I am a commodity.
I am the biggest damn thing you'll ever see.
You are one-track but I, my children,
I've a million paths before me.You love me. Say you love me. You desire me, tell me again how much. I am your everything. Now scream for me. Louder. Louder. How does this make you feel? Released? Keep it up. Keep your eyes open. Tape them open, if you have to. Don't miss a thing. And don't tell your parents. Unless they're into this sort of thing. But for now, we're through. Good night, my adoring darlings. Don't push each other on the way out, and take care on the ride home. Traffic is bound to be a bitch.
Another night, another successfully disturbing show, and I'm tired as shit from behind this chemical mask. It holds my sweat against my skin and makes me as self-conscious as if this were my first time wearing stage makeup; all I can think about is taking the damned thing off. My lipstick is deep cranberry lacquer, and it drips down my chin as if it were blood. My skin is as white as a sheet of paper. My eyes are black holes surrounding worlds of bone and rivers of gore an effect brought to you by an overabundance of kohl and red-veined white sclera contacts. My hair is a confusion of dark colors: red, purple, green, and blue. It hangs long, braided in areas, and slightly frizzed down my bare back. Only my chest is covered by an intricately-woven fishnet of black and silver, tied at my neck and my waist. My legs are swathed in loose black jeans, sewn with the same pattern as the fishnet. I drip with vinyl accessories and metallic jewelry.
As soon as I manage to make it behind the sticker-covered door and give control of my weight to a brown leather chair in front of the dressing table, Bobbie rushes in. Her youthful face is painted in a less intense version of the War on Man's guise. She's speckled by other people's glitter, smelling of fan sweat, bouncing, giggling, so full of energy I think she'll explode. One look from me, though, and she calms herself enough to walk over. Her small hands begin to undo my braids while I begin the tedious process of transformation. She knows how tired I am; yet some nights, I think she only pretends sympathy. She doesn't quite get how I could be either tired or dissatisfied. I guess I don't expect her to understand, anymore. After all, she's a fan, and that means she should still be excited by the show, despite the fact that she must have seen it at least a hundred times by now. Despite the fact that I'm getting sick of it.
I pride myself on my artistic talents, and as I gaze at the monster in the mirror just before its destruction, my ego spreads its boundaries once again. I am the War on Man. I am the embodiment of all that is carnal. I am hideous and beautiful, real and unreal. I am a god. I am...
I am David Warman, of 2323 Winchester Avenue. I am average in appearance and stature, though I work out constantly to keep a layer of muscle on my chest and arms. My hair is naturally brown beneath this dye. My eyes are brown beneath these contacts, and I wear glasses when I'm not on stage; I can't even see the faces of my fans. My complexion is olive, and the constant application of makeup has made me break out across my forehead and over my cheeks, down to my chin. When I wash my face with prescription soap or apply cream at night, it burns, so I've slacked off using the stuff. I don't sleep soundly, and I scorn medication. On my worst nights, I read until I doze off, book or newspaper or magazine against my chest and glasses sliding off my nose. The Shock Therapy shows I perform across the country are the spawn of nightmares, pop culture, and classical literature.
"How was it tonight, babe?" I murmur, wiping off a long streak of white goo with a moist disposable cloth. Looking down at it, I can see the contrast between the pancake makeup and the bleached white of the cloth. My makeup looks gray in comparison, streaked with touches of red where my lipstick smeared. When I look back up into the mirror, it's an almost comical sight. I am Pagliacci. I am the famous crying clown. I am a fool to have let myself become this way. At sixteen, I was a rebel in my own mind with a penchant for melodrama, ambiance, and the glorification of any musician or writer who could achieve both. I had a few friends who praised my musical talents, but they were all in the school band with me, so I thought little of it. The only instruments I had achieved any sort of renown on by then were my acoustic guitar and the school's decaying drum set. Anyone who didn't know my musical forte referred to me as "that Warman geek."
Like many other aspiring teenage males, I had the idea of creating a band. No one could ever compete with WWW: Warman and the White Wigs. I and anyone else I could recruit would wear powdered wigs, dress in stuffy Renaissance-style clothing, and play guitars. Sometime during my Junior year, I realized just how stupid that idea was. What I needed was attention. If I had attention, no matter how bad my songs were, they'd be listened to.
