“What?”

  “Sex tape,” she said emphatically. “The most powerful people in the world today got their starts this way. Tried and true method. You see how much they’re worth now, trust me, it’s worth it. You gotta be courageous if you wanna be a real someone.”

  Panicked, Isaac spun around the room. The restaurant was packed. They were surrounded by tables filled with families celebrating birthdays, couples declaring intentions, and old folks drinking to the passage of time; not to mention the waiters passing every couple of seconds. Was she insane?

  “Oh my dear,” she said, holding her camera in front of her embarrassed and pouty face. “I seemed to have dropped my knife and fork. I had better get it before I get into trouble. I really don’t want to get into trouble. I don’t want to be a - bad girl.”

  Her acting was horrific.

  “I really hope there isn’t a whopping great cock down there,” she said, pointing the camera towards Isaac’s crotch. “Especially with all these people around,” she said, now turning the camera to film people stuffing their faces with stroganoff and soda. “I just don’t think I could help myself.”

  Then she was gone; underneath the table, hidden, more or less, by the tablecloth that draped almost to the floor with only her ankles and heels giving her away in the end.

  “What the fuck?” said Isaac, jumping in his seat and almost knocking over the table. “Are you nuts?”

  Stacey looked up from between his legs.

  “Just pretend they’re not there,” she said. “Imagine you’re on a boat somewhere or we’re alone on a desert island.”

  “You’re not sucking my dick in a restaurant.”

  They both struggled over his pants. It was battle he almost lost.

  “Really?” said Stacey clearly offended. “What are you, a fucking faggot? Are you some fucking queer? You prefer if that fat hairy fuck was sucking your dick,” she screamed, pointing to the next table over. “Or what, you don’t think a woman should be successful, is that it? You don’t like empowered women?”

  “Look if I have to be honest, I don’t think anyone should be successful just because they sucked a dick. And not in the middle of a restaurant. You don’t have to be famous to be someone.”

  “What would you know about my life? What the fuck would you know? You don’t know who I am. I could fucking destroy you, you know that? I could ruin you. I could get you fired. I could end your career, just like that. That’s what you deserve. You racist. You sexist pig. You fucking Nazi.”

  At this point, the band had stopped playing, the waiters had stopped waiting, and the diners were all staring with their mouths agape, their half-chewed chunks of ribs and mashed potato almost falling back onto their plates. It was quite a scene, especially when she got up and left.

  “You’re a nobody,” she screamed. “A fucking loser. You think like one; you speak like one; you act like one.”

  She was filming the whole time, holding the camera high enough so that her face was centre of the tirade while at the bottom of the screen – small and insignificant – her attacker sat mute and demoralised.

  “Quack, fucking, quack,” she screamed as she stormed out the door.

  “Holy shit,” said Isaac to himself.

  He took a second or two just to figure out what the hell had just happened. He felt like he had just escaped the jaws of a komodo dragon. For that second or two he sat there numb and euphoric, feeling outside of his body and outside of himself for that matter; and then about a second later his every limb started to shake.

  ”Sir,” said a waiter tapping him on the shoulder. “You’ll have to leave.”

  “What?”

  He was still terribly confused, his face shaped like a Jack in the Box.

  “I think I was just molested,” he said.

  The Waiter laughed.

  “Very good, sir,” he said.

  ”I’m serious,” said Isaac sounding shocked and disbelieving.

  “So am I,” said The Waiter. “Now take your inappropriate wit and leave before I call the police.”

  Isaac left as quiet as his date had been loud, feeling a thousand disapproving eyes all judging him, no doubt calling him all sorts of unsavoury adjectives in their heads. The shame he felt was unlike any he had ever felt before.

  Shaken somewhat, he turned and walked away from all the hustle and bustle; far enough until their banter dissolved beneath the sound of his own footsteps. He walked everywhere without really going anywhere, taking every right-hand corner he came upon as if he were patiently escaping a maze; one made out of strip clubs, laundromats, and evangelical churches.

