LOTTO

“Matthew, our paper got soaked last night. I’m going down to the liquor store to get another one. You want anything?”

“No, thanks, hon. I’m gonna take a shower. Care to join me?”

“Thanks. But my mother warned me about boys like you. First thing you know you’ll be soaping me up. Then where’ll we be?”

It was a beautiful early April day in Los Angeles; just slightly brisk at eight a.m., and the smog hadn’t had a chance to roll into the hills yet. The freak rain of the night before had cleared the air and you could see the foothills rising up just east of Pasadena. Ava plodded the block and a half to the liquor store. A young Latino man was busy painting out the graffiti still wet from the night before. The security gate inside the door was just being lifted.

Ava picked up the Times and a quart of orange juice. Mr. Bhutto asked her if that would be all. Absently, she reached across the counter for a Lotto ticket.

“Okay, one of these, too. I feel lucky. Thanks, Mr. Bhutto.” She slid her change into her jacket pocket and headed home.

Actually, lucky was the furthest thing from what she felt. Ava had the unfortunate habit of hiding her most painful feelings behind a barrage of pleasantry. She couldn’t bear to let Mr. Bhutto know the truth — that she was worried about her marriage. That after a blissful four-year honeymoon she had had the sudden realization that her husband was sleeping with his secretary. That it was all too much of a cliché to be true, and yet it was. That she was sure everyone knew but her. She was embarrassed, humiliated, wounded, terrified and enraged. Worst, she was walking around as if everything was okay. Her life in the past three days had been a scene out of Night of the Living Dead. She and Matthew were mere shells of the happy couple they had been only weeks before, or, to be precise, the happy couple she had believed they were.

It had been one of those epiphanies that sneak up on you. She had called Matthew’s office to ask whether he wanted to go out for pasta, and as soon as she had heard the hesitancy in Joyce’s voice, she had known. She felt she had been living in a fog for the past few months, and it had suddenly been lifted like a curtain revealing all of the illusions and false security she had been harboring.

On the way back home the traffic began to pick up out on the freeway. It was annoying. Ava began to be aware of the exhaust fumes curling their way into her nostrils. Someone laid on the horn loudly and insistently. Pounding on their horns. Cutting in and out of the lanes. Running each other off the road. Smashing into each other. Shooting at each other. She felt consumed with anger. Idiots. Soon she, too, would have to join the crush and make her way to her office in Westwood. She jammed her key into the lock and flung open the door.

“I want a divorce!!”

Matthew ambled out of the bathroom; a towel wrapped around his slender waist, drenching the carpet with his wet feet, his mouth hanging open as he tried to focus on Ava’s words.

“Huh? Watsamatter?”

“I WANT A DIVORCE!! Don’t you understand plain English?”

“Ava. Sit down. Whatever is bothering you, I want you to know we can work it out. We’ve always. . .”We’ve always what? Been perfectly honest with each other? Been totally loyal to each other? What? What?” Ava’s voice was cracking. At moments like this, no amount of psychological savvy could help her. Ava fell apart.

Matthew sat down on the sofa. “Joyce”, he softly murmured.

“Yes, of course, Joyce. What did you think? Did you think I’d never find out? Did you think no one would tell me?” She hadn’t been prepared for this much pain.

“Who told you? I mean, how did you find out?”

“Does it really matter?”

“Yes, it does to me.”

“No one.”

“NO ONE? How did you know? I was so discreet. It was a mistake. It was just. . .”

“It was just what? Once or twice? Jesus, Matthew. Don’t you give me any credit for sensitivity? You stopped sleeping with me months ago. Then you started staying late at work. Then you started having business lunches with Joyce, and I found myself regaled with tales of what a great secretary Joyce is. How smart she is. Her witty stories. God, Matthew. Discreet?”

Ava realized that she was still holding the paper sack from the liquor store. She left it on top of the television and started toward the bedroom. She began packing a small suitcase.

“What are you doing?”

“I’ll be at my sister’s temporarily.”

Suddenly, Ava felt amazingly calm. She marveled at her ability to pack in an organized fashion. She remembered seeing a segment on the Today show where they had had a packing expert come and explain how to get the most into your suitcase with the fewest wrinkles. She packed lightweight nylon and rayon dresses, a pair of jeans and two sweaters and framed the sides of the case with her belts. Expertly, she fitted her jewelry inside her socks and her socks inside her shoes. Her heart was beating a mile a minute as she phoned Yellow Cab.

“Ava,” (Matthew was fully dressed now, his hair slicked back away from his freshly shaven face). “When you feel ready, let’s talk. Please.”

Ava did not answer. She was afraid she would cry. Then, all would be lost. Her hard resolve would soften. Who knows, she might unpack her clothes and try to smooth things over. That would be the easiest way. But she did not want to do things the easy way, this time. She turned on her heel, gripped her suitcase and walked out the front door.

It was the kind of thing Ava had always feared. Some sixth sense had informed her from the start that she and Matthew were doomed and that he would never be able to stay with her. Here he was, a high-powered entertainment lawyer, movie star looks, all the social graces, charismatic, and yet with that slightly boy-next-door-aw-shucks charm that he had imported with him from his Methodist Connecticut roots. Here she was, slightly rounder than fashionable for Los Angeles, a fledgling psychotherapist with a tiny private practice in Westwood, shy, neurotic, and insecure, hailing from the less-than-chic Jewish ghetto of the San Fernando Valley. Come to think of it, this was not sixth sense. This was a logical deduction. It was not a question of if, to Ava; it was a question of when and perhaps of with whom. Still, for the first few years, things had been inexplicably wonderful between them.