One night, after studying myself to sleep, I had an epiphany of sorts. Nightmare, hallucination, call it what you will. There was an entire audience before me, cast in shadow and painted in awe. My name was written above them in flames, WarMan, and an army stood behind me. Each man and woman wore military fatigues, were stained in blood, and played a single note on the violin in rhythm and harmony with each other to create a sound the likes of which I never thought were possible on this earth. They melted, then, into a small garage band (the garage floated high overhead in a dingy red-veined white sky). A mirror dropped before me and shattered my view of the army. It showed me who I was, and who I could be: the grotesque image of a monster-god, worshipped by anyone I chose to want me. He would tell me what to do, where to go, who to be. And I smiled.
I'd have my attention. People would hear my voice. I would labor through every pain and every gallon of sweat until my dream was solid and palpable, until what I saw was more than smoke and mirrors. And what is for most a hopeless pipe dream actually came together for me. I felt like I'd made a deal with the devil that night and come out the winner. Bobbie pays no heed to my transformation. When she speaks, her voice is as steady as always, but her words come like a great gush of blood from a wound to the jugular... no. I'm thinking strangely. I have to get out of character. Her words come like a sudden spring downpour on a poor European tourist. There. Much more David. "Omigawd, dude, it was fuckin' awesome! I wish you could see your own shows-- o'course you can, since they're all taped, but you never do, my silly War on Man. Anyhoo, I love all that new shit you added. The Godzilla spoof you pulled with the guitar-toting lizard man... duuuude. You shoulda had him throw a Malotov cocktail at the Asian people. Boom, baby. Don't you smile at me all quirky like that! War on Man, war on Asian people, c'mon dude, it'd kick all kinds of ass! Do Mothra next time, Mothra equals ratings. Oh... and the new costume? Fishnet's trendy, but hell, looks damn good on you. Dude, ya should've heard the teenybopper chicks next to me. They all wanted a bite of your six-pack. You know the type. Giggled a lot, stayed away from the mosh pit."
"Teenyboppers? I've got those wastes of protein in my crowd now? Fuck." I shake my head, imagining the poor little darlings. Maybe they got their boyfriends to scalp the hundred-some-odd-dollar N*Sync tickets their parents bought them in order to buy clothes from Hot Topic and tickets to my show. They probably already had the fake Ids. Speaking of which... "How old were they, babe? Some parts of my show aren't exactly PG13."
"Eh, fourteen or so. Somewhere 'round the age I was when I sneaked into my first eighteen-and-up concert." Now that she's released my hair, she sets about stripping me of accessories: the metal links around my throat, the spiked bracelets, the vinyl belt from which dangle chains that clink madly like a deranged wind chime every time I move my hips. The movements of those small hands would turn me on, likely, if I weren't so tired. Or if this weren't so routine by now.
"I see. So they go to school with you, then." I smile, and tilt my head back so that the top of my head bumps her abdomen. I always tease my Bobbie about her apparent age and the eight-year difference between us. She mock-slaps my forehead, then puts her hands to both sides of my face and squishes my cheeks in so that my red-stained lips smush out in an exaggerated kissy-face. It's one of those times that I really feel like we're a couple. One of those times that I have no thought of her leaving me. Everything is right and good, and we're just crazy in love. I saw Bobbie for the first time about five years ago, in 1997, only a few months after I'd begun the Shock Therapy Tour, a traveling concert featuring my own brand of alternative metal. The tour earned its name because of its basis on a deranged stage show featuring circus freaks and lots of fake blood. I didn't bite the heads off of small animals, but I was a shock rocker, just the same.
Around that time, I was twenty-three, single, and horny. The only women who attracted me wore leather, had large breasts and black lipstick, and liked to bite. I had limp black hair that came just to my shoulders, not yet fried from constant dyeing. I still liked Metallica and worshipped Ozzy. No one but my family and fellow band members knew about my obsession for Joseph Haydn and Benny Goodman's Orchestra. My ego was still in its early stages of growth; therefore, it was only the size of a small country.
Shock Therapy and I were playing in the Superdome on the night in question, a huge venue in New Orleans that had me downright giddy all day during rehearsal and setup. Every roadie, every band member, every "freak," and every groupie, felt enough at ease to laugh at me. Bubbles, the three-hundred-pound exotic dancer, thought my excitement was the funniest thing she'd ever seen. Our crowd was far from sellout, but I didn't care because it was our crowd. I was in the biggest auditorium I'd played in yet, and I'd be damned before I let negative thoughts like an empty pit ruin it for me. I was on a major high. Carpe crapula: seize the intoxication.