  “Success,” screamed a preacher. “Is merely mindset.”

  Isaac stopped, almost instinctually, outside a small church that was set up in the garage of a neighbouring brothel where, standing on a platform made out of milk crates and balsa wood, a young man, dressed in an oversized suit, shouted at the top of his lungs about pestilence, AIDS, and positive goal setting.

  “Success is everything,” he said. “And I would know.”

  There were plastic chairs spread out and space for maybe twenty to thirty people. There were only two, though; The Preacher and his wife. And every time he spoke, she jumped up onto the stage and the two of them high-fived – the mood was electric.

  “The most successful CEO of our time, and when I say our time I mean all-time, was none other than our lord and saviour, Jesus H Christ. H, for hard work,” he said. “H, for having the right attitude; and H, for hanging in there and never giving up. Cause that’s what a winner does; winners never quit.”

  The Preacher didn’t have a fancy pulpit and he had none of the trimmings of the more well to do churches; he didn’t even have a microphone. What he did have, though, was spirit.

  “Faith,” he declared. “Is a currency.”

  And then he fell onto his knees and quietly wept into his hands while his wife hovered around him – almost like a halo – her hands outstretched so that her fingertips were close to but could never quite touch his. She didn’t weep, though. She felt no sadness at all. Her face was glowing and her skin tingled, and all of the hairs on her body were standing on end. For these were tears of revelation.

  “You must invest in yourself,” he shouted, standing back on his feet – noble and proud.

  He was staring right at Isaac.

  “Before you invest in Jesus Christ you must take a stake in yourself for The Lord only helps those who help themselves.”

  He was young, barely old enough to sign a check, but that didn’t discourage him. He paced back and forth between the rows of chairs, screaming at the top of his lungs, preaching to an empty garage as if he was preaching to the whole damn world.

  “Better yourself,” he said, pumping his fists in the air. “Love yourself. Dare to dream. Dream big. Live the dream. Be inspired. Inspire others. You can do it!”

  Isaac stared in strange delirium. It was as if he had stumbled upon two insects having sex, and for reasons unbeknownst, he couldn’t look away.

  “What you need!” said The Preacher, his voice coarse and abusive, his face shaped like melted cheese. “What you have to acquire! What is absolutely imperative!”

  “Tell him,” said The Preacher’s Wife. “Tell him what he needs.”

  They both stood side by side holding hands.

  “He needs direction,” he said, pointing a finger at Isaac.

  “What else?”

  “He needs motivation.”

  “What else?”

  “He needs dedication.”

  “What else? What does he need?”

  “He needs a life coach.”

  And then he just stopped preaching. He and his wife stood there, holding hands, and saying nothing at all. Isaac wondered for a second whether if he was supposed to clap or give them a penny.

  Pulled, though, by some invisible force, he stumbled onwards; be it curiosity or boredom, it was an urge that he could not resist. It was dark in this part of town, lit only by the flickering of matches and the glow of cigarettes. Danger, malice, and miscreation all lurked about, plotting and conspiring against him, watching his every move. But onwards he went as if none of that mattered.

  And then, when he could walk no more, he saw it.

  “Holy crap,” he said. “It’s actually real.”

  ‘The Bend in the River’

  He’d heard about this place; everyone had. It existed in folklore, rumours, and tall tales. It was the type of place that people often talked about but very few had actually seen. It was a place that was synonymous with sleaze and degradation just as much as it was as being the best damn karaoke bar this side of the Equator. It was a myth; merely a figment of a drunkard’s imagination.

  Isaac stared at the door, startled, but drawn to wonder.

  “What are you here for?” said The Bouncer, poking him in the chest.

  He wasn’t a big man but he sure could poke. Isaac stumbled backward unsure, really, what to say. Never in his life would he have imagined coming to a place like this and yet here he was, wishing to go in.

