Show Stopper

A Story by Queen Libra

A short story about a man's desperate last chance to set things right.

I pace the length of my lonely and silent apartment tonight, pondering what this day brought to me. When I stopped to pick up the newspaper today, I saw what I see every morning. Every day I hope to avoid them, to avert my gaze and get away from the stand as quickly as possible. However, every day, my own eyes deceive me. I look at the tabloids and see the same thing. I see pictures of myself in several scenes that make a mockery of me. On the front page of one paper I see myself in casinos, gambling mercilessly, and losing terribly. On another I’m in several different places, all of them bars, drinking myself stupid, chatting up every girl who comes my way. Of course, these stories are ludicrous. I have no intention of gambling and only have the slightest nip of wine on certain occasions. Why reporters pick me to hunt, I haven’t a clue. I haven’t been on the scene in over ten years. I have become the Loch Ness Monster of New York City. No one even bothers to stop me on the streets and ask for my autograph. However, there are certain people who just can’t believe that their favorite stars are now washed up old men who have absolutely no reason for living day to day, but do anyway, possibly clinging to a false hope. I don’t have many of these people after me, but the ones I do, I am grateful for. They force me to believe that maybe all isn’t lost, and that alone gives me strength to show my face in public every day.

Shockingly, this morning was different, a change of pace, if you will. It had not taken a turn for the better, mind. I looked at the morning papers, and saw myself walking into the hotel room belonging to a young male actor on the cover of one of the magazines. I stared open mouthed at the magazine when the fellow behind me said, “You know, that guy looks an awful lot like you.” I turned around and stared at him. No, stared isn’t the right word. Glared seems to fit. I glared at this fellow and hated everything about him. His long winter coat, the smug look on his face, his tiny ponytail. I could have hit him. Oh, how I wanted to hit him. But, I dug myself right back into my rut and walked away. I shouted for a taxicab on the corner of Broadway, and stood alone on the sidewalk until one pulled over to let me in. The ride home was quiet, only the hum of the engine and the ticking of my fare going up kept me company. My driver was a short man with long, billowing hair. He wore small sunglasses that barely covered his watchful eyes, and a waistcoat that make him look as if he belonged in England, sipping tea with the Queen. I could tell he was a man of calmness and properness, which made me wonder what kind of morals and values he had. He never said a word, save for asking me my destination. I noted that his voice was rough and very quiet, which made me reconsider my England thought.

When I returned to my apartment, the very one I am pacing now, I found my wife on the verge of an eruption. When I opened the door, the first thing I saw was her face staring back at me. Her emerald eyes had been reduced to slits and bared into me like a hundred knives. The second she realized I was home, her face turned to the shade of her cherry red bathrobe. I realized immediately that she must have seen the papers on her morning jog around the block. I opened my mouth to say something - what, I don’t know, but anything is better than nothing in this situation - however, before I could make a sound, she slapped me. Hit me real hard, the b***h. I put my hand to my face and tried to calm the throbbing and stinging that was building up. She continued to gape at me, already large eyes growing wider all the while. My mind raced to explain as I prepared for a long, grueling battle of mind and wits. I knew I was the weaker link, the look in her eyes said she was ready, and had spent the last hour or so conjuring up rude names and guilt traps to hurl at me. I could tell she was willing to take a plunge into the Cold War of 2012, and was prepared to talk for a long, long time. That was what I thought until I noticed the suitcases.

She had packed three large burgundy bags with all her clothes, two smaller ones with all of her make up and jewelry. I stared in shock at those bags as my wife continued to stare at me. I knew immediately what she was going to say. Before I had the chance to make an attempt at getting her to stay, she said, “I’m leaving you, Eddie,” she said in her smooth, New York accented voice. “You’re life is going nowhere. You haven’t had a job in a decade, and you lay around watching these people,” she indicated the tabloid paper she held in her hand, “just dump all over you. You’ve become a nobody, just a lazy pig that does nothing but stare at the television. Look at us, Ed. We’ve lost our house, our cars, and now, we can’t even afford to pay rent. You’re worthless, Eddie. I’m going back to Chicago, where I can start a new life.”

