He sat there slightly stoned, staring at the diamond ring
on his manager’s pinky.
“All right kid, I’m not gonna lie to you. You’re on top
now, but the honeymoon’s wearing thin. You go back to your room tonight and you
write some new songs, and let’s get back into the studio.”
He nodded. The pinky ring blinked at him.
Saul (his manager’s name was Saul) stood up from the
leather booth in the hotel bar. “We’re there kid, let’s stay there.” He grabbed
his hand and shook it vigorously.
He
walked into his room, sat on the bed and picked up his guitar. A custom-made
Les Paul once owned by a guy who’d played with The King. Strummed a few chords.
Always the same four chords. He put down the guitar and picked up the
telephone.
The hotel jacuzzi bubbled the way jacuzzis do. Two
fifteen year old girls enhanced the experience considerably. There was vodka,
Vicodin. The girls bit and scratched but he couldn’t get it up. So he kicked
them out.
Peace,
finally. The echo of bubbles. He closed his eyes and had continual profound
enlightenments.
The
kid found him floating the next morning. Put down his broom and picked
up the wallet, opened it. A pink guitar pick fell to the tile floor, next to a
pair of six-hundred dollar Italian leather shoes.
Saul’s
brunch was rudely interrupted.