  “Well?”

  He could see around The Bouncer’s gangly frame. The place was filthy. The walls were covered in graffiti and grime, and the carpets looked like the kind that squished when you walked on them. There was a smell coming from inside too. It wasn’t pleasant; not at all.

  “Karaoke,” said Isaac nervously, having never said that word before in his life.

  The Bouncer stared at him long and hard; it was an uncomfortable stare. His face was gaunt and frightening; he had bones sticking out everywhere. There was little that Isaac could do except hold is breath and wish for the best.

  “We take our karaoke seriously here,” said The Bouncer.

  “Yes, of course,” said Isaac nodding – nervously and excessively.

  “We don’t take kindly to tourists.”

  “I’m not a tourist,” said Isaac. “I’m from here.”

  “You don’t listen very well, do you?”

  It seemed like the kind of question that one shouldn’t answer, so he didn’t.

  “You gonna sing or what?”

  “Yes,” he said, but he hoped he wouldn’t have to.

  “Alright then,” said The Bouncer looking as if he knew, even before the fact, that he had made an error. “You’d better fucking sing,” he said poking Isaac in the chest again with his skeletal finger. “Or else….”

  His face was shaped like a manslaughter charge.

  “No, of course,” said Isaac nervously. “I’ll sing, I’ll sing.”

  Inside the bar, it was no better and no worse than how it had looked like at first glance. There were all kinds of people drinking, dancing, and bumping into one another - young and old, from all walks of life.

  There were the rich and poor; the toothless and the privileged. There were old ladies in their best Sunday clothes, and there were even older ladies, dressed in whatever rag they could find; too drunk to stand, stumbling past the stage with their tits hanging out and their one cigarette constantly falling to the floor. There were gypsies and junkies and hippies too; and there were lovers and the lonely, toe to toe with the dealers and hookers that hung out by the bathroom door.

  Every one of them drunk. Every one of them singing.

  That was when he saw her - The Girl - up on the stage. She didn’t look like anyone he had ever seen before. She was beautiful; spellbinding even. She had long black hair and glasses that were far too big for her face; her dancing was completely out of time to the music. Never in his life had Isaac ever wanted to get on a stage and dance with someone so much. And then she sang.

  Her voice was out of key; she couldn’t hit a single note. But that didn’t matter. In fact, everything about her said that nothing at all mattered – nothing in the world, not even this – so just shut the fuck up and dance. She wasn’t just beautiful; she was Charles Manson beautiful.

  “First we take Manhattan,” she screamed, her voice shrieking like a set of worn breaks.

  Then the whole bar sang along with her. “And then! We take! Berlin!”

  The mood was electric. Isaac had never been in a place like this before. There were no windows and no clocks whatsoever. Rumour has it, in the last twenty years; the bar hadn’t once closed. There was no prejudice. There was no greed or entitlement. There was no indifference or intolerance whatsoever. All of these people together in one filthy room for nothing more than cheap poison and endless karaoke.

  What more could anyone want?

  When the song was over, The Girl left the stage and headed for the front door. She hugged the lady on the register, gave The Bouncer a high five, and then as if she had somewhere more pressing to be, she was gone.

  “Who the fuck was that?” said Isaac, staring at the empty microphone stand.

  “She’s always in and out. She aint no tourist. The real deal she is.”

  The man beside him sat cross-legged in a wheelchair; his tiny legs curled under his bent and contorted frame. Behind him, his carer kept one hand on the chair and another on the cup of spirits that she held in front of his face should he decide upon a drink.

  “Will she come back?”

  “Not tonight.”

  “Do you know her?”

  “I know of her,” said The Man in the Chair. “We all do.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “We don’t ask names here. It’s not permitted. And it’s of no use really. A name won’t do you much good.”

  Then he leaned onto the straw and took a sip of his poison.

  “The right song, though. That’ll make you a star. That lady sure can pick 'em.”

