Epilogus (e-pi-lo’-gus): Providing an inference of what is likely to follow.
“Too much trouble. Too much heartache. Too much sorrow. Too much. Too much. Too much.” I was writing a song for my new album titled “Too Much.” This would be my fiftieth album—a landmark in my career. I had talked my old record producer into fronting me the money to produce it and go on tour.
I hadn’t sung a note in twenty years. I was wealthy but I wanted to cap things off and go out with a bang. I planned on shooting myself in the head at the end of my final gig. I had a solid gold walker with a holder for my pistol built into the handle bars. I had designed it and it worked quite well. I could’ve concealed my gun in my leg brace, but it would’ve been harder to reach.
The only downside to the record deal was Joe Potato’s insistence that his daughter Jeckyl join the tour. She is 19. I was way way older than that—84. She couldn’t sing worth a shit and she couldn’t play drums, guitar or keyboard. However, she was beautiful. Every time I laid eyes on her I got a feeling. It was a barely detectable echo of the man I used to be, when I could feel, and my feelings were real. I was going to have Jeckyl stand by me on stage and slap a tambourine while I did my thing. She made me look good and she brought us good luck.
“Throwing Stones” first concert was a blockbuster. I dyed my hair black and used a Vocorder. I had skateboard wheels put on my Walker so I could roll around the stage and come back to Jeckyl’s side. Also, I could press a button and candy-colored lights would shoot up and down the walker. The audience loved it! But the dance Jeckyl did while she played her tambourine blew the audience away. Teenaged boys were moaning and groaning and begging on their knees, grown men left their wives and girlfriends and barged to the front of the audience, held their hands over their heads and danced like dervishes along with her. It was wild. Jeckyl put men and boys in a trance.
I wrote her a song that I sang to her at the end of the show while she stood in the beam of a red spotlight, looking up and slowly writhing:
“There is a fire in my heart
Tearing me apart.
You’re so young and I’m so old
You shine like 24-carat gold,
I am rusted like a nail in the rain
I look at you and feel only pain.”
There are more lyrics, but this should give a good idea of the schmaltz level. I didn’t believe a word of it, but the audience loved it, and so did Jeckyl. She started motioning me toward her when she did her dance. She gave me ginseng gel caps. She weaseled her way to my hotel room to watch TV. She confided in me that I was her best friend, really, her only friend: “Sharks, you’re the best friend I ever had—even better than my own father Potato’s.” She told me she knew the closing song was bullshit. I was relieved. After the show, we would make popcorn and watch “Andy of Mayberry” reruns, and “Fargo” too.
Then the last gig of the tour came. I got dressed and loaded my gun. It was time to blow my brains out and make my grand exit from show biz. But, I thought about Jeckyl. After all these years had we had bonded. It was weird. Then, Potato called to wish me well on the final gig of the tour. Then he dropped a bomb: “Sharks, you’re Jeckyl’s father.” I had always been her father, but I didn’t know it.
She was born when I was 65. I had an affair with Joe Potato’s very young wife Tippy. Joe suspected, but he never knew for certain, Tippy ran off soon after Jeckyl was born. She was raised by her paternal grandparents.
I decided to live a few more years. I told Jeckyl she was my daughter. She said she already knew and that Joe put her on the tour with me so we could get to know each other. Now I knew where my feelings for Jekyl came from! We would hook our pinkies together and say “Pals Forever.”
Now that she’s a star, she’s inundated with friends and is going back to college. I’m still writing bad songs.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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