The show that night was explosive. The pit was packed, and though the Dome wasn't filled, our small crowd had been inflated by free tickets sent out by a local radio station and New Orleans' extensive population of human oddities. We more than compensated for expenses through ticket and merchandise sales, though up until that point, we had only broken even. It was one of the best nights of my career, and the rush it gave me almost made me dismiss the thought of the girl I met. Almost.
Sometime near the middle of the show, but usually whenever I felt like it, I had the tendency to jump down from the stage in front of the pit, somewhere away from the moshers, and look through the audience to meet a few of my fans. I wasn't famous enough yet to worry about getting mobbed. That night, someone had already caught my eye. In a sea of mostly black, I'd seen a small white shirt with a pink star sewn onto it. The star glittered, shimmered, pulsating as if with its own light at every movement. The shirt hung straight on its owner's body, showing no curve of muscle or fat, and all I could make out of its owner was a mop of light hair. I wanted to meet this person who'd been caught by my faulty vision.
After the fourth number (a gore-thriller which portrayed Aslan slaughtered upon the Stone Table by the minions of the White Witch), I signaled to my drummer Angie that I wanted a "crowd intermission." The signal?
I screamed.
I screamed like a man condemned, dropping to my knees, my hands over my ears as if to block out the last echoes of Aslan's dying roar. My eyes were closed, and I had a look of pure anguish on my face. I curled up into a ball, my torso rocking a little. The band fell silent, and backed away a step as if this were not normal, as if this were not simply a part of the show. The crowd fell silent as well, and I sensed that their collective breath was held. It was glorious. All eyes were fixed on me and only me. Slowly, I looked up, shaking. My gaze cast over the crowd again, but this time I was pleading. I was, for the moment, innocent of the madness behind me and begging to be released. I reached out, moved forward, stumbled, fell at the edge of the stage with my legs splayed awkwardly behind me and my arm reaching desperately for the white shirt I'd seen earlier. It was not near enough to touch, and so I "fell" off the stage. The crowd gathered around me, offered me a hand here and there, and I was standing with them, among them, slack-jawed and wild-eyed like a savior or prophet or angel fallen among men. They worshipped me.
I moved forward, slowly due to the human weight pressing in on all sides, making my way towards that pink shimmering beacon. Finally, I caught a glance of it, neared the shirt, and put my hand out to touch the shoulder of...
...a child? My eyes narrowed in confusion. The child looked up at me and returned my gaze with a steady one of its own. Androgynous and beautiful it was, but so very young! Its eyes were cobalt blue, wide and untainted as a babe's. Its hair was blonde. Its face was angelic. Slowly, it reached its hand to touch palm to palm, and our fingers locked. My surprise at its apparent age dimmed. This child would be mine, in some fashion or form. Adopted or discipled. I backed towards the stage, taking it with me. It showed no fear.
"What is your name, my young one?" I murmured. Perhaps its name would give me some clue as to its gender. Not that its gender would matter, considering my plans.
"I'm Roberta. My friends call me Bobbie." A she! A brave she, at that. In the face of an immortal, surrounded by shadowed worshippers, her words rang clear and confident. This was a girl in control of her own life. I nearly envied her.
"And how old are you?" I asked.
Bobbie lowered her lids, but she watched me through thin lashes and tilted her head to the side as if she were a bird or reptile. The gesture was not that of a shy inexperienced girl, but the inquisitive movement of an Egyptian animal goddess, surreal and beautiful and, soon, mine. "Fifteen." So young, and already so subtly alluring. I shivered and hoped no one noticed.
"Don't be embarrassed, my dear Bobbie, I just wanted to know. And welcome to the show. I am the War on Man. And we are Shock Therapy." I jumped onto the stage once we were near enough, and pulled her up after me. Then I grabbed the mike and shouted, "My children! Look at me and listen! This is Bobbie. And at this moment..." My voice grew hushed, and I stared down into her eyes. "At this moment, witnessed and sanctified by all of you, I claim her for my own. If you agree with my choice, New Orleans... scream!"
The crowd gave forth a roar. A few may have been jealous, though most wouldn't have cared if they hadn't been too stoned to know it. I laid one hand across her right shoulder, and cued Angie with a simple flick of my finger to begin the next number. Bubbles would normally come out and began her dance, but this was something different. I kneeled before Bobbie, held the microphone near my lips, and began the song.
