Golden Fingers world tour had broken every sales record
established, and they had truly claimed their role as the number
one attraction ever, even more so than the seemingly limiting
“World’s Greatest Band.” After nine months on the road, they were
home.
The energy required to maintain a nine-month tour schedule was
trying, and when it was finished, the band members preferred to go
their own way and limit their communication with each other. I
could not escape the press, and the pressing business of accounting
for all the wealth he accumulated as a result of the tour.
Rod Manger, his personal business manager, related to him, “You are
personally worth over three million dollars. You can buy any home
you’d like; you can have any woman you want. You are truly a most
amazing man!”
“Yeah, that’s great,” I responded, not really sounding like that
was his true impression.
“Problem?” prompted Rod.
“Yeah, there’s a problem.” I did not elaborate.
Rod waited a few minutes before responding, “And…?”
“It’s the band. They are not giving 100 . Night after night, I’m
carrying the whole show on my shoulders. Why do I even need
them?”
“Well, I,” Rod began. “You can’t go out there and play all of the
instruments, can you?”
“I can play them all, you know. Maybe not all at the same time, but
I can play them all.” He sunk again into thought.
He sprung up, animated once more and exclaimed. “We can hire some
random monkeys to play, and I’ll go out solo.”
“Monkeys?” Rod was puzzled.
“Not literally monkeys, you dumb ass,” I retorted. “But just some
hired players. Nobody cares about those other guys. We could just
put up anyone as long as I’m there and the crowd will eat it
up.”
“Rod,” I looked at him sincerely, “fire the band.”