  “I have to see her again,” said Isaac.

  He had never been more clear or adamant about anything in his life. Sure, it made no sense, but then again, fairy tales never did. He’d only see her sing a single song and already he was smitten. It was stupid, it was. It made no damn sense. But he couldn’t shake the ill-fitting thought; ‘She was The One.”

  “Won’t be doin nothing lest you sing,” said The Man in the Chair.

  “But I can’t sing,” said Isaac.

  “You don’t listen very well. Can is about will, who gives a fuck about ability. I can and will do whatever the fuck I want,” he said. “Irrespective of what I am able to do in this piece of shit body. Are you a tourist or are you one of us?”

  If he wanted to see her again, there was only one answer.

  “Good,” said The Man in the Chair. “Then get the fuck up there and have some fun; it’s what we’re all doing in spite of what the world outside thinks or has in mind for us. And pick the right song too; you’ll make a name for yourself here.”

  “I thought no-one has names.”

  “So you do listen,” said The Man in the Chair.

  Then he nodded to a couple of hookers by the door; they knew just what he meant. His carer wheeled him out the back to the only toilet in the bar; one whose door hanged on busted hinges.

  “I can do this,” said Isaac, walking towards the stage. “I can do this.”

  Track 21 (Red)

  “Don’t slouch, Felicity,” said The Mother, pulling on her daughter’s pony tail so that her head whipped backward. “People will think you’re common; you don’t want that, now do you?”

  “No, mother,” said The Daughter.

  “Did you know that Felicity means happiness?” said The Mother with a look of disdain. “I expect you wouldn’t. I imagine you wouldn’t travel much in your kind of job.”

  The Nurse ignored her; she’d heard worse in her time.

  “It’s Latin, from the word ‘felicitas’. Isn’t she the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?” she said, admiring her daughter’s posture and hairline.

  “A rose by any other name...”

  The fourth participant was a young girl with dreams and aspirations bestowed upon her by her mother; a bullish woman who knew all too well that a tree was known by its fruit. Dressed in a gown that glittered, almost as much as the pink crown upon her head, she waited, almost like a statue, as her mother filled out forms and berated a nurse.

  “I’m going to be a star,” said The Daughter, pouting her lips. “Like Marilyn Munroe and Pamela Anderson.”

  The Mother adored her daughter as much as she adored herself. It was as if she had given birth to her own potential, and now, free of her own wallowing insecurities, she could finally be the success she had always imagined herself being.

  “You know the prerequisite for success?” she asked.

  Not even waiting for an answer, she continued.

  “Poise. Persistence. Perfection.”

  She paused as if allowing for a round of applause.

  “A star must always be shining,” she said. “Even if there is no-one to see it for the chance alone that somebody might lookup. Stars are not born, they are discovered.”

  She didn’t look at The Nurse as she spoke. It seemed as if it didn’t matter whether someone was there or not; as if she had practiced this speech in the privacy of her own home, imaging herself neath the glitter and bright lights of the pageant universe, being decorated with lavish applause on the most coveted stage of all. Just as the child paraded around as if the cameras were rolling, so too did her mother speak as if her words were the colour commentary; both of them constantly shining, not hoping, but expecting to be discovered.

  “It’s time, Mother,” said The Daughter, holding her hand gracefully on her stomach.

  “Excuse me,” said The Mother as if noticing The Nurse for the first time. “Do you have a bathroom nearby?”

  “Down the end of the hall to the left,” said The Nurse. “Is she feeling sick?”

  The Daughter didn’t look white or perturbed in any way.

  “She’s fine,” said The Mother. “It’s just…”

  Then she dipped her head, hinting as if it were some secret women’s business.

  “She’s just had her lunch, so you know…. Is it close?”

  “Sure,” said The Nurse, thinking that The Girl might have had a sensitive stomach or an irritable bowel. “Would you like me to take you?”