Frankly, I didn’t know what to say. I juggled asking her to give me a second chance, and telling her that fifty-six was no age to start your life over again. I decided to save my own life and kept quiet. She picked up two of the large suitcases and both of the smaller ones. I knew there was nothing I could do to make her stay. Her mind had been made up, and there was no changing it now. I gave up and let her pass. As I reached for the remaining suitcase, she said, “Don’t bother. I’ll send the cab driver up.” What was there left for me to do? I headed into the kitchen to fix myself some breakfast.

Later that afternoon, I got a call from my longtime friend and agent, Harvey. He and I made small talk for a few minutes, but I didn’t mention the day’s events. Harvey was in a good mood, his voice was upbeat and cheery. He asked if I wouldn’t mind coming down to his office this afternoon, he said he needed to talk business to me. I commented that I was no longer in the business, therefore should not be talked to about said business, but he insisted. I hung up the phone and changed.

Harvey’s office, down on the corner of 32nd and 5th, was inside of a particularly small skyscraper. I went inside to lobby, beautifully decorated in red and gold, and headed toward the elevator. I pushed the button for the fourth floor, the fifth highest in the building, and rode until the elevator doors opened on my pre-selected floor. His office was at the end of the hall, second from the right. I counted the doors until I was right in front of his, staring directly at the finished wood, my friend’s name on a gold plaque.

I knocked twice and waited until I heard Harvey allow my entrance. I opened the door and noted that it was silent. The prominent squeak of the door hinges that I had become accustomed to in my run-down apartment was absent here. I also noted that when I stepped on the wooden floor, the creak from my apartment was gone from here as well. Harvey was sitting behind his desk, watching me enter. I closed the door slowly behind me as he ushered me into a chair opposite him. I took the offered seat as we shook hands. “Good to see you, Eddie. Good to see you in good spirits. I saw the papers this morning.” He added cautiously, waiting to see if I’d erupt. I didn’t. Instead, I spilled the whole story to my longtime friend.

“. . . and on top of it all, Bobbie left me. I wasn’t sure at first, but, in all honesty, not much has changed. It’s a lot quieter in the apartment, for one.” We both chuckled at my wit. “I know she was right, though. I haven’t done a show since. . .” I trailed off. We both know what I was talking about. It was silent for a moment or two, then, “I see you’ve finally found a way to cover up that scar of yours.” My words surprised me. That was the last thing I wanted to talk about.

Harvey touched a hand to his cheek. “Yes, my daughter taught me a trick for removing unsightly blemishes.” We chuckled again. “‘A little makeup can go a long way,’ she told me. I guess she was right.” Another silent moment. “I have a proposition for you, Ed.”

I paused for a moment, this was so unexpected. I had noticed that Harvey wanted to talk about something, but not this. “A job?” I asked, still bewildered, “You’ve got me a job? I didn’t think there was any work left.”

“There wasn’t, but the appointed Emcee for the Grammy awards backed out of the job, because she apparently became ill, according to the network. Anyway, I recommended you, and it’s yours, if you want to take it.”

I was in a state of shock. I certainly wasn’t expecting this. “Why me? I haven’t had a gig in ten years, most of the kids today haven’t even heard of me. What have I got that someone else hasn’t?”

Harvey bent forward. “You’ve got me, Eddie. I’m the one who pushed them to pick you. You’d still be out of work if it weren’t for me.”

I understood, pretended to ponder for a moment, then answered with an enthusiastic, “I’ll take it!” Harvey laughed at my childishness. We shook hands, he handed me the papers that needed to be looked over, and said, “The show’s on December 23rd. Good to have you back, Eddie.”

I now pace the length of this run down old place, whilst I ponder all of this, and take it all in. This show could be my big comeback. I could return and live my life the way it was supposed to be. This is a sign, I know it. I just can’t figure out what kind of sign it is.

However much I want to make this show mine, however badly I’m concentrating, the silence of my apartment cripples me. It’s funny how something so quiet, so insignificant, be so loud. I pass by my desk for the thousandth time, and my hand comes to rest on the tabloid Bobbie had left behind. She had dropped it on her way out the door, and I had come across it whilst on my way back from Harvey’s.