"O2 leaves my body as i look back on my sin.
The water's beating blazing sticking melting through my skin."
She didn't know the lyrics, but she swooned against me, holding me as if I were father or savior. The crowd had nothing to give her. They were only other fans. The groupies, my current girlfriend among them especially, would be jealous, but they didn't matter. She was mine. All mine... for the moment.
"When your face appears before me, visible and in,
I flush the light, I crush the night, no air becomes a grin."
Later on that night, I let her go back into the crowd with a promise that she would be able to come backstage after the final number. I felt like a fool afterwards, for not even giving her my cell phone number, though I'm still not sure her single mother would have let her call me.
"[Save me.] Watch out for your beasts: they'll lie and leave you cursed.
And still you think you know the tricks... 'fore better comes the worse."
She was gone. She never came backstage. I nearly lost the memory of that night in the jealous embrace of one whose name I now can't remember (Maria, perhaps, or Madelaine). For some reason, though, I never entirely forgot about Bobbie. Last year, I was hit by a stroke of luck. I came back to New Orleans, finally a prominent name in both the music industry and several subcultures. A new arena called the Lakefront Auditorium had recently been completed, and it was so large that even my crowd was not sellout, but again, it didn't matter to me and I was happy just to be there.
Before I put makeup on, and while my hair was still tied back, I stopped by one of the concession stands for a drink... there was that angelic face, still childlike, topped by a mop of dirty blonde hair, and I knew her immediately. When I asked for a Coke, she poured it with a confused expression as if she recognized me, but the lack of makeup likely threw her off. As she handed the drink over and looked at me again, I smiled. She froze. And we were caught in that moment, staring at each other. "Bobbie," I murmured. "It's been a long time. Do you remember me?"
She nodded, somewhat numbly, obviously surprised at my sudden appearance. Then her eyes widened, and she squealed. "Omigawd! The War on Man! Dude, of course I remember you. I'm, like, your biggest fan now! I love Shock Therapy."
I looked her over, sipping the drink, and noted that she was wearing one of my tee-shirts. I was pleased. I leaned over the counter, looking her directly in the eyes. "Why didn't you come backstage that night?"
She paused for a moment, drawing in the memory. "I couldn't, honest." She looked genuinely upset, but it was only regret I saw. Her voice was steady. "I definitely had to be at the exit as soon as it was over. Mom's boyfriend would've been angry if I hadn't been right at the exit of the Dome. He would've gotten mad at me, and well, I wanted to, but I just couldn't. I'm sorry, I really am. I totally wanted to come."
"Shh." I smiled again, and ran my fingers through her hair. "Are you still at the beck and call of your parents, my child?"
"No way, man. I'm nineteen. I work. I graduated high school, now I live alone. I don't need those a-holes." She held my gaze, like the first time we'd met, but she was stronger. More mature and confident. She gave me the idea that she had never been afraid in her life. Upset, perhaps, but never really afraid. And already at that point in time, I was beginning to grow afraid of myself, of my nightmare creations.
"Can you come see me after the show, then? I'll wait. Or I'll come see you. I claimed you, years ago. You've got something I want." She nervously looked over my shoulder as if there would be other customers to turn her attention on, but it was too early for that. She clearly thought I meant to sleep with her. I just smiled. "...spirit. Courage. Nerve. Call it what you will. I'm an actor, Bobbie. I'm a singer and songwriter and literary fanatic. If I'm brave on-stage, it's all a farce. I need what I see in you. In return, I'll make you happy. I'll never take what you won't give. I'll show you the man behind this mask, and we'll be friends."
Almost before I had completed my statement, Bobbie was grinning up at me. "Fuckin' a right! Who'm I to say no to the War on Man? Long as you sing 'Dear Diary' to me one more time once I'm there," here she smiled, "damn right I'll come." "Why do you adore me; mine ideas have melted dust.
The mountains' quake laughs suicide, their headaches turn to lust."
She still loves "Dear Diary," and now she can do the stage motions to match. She's also twenty, and I'm twenty-eight. No one approved when we moved past friendship and started dating, but they thought that we were sleeping together. I may host contemptible entertainment, but I'm not without personal merit. We waited until she was ready, and the ring I'll bow my knee to give her tomorrow night is resting in Angie's capable hands.
