“You’re The One” Paul Simon
I’ve been working diligently on the sequel to “Final Shot” with the working title of “THE ONE.” I’m about 2/3 through, and would love feedback about the sample I posted below. Writing is a wonderful exercise, vocation, avocation, and catharsis. That’s one of the reasons I run Psych ‘n’ Roll Radio. It’s to give myself and you, my dear participants, a chance to express feelings, vision, ideas and beliefs with the written word. So write to me and let me know what you think about the opening to “THE ONE.” And if you have music about writing (or about Broadway– in a moment you’ll know what I mean) send it our way.
BY Ira Kalina
FINAL CURTAIN CALL
They killed it tonight.
The audience stood. Clapping, whistling, stomping, and shouts of “bravo,” filled the St. James Theater. The curtain rose to “Wouldn’t it Be Loverly?” and chorus members rushed to the front of the stage. Supporting actors followed, and after their bows the ensemble created an opening in their line. Jeremy Wilson—a Henry Higgins chameleon, professorial in three-piece suit, his mature face topped by a full brush-back of silver hair–and Sarah Lynch–an impeccable Eliza Doolittle, her figure both slender and buxom, her curled chestnut hair falling gently over her shoulders–held hands as they jogged their way through the line break, halting just above the orchestra pit. The two stars scanned the crowd and blew kisses to the assembled. It was Ms. Lynch’s last performance as guttersnipe turned lady and what a turn it was. Now, after a grueling year, she was taking her talent back to Hollywood where she’d made her fame and fortune. A movie remake of “My Fair Lady” was in the offing. Sarah beamed, and with clasped hands touched her heart and bowed in appreciation to her fans. A chorus member ran to her with a bouquet of roses. The crowd’s adulation intensified. Standing center-front she peered out into the gathering. She saw him again–a gorgeous man, powerfully built with broad shoulders. He wore a tailored black pin-stripe suit and silver tie. Middle-parted blond hair that fell gently over his forehead made him a dead-ringer for a young Brad Pitt. Angelina Jolie, this one’s better than yours, Sarah thought. He’d been to three performances of “My Fair Lady” and sat in the same seat for each. Whenever she’d laid eyes on him her knees buckled and she fantasized being with him, a real man, a man who might be interested in a beautiful, sexy woman. Not like many of the men on Broadway who were more interested in their male co-stars, or co-dancers, than they were with her. She made eye contact. His smile was soft and seductive. His eyes (were they blue?) reflected sadness, perhaps trauma or loss. Though she’d always loved strong men, the ones who could feel deeply appealed to her even more. This Brad–she was convinced–was that type of man. There’d be something special, exhilarating, between them soon. She was certain. She’d make the first move. Since there’d be no end-of-the-run-party–she’d made it clear to the cast that she wanted a quiet evening at The Waverly Inn in the West Village that included only her co-star Jeremy, her agent, and her publicist–she’d invite Brad to meet her at the restaurant entrance after her party left. Sarah signaled for a stagehand. “Quick, get me a piece of paper and something to write with,” she said. The young man nodded, ran back stage, and returned as directed. Sarah wrote, “the Waverly Inn, 1AM,” and placed the note in the bodice of her Victorian dress and headed into the audience. Squeals of delight met her as she crossed the invisible boundary that separated audience from actors. She knew as she approached Brad that she had to use discretion. Security cameras had the theater covered and the media was watching. A Page Six headline questioning, “what did Sarah Lynch give the handsome man in the third row?” was not something she needed. She walked the aisle shaking hands and cheek-kissing familiar faces. Fans gathered around as security rushed to control the impromptu lovefest. Brad approached, head bowed. She feigned dropping something on the floor, removed her note from her dress, rose, and placed it in his palm. She avoided making eye contact. Strong, but soft, warm hands, now that’s a good start. Sarah returned to the stage and continued saluting her admirers. She waved toward her co-star who bent his acknowledgment once again after which he reached for Sarah. Holding hands once more they made their final curtain call.
Inside the gates of a graveyard, a man turned off the headlights of his pick-up truck. He adjusted his night goggles. A dense city of marble and granite appeared before him through the otherworldly green. Breezes from the north cooled the pre-dawn air. Dew glistened off the grass, tarmac, and stone pathways. Cicada sang and crickets bowed in counterpoint, an electrical dirge perfectly linked to the surroundings. He reached for the GPS to check that it was secure on the dash. From here, the satellite device would guide him to the precise spot where he’d bring the woman… (spoiler alert. To read more, my dear friends, you’ll just have to wait for publication of “THE ONE.”)
“One By One” The Doobie Brothers
“Rikki Don’t Lose That Number” Steely Dan
“One Big Love” Emmy Lou Harris