******************

Ava sighed and rang the bell. Vanessa opened the door and her mouth formed a perfect “O”. Wordlessly, she reached out and took the suitcase from Ava’s grip while she encircled her sister’s waist with her other arm. Vanessa strained for a joke: “Darling, we’ve got to stop meeting like this”. Ava burst into tears.

Vanessa called in sick to work and Ava cancelled her appointments. The two sisters stayed at Vanessa’s apartment and painted their toenails bright vermillion. Matthew phoned several times that day to try to arrange a meeting, but Ava asked Vanessa to intercede for her. She was not ready to talk to him. She was still too raw; too vulnerable. She frankly had not sorted out her feelings at this point. She needed time to think. The two sisters made a huge bowl of popcorn and watched game shows and soap operas on TV. Finally, towards the end of the day Vanessa asked Ava what had happened. Ava stated the facts as far as she knew them with dry eyes. Vanessa listened with little comment except to exclaim softly, “Poor baby”. She hugged Ava and held her for a long moment. Ava felt as though she had survived a bloody battle. The war, of course, had only begun, but perhaps the worst siege was over. She slept heavily and dreamlessly that night on her sister’s foldout bed in the living room.

The call came at eight o’clock the next morning. Vanessa held out the receiver about six inches from her ear and mouthed the word “Matthew”, but Ava signaled with a wave of her hand that she did not want to speak with him. Vanessa suddenly looked shocked.

“Matthew, are you sure? Well, did you double check? Maybe it was a typo. You know, the paper can make mistakes about these things . . .”

Ava jerked the phone from Vanessa’s hand.

“Oh my God something’s happened. Oh my God, Matthew. What is it? Is it my mother?” She reached for her sister’s hand and took the receiver.

”What? Is this your idea of a joke? Or are you just trying to get me home so you can talk your way out of . . . You did? They did? There is? We are? I don’t believe it! Alright. I’ll see you here. Half hour. Okay. Bye”.

Ava hung up the phone and clasped her hand over her mouth. Vanessa clasped her hand over her mouth. Suddenly they both started laughing. It was just too much.

Ava spoke from behind her hand. “We won the Lotto. Twenty million dollars (give or take a few thousand). There was only one other winning ticket! Twenty for him. Twenty for us. It’s not a hoax. Vanessa–honey - We’re rich!”

Matthew arrived twenty minutes later. Ava poured him a cup of coffee, dumped in two heaping teaspoons of sugar, placed it in front of him at Vanessa’s kitchen table and waited expectantly with her hands folded in front of her. (Vanessa had slipped out discretely on the pretense of wanting a morning walk. She hadn’t gone on a morning walk in five years, so it was about time, she murmured.) There was no doubt about it. Twenty million dollars to be prorated over twenty years. One million dollars a year. That would be, what? Say, five hundred thousand dollars a year after taxes? Matthew and Ava looked at each other wordlessly for a moment. Ava held out her hand and Matthew pulled out the ticket. Ava picked up the paper and checked the ticket against the numbers on the page. No doubt about it. They matched exactly. She stared for some time. So funny. She hadn’t even picked the numbers out. She had let the computer do it for her. No birthdays. No lucky numbers. No Social Security numbers. No addresses. Just six little random numbers. Nothing fancy. Just dumb luck.

“We have a lot to talk about, Matthew”. She put the ticket on the table between them.

“What do you want to do about this?”

“About what? About the fact that we’ve won the Lotto? About the fact that you’re sleeping with your secretary? About the fact that I can’t trust you? What?”

Matthew felt the wind had been knocked out of him. “Can’t trust me? Because I made one mistake?”

“It depends. How long did this mistake take? A year? A month? Six months?”

“It just kind of happened gradually. I don’t know - probably over the last three or four months. Joyce was having a hard time. We were spending long hours at the office. That last deal at Warner was huge - You know that. I hated being away that much, but I had no choice. I know this doesn’t excuse, but . . .” Matthew’s voice trailed off.

“No, Matthew. It doesn’t excuse. But the really terrifying part to me is — How did you manage to come home
and act so casual with me. So intimate? When I asked you if anything was wrong you were so sweet and reassuring. How could you do that?”

“Because, to me, nothing really was wrong between you and me. I mean, uh — I never stopped loving you, but sometimes I just — I guess I wanted something else. That sounds horrible, I know.”

“You have no idea.” Tears were streaming down Ava’s cheeks. “Sounds like you were bored. How can you be bored with someone you love? With me?” Her voice cracked.

“Ava, you are a creature of habit. It’s one of the things I love about you. But you sleep night after night in that ratty old flannel rag. You walk around the house in baggy dungarees with no make-up. I always know beforehand what we’re eating for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Honey, you’re a great pal, but where’s that feisty, dynamic, unpredictable, hot-blooded Jewish princess I fell in love with?”

“She’s buried under tons of textbooks, case notes, household chores, bills, grocery runs, all the little everyday demands that are part of life. Matthew! Life cannot be a continuous stretch of heavy breathing! Not even with Joyce!” Unintentionally, his secretary’s name came out as a vocal sneer.

“Just for the record, I broke off my relationship with Joyce two weeks ago. She’s looking for another job. I know you don’t believe me, but it’s true.”

Ava looked at Matthew. She did believe him. Her gut instinct told her he was not lying, and his face was anguished.

“Ava, I’m so sorry. In a way, I’m relieved. I knew that sooner or later we had to have this conversation. I just didn’t know where to begin. I’m sorry I had to let you initiate it. I don’t blame you for anything. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Ava reached her hand across the table. Matthew clasped it in his. Both of their hands were cold and shaking.