"And do you think you know me? And do you think you see?
And do you know your ravaged life has now affected me?"
Tomorrow night. Tomorrow night I'm asking her to be a shock rocker's wife. I'm nervous just thinking about it. No matter how fearless my young starlit dreamer has always been, I'm still afraid.
"Don't tell me not to write this out, my diary, my love.
Your fires cheat me if you do. Obsession from above."
I'm tired of this, mentally and physically. So tired. But I'm smiling as I bind my hair back into one long braid, thinking of tomorrow night. The dinner will be fabulous. The carriage ride afterward will make her giggle at how "effin' cheesy" I am. Then we'll stop by a fountain near the museum, and Bubbles (who has, since she began to work for me, lost weight, gained muscle, and now works at an executive strip joint) will do me a favor and touch off a few fireworks. As soon as they go off, I'll get down on one knee, and present Bobbie with a diamond that'll make her gasp. I'll start to live my life not for the glory of the crowd, but for her. And though I'm not proud of this idea, engagement will also give me an excuse to tone down this wretched show.
I glance at the blue-highlighted newspaper clipping before walking heavily to bed. A press conference was held last Saturday considering when to ban me in several states due to the fact that underage fans tend to sneak into my concerts. Therefore, my shows, though explicitly not meant for young adults, are likely going to come under siege soon enough. Litigation may hold it off for oh, say, three years. But it won't come to that. I'll give PMRC and the rest of the conservative assholes one thing: they made my decision one helluva lot easier.
It's actually quite a relief. I have my fame, my long-sought attention. I don't need the perversion or the fake blood and gore-thrill anymore. I can boil life down to the bare essentials myself, music, and Bobbie and still make a living. I can kill the War on Man, discard the mask, and prove myself more than a god. This thought makes me smile bigger, makes me grin to the ceiling. No more nude women flying through the audience suspended from the ceiling by cables. No more "freaks." No more cherry-cough-syrup blood slaughter. No more faux self-electrocution. No more fire with which to burn men and animals alive. No more stage show... at all. Just me and the band. David Warman. And I'll finally be satisfied with myself again.
Bobbie notices me smiling as she turns off the lights and slips between warm flannel sheets to lie against me. "Whatcha thinking about?"
I can't tell her about tomorrow night, of course, but I suppose the latter part of my idea couldn't hurt. It's something she'll have to learn soon enough, no matter what answer she gives. Not that she'd say no. "Oh... sitting alone on a stage with the band. A silent audience full of faces I can see, because I'm finally wearing my glasses right out there in front of them. Art and music that makes them hold their breath in awe of its sheer beauty, and not a 'freak' or drop of fake blood to be found." I roll over, and stroke my fingers down the side of her face. She gazes at me calmly, steadily, and I sink into her eyes.
"That'd suck."
I blink, stunned, and draw my hand back. "Why do you say that?" I know why.
"It would." She shrugs, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. "Compared to Shock Therapy? Pah-lease." She's right. That wouldn't sell and I damn well know it. People only come for the shows.
That hurt. "People come for the music," I whine like a puppy who doesn't understand why it's been kicked. I'm trying to get her to take it all back. The War on Man in me is disappointed.
If you thought that, David, the shows would never have existed in the first place, and you'd either be dirt poor or handing your sheet music over to a boy band.
"I can change it," I tell her. "I can change anything I like. It's my band. You don't know anything about the music industry anyway. All you do is sit in the audience and watch."
"Dude, don't be a complete tool. Nothin' but a freak who talks to himself sometimes, I swear. Ugh." She may know nothing, but she's a fan. She's our audience. And believe it or not, our audience is who makes sure you eat every day. Shock Therapy is shock value. If you get rid of me, if you take that shock value away, you'll lose your fan base. You, my dear mortal counterpart, will be given up on for a sellout. You'll lose everything, David.
I'm desperate now. She's wrong. I know she's wrong. I won't listen to these ravings. Not hers. Not my own. "But I'd have what counts, baby. I'd have the man behind the godlike mask, I'd have myself. And I'd have my music, and every fan who loves that music. Most importantly, I'd have you."
She stares at me. I begin to wonder if, all those years ago, I'd been mistaken in seeing fearlessness in her calm eyes. Maybe it's really that she does not care. "Dumbass," she murmurs. She's a fan, David. She's a business perk. You knew that from the start.
