The First Song

Yelawolf and Eminem do their first collaboration together.

“What if he's right? I'm just a criminal, makin a living

off of the world's misery - what in the world gives me the right

to say what I like, and walk around flippin the bird…

So when you see me, dressin up like a nerd on TV

or heard the CD usin the f*g word so freely

it's just me being me, here want me to tone it down?

Suck my f****n dick, you f****t

You happy now?”

-          “B***h Please II”, Eminem featuring Dr. Dre, Snoop Dogg, and Xzibit

 

Everything had gone just fine up until this point. Marshall grimaces and furrows his brow, trying to find a way to continue the process. 11 days. They had gone 11 days without a glitch, yet here they are, silent and lost. Yela looks off distantly, grossly waiting for Eminem to say something �" anything �" as if making the first move was detrimental; it just made Marshall more nervous.

 

“I guess we’ve reached a stalemate,” Marshall breathes out quietly, not looking at Yela but the dusty mixers instead. The air conditioner hums louder over them, symbolically dissipating the creativity. However, they would be drowning in a puddle of sweat otherwise. Yela’s fingers itched to turn it off, and he didn’t know if it was because he wanted to clear the distraction or to just hear his boss’ voice ring through his ears.

 

“We can’t. Not now,” Yela says while butting out his cigarette. “We only have seven tracks done.” He looks at the floor disdainfully, trying to think of something �" anything �" so that his boss wouldn’t call it a day. Anything.

 

“Well, we have all of the time in the world to record more stuff.” No. “Maybe we should-,”

 

“S**t, man. Don’t you have any random rhymes or anything that you could use?” Anything. It was really stupid, now that Yela thinks about it, to ask Em if he wanted to do a verse.

 

But the beat was insane. The piano flooded Yela’s veins and absorbed into his mind every time he listened to it. He finished his verse in about ten minutes, and it almost offended him that Em couldn’t get his down. His boss avoided doing it all morning to the point where Yela was frustrated and out of song ideas. This verse wasn’t the stalemate, it was the road block �" an asteroid in the middle of a small ally way.

 

“I mean, yeah…” and Marshall shifts his gaze nervously from random object to random object, scratching his head absently. “But I can’t guarantee that it would work. Plus, I don’t think I’d be good for the record.”

 

Yela’s head shoots up like his battery was recharged. “Excuse me? You’re Eminem. You could rap about s**t and it would be award winning.” Em laughs deeply (a beautiful sound), still not looking at his signee.

He thinks about Encore, then Relapse. Oh.

 

“I’m a rapper, not God.” And Yela swallows, harsh enough to hurt his throat and he wonders if L.A. can get any f*****g hotter as a river runs down his back and his T-shirt collar gets tighter around his swollen neck. He thinks maybe the title “God” isn’t that far of a stretch.

 

“Look,” God continues. “If you really want me to do something, I’m gonna need some time to myself for a bit, ya know? Jus’ me an’ the beat.” He looks at Yela with sincerity and warmth that tickles Yela’s spine with cursed flare and delight. He nods, gazing at the floor which had a bit less emotional patronage.

 

“A’ight.” And the word sounds broken and sad, which surprises Marshall for a moment. He leans over and puts a cold, frail hand on his signee’s quivering shoulder delicately. Although he is singed with Alabama fire, he tries to remain calm.

 

“30 minutes…tops,” he says kindly. Yela looks up at him with a sharp glare distorted by a lost puppy sense of abandonment, and Marshall almost doesn’t want to leave, but knows that he needs to. He’ll make Michael happy. “Now get the f**k outta ma studio.”

 

Yela smiles, looking away with a chuckle.

 

“You have such a way with words.”

.  .  .  .  .

 

It’s been twenty-five f*****g minutes and Yela is pacing the hallway, making a rut in the carpet as he moves back and forth and sweating like he’s in the Amazon. Momentarily he believes that if he perspires much more the rut underneath his feet would become a mote soon.

 

The thing was, he couldn’t hear anything. The silence filled the air proudly, clouding Yela’s judgment and rationality as if it were alcohol. The airless noise bleached his skin, making him pale and withered as Father Time stepped forward and claimed his sanity.

 

But what if he rhymes my name with something? But what if he can’t come up with anything? But what if he hates the whole thing and scraps it from the final cut?

 

And it’s all stupid assumptions, like he was hoping for the best but praying for the worst like a sadistic animal. His Adidas’ squeak with each mindless pivot; his breaths becoming gasps with each step.

 

Everything should go over smoothly. The verse will be perfect, the song will be perfect, and Yela’s heart rate should slow down right about now.