Ava pulled her hand away.
“Okay, look. Let’s go and claim this ticket. Then let’s go home and try to sort all of this out.”

**********************

It was a Thursday. They went home and forged a truce. They were tentative with each other over the weekend. Ava slept in the study “to avoid confusion”. They would talk a little, then retire to their separate corners, and then talk a little more. They talked about half-forgotten childhood memories and somehow managed to find whole areas of their lives that somehow had remained untouched until then. Each seemed almost like a stranger to the other. Matthew showed Ava a ring he had made from a peach stone when he was eight years old that he had kept in his possession all these years. He didn’t know why. Ava told Matthew about the time she had stolen ten pennies from Myrtle Maloney when she was in kindergarten. She had suffered terrible guilt for it.

As it turned out, Ava and Matthew received a letter from the State Lotto Commission on Monday. It turned out that an unscrupulous State employee, an insider with access to the computer, had rigged this particular drawing. Somehow he had forged a winning ticket for himself. The drawing had been declared null and void. The system had been compromised. The State had no choice. They were very sorry for any inconvenience. Matthew handed the paper to Ava. She read it with a sense of unreality. They looked at each other and simultaneously began to laugh. They fell into each other’s arms laughing and fell to the ground laughing and laughing until they both began to cry. Then Ava snorted and they both began to laugh again. It was a million-dollar laugh. They had gambled. They thought they had lost. They had won, after all.

Copyright © 2008 · All rights reserved · Robin Munson

THE BUZZ - PART FOUR

Preface: This is the final installment in my semi-semi autobiographical short story. The first installment was on December 7th. The ending is a case of pure wishful thinking on my part, but hey - Why let the truth get in the way of a good story? Enjoy!

THE BUZZ - PART FOUR

They dropped off the tape. The maid took it from Sami and did not ask her inside. Both Sami and David tried not to get excited. They didn’t even have any idea which tune Krystal had in mind. They were stumped. Why now?

“It’s the limo.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

Sami gave a little laugh. “It’s the limo! Remember? She got there when Holly dropped us off in the limo! And then she saw us this morning at L’Express when we were with Holly and Ian.”

“She did? Do you think? Oh, Sami. I can’t believe it!”

“David. Do you really believe in your heart of hearts that she even listened to our tape the first time we gave it to her? And if she did listen, how do you think she listened? I mean, look. She’s been in this business a long time. It would be too much of a risk for her to stick her neck out for us. Let’s face it. We have no clout. But she saw us in the limo and then this morning and—“

“Yeah, and she thought—No, it’s too crazy. I refuse to believe it. Anyway, who cares. It will probably all come to naught anyway.”

“Yeah,” sighed Sami.

“Yeah,” echoed David.

And that was that. They went to the movies on Saturday and walked around Lake Hollywood on Sunday. It was a music-free weekend. They forgot all about Krystal Waterford.

Wednesday afternoon Krystal called. She sounded out of breath.

“Sami? Are you sitting down?” (Her voice made a high-pitched squeal on the word ‘down’.) “I played ‘Heaven’s Fallin Down’ for my friend? you know, the one who’s friends with Whitney’s manager? And she really liked it? She wants to take it to Whitney’s manager? And they’re getting together like next week? Sami?” (Krystal had acquired that Valley-girl cadence so that when she was excited, her voice went up in a question mark after all of her declarative sentences, and Sami didn’t know if she was making a statement or waiting for an answer).

“Really? That’s so great?” (Oh, God. Now Sami realized she was doing it).

“So, like, when can I come over so we can talk aboutit? You know, we have to talk about the publishing?”

“Uh—Oh, yeah. Um. Listen. Why don’t I have David call you when he gets back. He just ran out to do some errands. What’s your number?”

Sami wrote the number down carefully. She noticed her hand was shaking. She realized that all of this was just “pie in the sky”, but it had caught her off balance. She needed a few minutes to catch her breath and digest what she had heard.

By the time David got home she was relatively calm and she reported the phone call matter-of-factly.

“Krystal called. We might have a nibble on ‘Heaven’.

Here’s her number”.

David looked at the number and laid it down on the desk. “Thanks, honey”.

“Thanks, honey? David, aren’t you kind of curious? I mean, don’t you think we ought to call her back? I mean—Her friend is meeting with Whitney’s manager next week and…”

David looked at his wife with a mixture of compassion and amusement.

“Oh, it’s ‘Whitney’ now, huh? Sami. Don’t worry. I’ll call her back. I’ve got other things to do right now. Besides, why look too anxious?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I don’t exactly know why, but right now Krystal seems to think we’ve got a little ‘buzz’ going on, so she told her friend. Let’s play along. Let’s let her think we really do have a buzz. I think I’ll put a call in to our friend, Bernie Rosenzweig.”

Bernie was actually Sami’s cousin. He was a fairly well-known entertainment attorney. He knew “everyone”. Overbearing, but sweet, deep down. Sami and Dave had deliberately avoided asking any favors of Bernie. First of all, they were pretty sure he wouldn’t have done any. Second of all, they were afraid he might, and then they were afraid of the “payback”. Finally, they did not want to get involved in business with family. Bad policy. David called on the pretense of just “staying in touch”. He let the information about Krystal be coaxed out of him. Bernie seemed mildly interested, but quickly changed the subject. Bernie was very “hyper”. He could only stay on one subject for about thirty seconds.

That was all it took.

Bernie’s secretary called David the next day. Mr. Rosenzweig would like to set up a lunch date. Say for Monday? How about ‘The Palms’? One o’clock? Great, she’d let Mr. Rosenzweig know.