I’m filled now with this blinding pain. Could this be hatred? Resentment? I have never felt this so strongly. It’s unnerving, but kind of nice. Refreshing, almost. I look at that magazine and know exactly what kind of sign this is. I know exactly what to do to make this show mine. I need to release my anger on those who have wronged me. Maybe then I will be normal again. Maybe then I can feel like I’m worth a damn. I pick up the magazine and study it. It’s cheap photoshop job makes me even angrier. I open up the window and throw the paper into the cold December air. As I do so, my sleeve retracts and shows me the burns along my forearm only then do memories of that night come rushing back to me. I shake them off and head into the bedroom. I open my closet and pull out the black suit. It was the very last suit I had ever bothered to wear. More of those wonderful memories fly into my head, and I can’t stop them this time. . .

They called me by my surname back in the days when my life still meant something. They followed me around, begging for autographs. Even if I covered myself up, showing no signs of who I was, they would still see through my petty disguise. I was bigger than even Elton John, at one point. Since my twenties, I had been a climbing success. My performances would always be sold out. Some even had the audacity to try and jump the fence to avoid security, just to hear me sing. I liked being noticed, being wanted. But one September night, all of that changed.

I was in the middle of my fifth number, when my band mate, who we called Slick (smooth with the ladies, he was), got my attention, and pointed at the speakers. I noticed sparks and immediately went with my instincts. I was a fool. I motioned for Slick to leave it alone and continue playing. I figured the crew would take care of it. As the song ended, we caught wind of a hissing noise from behind us. The speakers Slick had pointed out had caught fire. The crew rushed onstage with a fire hydrant each as the flames spread to the rest of the equipment and the stage itself. I had just enough time to dive onto my stomach on the stage before the speakers exploded and bits of plastic and glass flew everywhere. I heard a giant roar from the audience as they leapt to their feet and dashed out of the stadium. I heard another explosion behind me and knew I was trapped. I raised my head just enough to look out into the audience. Harvey had a huge, jagged gash across his forehead and was bleeding like mad. He was lying on the floor and clutching his head, just as I was, however his was more of pain, as mine was of shock and fear. I suddenly smelled and felt burning. I looked at my right sleeve and it was on fire, it had already burnt a hole in my outfit and was working on my skin. My drummer stomped on my sleeve and put out the fire. He pulled me up to my feet and together we ran off the stage. I tried to go back for Harvey, but he wouldn’t let me. “Ambulances are on their way,” he said to me.

Once we were safely outside, I heard the sound of sirens rushing our way. I remember it was surprisingly cold that night, colder than that of a typical September night. As the fire trucks and ambulances came to the scene, a wave of relief washed over me. Six people got out of three ambulances, stretchers in hand, and rushed inside to collect the fallen. I later discovered that the explosion was caused by hooligans(hah, I really am turning into an old man now)that snuck backstage and poured gasoline fluid onto the equipment.

Anyway, I pace the length of my apartment, which seemed to be getting smaller and smaller, and as I remember this I finally realize what I am going to do. That’s it, now. I knew I would think of something sooner or later. Go out with a bang, it’s oh so obvious. Before I lose my nerve, I grab my coat and head out to the sporting goods store on 32nd street.

Everything’s been put into place, now, I realize as I knot my tie and slip on my coat. There’s no turning back, but why the hell would I want to? This is the single, greatest, most symbolic thing I have ever thought of. I turn in place in front of my mirror, making sure there were no noticeable bulges through my undershirt. I dressed in all black for a reason. Wearing any other color to a funeral is disrespectful, if you ask me. The phone is ringing in the hallway, probably for my limousine to the show. I answer the phone and sure enough, “your limousine is parked outside, Mr. Somers,” was what the accented voice spoke to me. “Yes, yes, it’s all fine, I’ll be out in a moment,” I answered the driver with very little enthusiasm. I’ve got enough on my mind tonight, without adding manners to it.

