This piece is a work of fiction. While it features a portrayal of a real, deceased public figure, all events, actions, and depictions are entirely imagined and created for narrative purposes. Any resemblance to actual events, incidents, or behavior is purely coincidental and not intended to represent real occurrences. The author makes no claim that the events described reflect the true character, actions, or history of the individual depicted.
“I just don’t think I can do it again” said the well-built woman cradling her Gibson like it was an alligator.
“You can’t do what?” replied her manager. He was cradling his big cigar, like it was a big cigar.
“I can’t play that freakin’ song again.” she said. “I played it a million times and I’ve wrung everything out of it.” she appealed to him.
”Herb, it’s like an old tie dye shirt I’ve washed all the dye out of!”
“Mel, you can’t leave this place without singin’ that song, well not leave in one piece anyways. It’s the song that made you girl!”
She put the guitar down, leaning it’s headstock against the wall next to her.
Melanie opened her big brown eyes as far as they’d go and said “I’m not saying I don’t love it, Herb. I’m just saying I can’t sing it anymore. It’s a weight on my shoulders. It’s an albatross. I feel like I’m the Ancient Mariner, Herb, on a sea of doldrums…”
“Doll drums? Whaddya talking about? This is much worse than I thought… ” He got up and paced the small space Melanie had been given for a dressing room. “You mean like Barbie? So you’re seeing dolls playing the drums? Say, Barbie or some such plastic doll? Like she’s playing along to your songs, you mean?”
“No Herb, I don’t …” but he interrupted her before she’d even got started.
“Mmmmm… Yeah, it could fly. It’d cost some money, mind you. And we’d have to do auditions, hire a room, all that stuff.”
He pushed his hat back on his head, but he was getting pretty sweaty now, so he grabbed it with his free hand and threw it like a frisbee onto the table, just missing some glasses, and a jug of cocktails.
Herb continued in an orgy of pacing about the room, one hand holding the cigar was tracing things in the air, the other one at the side of his waist, thumb holding onto his belt loop, as he went.
“Listen, I’ll speak to the accountant. I will see what we can manage for the next tour. But tonight… for me tonight, just sing the big song, will ya Mels!”
A hullabaloo outside, the door burst open, and a head appeared yelling … “5 minutes, Miss Safka!” then disappeared as quickly as it had arrived.
“Oh God” said Melanie desperately looking for an escape. She grabbed the Gibson and swinging it from the floor like a batter swinging for a home run, caught Herb full on the chin with the guitar’s body.
The manager keeled over on his back like a deflated balloon, and slamming the door behind her, the singer swept purposefully down the corridor towards an Exit. Without her guitar.