I hailed a taxi on the busy dark streets of New York.
"Where to?" asked the driver, gruffly. It must have been a long day for him.
"Thirty-seven, Twenty- ninth street." He sped off towards my humble and tiny apartment. The city lights cast a glow over the smog that was concealing the stars. I have enough material to write a biography. Oh, well. I hope Painless likes this.
Painless is the nickname of my boss. He got that because he could fire anyone, anytime, anywhere. There was a rumor that he fired an older lady who had worked there for decades, while she was in the bathroom on her lunch break. He also delighted in making new employees suffer, and constantly kept the ‘veterans’ in the office on their toes. I was among the former, so he rose hell for some of my "Unprofessional dealings" with the people I interviewed. So I respected their privacy. Like that was a fucking crime. In fact, the only reason I was still at the office was because the people I interviewed called me back again and again. Most of the press was rabid around celebrities, but I was among "the chosen few" who was regarded with some taste. I was recommended to their friends, which of course infuriated Painless. He would fire me, but his superior would fire him. He’d have to have a helluva reason to kill me. He constantly looked and dug for just that. Claiming anything to make me fall from grace with the owner/editing chief. So far, it hadn’t worked, and he was getting more obsessed by the hour. Just as long as I have a job. This one pays so well, I want to keep it, no matter what hell I suffer. Finally, the cab arrived at my apartment, or ‘the shack’. I climbed the four level walk up stairway, and opened the door. I threw my things on the sofa, and collapsed on the bed. If this is the blues that ‘ole Cab sang about, them I am livin’ it. I nodded off, and was soon swept to dreamland.
The ringing of the phone awakened me from my slumber. Who could be calling at, . . .I squinted at the phone, Oh shit! I overslept! It’s one in the afternoon! I stumbled over to the phone, and picked up.
"Hello?" my voice scratched, still sleep weary.
" ‘Ello, is Billie there?"
"Yer talkin’ to her." I replied, rubbing the sand out of my eyes.
"Oh, this is Paul. McCartney. You know, from the Beatles?"
"Yea, what can I do fer ya?" It was then that I realized that I hadn’t started on the article. "Shit." I mumbled.
"What’s wrong?" He sounded startled to hear me cuss.
"Oh, um, nevermind. Now, uh, why didya buzz me?"
"I was wondering if, well, um, you were possibly in need of another interview? Or maybe, you’d like to see a concert?" He actually sounded almost nervous. Why in the Hell would he be nervous?
"I really think that I have all I need for this article, but sure about the concert. I could submit a review, even though that’s Jack’s depo."
"Great! I can get you a ticket and back stage pass strait up."
"Thanks a lot, Paul. When’s the concert?"
"Tonight." Thank God it’s a Saturday. Otherwise, I’d have to work tomorrow.
"OK, um, well, I’ll seeya then."
"I’ll have the tickets sent to your office."
"No, have ‘em sent to my home. Painless wouldn’t like that!" I laughed.
"Oh, well, what’s your address, luv?"
"37, 29th street, apt. 4A." I recited.
"Ok, seeya tonight, luv!"
"That’s a bye."
"Oh, well, ta. Or kiss . . ." He chuckled softly, and hung up. The smile on my face was priceless.
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