The loge was supposed to be semi-private, but it seemed more crowded than the public seats below.
Thatcher Wimsbury III had been second guessing his choice of a tweed jacket all evening. He had considered something more casual but didn’t want to appear to be trying too hard.
He recognized the booming bass beats of his son’s hit song and was relieved that the show would soon be over. It wasn’t that he wasn’t proud...it just was simply not his scene, he didn’t like crowds or...perspiring.
Boom! Pyrotechnics lit up the stage as Thatcher Wimsbury IV belted the chorus of his signature track: “Life ain’t castles and a cartoon mouse, It’s a circus of pain, my momma died in a dope house.”
The giant screen behind Thatcher ( Strike T Intravenous to his fans ) showed a close up of the homemade Glock tattoo on his neck.
His father cringed. All the fame and creativity and adoration in the world couldn’t make up for the sick feeling that tattoo engendered in the elder Wimsbury.
The last beats died away and the stage went dark.
Thatcher turned to leave the crowded loge and was grabbed, none too gently, by the president of Strike T’s label, Hoodrat Pharoah...or was this guy Vinyl Caesar the Vault?
“Mister Wimsbury! Our publicist was interested in meeting you, sir! This is Corrine Rigante, Corrine this is Strike T’s father, Thatcher Wimsbury.”
The large label executive sort of pressed the two of them closer and wandered off, a magnum of champagne in his hand.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,Mr Wimsbury,” Corrine said. “Your son is an extremely talented and bright young man.”
Thatcher smiled. “Thank you, Corrine. That’s nice to hear. It feels like he came out of the womb creating rhymes. While his level of success is somewhat of a surprise, his career path seemed preordained.”
Corrine smiled warmly. “I’d like to offer my condolences on the death of Strike T’s mother. I had a loved one succumb to their addictions and I realize how heartb--”.
“No no no no no no no.” Thatcher Wimsbury shook his head back and forth rather violently for a genteel, professorial sort.
Corinne Rigante took a startled step back.
Thatcher was wide -eyed.“My son’s mother didn’t succumb to...no no no no.”
It seemed that Thatcher’s head was going to continue shaking for the remainder of the evening.
“Lynn was a PhD in Substance Abuse Studies. She was leading a group from a non-profit on a fact finding tour of abandoned dwellings where those in active heroin addiction gathered. Technically, a dope house. She stepped in a puddle near a jury rigged space heater and was electrocuted.”
Corrine leaned in and hugged the man.
“I’m so terribly sorry to hear that, Mr. Wimsbury. She paused and looked Thatcher in the eye. “I’m also the publicist at a major rap label, trying to keep things real. Please, I’m begging you, don’t freely offer that information to anyone else.”
***
Photo by Kyle Cleveland on Unsplash
Well, *technically*...
just a publicist doing what a publicist does