 

Twenty f****n’ seven minutes. He’s exhausted and breathless, like he was the one recording the verse. F**k, Em wasn’t even recording yet, just writing.

 

Maybe Yela wouldn’t feel so nervous if it hadn’t been so long of a wait. Maybe Yela wouldn’t be so

nervous if he wasn’t so conscious of how Em would do the verse.

 

Maybe Yela wouldn’t be so nervous if he could only hear his boss’ breathing, his boss’ voice, his boss’ sighs, his boss’ thoughts. Maybe.

.  .  .  .  .

 

Nothing. Absolutely f*****g nothing was getting done and he almost lunged the ball-point pen across the room, hopefully to put a mark on the taunting white walls. He grits his teeth and glances up to the clock, now twitching and beating a dumb pulse.

 

Twenty-five minutes and only four rhymes were written on the page. They were sprawled out in a linear, scraggily penmanship in a diagonal curve. He thinks about when Anderson Cooper said he was crazy. Ha.

 

Not crazy enough apparently.

 

So he starts banging the stupid pen on the spiral of his notebook, rocking back and forth in his rolling chair and sighs through pursed lips: a sure sign of defeat. Was it the air conditioner humming a mundane and ceaseless note in his ears? Was it the strange piano beat drumming in the back of his mind through dusty speakers?

 

Or could it be the lost puppy probably digging a rut in the carpeted floor outside? He glances up at the clock.

 

Twenty-seven minutes. Okay, he tells himself. Just three more lines.

 

It’s not like he has to write a verse. It overwhelms him slightly at the power he has. He could just waltz right out of the studio and tell Yela it was a no-go. The kid would sigh, unhappy, and Marshall would shrug and they would move on.

 

But they wouldn’t.

 

For some reason, Marshall knew the kid would be a little more than upset. Disappointed even. Like his boss failed him.

 

No, he thinks. Not this time.

 

"“Me and Yelawolf tear the roof off this motherfucka you ain’t got the umpf, you’re a hoof to the foot of an elephant”

 

Okay, making some progress. As dumb lyrics and cheesy one-liners fill his usually poignant mind, Marshall begins to fell incompetent.

 

Twenty-nine minutes. He threw the pen.

 

“F**k it…” He stands up slowly, walks to the door slowly, opens the door slowly. Anything to not see the inevitable sadness.

 

Like he assumes, Yela walks up to the door �" almost f*****g bouncing in happiness and expectations.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says. His face drops. “I’m not feelin’ it…” And there’s a little punch to his gut as the kid’s eyes drift to his shoes. “But I’ll tell you what,” and the kid’s hopeful (but reserved) eyes shoot up, “I’ll take the beat home an’ sleep on it, ya know? Maybe I’ll think o’ somethin’ in the shower or whatever…” Even though he’ll probably be doing some other things in the shower. But the smile on the kid’s face makes his heart wrench and he better come up with some good s**t I that goddamn shower later.

 

“Thanks man,” he drawls. They shake hands and the familiar electricity shoots through them; so familiar that they don’t shudder anymore. Not since Yela recorded Trunk Muzik: 0-60 a year ago. Not since they shot the XXL cover with Slaughterhouse a couple months back. Not since preparing for the BET Cypher in September.

 

As Yela departs with his gear and bulky headphones with that crooked smile on his face and the piano ballad pours through the hallway unrelenting, Marshall dives for his pen and prays to the gods of rap that he can get this f*****g verse done.

~*~*~

 

The water is pouring over Marshall’s body, cascading over his soft skin and sinewy muscles. When Marshall closes his eyes, he is blind to everything. Whether in his hotel rooms, all alone in his home, or right now �" breathing in the scent of mint shampoo and steam, he is quiet and understanding. His sensory nerves, especially touch, delight in the feeling of the unknown as darkness clouds his mind but empties it as well. All he has is the feeling of Detroit’s purest water at this very peaceful moment.

 

He started doing this once he got clean. Without the fog of painkillers and drowsy manifestations, he had a lot more to focus on. He discovered that when he wasn’t writing brilliant songs instead of s***s and giggles on a page, or buying Justin Bieber CDs for his girls, that there was an entire world left in the quiet of the night that he hadn’t bothered to pay attention to. It scared him at first to close his eyes and listen, to feel everything that he hadn’t thought about before, but now it was like second nature; his own personal spiritual experience with the world’s pleasures left unseen by those who took advantage of the senses. Yes, he felt at home in these moments.

