to strike up a rapport with the naked, lonely child that remained.
Shelly put an arm around the boy, squeezed his shoulder. "Take it slow, kid. You're going to crack-em-out completely tonight." He punched Stag lightly on the biceps and rose to go.
Stag Preston's eyes were moist, and they looked at Shelly with a fierce friendliness. Shelly moved to leave.
"Hey, Shelly … ?"
He paused, turned. Stag was still staring at him.
"Thanks, Shelly."
He winked, turned and walked back out through the swinging doors.
On the stage the TempTones were belting out a song whose lyrics perhaps only Lumumba could decipher. In the front row the A&R men were bored. Sid Feller of ABC-Paramount was the only one making a valiant effort to stay awake; he kept blinking rapidly, opening his eyes very wide every few seconds. Finally, in desperation, he began rubbing at an eye, murmuring, "Damn contact lenses itch," to Joe Goldberg of Prestige Records. Goldberg nodded, stifling a yawn. The Colonel had his eyes closed. Shelly stepped out through the gym's side exit to have another smoke.
Up there, the stars. Down here, another one getting ready to go nova. Shelly Morgenstern lit up, drew deeply, and pondered absolutely nothing at all. Except maybe the inner workings of hatred, and how foolish it was to become part of that mechanism. To hate Stag was folly; he was a kid, simply a kid. He wasn't the ogre Shelly had begun to envision, endowed with the cunning and ruthlessness of an animal. He was a lonely, unhappy kid with a lousy background and a drive to succeed that seemed out of line next to the torpid desires of most people. But he wasn't a monster. Not at all.
Shelly lipped the butt a final time, snapped it away. It hit the gray expanse of the basketball court, showered lovely orange sparks in a wide fan, and was carried away by the ground breeze. Shelly sighed once, deeply, and looked at the stars.
The ethical structure of the universe. How does it apply to you and me … you and I … Adelaide's Lament … a community theatre in Ridgewood, New Jersey … a girl in the bushes with a best friend … she had to put a cat out for the night while the neighbors were away … thoughts .
He caught himself. Stream of consciousness is all right if your name is James Joyce, but if it's Sheldon Morgenstern, keep them thoughts on Carlene (whom you are keeping, but whom you have not seen since before Louisville), on the Mercedes-Benz (which you are paying on, but haven't driven since before Louisville), on the kid in there who is climbing into his Continental suit, this very moment (a kid who has taken up your time completely, since Louisville). Thoughts. The bane of the working classes.
Shelly sighed again, turned to the gym door and swung it open. His foot was in the air when the final thought — completely divorced from the others — came through:
Jeanie Friedel.
Bam!
Just like that. He saw again the look Stag Preston had given her at the contract-signing. It had been a glimpse of another face entirely. Someone else's face. The unfamiliar. Then Shelly stepped through into the gym.
For comparison, Mandle had collared a local Cleveland talent, a singer named Bub Walthers; a kid who had come up with a mild success that Paul Anka had covered after its fourth week on the air (and had gone over 3 of a million with it). That had been Bub Walthers's sole claim to fame; still, he was a local hero. And good comparison for what was to come.
Walthers finished his number, took a smattering of applause that was more reminiscence and lost glory than fervor, and bowed off the stage.
Then Mandle came on again. His face was so well-scrubbed Shelly thought he might have done it with a Brillo pad.
He took the mike in both hands, bending the stand toward himself, and a tone of such sincerity, such camaraderie suffused the gym that even the A&R men sat a little straighter. Sid Feller said to hell with it, popped the offending contact lens out into the palm of his
Shelly put an arm around the boy, squeezed his shoulder. "Take it slow, kid. You're going to crack-em-out completely tonight." He punched Stag lightly on the biceps and rose to go.
Stag Preston's eyes were moist, and they looked at Shelly with a fierce friendliness. Shelly moved to leave.
"Hey, Shelly … ?"
He paused, turned. Stag was still staring at him.
"Thanks, Shelly."
He winked, turned and walked back out through the swinging doors.
On the stage the TempTones were belting out a song whose lyrics perhaps only Lumumba could decipher. In the front row the A&R men were bored. Sid Feller of ABC-Paramount was the only one making a valiant effort to stay awake; he kept blinking rapidly, opening his eyes very wide every few seconds. Finally, in desperation, he began rubbing at an eye, murmuring, "Damn contact lenses itch," to Joe Goldberg of Prestige Records. Goldberg nodded, stifling a yawn. The Colonel had his eyes closed. Shelly stepped out through the gym's side exit to have another smoke.
Up there, the stars. Down here, another one getting ready to go nova. Shelly Morgenstern lit up, drew deeply, and pondered absolutely nothing at all. Except maybe the inner workings of hatred, and how foolish it was to become part of that mechanism. To hate Stag was folly; he was a kid, simply a kid. He wasn't the ogre Shelly had begun to envision, endowed with the cunning and ruthlessness of an animal. He was a lonely, unhappy kid with a lousy background and a drive to succeed that seemed out of line next to the torpid desires of most people. But he wasn't a monster. Not at all.
Shelly lipped the butt a final time, snapped it away. It hit the gray expanse of the basketball court, showered lovely orange sparks in a wide fan, and was carried away by the ground breeze. Shelly sighed once, deeply, and looked at the stars.
The ethical structure of the universe. How does it apply to you and me … you and I … Adelaide's Lament … a community theatre in Ridgewood, New Jersey … a girl in the bushes with a best friend … she had to put a cat out for the night while the neighbors were away … thoughts .
He caught himself. Stream of consciousness is all right if your name is James Joyce, but if it's Sheldon Morgenstern, keep them thoughts on Carlene (whom you are keeping, but whom you have not seen since before Louisville), on the Mercedes-Benz (which you are paying on, but haven't driven since before Louisville), on the kid in there who is climbing into his Continental suit, this very moment (a kid who has taken up your time completely, since Louisville). Thoughts. The bane of the working classes.
Shelly sighed again, turned to the gym door and swung it open. His foot was in the air when the final thought — completely divorced from the others — came through:
Jeanie Friedel.
Bam!
Just like that. He saw again the look Stag Preston had given her at the contract-signing. It had been a glimpse of another face entirely. Someone else's face. The unfamiliar. Then Shelly stepped through into the gym.
For comparison, Mandle had collared a local Cleveland talent, a singer named Bub Walthers; a kid who had come up with a mild success that Paul Anka had covered after its fourth week on the air (and had gone over 3 of a million with it). That had been Bub Walthers's sole claim to fame; still, he was a local hero. And good comparison for what was to come.
Walthers finished his number, took a smattering of applause that was more reminiscence and lost glory than fervor, and bowed off the stage.
Then Mandle came on again. His face was so well-scrubbed Shelly thought he might have done it with a Brillo pad.
He took the mike in both hands, bending the stand toward himself, and a tone of such sincerity, such camaraderie suffused the gym that even the A&R men sat a little straighter. Sid Feller said to hell with it, popped the offending contact lens out into the palm of his
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