was playing, a cover of a cover of a cover of some old Christmas song. Going back to work the next day, you tried to forget the look on Mr. Stevens' face as you handed him the CD. The look that said "oh god, not another loser." That face haunted you every night for the next three nights.

The fourth day, however, as you were about to head down into the subway near work, your cell phone rang. Startled, you answered, finding that it was Mr. Stevens. Stevens told you that he had listened to the CD. He asked you if it was actually you who wrote the music. Without thinking, you told him that you had. You instantly felt guilty. Stevens told you that it was good, and though you needed some work on your voice and your image, you could be pretty big, and he'd like to meet you. You were overjoyed, told him yes, and spent the entire train ride home with a grin on your face.

When you got back to his apartment, you took out the battered old green notebook and flipped through it, finding enough music there to make it through about one or two albums. You started imagining your life as a famous rock star, with money, women, and fame. The next few weeks were a blur. You quit your job, signed countless contracts, started recording, got new clothes, changed your name to simply Mike Jones, and moved to a new apartment. You started going to parties, you were introduced to countless names and faces, and things started snowballing from there.

Two years later, you had released two Albums, "Jonesville" and recently, "Keeping up with the Joneses". You finally got your fame, your money and everything you thought you wanted. But the lingering guilt that you didn't write any of the music you were singing still hovered over your head. You had been dreading the day you ran out of pages in the notebook, and that day has come. This guilt and feeling of doom drove you to drink heavily. You stopped talking to your parents who berated you for his public behavior and pleaded with you to come back home to New York. You always have your bag on him, in which is your flask and the green notebook. You keeps it on you so that no one will find it, feeding his paranoia. Today, you're heading to the Gold Standard building to meet with Stevens, to talk about a new tour to coincide with the new album which had just been released. You knows that Stevens is going to ask him about your next album, and you know that you don't have anything left to play, you have no music left.

Last Thoughts Before Gamestart

Huh... interesting. There seems to be a little bit of a college reunion on this train. There's Scott, Jessica, even some people you vagueley remember.

... That's weird

Who You Know on the Train

01. Jessica Hawthorne – In college she was your bandmate Darren’s girlfriend, but you always kind of liked her yourself. You haven’t seen her in forever; wonder how she’s doing.

02. Scott Barrister – He was also in your band in college. He was always a pretty decent guy, and a good friend to you.

03. Wasn't that the geeky kid that showed up at school to visit Darren sometimes? One of those too-awkward-to-live-in-the-real-world types.

04. This guy seems like he belongs in some old detective movie. You don't know if that means he's going to shoot you or ask you for help on a mystery.

05. She looks like one of those TV psychics. The people who claim to talk to the dead or something. Whatever.

06. This guy seems like he belongs in one of those hippie coffe shops reading poetry or something. He looks well put together, but a little artsy.

07. Shannon Gregory – Isn’t that Darren’s little sister? You think you met her a few times, but that was a long time ago.

08. It's clear from this guy's face that he's gone through some tough stuff lately.

09. This guy seems to be one tough customer. Not the sort of person you want to get on the wrong side of.

11. A big, tough-looking man with stern features. He doesn't seem to be in the mood to put up with any nonsense right now.

12. Phillip Zabrensky – He went to college with you, though you never knew him well. If you recall, he was a nice guy, but kind of quiet.

13. This guy looks too well dressed and wealthy to be riding the T. What's up with that?

14. And, of course, the obligatory crazy smelly hobo is here.

15. Terry Shipton – You think you remember her from college too. Did she always seem this stressed out?

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