The Snow Angels: Part Two

                                 ❄❄❄❄❄❄ The Snow Angels: Part Two ❄❄❄❄❄❄

Simliar to Claudia, Melvin Arnold was born and raised with success at his reach. But like Claudia, it was his to grab, but never his to be. He entered the world in 1968, the only son of a wealthy, infamous landlord. He had eternal access to a warm and comfortable bed, always stuffing his face with the finest foods possibly available, always with the company of the most gorgeous women in Texas. When his father were to pass away, he would inherit his wealth, equating to millions of dollars.

But something went horribly wrong. Melvin’s passion was not to become a landlord like his father, but to become a musician. He grew up idolizing the likes of Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, and Conway Twitty. They were his heroes. They became his heart and soul and the people he ate, slept and dreamed by. He wanted nothing more than to become the greatest country music singer the world had ever known.

But his father didn’t quite see things that way.

“You’re bothering me about this again?” his father scorned him, sniffling loudly as he buried his head in the morning paper. 

"All I need is enough money to travel to Nashville,” Melvin bargained. “I’ll get noticed there. I can do this, Dad. Why don’t you just believe in me?”

His father shook his head. “Not in a million years,” he said. “I brought you into this world so you could take care of my business when I die. You’re a landlord, Melvin.”

Melvin sighed his way out of the house, having lost the battle, but still planning to win the war. One month later, Melvin’s father was eyeing his bank statement when he noticed something clearly amiss.

Five-thousand dollars were missing out of his account.

Melvin had taken a flight to Nashville and checked into a hotel. He stayed there for the next month, picking up work at a small gas station all while trying to get scouted for a record deal.

But nobody was interested.

“Bland,” one talent scout said.

“I want more…emotion,” a record producer told him. “I want to feel the music.”

“If you want my honest opinion, you’re completely awful,” a know-it-all old man said to him. “Even Hellen Keller would be offended by your singing.”

Three months had passed, and Melvin was out of money, and still wasn’t able to find any headway in his country music career. Things went from bad to worse one night at the gas station.

“You’re firing me? Why? What did I do?” he shouted at the manager.

“You’ve missed work three times in the past month,” the short, marshmallow-haired woman responded. “I’m sorry, Mr. Arnold. But I warned you. There are many people who would love to have your job and would show up on time, every single shift.”

Melvin had no choice. He had to take a flight to his father in Texas right away.

He pouted and slowly turned the knob to his father’s study, his palms shaking, cold sweat trickling down his wintered forehead.

His father’s thin auburn hair stood up and his forehead wrinkles stretched when he saw Melvin enter the small, cramped room. He raised one unkempt eyebrow to Melvin, before returning his gaze back to the mountains of papers and books on his desk.

“You stole from me,” his father said. “And you already knew how much I hate thieves. But you stole from me anyway. Like it didn’t even matter how I felt about it.”

“Dad—”

“It’s only out of the love of my heart that I didn’t turn you into the police. Get out. I don’t want to see you again.”

“What about—”

“Your inheritance is going to your little sister,” his father explained. “You betrayed me, Melvin. I can’t even stand to look at you anymore. I don’t want to see you ever again."

Wearing a large frown, Melvin sighed and nodded his head. “Yes, father.”

Melvin left his father’s home and walked the cold, wintery night, making his way through thick, crunchy snow, all the way to a small tiki bar located towards the outskirts of El Paso.

The bartender was a medium-sized, fair-skinned woman. She had long, thick blonde hair the color of the outdoor snow, and gorgeous blue eyes the exact color of the ocean.

“Hello,” the woman said in an obvious French accent, the smell of her heavy peach perfume evident when Melvin approached the counter. “My name is Claudia. What I can give you to drink tonight?”