Monday rolled around. David finally called back Krystal. He apologized for being so late. She said that was okay. The meeting wasn’t until Wednesday. He said he had to call her back on Tuesday. He was having a meeting today with “some of his people”. Krystal sounded stung, but she recovered.

Lunch with Bernie was a singular experience. He talked about his colon a lot. It had been giving him trouble for two years, now. “Probably the business”, he laughed. Bernie ordered the Chinese chicken salad with the dressing on the side. He ate a basket of bread dipped in olive oil and downed two glasses of Chardonnay. David stuck with a cheese sandwich and a Coke. Then they both had decaf-Cappuccinos.

“So, how’s my cousin. How come she’s not here?”

“She was a little under the weather. She said she was sorry she couldn’t make it”.

It was true. Sami had prayed for a stomachache. Her prayer had been answered. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Bernie. She just had no idea what to say to him. They had not been close as children growing up, and since she had moved to California, she had seen even less of him. They had absolutely nothing in common except their connection to the “industry”, but they operated at different levels. He was a “suit”. She was an “artist”. In layman’s terms, that means he was God. She was a peon.

“Sorry to hear it. Send her my regards. So, what’s this I hear about Whitney holding one of your songs?”

“It’s called “Heaven’s Fallin’ Down”. Well, she’s not exactly ‘holding’ it. In fact, she hasn’t heard it yet, but this guy who’s a friend of Krystal’s is tight with her manager and. . .”

“Oh, sure. I know who that is. I mean, the friend. That must be—Oh yeah. It’s on the tip of my tongue. Sure, sure. I went to school with the guy. I know who you mean.” (This meant he had no idea in the world).” Well, then”, Bernie raised his Cappuccino cup,” Here’s to your imminent success. May you need my services soon!”

David raised his cup. “Soon. Thanks, Bernie”.

David drove home wondering what had just happened. He shrugged his shoulders. Probably nothing. Oh, well.

Krystal called at 8:00 the next morning.

“So, David. I hear you’re like really tight with Bernie Rosenzweig? I mean, is he running the tune or what?”

“Hi, Krystal. No, no. We just had lunch, that’s all. Why don’t you just tell your friend to go ahead with the meeting and let me know what happens. Don’t worry about the publishing. If Whitney Houston decides to do the tune, I’ll let you and her fight it out. Okay? Fair enough?”

“Okay, cause David, you know, I really want it to be, you know, up front? ‘Kay?”

“ ‘Kay”.

By the time Krystal’s friend and Whitney’s manager had had their meeting, “everyone” was talking about the new Sami and David tune that Whitney really wanted, but Bernie Rosenzweig had already promised to Madonna:

“I’ll try to get it for Whitney, but I’m not guaranteeing anything. It’s a dynamite tune. You wanna hear it?”

“Naw. I’ll just take a copy to Whitney. Bernie’s got golden ears. Just do your best.” (Of course, Bernie had never heard it.)

Well, that was that. Somehow, Krystal’s friend wrested the song away from the Madonna people, who were surprised to get the call in the first place. Whitney loved the song. Within six weeks it climbed to Number One on the Billboard charts.

Sami and David called Holly and invited her out for Indian food on the eve of the MTV Awards. “Heaven’s Fallin’ Down” was up for best song. This time, they went in David’s Honda.

“So, you guys. What’s next for you?”, Holly asked with barely concealed excitement.

David answered. “Well, after the Awards, we figure we’ll take a little time off and write a few more tunes. Reba McIntyre wants to do “The Door is Always Open”. Sami and David squeezed each other’s hands under the table. It was really a dream come true.

“What about making an album, Sami. You gonna go for it now?”

Sami laughed. “What? An old lady like me?”

The truth was, Sami and David were so delighted with their life as it was, that neither of them wanted to change a thing. They repainted the trim on the fake French doors. David continued his bulk tape business on the side. Sami kept doing her secretarial work part-time. Now, though, they had just a little more time for their writing, and their phone calls were returned. The Hollywood sign was still there. It was Tuesday.

THE END

© 2004, Robin Munson

THE BUZZ - PART THREE

Preface: This is the third installment in a short story I wrote a few years back. The first installment was on December 7th. Hope you like it!

THE BUZZ - PART THREE

It started quite by accident.

Holly Mossback rang their doorbell one Thursday afternoon. She had come over to pick up a few tapes. She was an old friend of David’s from way back and in fact, had recorded many of her own tunes in David’s studio. She too was searching for the big deal in the sky. Her answer to the practical question of ‘How do you eat in the mean time?’ was to drive people around. She had been a driver at all of the major studios at one time or another. Usually, she just had to have a running car of her own. Today, however, she had a surprise for Sami and David. She ushered them to the front of the house.

When they looked out by the curb, all they could say was “WOW!”. Holly had driven up in a huge, white Cadillac stretch limo. It was just too divoon. She slipped on her wraparound sunglasses and a chauffeur’s cap. At five-foot-ten in her black jeans and black turtleneck, Holly looked like a force to be reckoned with.

“Wanna go for a ride?”

Holly insisted that David and Sami “experience” the back seat of the limousine, although it made them both a little uneasy to be driven around by an old friend. Still, it was an amazing ride. There was a small working television and a portable bar in the back seat, as well as a telephone. The carpeting was thick, luxurious and spotless. Holly slipped one of her own tapes into the cassette deck in the front seat and immediately, they were awash in full throbbing bass and screaming guitars. Holly’s voice wailed above the din in a soulful soprano gospel lick - “ba-ay-ay-ay-ay-ay-ay-be-ee-ee-ee, ye-ah!” Sami whooped with approval and delight. They all felt like they were playing hooky from school. Of course, Holly was breaking all the rules - that’s what made it so much fun.