 

He takes a deep breath and focuses on the soft but sharp, warm molecules rolling off his shoulders and riding in rivulets on his thighs. This always felt erotic to him for some reason, but he knows (even when his member rises slightly and fills with passion before him) that he needs to think about the verse. It’s late at night and he only has seven bars down, which is a new low for him. Usually if he has a good idea of what the song is about or what the politics of it are, he can follow a train of thought; but goddamn that beat and hook were confusing, like he was listening to evangelical hymns. It even occurred to him, at one point, that he was a bit jealous at Yelawolf’s dominance of a beat so pristine and sharp, jealous that he (the kid’s f*****g mentor) couldn’t even get ten bars down without falling in a pit and reaching for a RedBull to fill the procrastination.

 

So, he thinks about Yela. Those grey-green eyes, the feathery black mane like a lion leading his jungle, the tall and lithe frame of his body that made him look powerful (regal even), those tattoos with an abundance of stories that made him smile, the quirky fashion statement, the southern sound emanating from his articulate lips; all of these things made Marshall’s spine tickle and his skin sing.

 

And now he’s pulsing between his thighs, and he groans with happiness. The water runs over his puffy lips and he sighs, still blind to the world but delighted by its power over him.

 

And suddenly lyrics lick at his mind. His eyes shoot wide open �" his sight momentarily blurred �" and he blinks several times at the realization of human oddities: I’m going to forget these words the minute I step out of this shower.

 

So, in the utmost silence of his hotel room, he rips open the shower curtain, stark naked, and commands attention at the tops of his fiery lungs.

 

“Paul!” he shouts. “Get ma rhymebook!”

~*~*~

 

He doesn’t know he’s waiting for a call until it comes. He himself probably should’ve done so, but he couldn’t see anything past the excitement and ultimate relief after recording the damn verse that morning in L.A. What shocks him even more, however, is the duck noise that emanated from his cell phone when the call comes.

 

“The f**k is this?” he mutters as he picks up the device, glancing at the name listed. “White Dawg…” and he can’t recall putting that name (nor the ringtone) in his phone, but answers it anyway. “Yo?”

 

“Yo, whaddup?” a tired voice says and it’s music to Marshall’s ears, yet he has no idea what to say.

 

“…Whaddup?”

 

“Uh…you do that verse?” The nervousness is strange, but not as strange as the comfort it brings Marshall. It’s plausible though, arguably, since they’re both shy individuals. So he decides to play with the kid.

 

“Yeah I jus’ killt that s**t,” Marshall mumbles.

 

“What?” Yela asks, surprise lingering there a bit. But Marshall has bigger fish to fry, namely a certain song he needs to discuss with his signee.

 

“Nah, nothin’…um, yo you know what I was thinkin’ man? I think the one thing that, uh…” he stutters distantly, wondering how to go about this without sounding crazy. “…that the album don’t have that it might be missin’…is a song for like, for girls.” And it’s silly, but true. However, there’s a long pause at the other end.

 

“Er…whatdya mean, for like, b*****s?” he asks incredulously with a slight rasp. Marshall almost laughs at the comment.

 

“Nah, girls. Like a love song,” he states open-endedly, as if waiting for rebuttal. Pause.

 

“No,” the kid says in disgust and abrupt horror. He knew there would be a debate, but not that harsh of one. He’s Eminem; he knows what he’s doing.

 

“Well ya need one…” and he’s almost pleading, but with class and slight arousing guilt.

 

“Like…love song, love song?” The kid’s voice is strained and flabbergasted at the suggestion, like those types of songs don’t exist in Alabama �" but they do songs about drinking and marrying their cousins so maybe it’s not that much of a hyperbole.

 

“Yeah man!” he says excitedly, almost beaming. “B*****s like love songs.”

 

There’s a click on the other line followed by a dial tone and suddenly Marshall is wondering why he suggested anything in the first place.

~*~*~

 

“I don’t know man, a love song? Like why?” Yela asks the DJ in front of him, currently shoving a Subway melt into his bearded mouth.

 

“Just try it out, man,” he suggests over a slew of meat and lettuce and inconceivable condiments. He licks his thumb of mayo and stares at it a minute before continuing. “You don’t say ‘no’ to Eminem without good reason. You’ve written love songs before.”

 

“I know, man,” Yela complains, looking at his uneaten sandwich. “But I don’t want ta fake one, neither.” He crumples his papery napkin, undoes it, and crumples it again like a psycho. Artie just devours his sandwich like a cannibal chowing down on an obese tourist, and Yela peers at him with irritated glares. Artie looks up.

 

“What?” And a slice of lettuce falls out of his mouth. Yela grimaces and looks out the window to see some less disgusting things, maybe a hobo urinating or two guys kissing. He sees the latter across the street and his stomach turns, two coiffed and feminine guys rolling their tongues together on a sunny L.A. sidewalk. He feels as if he’s going to throw up.

