Free The Home For Wayward Ladies by Jeremy Blaustein

first time I’ve felt peace all day. We contentedly sit quiet and still— a Pietà tableau of the Madonna and Child. 
     
    “Everyone’s always going to have an opinion, baby. Didn’t you ever see my movie Jinxed ?”  I stammer a nod, not wanting to say anything that resembles my true opinion about that crapfest. I had seen it considerably less than any of her other titles, yet still my total viewings tallied in the dozens. 
     
    “Well, I have to admit,” she says, “it wasn’t my best work. The New York Times said my performance was ‘uneven.’ Uneven? Nick, I was playing myself. Uneven, my ass! I was so pissed that Bruce Vilanch had to stop me from sending them one of my bras to prove my left tit is the same size as my right. Right then, I was drowning in opinions. I started to think, ‘maybe the critics are onto something; maybe I’m not destined to be some big movie star.’ But there are two things Bette Midler won’t do: give up and give oral.”
     
    “So, you started planning your comeback?” I ask. 
     
    “First, I ate a whole package of Mint Milano Cookies. I knew there wouldn’t be a comeback until I could remember the sound of my own voice. So I went into the recording studio and laid down the tracks for No Frills . If it didn’t sell one copy, I didn’t care. That one was for me.” I know the album well and while it did sell more than one copy, that was only by a slim margin. 
     
    “But how am I supposed to remind them of my voice when no one lets me make a sound?”
     
    “Baby, it’s just like getting screwed— you don’t get a chance at the comeback if, the first time around, you never cum.” She leans closer like she’s about to tell me the secret of life. “They don’t got to let you make a sound, Nick. You sing anyway.”
     
    Suddenly, a white carousel horse materializes at the foot of my bed. I recognize it as the same one she rode at the top of Kiss My Brass . “That’s my ride,” she says as she mounts the carved stallion, running her hands up and down its pole, enjoying her own crass gesture. “Sing louder tomorrow,” she says, “That’s the only way you’ll ever find your voice.” 
     
    As she starts to drift into the purple-tinged ether, I feel the need to ask her everything I’ve ever wanted to know. Instead, all I get out is, “Wait, Bette Midler, please. Can you tell me what it was like at the baths?” 
     
    The carousel horse suspends as she turns her head and purses her lips. “You ever go to a deli when the refrigerator’s gone dead? It smelled like that, only the baths had bigger salami.”
    
And, with that, she is gone. 
     
    I wake up with a start. “Sing louder tomorrow, huh?” My throat is painfully dry so I take a slug of flat Diet Coke that’s been sitting on my nightstand since last Tuesday. Then, triumphant and inspired, I toss my sweat-soaked covers aside. ”Yes! That’s it! Sing Louder Tomorrow: A New Cabaret starring me— as Bette Midler.”
     
     
     

    9
    HUNTER
     
    Once again, my evening was spent on my feet. As my Granny would have said, “My hush-puppies are howling and they won’t shut up.” Tonight’s assignment had me positioned at the southwest corner of Central Park handing out samples of some new caffeinated cereal bar called Pep-Up. My supervisor, an inconsiderate prig who wore a dumb fur hat like he rode a toboggan in, didn’t offer me time to scrounge up dinner. So, when he wasn’t watching, I pilfered a Pep-Up bar from my satchel. I took a bite of the awful thing and spat it into my glove. It tasted like cardboard and cinnamon and had enough dried berries to give me the runs (I guess that’s where the “Pep” comes from). What was remaining in the wrapper, I promptly threw to the ground. I watched for hours as even the pigeons refused to call it food. Still, the swarms of people carrying their Christmas parcels out of the Time Warner Center knew no better. It’s not all that often one hears the