They were back home in about fifteen minutes. They hugged Holly and thanked her for the ride.

As Holly drove off, David saw that Krystal Waterford was standing at the front door. David and Sami had a fleeting secret look when they noticed her. They had spent some time debating over her name. Was it her real name or had she invented it? Either way, heaven help her.

Krystal was one of those somewhat successful, somewhat peripheral industry people who had made the rounds of most of the major labels. She had started out very young as a receptionist, and somehow, had managed to work her way up to “Artist and Repertoire”. To be an A&R person her official duty would be to find unknown songs for an artist who is already established and/or to find unknown artists for the label to sign. It is important to realize, however, that what a person does officially and what they actually do in the music business are very often at odds. In truth, when Krystal was working, her most important function was to look good at power lunches with the industry “suits”. In fact, her last boss at Quasimoto Records had been a frustrated and disillusioned writer cum executive. He was extremely gay, but extremely frightened of having his sexual preferences known. Mostly, Krystal tagged along with him and let people assume what they would. She learned quickly that this was what was expected. Nothing more, nothing less. However, when Quasimoto had been bought out by the F.U.N. Group, there had been the usual purge, and now, Krystal was an“independent”. (Translation: She was out of work).

David greeted her in his usual good-natured way.

“Hey, Krystal.”

“Hi, David. Sami.”

Sami didn’t quite trust Krystal. At the same time, she realized it was her own bias. Sami had a hard time with beautiful petite blondes with bobbed noses. She always imagined they were flirting with David. Besides, Sami and David had sent one of their tapes to Krystal. She had called politely to say she didn’t “hear anything”. Sami chided herself silently for what she was thinking.

“How ya doin, Krystal.”

They walked in and David went to get the tapes for Krystal.

“Sorry we weren’t here when you got here. David must have forgotten. . .”

“No, I just happened to be around so I thought I’d drop by instead of waiting till tomorrow. It’s my fault. Anyway, I was only here for a minute. . .Noticed the limo.”

Sami didn’t know why, but she felt like being vague.

“Oh, yeah.”

There was an uncomfortable moment while Krystal waited for an explanation and Sami refused it. David arrived with the tapes.

“There you go, Krystal. It comes to fifteen dollars even.”

Krystal wrote out a hurried check and dropped it on the

desk. She looked at David and then at Sami.

“Well, you two. Uh. Thanks, again. Bye”.

Sami looked after her. “How can she say ‘Thanks again’? She didn’t thank us the first time.”

David laughed and shook his head. He understood his wife so well. “Sami, Sami, Sami”.

The next morning Holly showed up again. She was driving the “Big Car”. The vulgar display of wealth didn’t seem to bother her a bit. As a matter of fact, she rather enjoyed it. David opened the door groggily. He was in his bathrobe.

“Holly! It’s 8:00 a.m. Wazza matter? Did you forget something yesterday?”

Holly grinned and stepped to the side. “I brought you a surprise”.

Standing behind Holly was a diminutive middle-aged man in sunglasses that covered two-thirds of his face. David recognized him at once.

“IAN THOMAS” The two men hugged. David was beaming. “I haven’t seen you in a lifetime, man. Thought you disappeared off the face of the earth!”

Ian Thomas had been a huge success as a singer/songwriter in the seventies, and David had spent several years touring with the band and playing on his records. Although Ian’s popularity had waned in the recent years, he had made enough to last a lifetime in royalties from the standards he had written back then. From time to time he still showed up in Las Vegas, doing a benefit, or even an occasional cameo on television. He had written a theme for a movie that had just been nominated for “Best Picture”, so he was on a “natural high”, as he liked to say. Once, he had looked for his highs in other ways, but through sheer force of will he had pulled himself out of the mire of a nasty cocaine addiction. David hugged Holly and then hugged Ian again.

David, Sami, Holly and Ian were in a holiday mood, so they went to L’Express for breakfast. They spent two hours while David, Holly and Ian reminisced. Sami was quiet. She couldn’t believe she had actually met Ian Thomas. She had the distinct impression that someone was looking at her. Across the room she found the source of the laser beam gaze: it was Krystal.

The phone rang later that day. David picked it up. It was Krystal. She was having a meeting on Monday with a friend of Whitney Houston’s manager. She was wondering. She wondered if she might listen to one of the tunes on Sami and David’s tape again. There might be something there after all. Could they drop off another tape?

(c) 2004, Robin Munson

THE BUZZ - PART TWO

Preface: In case you are just dropping in for the first time, this is the second part in a short story. Part One was posted yesterday (December 7th).

THE BUZZ - PART TWO

Sami was crushed. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand as she headed out for her broken down Renault. She got mascara all over her hand. She looked like a raccoon with pink-eye. It was her first and last interview with a casting agent. After that, she had given up on acting. She concentrated on being a singer-songwriter, figuring that the age/looks bias was less of an issue in that arena. It was around that time that MTV was born. Live and learn.

She had knocked around Hollywood as long as she could stand it, sitting at beer-soaked pianos with half their keys missing, doing her best to bring across her heartfelt lyrics as sensitively as possible while trying to drown out the drone of the noisy and largely uninterested audiences. She played at restaurants during cocktail hours, but they only wanted “covers” of the “top forty” tunes and “standards”. This made her sick, but it paid. She played at the “clubs” that graciously allowed her to play original tunes, but of course, she lost money on these. Finally, she had stopped playing altogether for nearly ten years. She had found a job as a secretary. At last, all that manual dexterity was going to pay off.