The driver, who’s name I’d found out was Leon. He and I made small talk on the way to the show. I’d discovered that he was one of my followers I’d mentioned earlier, having been the first singer he’d heard when stepping foot on American soil. He was from Venezuela, and had immigrated because, as he put it, home life sucked. I told him I agreed whole-heartedly. He told me it was brave of me to do this show tonight, because, again as he put it, ‘sticking your dick up the a*s of adversity’ was the only way to really get what you wanted in life. For a young, disadvantaged immigrant, he sure was a sharp one. We laughed and joked with each other like old friends, even though, as soon as I got out of the car, I would never see him again.

The concert hall in the heart of New York is one of the biggest I’ve ever seen. As sure as I am that they dolled the place up especially for the occasion, it is ravishing. Silver and red streamers are draped around the corners of the building, which has to be at least ten stories high. The golden letters of the grammy title shine as bright as the sun itself. Giant billboards and posters of companies and popular products sponsoring the event tonight are hung around the walls of the hall. There were lights of all different colors and even a red carpet, on which young stars and tonight’s nominees were walking gallantly upon. At least fifty different news stations, newspapers and magazines have to be crowded around the entrance, trying to get the latest scoop on the private lives of the famous youth. More than willing to avoid the crowd, I agreed with Leon’s proposal and was dropped off around the block, from which I followed an alleyway that led to a back door for me to sneak in. I bid my new friend farewell and good luck, and headed inside through the heavy, graffiti-infested door.

Down the hall, I run into several people that greet me like old friends. Even people I’ve never met before. Not that I care, and not that I was paying much attention to them. I head directly to the control room, where everyone-two people, to be exact- is running around like headless chickens. I feed them my line: There are a couple of broken camera lens that need to be replaced, one of the camera men sent me down, they are picking up the broken glass and running it outside. I didn’t catch the name, but he seemed like a very sweet man, however stressed he came off. They bought into it with a sigh, and one of them said, ‘That must be John,’ and they both left the room. Relieved and a little stunned that my corny line had not only worked, but had caused them to refer to one of their crewmates, I put my wires down through the feeds and clip the appropriate cords. Before the crew can come back, I run out of there and head backstage, where I can only distinctly hear the excited murmur of the crowd, filing into their seats. I realize now the danger I will be in if this doesn’t work, but quickly shove that thought out of my mind. The stage manager approaches me and I already know what he is about to say. He moves to pin a tiny microphone onto my shirt and I stop him. I can’t risk anything spoiling this wonderful evening. I take the microphone from him and pin it on myself. I hear that everyone who is everyone is sitting comfortably at their tables, and the show is ready to begin. I again check myself for bumps on my torso and prepare myself for the lonely walk onstage. I listen for the announcer to belt out my name, and hearing it ring out into the audience makes my decision final, absolute. I straighten my tie and check my shirt for the hundredth time in the last two hours, pull back the curtain and hurl myself into the blinding spotlight. I am immediately reminded of that dreadful night so many years ago, which only adds to my determination.

Award number five. The best supporting actress for a television soap opera. As I announce the clip of a screaming woman from a scene from the soap: This Moment in Time, the screaming woman reminds me of Bobbie and the bitter morning she left me. I wonder briefly where she is and what she is doing with her time, then shake the memory away. She will not be a part of my life any longer. I wait, any moment now. . . any moment. Just on time, the giant screen flickers and goes completely white. At that moment, the woman on the screen was screeching, ‘I’d rather die than spend another moment with you!’ Damn right. I bend my head to the microphone and say, in a loud voice that seems to ricochet off the walls and come back to me: “Ladies and gentlemen, I am sorry to announce that the show will not go on. Some years ago, as most, or at least some of you may remember, there was a performance not too far from here, that went terribly wrong. That show was mine, ladies and gentlemen. The faulty equipment and those poor, lost souls were pinned wrongly on me, and my career was ruined because of it. Tonight, good people, is where I get my revenge.” The audience is silent, which is good and bad. I see security walking cautiously toward me, so I finish with a strong, unwavering voice. “It does not matter whether you were involved, or even if you remember it. Those poor souls whose lives were damaged severely had nothing to do with it, either. And now, ladies and gentlemen, I, Edward Somers, bid you farewell, and a very good night to you all.”

I reach into the pocket of my jacket and pull out a button, which I press without delay and bring this sad, sad story to an end.