I cock an eyebrow at her. “You know how many people think I only got where I am because I’m a nepo baby?”
It doesn’t matter that I’ve been working my ass off since I was sixteen years old, or that I graduated from Berklee with honors, or that I’ve pulled countless all-nighters scavenging SoundCloud to find new talent. It doesn’t matter that I chose to work for a label he never even recorded with. It’s always been my primary identifier—Atlas Shaw’s son.
“Well. You can’t deny it gave you a leg up,” Eleanor argues.
“Sure. Yes. But that’s not something I’ve ever leaned on. The man bailed on me and my mom when I was six. I would’ve preferred if no one knew he was my dad, to be honest.”
It was worst when I was first starting out. My dad hadn’t put out new music in a while, but he was still very much part of the scene. I was always paranoid I’d run into him at a show or at a club, which of course never happened because he wasn’t slumming it at the same venues as broke twenty-one-year-olds. That didn’t stop the other interns from kissing my ass, like I was going to invite them over on the weekend and they’d find Atlas hanging around, eager to have a jam session with them. Eleanor was the only one who seemed unimpressed by my connection to a famous artist.
“Look, I don’t pretend to know what exactly went on with you and Griffin,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “But you did get promoted to a full-time A&R rep after less than six months of interning. Without a relevant degree. You’re good at what you do, and I’m not saying you didn’t deserve to be recognized for that. Or that I deserved it more. I’m just saying it was fast.”
Eleanor’s lips press into a flat line. “Yeah. It was fast,” she agrees in a tight voice. We settle into silence for a moment, neither of us inclined to pull the thread any harder, I guess. Then her brow pinches. “You really wish people didn’t know you were Atlas Shaw’s son?”
“Most of the time, yeah.” A lot of the time, I wish I weren’t his son, period.
“But you kept his last name.”
I shrug. “So did my mom. I didn’t want a different last name than her.”
She seems to consider this for a moment as she swirls her straw around in her water. “I figured… I mean, Billy Draper gave you your start.”
And Billy was famously my dad’s manager for a good chunk of his career. I get how easy it’d be to jump to the wrong conclusion there. “He did. Much to my mother’s chagrin.”
“Smart lady,” Eleanor comments, with this flick of her eyebrow that tells me there’s a whole lot more she wants to say.
My foot taps an agitated rhythm on the floor, completely out of sync with the Ice Spice song playing overhead. I’ll readily admit that Billy is deeply flawed, but it pisses me off the way industry folks are piling on, bringing up shit he said years and years ago, trying to get him canceled. You’d think Eleanor, of all people, could relate. “He’s really not a bad guy.”
“You don’t know him like I do,” she mocks. She drinks some water and sets the glass back on the table before meeting my eye again. “I used to say the same thing about Griffin.”
“Okay, let’s not…” I lift both hands, palms out. “I know Billy can be a bit… problematic, but they are not the same.”
Eleanor picks up her water again and brings the straw to her lips. She takes a sip and holds my stare, completely unmoved.
“Look, Atlas sucked at being a father. We hadn’t exchanged more than a handful of words since I was thirteen. But obviously when I was younger, I still wanted him to be in my life. The year after he moved out, my mom wanted to throw me a party for my seventh birthday, but I begged her to let me spend the day with my dad instead. I’d asked him to give me a guitar lesson. My mom hated taking me to his house, but it was myone fucking wish, so they set up a time and she drove me over. But either he forgot, or blew me off for something better—either way I sat there in my mom’s car, waiting behind the gate at the bottom of his driveway, for like an hour before my mom convinced me to give up and go home.
“The next day Billy showed up at my mom’s house with a guitar from his own collection. He sat down with me and spent the entire afternoon teaching me chords. Then he arranged for me to take lessons. Paid for them until I decided to quit a few years later. I don’t even know how he found out Atlas had let me down—my mom didn’t tell him, that’s for sure. But he stepped in, and he has consistently shown up for me since. Birthdays, school band concerts, and yes, my first job. He’s been there, even after my dad fired him and he had no reason to keep in touch.”
Eleanor’s expression softens a bit, but her response is as pointed as ever: “So you’re saying he’s your disreputable fairy godfather.”
I huff loudly, the sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “That’s your takeaway from my very personal and heartwarming story?” The worst part is realizing her description is not wildly off the mark. Billy sort of did become my fucked-up fairy godfather.
“I just think it’s a mistake to dismiss professional indiscretions because of your own personal history with someone.”
It’s not that Idismissanything. I’m fully aware of when Billy steps out of bounds, but I’m capable of being objective. Of using my own judgment.
That said, it’s hard to deny that there has been some overlap between my personal and professional relationships with Billy.
I clear my throat and push some of the food around my plate with my fork. “Well. Anyway, it wasn’t all about Billy—my mom’s disapproval. She didn’t want me going to Berklee either.”
“Really?”
“She was proud, don’t get me wrong. But she tried her best to shield me from the entertainment industry. She would’ve preferred if I became a doctor, let’s put it that way.”
Eleanor straightens in her seat. “I know your relationship with Atlas was complicated, but I’m, you know. Sorry for your loss.”
I appreciate the fact that she referred to him asAtlasinstead ofyour dadas much as I appreciate the sentiment. “Thanks.” I shrug, trying to convey that I still don’t totally know how I feel about it. About all the biographies and articles that keep coming out dissecting his legacy, his music. All the things that made him great, and all the probably true rumors about him being a misogynistic asshole behind the scenes.
Back when I used to get anxious about running into him around LA, I dreaded it and hoped for it in equal measure. Because even when I hated the guy, there was always some tiny part of me that wanted him to not hate me back. Guess that kind of longing is inevitable when your dad walks out on you before you even get a chance to know him. Now he’s unavoidable, his picture popping up every time I scroll social media.