David was another story. He had begun his career as a musician at seventeen and had never stopped. He had started playing in the Marines, and since he had been stationed in Southern California, he had begun to make a living as a professional guitar player with an early surf band and somehow, had just kept on going. Of course, he was one of those people who was legitimately gifted. His playing was strong and clean, tasteful. He had enjoyed a reputation as one of the “heavy” studio players for many years. Then he’d simply gotten bored with the success that had come relatively easily to him. He gave up playing to have his own studio. Again, he had been quite successful. Again, he had gotten bored with that, too, and decided to give up the studio to concentrate on simply writing and producing. This is the stage where Sami Applebaum and David Jorgensen met.

If it was love at first sight, it was a different kind of love than either had expected. It was more as if they had recognized each other right away; as if when they came together for the first time, each had found their other half, and they hadn’t known up to that moment that there was another half.

When they had been seeing each other for several months, Sami had gathered up her courage and presented David with a home-made cassette of some of her tunes. She had been much too shy to play anything for him on the piano. She was somewhat awed by his great experience and success in the music business. Besides, she felt that showing her songs would be like giving him instant access to all the secrets of her soul - the ones she had so desperately and futilely tried to conceal in the first blush of courtship. The songs were extremely intimate, delicate. Folksy in their style and delivery. “Not hip”, she knew. What if he didn’t like what he heard?

David had listened to her self-conscious little tape and realized that, although it was very rough and she obviously hadn’t sung much in some time, there was something endearing and genuine about the overall quality of her songs. He loved her more for it.

In exchange, he had given her a copy of his solo album which he had produced himself. He hadn’t gotten a deal on it yet, but it was polished, professional, avant-garde, fully fleshed out, mostly with synthesizers, and of course, guitars. He had done everything himself. She was struck dumb by his obvious talent. She was also a little frightened. Who was this person? Nothing at all like the quiet, gentle boy-like man she had been dating for the past three months. Each looked at the other with new eyes.

After a year of dating, they decided to live together. After a year of living together, Sami brought up marriage. David was reluctant at first, but he warmed to the idea enough not to cancel the rabbi on the morning of the wedding. Sami’s mother worried that it was a “mixed marriage”, but she was wrong. They shared a common religion—music. The rabbi was a drummer from one of David’s bands. The ceremony was scheduled for eleven o’clock on a Sunday morning by the swimming pool in back of the house. At nine o’clock the bride and groom were taking their last walk around the neighborhood as an unmarried couple. Sami stopped in her tracks:

“Are you sure, David? We can call this off right now. Really.”

“Yeah. I’m sure. Let’s do it.”

To Sami, this was the most romantic speech she had ever

heard.

So, here it was. They had been married now for three years. They had written and recorded at least an album’s worth of material that they both felt wonderful about. All the while, they had kept themselves going financially with their “day gigs”. David had begun a mail order business for bulk recording tape. Sami had been doing secretarial work out of their home. They lived together and worked together. They were in love and happy. There was only one thing missing. It was the next logical step in their relationship. The next phase in their development as human beings. The cornerstone of their maturity and commitment: A record deal.

THE BUZZ - PART ONE

Preface: For the next couple of days, I am going to be sharing a short story I wrote a few years ago. It is loosely (and I do mean VERY loosely) autobiographical, based on the part of my life that has been a recurring theme: the music business. Hope you will enjoy. Thanks!

THE BUZZ- Part One

Sami stared out the fake French door. The trim was peeling. It looked out on the redwood deck and the swimming pool. The Hollywood sign looked close enough to grab this morning. Just another perfect day in paradise. She sighed and turned her back on the glorious Technicolor view. She’d seen so many of these mornings - promising something wonderful just around the bend. She put the tea kettle on the stove and walked down the front stairs to unlock the gate and pick up the Times. By the time she got back to the kitchen, David was already in the shower. Better not run the faucet just now. She had made that mistake once. Scalded poor David. She set the table.

Well, just a peek at her horoscope before breakfast. Maybe this was The Day. Nope. Not today. Vague as always. “Focus on significant love relationship. Organize loose ends. Travel in your future”. Nope. Not today.

She and David had just sent out a new package of their tunes. Their last package two years before had been all dance tunes - a carefully thought out blend of Madonna and Paula Abdul-like arrangements of songs that were purely their own. Sending out tapes was like putting a note in a bottle and setting it out to sea. The chances of a reply, she had learned, were about the same. Sami had pushed her chest voice up as far as it would go trying hard not to sound too Joni Mitchell-like. She had also pushed her hemline up as far as it would go without revealing too much of her not-totally-perfect body.

The problem was - she was old. Oh, not old by the usual standards. Not old compared to George Burns. Not old compared to her parents. Not old compared to David, even. (He was ten years her senior). She was forty-two. But by Hollywood standards, we’re talking ancient. Of course, when Sami had first begun singing with David, she had been thirty-seven. She could pass for twenty-seven. Maybe. On a good day. Back then. Now, she didn’t know anymore. She remembered her most telling experience with ageism in the business.

A friend had sent her to see a casting agent. Sami had actually been twenty-seven years old. The casting agent looked at her. Looked at her pictures and her resume. Leaned back in his black leather chair with his hands locked atop his bald pate.“How old are you, anyway”? Sami improvised. Smiled sweetly. Even shuffled her feet a little under the chair. “How old would you like me to be”?

Agent released his fingers. Rubbed his eyes wearily. “Let’s not play this game. I don’t really care how old you are. Just curious.” Sami relaxed. Big mistake. “I’m twenty-seven”.“TWENTY-SEVEN?! I RETIRE MY GIRLS AT TWENTY-SEVEN”!!

