Rockin’ in Brooklyn

My thanks to the woman who bought a book in Russian, and to the one who purchased three young adult novels for her 16-year-old daughter. It was a tiny bit warmer today, as we inch toward seasonable temperatures. I’m ready.

Here’s an excerpt from my multi-character rock n roll epic, Rising Star. The band is about to take the stage at the Lamour that was on 62nd Street in Brooklyn, opening for a group that’s a bit ahead of it at this point. It’s a five-ten minute read:

As they waited backstage, Paul sensed the band was ready to rock. They were so keyed the recent animosity seemed forgotten. The place was unusually crowded for the hour, which was well before the appearance of the headliners. Peering from the side of the stage, Paul spotted his parents in the company of his brother and Rosemarie. Mitchell was no longer looking in the direction of the office. He was staring at his feet, a meditative look on his face. John and Richie were standing nose to nose, exhorting each other like football players before a game. Mike paced nervously, smoking. Paul slung an arm around him and kissed the top of his head.
“Ready, Mikey?”
“Kill me if I choke, ya hear? Don’ lemme live.”
They were signaled to take the stage. The volume of the recording playing over the sound system gradually diminished. The video screen was raised. Before presenting the band, the DJ announced future shows, which included an appearance by Robin Trower. Surprised, Paul gazed at Mitchell. Why was a brilliant musician who’d played the largest venues in the world appearing at one so small? If Trower had fallen, how could he expect to rise himself? He wasn’t nearly as talented as that. In fact, he was in awe of the simple fact that he would be playing the same stage. Should the size of a place matter, though? Wasn’t the important thing the opportunity to play? A real musician would play alone in his room if he were unable to land a gig. It seemed silly to feel sorry for Trower, who had laid so many powerful tracks on vinyl. He prayed he would one day earn such distinction himself. And, should he, he knew that his star would also fall in time.
The cheers of friends and relatives rose above the silence of the majority as the band was introduced. Music burst from the sound system. There was stillness, skepticism at first. Soon there was movement toward the stage, as if a magnet had drawn people toward it. John strode along the length, looking down at those gathered before him, then out to the rest of the audience, commanding attention. Paul was more animated than ever. He complemented John wonderfully. Mitchell and Richie smiled at each other.
“Look at Mike,” said Susan, frowning, speaking into Bonnie’s ear.
She was on the steps before the bar, a considerable distance away.
“He stands out like a sore thumb.”
Susan directed Bonnie’s attention toward the waitress. “Would you believe Paul’s crazy about her?”
Bonnie sized the woman up. “She doesn’t seem his type. Maybe he’s just looking to score. She is pretty hot, even in that ridiculous get up. Are you jealous?”
Susan looked at her askance. Bonnie shrugged, then tittered.
“Look at this middle-aged couple. They must’ve been married at Woodstock.”
Susan’s brow wrinkled. “That’s Paul’s brother with them. It must be his parents. I can see a resemblance to Paul. Let’s go over there.”
She dragged Bonnie along. Steve introduced his parents and Rosemarie, who was cool toward them and kept her attention on the stage.
“I always wondered what ya looked like,” said Mrs. Ranga, straining to make herself heard above the din. “You’re even prettier than Paulie said. And you, Bonnie, I feel like I already know you. I watch ya show every day. You’re a great actress. Maybe you’ll be famous some day. What’m I sayin’ — you’re already famous.”
Bonnie smiled through a blush.
Susan spoke into Mr. Ranga’s ear. “What d’you think?”
“I thought it was bad wit’ the garage door closed — it’s even worse wit’ it open.”
She laughed and repeated the comment to Bonnie. The four communicated as if involved in a game of telephone.
Although the Rangas did not like the music and were overwhelmed by the volume at which it was played, they enjoyed their son’s success. Mr. Ranga even laughed when a joker offered to share a joint with him. His wife was not at all amused.
“What’s with the witch?” said Bonnie of Rosemarie, who stood apart from the group, arms folded to her chest, an unhappy look on her face.
“Maybe she’s jealous of career women. I feel bad. I like her. It’s her husband I can do without.”
“Maybe she senses it.”
As the band paused between songs and John addressed the audience, Susan overheard a nearby conversation.
“The drummer lives in our building,” said a slim, attractive, auburn-haired girl in tight black jeans and a torn leopard blouse.
“Yeah,” said her dark-haired companion, who was cute yet overweight, her plump behind accentuated by designer jeans. “I knew he looked familiar. He useta work at the fruit stand on Eighty-Six Street. He always lemme take a little extra.”
The other made a face. “Ya like ‘im? He’s so fat.”
“But look at how he plays those drums, an’ he smiles nice.”
“Excuse me,” said Susan to the overweight girl. “Would you like to meet him? I’m his manager. I know for a fact he doesn’t have a girlfriend.”
The girl looked to her friend as if for guidance.
“I’ll introduce you. It’s up to you. I’ll take you backstage as soon as they finish the set.”
“How ‘bout me?” said the other.
“Sorry, everybody else’s taken.”
Bonnie spoke into her ear. “Introduce her to John.”
“He doesn’t need any help. Richie does. Besides, she’s trouble. I can sense it. Maybe I should introduce her to him to teach her a lesson. God, I can’t believe it — I’m a pimp now too.”

My Amazon Author page: https://www.amazon.com/Vic-Fortezza/e/B002M4NLJE

FB: https://www.facebook.com/Vic-Fortezza-Author-118397641564801/?fref=ts

Read Vic’s Stories, free: http://fictionaut.com/users/vic-fortezza