Here's a lil' taste to whet the appetite.
By the time I make it back to Brooklyn, I’m ready to celebrate. I head straight to Fritz’s, which is abuzz courtesy of a new karaoke machine to turn up the volume on 80s night. The bar is so full I can barely squeeze between the bodies. I hold up a finger to Pam, who knows already what I order. She nods and gives me a wink. I turn around to face the happy folks crowded around the tiny stage erected on the limited dance floor. Some woman nearing her 40s is massacring “Open Arms” by Journey. I grimace through it, while everyone else claps and encourages her on. They’re all happily under the influence, which I presume makes it easier to enjoy the show.
Pam appears like an angel beside me, offering me a frosty mug of beer. I lean down so she can hear me. “When did you decide to go karaoke?”
She laughs. “This is the first weekend. It’s sort of a trial run.” We glance around the crowded bar, which is more business than this neighborhood haunt has seen in quite a while.
“Looks like it was a successful experiment,” I say.
She shrugs. Her lovely apple cheeks flush with a faint hint of pink I can still detect under the colorful lights. “It was my idea,” she says. “Confession, you kind of inspired it.”
“Oh, yeah?”
She nods. “Yeah.” Her bright eyes sparkle up at me. “You should totally go up there. Show them how it’s done.”
“You think?”
“I know,” she says. “You’ll have them eating out of the palm of your hand, Vanni.”
With a shrug, I figure what the hell? I get in line and set up my song. I dig back in time a little deeper and pick “Time of the Season” by the Zombies, because I’ve always thought it was a sexy song. A sexy song deserves a sexy delivery, and I’m more than ready to shed that rat race idiot who used to work at McKinley, Donnelly and Roth. I toss my hair with my fingers, and I untuck my dress shirt, which I unbutton halfway down my chest. I almost wish I could shed it completely, but that seems too much.
Maybe one day…
As soon as I hit the stage, it’s as natural as breathing. I look out at the expectant faces in the crowd, like a lion surveys a pack of juicy wildebeests. The girls in particular are ripe for the picking. They brazenly scope me up and down, sending me suggestive smiles as they stare up at me. Well, what do you know? The girls I love actually love me back. They’re not looking down their noses at me like Stu. They’re not rolling their eyes at me like Lori. They look at me like I’m interesting, fascinating, appealing, and all I had to do was step on this stage. How fucking wonderful is that? The minute the song starts, I’m somebody else. Only this somebody isn’t some pathetic little automaton punching a time card. I wield power like a magician, and the microphone is my wand. I hear my voice through the speakers. It doesn’t even sound like me. It sounds better than me.
It’s him, the New Vanni who has finally given his last fuck.
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