Aghast Pt. 1

“Call the tech guy, the auto-tuner is broken. It just zonked out” Dawson, the studio engineer, barked out. “And in the meantime, how about everyone have a smoke or get some fresh air. Whichever floats your boat”

The room cleared out, except for Leticia, the multi-platinum talent who was recording.

“You gonna stay here, honey?” Dawson asked. She shyly nodded. “Suit yourself!” he added before putting a brown filtered cigarette into his mouth and heading out.

Leticia sat there in the eerie silence of the sound proofed studio. Every once in a while, she let out an “Uhhh!” just to hear it deadened on the insolated walls. All of a sudden and uncontrollable drowsiness washed over her. She looked at her cell phone. It was 10:30pm, not so late for her, but the yawning became more and more intense. She decided she´d close her eyes until the crew returned.

After what felt like hours, she opened her eyes only to find the studio still empty. She figured she must have dozed off deeply, but momentarily. She felt a slight haze in her head and her eyes were having difficulty adjusting. Some colors were more brilliant than others and some even had trails coming from them when she squinted her eyes. “I must still be very sleepy” she thought.

She sat there for what felt like much more time than was necessary for the crew to have a smoke. She decided to go see what was taking them so long. When she stood up, her legs gave out as if they were jell-o under her. To make things more complicated, the floor felt like a trampoline.

Her first thought was that she must have been drugged. She started for the door but realized she had little control of her members. She dragged herself over what felt like an elastic surface until she found her way to the door. She turned the knob. It just spun and spun and nothing happened. She tried to scream but nothing came out of her mouth. Instead her own shrill cry reverberated in her own head.

(To be continued…)

Aghast Pt. 2

Stand Up Tragedian

 

A person who evokes emotions through comedy is a comedian. They use their words to paint images that, at least in their intent, are to make you laugh. It is a strange profession and a very difficult one as well. Carl was never funny but he was born to perform. Although he could not make people laugh, he a way of making people cry. He would not insult them. He would tell tragic tales. Usually true. Always about himself. He was a stand up tragedian.

He would warm the crowd up with tales of the irritation in his anus from the rubbing of giant hemorrhoids on the way to the club.  Then he would go into material about his cat, who was dying from feline leukemia. Then his closer was a story of how he tried visiting his grandmother at the hospital, minutes before her surgery. He was barred from the hospital parking lot and parked a fair distance away. By the time he had made it to her room she was already in surgery. The next day he got a call. She was dead. The crowd is usually totally in tears at this point. Most people say “It’s the way he tells the stories” usually followed by, “You have to see to it”.

Carl made a good living doing this. He even got to have relations with the occasional groupie. They were usually neurotic, drugged up to the gills, plus sized, middle aged women. But he didn’t care. Having sex with them gave him more material. There was one thing that always surprised the comedians in every town he traveled. He was a much more well adjusted human being than them.