Everyone loves Aidan’s work. He’s not just a local legend, either—the Grammys in his office speak for themselves—but I’ve always gotten a kick out of clients who are clearly a little starstruck. Yes, Aidan is a genius, but he’s also worn that same raggedy sweatshirt every day since I started working here. Growing up in the industry, I’ve always seen my heroes as human, and humans make mistakes.
Like right now, when Aidan says, “You’ve already met my studio assistant, Alice Pierce.”
Shit.
It’s not that I never use my last name in professional settings, but I prefer not to with people I don’t know, and Rich’s responsereminds me why. He tugs off his aviators and squints at me like I can be decoded. “Any relation to Ricky Pierce?”
My chest winds tight, but I can’t bring myself to lie. “His daughter,” I murmur.
Rich whistles over his beer. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
Big chimes in with “Your dad was a legend.”
My smile is neither genuine nor convincing.
I hear this a lot: My dad was an icon, a hero, a legend. When people think of Chicago music, they think of Ricky Pierce, the man who all but invented the alt-country genre one sold-out show at a time. It wasn’t just the gritty twang of his vocals or his masterful guitar playing, though. Dad was a real bottle rocket onstage, it’s true, but he burned even brighter once he could step out of the spotlight and just be a person. Everyone loved Dad—not just industry folks but strangers, neighbors, cab drivers; my last name alone could’ve landed me a job at just about any studio in the city. But not Gentle Giant. Aidan vets his studio assistants more thoroughly than the FBI. If you don’t know your shit, he’ll happily replace you with someone who does, but most clients don’t know that, and when Rich licks his teeth and says, “Betcha don’t need talent with a last name like that,” my skin crawls at the thought that he—or anyone else—assumes I’m only here because of my dad.
Our drunk country duo requests a closed session, so I won’t be shadowing today, and it’s just as well. Aidan gives me a quick apology and a two-finger salute, and I settle in at the desk, unfolding my laptop and booting up Pro Tools. On days like this one, I’m free to work on my own mixing and mastering projects, and I run out the clock mixing a folk EP between beer runs for the band in studio A.
My shift ends, and I step out into the sharp winds of earlyevening. This morning’s warm weather has given way to a wind advisory, but a lifetime in the Midwest has taught me plenty about dressing for the elements. Wear layers. Pack extra socks. Never get too attached to a sunny day. All the weather ever does is change. My hair whips across my face, and I unknot the flannel from my waist and turn against the wind, choosing the two-mile trek home over the bus. I feel almost pressurized, like a shaken-up can of beer that might burst if I don’t walk it off. I wish I could blame it on sitting too long, but the dull ache expanding beneath my rib cage knows better. I miss Dad. I always miss Dad. More than that, I feel guilty for not wanting to be Alice Pierce all the time. I don’t want to discuss my father with strangers. I don’t want to put my feet up and lounge in his shadow. I used to take pride in being a mini Ricky Pierce, but some days I just want to be Alice, not the daughter of some dead legend.
I could choke on that word.Legend.It has one too many definitions for my taste. Dadwasa legend back when he walked the earth and graced the stage, but now that he’s gone, it’s taken on a different meaning. He has more in common with Atlantis or the Loch Ness Monster. Legends. Myths. Subjects of discussion that don’t actually exist. Every block closer to home draws me deeper into the ache. Dad doesn’t exist—not anymore. Now, he’s nothing but a story.
FROM:Christina Amato
TO:Renee Roberts, Alice Pierce
SUBJECT:RE: following up :)
Hi gals!! Loved the survey!!!! I’m literally so excited for this bachelorette trip. Thanks Renee!!!
Next Thursday works great for me, and I’m happy to host a wine night! Does 7:30pm work??
~*Never stop sparkling*~
Christina Amato
FROM:Renee Roberts
TO:Christina Amato, Alice Pierce
SUBJECT:RE: following up :)
7:30PM on Thursday works great! Thank you for volunteering to host, Chrissy. I’ll bring the wine!
XO, Renee
FROM:Alice Pierce
TO:Renee Roberts, Christina Amato
SUBJECT:RE: following up :)
Hey guys! Sorry for the delay. Thursday works! I just tried opening the survey, but I think there’s some kind of glitch—it’s not supposed to be almost 50 questions, is it? Thanks!
FROM:Renee Roberts
TO:Christina Amato, Alice Pierce
