32. Heyday

At the bar, he waited (for recognition, for respect, and, ultimately, for requests), nursing a whiskey-and-soda like it was in the infirmary.

A single spotlight hits a suit as blue as his eyes, and a tide’s roar can be heard from an audience draped in darkness.

A young man half as old and twice as drunk as the old man at the bar began to sing – by definition only – a modern pop song that our sorry hero had never heard before, and the boozy crowd cheered, stammering along with the lyrics.

Soon, a voice of velvet begins in a cappella as the faceless hoards hush, affected by the gift of the present, and then a garnish of strings and brass slowly accompanied.

The synthetic rendition of whatever song it might have been finally ceased, and a car alarm’s howl of “Woo”s could be heard from a corner of the room, presumably filled by friends of the performer – again, a term that met only the base-most requirements to be considered such.

When the song (a favorite) reaches it’s emotional climax – a single syllable in a note previously untouched in the arrangement, bearing a lyric driving home the majesty of the second-person direct address, causing all women in attendance to envision a perfect world where the “you” he claims to need is privately spoken to each swooning individual – a deep silence is held, then broken by the cracking thunder of thousands of hands applauding at the same time.

He tapped the rim of his empty glass, signifying “another” to the bartender as the KJ said, “Looks like… Jeremy… Jeremy will be doing a stellar rendition of a class so classic you are all probably too young to recognize it. Take it away, J-Bird,” which prompted Jeremy to stumble up to the mic, opening in a cappella, soon to be followed by the synthetic interpretation of an orchestration known all too well by the seasoned elder who remained at the bar, unnoticed.

From the private back door of the auditorium, he exits the building only to enter a mass of screaming fans, who must be separated by force to create a path to the stretch limo so the biggest start of the moment can safely avoid all who hold up a record album and a felt tip pen, and once he is secure in the car, he pours himself a drink, lets his manager gush the same old positives, and finally he interrupts the routine to say, “I envy the everyman; I lust after his anonymity.”

When the song and subsequent scattered applause finally concluded, leaving a brief moment of silence, he leaned forward and said, “That was my song, you know…”, his eyes pressing hard on the bartender, who slid a slip of paper and a golf pencil across the bar and said, “Well, you can always pick another one.”

 

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