Simon Illa wasn't voted most likely to do anything at all back in high school in Paris, Illinois. He's barely three feet tall. He's stuck to a wheelchair. His voice evokes jokes about sucking on a helium tank. The antithesis of a cool kid, he was an easy target for bullies.

But today, as he sits in a recording studio at Miami's Hit Factory, where the Bee Gees, Paul Simon, R.E.M., Beyoncé, Missy Elliott and countless others have birthed multi-platinum albums, Simon has comfortably assumed the impossibly hip image that's supposed to accompany his status as an up-and-coming music producer — "Philadelphia's hottest producer," according to Blender, a national music magazine adjacent to Rolling Stone on the racks. Simon can legitimately name-drop A-list acquaintances like Kenny Gamble and red-hot hip-hop moguls Scott Storch and Timbaland.

Decked out in Dolce & Gabbana shades, a way-oversized Sean John shirt, and one of his 30 or so pairs of kid-size sneakers, Simon is bobbing his head — he's all head and hands, the only parts of his body that are of relatively normal size and seem to work effectively — to the Latin-spiked hip-hop tunes of Velez, a Tampa boy band that wants to be the Next Big Thing. The members of Velez drove four hours for a one-hour meeting with Simon because they think he's the guy who can get them there. Their tracks consist of lots of electronic beats, three-part vocal harmonies, and lyrics about getting into girls' pants. What Velez needs is direction, tighter songs, and someone to tell them that "The Flute," a not-so-wittily-masked instruction in fellatio, is just plain dumb — all part of a producer's job.

Simon listens intently to the tracks. The stylish clothes look slightly ridiculous on him, and the sunglasses swallow his face, but as he starts interjecting words like "cats" and "joint" (as in "That song's my joint") into his conversation with Velez, you realize it's all just part of the act everyone plays in this particular branch of show business. He knows what he's doing. Illa suggests shortening some of the tunes ("After four minutes, I'm sleepin'") and working with the vocal arrangements, because, he says, they aren't predictable enough for radio. He strokes the band members' egos with lots of compliments, and they return the respect, calling him "sir" a few too many times. Simon's longtime friend Kehinde, a Brooklyn-based rapper who on this trip is serving as driver and guy who makes sure no one gives Simon any shit, tosses in a few criticisms.

The strange thing is, no one in the room appears to be conscious of the fact that the man with the plan is a major hiccup in the genetic code.

Because of his size and voice, you're not quite sure if Simon's a boy or a man. (He's 30.) He has to be carried, all 40 pounds of him, onto an airplane — sans his bulky electric wheelchair — and placed in his seat. There's what appears to be a large goiter protruding from his torso. He can dial a cell phone (he has three) and deftly work a laptop, but if a glass of water is more than a foot away, he needs help.

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