He watched the little,

pudgy, double chinned,

unassuming,

self-effacing,

really funny

woman

interviewed on late

night T.V.

She talked frankly

and humorously

about the reality

of ever-present

white-hot

horrible

music

from which no

one can

escape. It’s

omnipresent – on

the street, blaring

down the halls

in buildings, beside

you in the

commode.

She seemed so

down-to-earth-

real-unaffected-

doing-laundry-

not-getting-the

right-kind-of

pickles-at-the

grocery-kind-of-

a-person, not to mention

celebrity. She had been

his girlfriend from

afar and many albums

gone by. Asked about

Jerry, she smiled and

said she thought he

was doing

a fine job.

Mr. Parkinson had

robbed her of her

singing voice

but you wouldn’t

know it bothered

her to look

at her and hear

her talk.

Her sense of humor

transcended the

sadness and she

had the host in

tears of

laughter.

This star who sat

cross-legged in

the guest’s chair

talked about

her journey without

pity or self-

indulgence. Did he

detect a profound

sense of

gratitude?

She had survived

when many friends

had not due to

drugs and Aids and

other stuff. He sat in

a St. Thomas bar on

a Saturday night

years and years ago

and watched and

yearned for the

the sexy singer

on the huge

screen who

howled to the

great down beat,

“You’re no good,

You’re no good,

You’re nooo gooood.”

and years later

with Nelson Riddle,

thrilled him as

he sat in the big

green leather

chair and listened

to the high notes

ascending to

heaven with

“Skylark.”

It was his Linda

and he couldn’t

help calling out at

that late hour,

“You go, girl.”