 

“C’mon,” he utters, squeezing his eyes shut and looking back to Artie who’s thankfully cleaned up. “I mean I know we’re in California but it doesn’t mean you can f**k each other in the butt right in front of me.” And he says it loud enough for any other homos to hear in the restaurant.

 

“Well you’re not an a*****e at all,” Artie mutters sarcastically. “They don’t bother you, so why do you feel the need to pick on them?” Artie was one of the most open-minded people Yela knew, and sometimes it just pissed him off to no end �" like now.

 

“F**k you Artie. It’s f****n’ disgusting. That’s not the way God intended society,” he seethes out.

 

Artie opens his mouth to fight back, but closes it at the last minute. “You know what? Forget it. I’m not gonna try to argue with someone who would rather be ignorant than accepting.” They stop talking after that, and suddenly it becomes too quiet for Yela. He whips out his phone and dials someone who he knows will mend his solitude. Marshall picks up on the last ring.

 

“What, man? What the f**k do you want?” Yela is startled by the abrupt anger and forgets what he was about to say to his boss.

 

“Um…I,” he stutters, and suddenly he realizes that he doesn’t even remember how to say ‘hi’ anymore.

 

“ ‘Um, um, uh’,” Marshall mimics cruelly. There’s a shout in the background and a muffled “I’ll be there in a minute baby,” so different from the menacing remarks beforehand. Yela is simply speechless.

 

“Listen, cocksucker,” Marshall breathes. “I f****n’ told every last one of you that today is my baby girl’s birthday and if any of you f****n’ called me your a******s would be ripped wide open. Don’t f****n’ call here again, Michael, or I will come over there and carry out what I threatened. Got that, f****t?”

 

Yela winces and chokes a bit, almost collapsing right there in the restaurant. He truly believes that everyone is staring at him, hearing the same evil words and cheering his boss on, when in actuality he was alone with the horrid threats he was forced to listen to.

 

“Yeah,” he whispers weakly, and the line cuts out. How could he forget that it was Whitney’s birthday? It seemed like such a simple command yet he forgot it so stupidly. His limbs are frozen like rigor mortis, and Yela thinks briefly about how Eminem’s lyrics have been regarded as “murderous”. If they only knew.

 

“Wolf. Wolf.” Artie is trying to get Yela out of this…trance he’s in to no avail. Yela’s fingers haven’t yet uncurled from his phone, which is still pressed tightly to his ear. Michael’s lip quivers and his heart breaks.

 

He’s mad at me.

 

He wants to tell himself that it wasn’t Marshall who called him Michael in anger like his mother did when he was younger. He thinks about those two guys in the street, how he had been mad at them for no reason.

 

And Yela just thinks this is the cherry on top of a great f*****g day.

~*~*~

 

They don’t look at each other in the studio the next week. The tension could be cut with a knife, and that was excluding the harmonious air conditioner. Yela shunned himself for complaining about it the previous week, now blessing it for its drowning noise.

 

“A’ight,” Marshall says, and it almost scares Yela. He jumps a bit, but doesn’t dare to look at his boss. “I don’t have a beat yet for the love song, but I have this.”

 

And as the beat fills the room and his ears, Yela thanks the Lord that he doesn’t have to write a love song today. He wasn’t exactly in the mood surprisingly. But then he actually starts to listen to the beat �" piano filled and sadder than the collaboration of last week. Immediately brutal and heart-wrenching lyrics absorb his mind and tears flood his eyes. Then…he looks at Marshall.

 

His eyes were glossy, slight emotion in them, but mostly determination.

 

“Go in there, man,” he nods solemnly to the booth. So, Michael immediately stood up on weak knees and headed to his blank canvas.

 

He put his headphones on as Marshall restarted the beat and Michael closes his eyes.

 

“Everybody’s asking me lately…where I’m from…”

 

And for the first time, Yelawolf rapped a whole song without writing down the lyrics. For the first time, Yelawolf cried whilst in the booth.

 

For the first time, Michael Wayne Atha felt like Marshall Mathers understood him better than anyone else in the world.

  

“Would the real slim shady please stand up?

And tell these muthafuckers why I got signed

Cause I’m on the verge of slapping one of these white boys

Out here tryna imitate my grind

And if you feel offended when I say that

F**k you, say something back

What I gotta lose, I’m already the underdog

Why wouldn’t I give you the opportunity to rap”

-          “Gangsta of Love”, Yelawolf featuring CyHi tha Prynce

Author's Note

Here you go guys! This one is hopefully a little better than the first, more insightful and angsty. *SPOILER* I made Yelawolf a homophobe because it makes the story a bit more interesting and gives him a good character development for later. Once again, feel free to point out grammar errors and such. Thanks for reading!