No Biz Like Showbiz

The next morning, the tell tale signs of an all-nighter accosted me as soon as I walked through the door swinging on only one hinge. Raquel, the latest bouncer, definitely didn’t do his job. Mr. Dealt met me as the door gave a wheeze of defeat and tumbled open. “That you Mickey? Yes? Good.” Clouds of smoke obscured his face as he puffed on his ‘pre-embargoed’ Cuban cigar. “Fix the door today: worst thing for business is a shitty frontside. Polish the handle too. It’s grimy. Seen Raquel? I want to fire his ass personally. Get inside. And help Larry- …” The last part was intelligible, broken up with empathetic puffs of the cigar. Larry was the producer of the biz. 1

The Larry the Producer was standing on the stage, neatly pressed clothes clashing with the debauchery inside. I didn’t trust him- the same way I didn’t trust a skinny chef. He was looking down at the crumpled form of the singing vagabond. Climbing up the steps, I noticed dark stains covering the microphone’s meshed grooves. “Beer?” Larry shook his head, double chins wagging over his full collar.
“Would you look at that?” He exclaimed softly, a touch of awe in his voice, looking down at the dark mass sitting on the warped planks of wood we were standing on. “He literally sang his heart out.”