The lights around the mirror hit me hard in my eyes. I’ve had them closed tightly for so long that they struggle to adjust to the naked yellow bulbs. I bring the white square handkerchief to my brow and find that not only am I sweating to no end; I also have a light damp path down my cheek where an unnoticed tear has rolled down. As my eyes come into focus I begin to see myself. But it’s not myself. Not the me I once knew. Once upon a time I had a full head of black hair – now it’s thinning a little and makes me look a bit like my dad. A few grey hairs at the sides? When did they come through? Were they there this morning? I can’t remember. Once upon a time my skin was supple and pink and clean. Now it looks slightly inelastic and dumpy. I touch my lips with my hand. Fingertips are yellow from years of too many cigarettes. God I wish I could light one in here. Sweet nicotine sounds so soothing right now.
A man in a white tee-shirt knocks on the dressing room door, comes in without waiting for me to answer and tells me that I only have ten minutes. But I’m not really listening to him as he talks. All I can hear is what is down the corridor. I go there mentally. Out the door. Left to the end of the pallid white corridor and through the muslin curtain to the stage. The stage. The lights. But above all the people. The noise and the people. I feel my neck muscles tense slightly and my heart sinks like a stone as the realisation of what I will be doing soon plays out in my mind. Ten minutes. I nod my head and force a cracked smile at the announcer.
As he leaves my ‘manager’ pushes past him at the door and immediately I know he he’s going to tell me something stupid, or banal, or discouraging. But it isn’t really that bad, what he tells me. Apparently some “fans” want to meet me. I tell him no, and look down at my black lace shoes. When was the last time they were polished? Were they ever? But my ‘manager’ lets the “fans” in despite my weak protest; such is the power in what I think these days – it’s nonexistent. When did he begin to disregard what I think, I wonder? Five years ago? Longer, surely. Ten probably. He probably saw this coming a long time before I did, this ‘life’ I lead now.
The “fans” are two women quite clearly in their late thirties. The worst kind. Their generation has been around to see my whole existence from start to… well, not finish… just a kind of limbo of what I suppose is ‘now’. They loved watching me on TV the first one says. I nod in apparent appreciation. I loved watching me on TV too. Not now, though, those tapes are too painful to sit through. Too many memories of what was. Where have I been since that show the second one asks. Immediately I see every club I’ve ever played at in my mind. Every dank, depressing, decrepit hellhole that looks and sounds and feels exactly like this one does too. Has exactly the same dressing room as the one I’m in now. Exactly the same corridor and muslin curtain to get to the stage as this club. Exactly the same drunken noises and smells and chatter that I can hear now, just outside the room. Exactly the same “fans” who always wonder where I’ve been and why I’m no longer on TV.
Working on new material, I tell them. Like fuck I am. The last time I ‘worked’ on anything myself Major was still prime minister. They smile and thank me for signing their arms and leave. My ‘manager’ and I look at each other and have nothing to say to each other. Phha… That’s new. He leaves the room and closes the door behind him. I’m alone. Just me and the mirror; I don’t do anything but stare at my own tired eyes for a while.
The white tee-shirt man comes back in – this time without knocking – and tells me one minute. I nod again, and feel my stomach contract strongly and painfully as I stand up. Looking in the mirror I try to tie my bow-tie. But I can’t – my fingers shake too much. God I need a cigarette. I go over the words in my mind. But I can’t remember them. Fuckin’ hell; I wrote that song thirty years ago and people still want to hear it. Maybe not TV audiences, but shitty clubs in the east end still pay a couple hundred pounds for an appearance.
Such is “Fame”
Residential Garage Doors…
How many people wrote disagreeing with you?…