I don't think I've cried in a decade. Or maybe I have. Maybe it's the War on Man who's never cried. I can't be sure. "Don't make me choose between keeping something I've come to hate and losing you, Bobbie. You can't be serious. Please. I love you."
She rolls over, turns her back toward me. My cheeks are wet. Is my makeup running? Did I forget to take it off? "You're fuckin' pathetic. Lemme sleep."
Fool. Don't you get it? What she doesn't have the independence or intellect to say for herself? Keep me or lose her. Yes. Yes, I see what she's saying. "The War on Man claimed me. I belong to him, and I love him. I never claimed to love you." "'Ey, David? You want me t'let in the next guy in? Keep zonin' out like that every time we send someone else away, man, these auditions'll never be over." Angie looks at me from his seat next to the door with a quirked red eyebrow and a clove cigarette between two thin fingers. In just the past few months, I realize, he's gone from drummer to best man to drinking partner without pause. Yet his habits still get on my nerves, and probably always will.
"Fine."
"You need t'relax. Sure you don't wanna try one?" he asks, proffering the cigarette.
"Let the next candidate in, Angie." I feel old. Worn-in. Had. I run a hand back through my hair and feel lightheaded now that it's almost entirely gone. All that flowing hair it took so long to grow is now nothing but a wig on a Styrofoam head next to an enormous makeup kit. Nothing of what I was is left but David, and as it is, I'd almost forgotten who David was.
The next hopeful on my list is someone who's been an actor for years. His references are good, his rιsumι is impressive, and he can play the electric guitar. I can train him on the other instruments he needs to pretend to play. Angie stands, throws open the door, nods to him, and sits again.
The man's eyes are cerulean and his hair is light blonde, but that's easily covered by the guise of the War on Man. When he enters, his stride is long and smooth, as if he were about to shoulder his way through a crowd. His stature is similar to mine. With a few months of monitored training in the gym, he could have a respectable layer of chest and arm muscle and be able to disrobe on stage just as I've done in times past. So far, so good. I hit "play" on the small stereo next to my elbow. Strange. Is that really my voice?
"I'm sure you've been briefed, Mr. Actor. If you want this job, you have to become the War on Man. Lip sync. Dance around a bit. Improvise." I sit back and watch as he begins to move, and it's like looking into a foggy mirror. This one's good. Too good. As I watch, a crowd forms in the shadows of my vision, screaming for him. Screaming for the actor, the carnal god of makeup and terrible beauty. Bobbie's among them still. She's at the very front of the pit, wearing all black, a shadow among shadows. She's screaming for him.
"You're hired," I blurt. The Actor looks up at me and grins, but I ignore him, stand, and head out of the rented office, out of the building. I find myself storming down a disturbingly sunlit sidewalk. No one recognizes me. Months pass, but I don't know if this is reality or a waking nightmare. I'm sitting in the dark, playing my music. My face is clean and finally clear of acne. My hair is short and brown. I'm wearing a black long-sleeved shirt, jeans, and glasses. I am David Warman, of 2323 Winchester Avenue.
The Actor really is perfect for the job. He claims to be growing his hair out for the sole purpose of not having to wear the War on Man's wig anymore. As long as what he does with his hair fits the character, I'll allow it. I've made it clear that my makeup covers his face and always will. I remind him often that all he does is perform actions and lip-sync words that come from behind the curtain. I watch every move he makes as if I were his agent. He can be replaced.
No band member or "freak" was surprised at my chosen action, and all of them have sworn to secrecy. They're all better friends than I'd previously thought, and they apparently knew I was unhappy even before I did. To tell the truth, I doubt that loosing the secret would upset me. It'd make for an interesting story on Behind the Music, and maybe if they cover it well enough, I'll get some fan base that worships the man behind the curtain. Maybe Shock Therapy could even become a new group... "Pay No Attention." Or something.
I look down at the strings of my electric guitar while he smashes another into a sugar-glass fish tank. At least they're having fun out there. Meanwhile I pluck a soft arpeggio in the dark, singing lyrics that echo loudly, hauntingly, out over the crowd. Lyrics that no one seems to notice or care about. I used to be an actor, like him. I was a god. Now I'm just David Warman. And I'm still not sure whether I'm better off for finally sticking to an ideal, only to sleep alone. I am a commodity.
I am the poorest damn wretch you'll ever see.
I'm hidden here alone, my children,
Please. You have to help me.