He sat there slightly stoned, staring at the diamond ring on his manager’s pinky
“All right kid, I’m not gonna lie to you. You’re on top now, but the honeymoon’s wearing thin. You go back to your room tonight and you write some new songs, and let’s get back into the studio.”
He nodded. The pinky ring blinked at him.
Saul, his manager’s name was Saul, stood up from the leather booth in the hotel bar. “We’re there kid, let’s stay there.” He grabbed his hand and shook it vigorously.
He walked into his room, sat on the bed and picked up his guitar. A custom-made Les Paul once owned by a guy who’d played with The King. Strummed a few chords. Always the same four chords. He put down the guitar and picked up the telephone.
The hotel jacuzzi bubbled the way jacuzzis do. Two fifteen-year-old girls enhanced the experience considerably. There was vodka, Vicadon. The girls bit and scratched but he couldn’t get it up. So he kicked them out.
Peace, finally. The echo of bubbles. He closed his eyes and had continual profound enlightenments.
The Mexican kid found him floating the next morning. Put down his broom and picked up the wallet, opened it. A pink guitar pick fell to the tile floor, next to a pair of six-hundred dollar Italian leather shoes.
Saul’s brunch was rudely interrupted.
Phil Vas Born and raised in Brooklyn, New York, Phil Vas is the author of the novel Coney Island Avenue as well as numerous short stories which have appeared in Ludlow Street, Cherry Bleeds and Somewhat. He holds an MA in English from Brooklyn College and teaches writing in Seattle, Washington, where he is at work on his second novel. His website is PhilVas.Com and it’s all about Phil Vas.