Men sure can do some crazy things. Take my fellow talent scout Stefun, for example, who's been searching high and low for the "ideal idol" to revive our lukewarm church band, while remaining totally blind to what's right before his face. Namely me.
Of course his latest boom box bimbo would have to be "all that." Perfect looks, Perfect tune, perfect pitch, and enough curves to flatten a linebacker.
But I smell something fishy. And it's not her overripe armpits.
I don't care if she hits those arpeggios "clear as a bell and in perfect time" with every coin that clinks inside her fellow kettle drummers' urn. So what if she "swims the sea of musical scales just like a mermaid?" (more like "electric eel" in my opinion). It can't make that heavy metal any less hollow or fix the broken record of her message, total Greek to me.
"Oh, you're just jealous," says Stefun, who refuses to hear any flack from the only girl he won't audition.
And I say we lost more than a few nuts and bolts when his beloved System crashed - hundreds of miles from Austria, our intended destination. Where we are is anybody's guess. Somewhere in the Middle East, maybe.
Turkey? I sure do feel like one, seeing how my "eighteenth century European" meshes (or doesn't mesh) with the local fashion trends.
Stefun, on the other hand, doesn't seem to mind standing out like a sore thumb, so taken is he with this starlet. But she has eyes for other guys, whom she tails like a lost puppy. I wonder is either of them single?
For the longest time they disregard her overtures. Then suddenly I see one of them turn around and face her, speaking words that don't sound at all friendly.
From then on our diva does a nosedive. Her once bold voice loses its cutting edge. She begins to stumble over words and lose rhythm with the kettle drummers. Finally after about half an hour her boom box abruptly fizzles, like a vacuum cleaner suddenly unplugged.
Stefun is crushed to see her lips grow silent. "That Muse rebuker ruined everything!" he cries. "I wish we'd never come. Hurry! We must take off before the window closes!"
He makes a grab for my right arm, but I pull away. "No, I'm not ready. We came this far, I want to stick around. You go on ahead, I'll catch up with you later."
My newfound boldness shocks him. He steps back, stunned at my abrupt resolve. As for me, I refuse to play patsy to a bimbo worshipper.
In the end he leaves and I move on, consumed with the growing drama unfolding before my eyes - the one involving two men, a fallen starlet, her two kettle drummers, and an angry lynch mob loaded with whips. The afternoon grows long amid the lengthening shadows. Dusk ushers in a fitful sleep as I lie down to rest beneath a ginkgo tree, not far from a building that appears to be some sort of prison.
At midnight I am suddenly awakened by the most amazing sound. A wide range of musical notes, rich, deep, and beautiful, are dancing around me, in perfect harmony. I feel the vibrations go through me body and soul, like a melody from heaven, reaching from the top of my head to the bottoms of my toes. Chills run all up and down my spine, filling every frazzled nerve with a peace that I can only describe as one that surpasses all understanding. Where are those notes coming from, I wonder? It can't be, can it? Yes it is. The jail. It's the two men, singing. Loveliest thing I've heard in my entire life.
The ground beneath my feet begins to shake. Seems their song has caused a minor earthquake.
Forget about that diva, those "rockers" are outstanding!
Stefun will be SO jealous.
"Fixed the busted time machine," he retorts as I arrive. "Now we can ditch the first century A.D. and get back to normal."
Normal? Who cares about normal?
I share my latest discovery and watch his blue eyes turn five shades of green. Do I detect a bit of envy?
Finally, a taste of his own medicine! Not that it matters anymore. I am SO over him.
It's his choice to stay or go. As for me, I know where I belong.
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