Crying on a Yacht

They legit want me to sing for my supper. Too bad I’ve smoked 75 packs of camels crushes, drank fifteen bottles of whatever, snorted mount Everest, and not slept the entire past week. Still, I give it my best because I am hungry. My best is a toad’s rasp and a miserable squeak after I plop down at the shiny Steinway grand, play a wonky chord, and drag my way through my most “popular” song - even attempting the high note. I should have known better. I struggle to hit that note on a good day. These days there are no good days.

Obviously, I’m humiliated. Fortunately, there’s a remedy for all feelings. We sit around a massive, polished, oval table, with piles of cured pig and bovine flesh surrounded by olives, figs, and an array of pungent, crumbling Spanish cheeses - S, the mean billionaire, a couple of starving looking European models, and me. A woman in a beige uniform appears like a magic trick, to re-fill my glass with Whispering Angel Rosé - the panacea. I notice tiny beads of sweat …