Essentially, this was the end of the interview, except that the agent advised Sami that she was hardly the leading lady type, even if she were seventeen, and that if he were her he would try for character roles.

ME & GEORGE BURNS

(Author’s Note: Just for the record – This is fiction. RM).

It happened so quickly, I didn’t have time to be scared. I remember that I was pulling into the next lane. I had my left turn signal on, and I glanced back over my shoulder to make sure the coast was clear. I must have been going about 65, which was actually a little slow for the 405 that day. But when I turned back around, the truck in front of me had stopped. All I saw was red tail lights. Then black.

Next thing I know, I’m in the ER at Cedars. I see lots of little kids. One with her head in her mother’s lap, and the mother was stroking her head, ever so gently, with that fifty-yard stare. Then I saw me. It felt like I was on the other side of the room and I recognized my hair. The rest was harder to make out. I was a mess. I saw lots of activities around my guerney. Someone pulled out the paddles and yelled “Clear!”, just like they do on TV. They were pounding on me for a long time. Then someone pulled a sheet up over my head and wheeled me away. But – Wait a minute! They couldn’t have wheeled me away because I was still in the room, checking out everyone else. Then I realized what had happened.

There was no tunnel. There was no bright light. Nobody called my name or waved to me. It was very disappointing, to tell you the truth. But not a bad sensation, just floating. You know that feeling you get when you’re falling asleep and you’re about half-way there? It used to happen to me all the time. Then images began.

Now I was in a steam room. I mean it. A schvitz. Like the old Jewish men used to visit once a week. All tiled in black and white. Hot as hell. (Just a figure of speech). In fact, I heard my grandfather, Mair, was very fond of the schvitz. He took my father there as a rite of passage. It was probably more important than a bar mitzvah. Now, this is funny because I’ve never been in a schvitz in my life, so now that I’m being inducted into my own personal heaven, why a schvitz?

Pretty soon, the heavy steel door opened, and in walks, well, George Burns. As in “Burn and Allen”. As in the movie, “Oh, God”, and the sequels. There he was, wrapped in a big white towel, a cigar hanging out of his mouth. He took the cigar out and said, “Hiya, kid!”. I was stunned.

“Are you God?”

“Sure”.

“But – Why do You look like George Burns? As a matter of fact, you sound like George Burns.”

“Isn’t that what you expected?” A little sly smile played on the corner of his mouth.

“Well, I guess so, but I always imagined that that was just my immature spirituality and that You would enlighten me later on”.

“Your spirituality is fine. Listen, I don’t really have an image that you could recognize, so I do it on a case-by-case basis. You expected George Burns. Moses expected a burning bush. Get it?”

“Okay, yeah, I think I do. Do I get to ask questions?”

“You just did. Go ahead. Fire away.”

“Am I – um – dead?”

“Your old body is vacant, if that’s what you mean. It’s ready for the recycling bin.”

“The ‘recycling bin’?”

“Oh, sure. Nothing goes to waste, I promise you.”

“So – How are we having this discussion?”

“Well, just because your old body is sent back to the earth doesn’t mean your soul is scrapped, too! You’re a good soul. Sturdy. Indestructible, actually. You’ve heard the expression “immortal soul”?

“Yeah, but I never took it very literally.”

“Well, that’s understandable. Most people get confused by the body and think that’s the whole deal. Very common misunderstanding.”

“Well, so. How did I do?”

“You done good, kid. I’m proud of you”.

“Really?”

”Yeah. You did your best. You learned from your mistakes. And you were really good at loving.”

“Yeah, but I mean. I never did figure out why I was here, I mean, there. You know, I wasn’t a big success at anything. I never got that hit record.”

“You mean, you weren’t famous or wealthy?”

“At the risk of sounding shallow, yes.”

“I’ll let you in on a little secret. Hit records never impressed me. Neither does fame. And wealth, well, you know. In and of itself wealth has no value. Can even be a problem.”

“But – I don’t know what my Purpose was. Can you explain that?”

“I don’t make up your Purpose. You do! That’s free will. One of my finest inventions, if I do say so Myself.”

“No predestiny?”

“No. How do you think I amuse myself? I’d be bored if I could predict your every move, much less control it. So now I’ll ask the question. What was the purpose of your life?”

“Ummm. I was a good daughter, a good friend, a good sister. . . I guess.”

“Don’t you know?”

“Yes. I was.”

“Very good, kid. So, what’s the purpose of being a good daughter, a good friend, a good sister?”

“Is there a purpose?”

”Sure. An important one. See, it’s all about connection. The biggest misery is to feel isolated, alone. The greatest joy is to feel connected.”

“So by making people feel connected, I contributed to their joy?”

“You’re a quick study. More tomorrow. I’m an old man. I’m tired”.

“Where are you going?”

“Nowhere. Everywhere. Don’t worry kid. Just because you can’t see me doesn’t mean I don’t exist. I’m as near as your own heartbeat”.

“Oh.”

He left by the door, which I thought was very sensitive. I was new to all this, and He was trying not to shock me.

© 2004 Robin Munson

DANCING BETWEEN THE RAINDROPS

A boy and a girl, Henry and Rose, were so much in love, that they couldn’t wait to get married. Although she was only sixteen and he was only seventeen, it didn’t matter to them. They asked for their parents’ blessing, but their parents could only shake their heads and say they were too young. So they ran away.

They went to a small town in a state where you didn’t have to be eighteen to get married. But as much in love as they were, and as eager as they were to wed, they were very particular about the results. They wanted to live happily ever after. They knew that the circumstances must be exactly right for that to happen, because they hardly knew of anyone who had lived happily ever after. As a matter of fact, they didn’t know anyone, because (logic tells us), in order to know someone has lived happily ever after, we have to wait until the “ever” part is over to know for sure.

So the boy and the girl went to the small café in the small town and they found out there was a town wisewoman – a gypsy fortune teller named Matilda – who was the all-around guru and soothsayer for everything from rheumatism to broken hearts. They walked to her little cottage on the outskirts of the town and knocked on the door. The elderly woman who answered the door smiled when she saw them. And although she was covered in wrinkles and brown spots and her hair was grey and thin and wiry, her smile lit up the whole doorway.

“What have we here? A pair of lovebirds, I see. Well, well, well. Come in! I’ll make a pot of tea.”

So the boy and the girl came into the warm, sunny little cottage and made themselves cozy beside the fire. A grey cat with white whiskers appeared out of nowhere and plopped herself down in the girl’s lap. The girl stroked her and spoke.

“We want to get married.”

The old woman looked thoughtfully at the boy. “Is that so?”

“Yes, he said. Very much so”.

“Well”, said the gypsy, “There is the preacher down the road. He can help you with that. I don’t do weddings.” And with that she began to get up. Then she stopped herself. “But there is something else, isn’t there?”

“Yes”, replied the girl. “We want to live happily ever after. We want to make sure. We don’t ever want to make each other unhappy.”

“Hmmmm.” The old woman mumbled. “I see. So you need the secret, is that it?”

“Yes, please” the boy politely replied.

“You must, of course, get married on a sunny day”, the old woman replied. “Otherwise, all bets are off”.

“That’s it?!” the couple cried in unison.

“That’s it,” answered Matilda.

With that, Henry and Rose jumped out of their chairs, hugged Matilda, and told her they would arrange to be married by the preacher down the road on the first sunny day available. As they left they promised to invite Matilda to the wedding. She waved after them, smiling.

Henry and Rose visited the preacher down the road, who expressed some doubt when he found out how young they were, but then relented, realizing that he and his wife, who had been happily married for over twenty years, had been just about their age when they had married. So they all consulted the Almanac and they tuned in to the Weather Channel, and they even looked outside for signs of rain. They decided that the next day would be a fine, sunny day. The preacher was available (as it would be a Monday), and all was hastily and happily arranged. Henry and Rose shook hands with the preacher and thanked his plump little wife who was making dumplings in the kitchen. They then went to the café and announced their wedding for the next day at the church down the road. All the town was invited. They called Matilda from the phone booth in the café and told her the good news. And because they were not yet married and had no where to go, they spent the night in separate rooms in the home of the café owner, which was just upstairs overlooking Main Street.

Well. The next morning the young couple rose to the smell of fresh coffee and cinnamon buns. They went downstairs for breakfast and tried to pay for it with their meager savings, but the café owner would not hear of it – not on their wedding day.

Just as they sat down to the steaming coffee, they heard a CRACK and a BOOM. They looked outside, and to their horror, saw that a huge lightning storm had come in out of nowhere. They were sure their wedding would have to be called off. Now they would never live happily ever after, they thought! They were miserable, and decided to consult Matilda one more time.

Henry and Rose put on their matching yellow slickers and ran to Matilda’s cottage. “Now what?!” They cried as she opened the door. Matilda just smiled her big, warm smile and ushered them in for a hot cup of tea.

“You have to dance between the raindrops!” she exlaimed.

Rose and Henry looked at her quizzically.

“Go ahead and get married in the church, just as you had planned. Then after the wedding, you have to go outside and have your first dance as a married couple. All you have to do is dance between the raindrops, and you will magically convert your bad luck into good luck. In fact, dancing between the raindrops is the best luck of all!”

Well, Rose looked at Henry, and Henry looked at Rose, and they were full of doubt, but more than that, they just wanted to be married, so they agreed. They hugged Matilda and put on their yellow slickers again, running out into the pounding rain.

At two o’clock, just as planned, they stood before the preacher. The ceremony was short, but very sweet. Henry and Rose were glowing and so happy they thought their hearts would burst. They ran outside the church and began a merry dance. There was no music, because the band would not play in the rain. But Henry and Rose heard the music in their beating hearts, and they danced for a full fifteen minutes. They tried very hard to miss the raindrops, but they wound up getting soaked. Their feet sunk into the mud. Rose’s dress was ruined. Henry’s Sunday best was dripping. By the end of their dance, they were laughing so hard that they fell down in the muddy street and just rolled around while the town cheered.

After everyone had congratulated the young newlyweds and the townspeople had gone home, they realized they had to consult with Matilda yet again. It suddenly dawned on them that they had not quite lived up to the stipulated requirement for living “happily ever after”, for in spite of all their care, they had not been able to avoid the raindrops. Matilda was quietly waiting for them inside the café, utterly dry and sober, and sipping a cup of tea. “Come in, my children!”, she called.

They trudged into the café, their hair sopping, their shoes squishing, their clothes covered in mud, and their eyes shining. Rose spoke for both of them.

“Matilda, I’m afraid we failed, as you can see! We tried so hard to dance between the raindrops, but no matter how hard we tried, they just kept coming and coming and – well, we got drenched! Now we’re afraid we’ll never live happily ever after!”

Matilda laughed a deep belly laugh.

“Nonsense! You have performed your task exactly as instructed. You danced between the raindrops. But who ever said you wouldn’t get wet?!”

And as predicted, Henry and Rose lived happily ever after.