Free Serious People by James A. Shea Page A

hair.
    “Were you a punk?” Seamus said, trying not to look at Mickey’s hair.
    “What the fuck Seamus! Are you looking for a slap?” Mickey said, glaring back at his retarded colleague.
    “But Mick, it’s just…” Seamus said, trying to defend himself.
    “Was I some kind of punk? Can a guy, not put a bit of colour into his hair these days? Drive the car you fucking prick!” Mickey said, bringing down his window and looking outside.
    “Sorry Mickey…” Seamus said, getting ready to drive away.
    Mickey glared back.
    “I might as well be driving around with a fucking Teletubbie!”

Chapter Eight - Max Fame
     
    “So Maxie, when are the record company going to want me back at the old studio?” the aging rock star said confidently.
    This was going to be difficult, thought the showbiz manager, Max Fame. He had been in the business for over twenty years now and had become used to difficult conversations.
    He could remember so many times being sat in his office, with supposedly the next big thing being sat in front of him, usually flanked by at least one parent. “Look at her,” they would say. “Look at her looks; she’s gorgeous, and we thought it would be best to invest in that boob job. Because that’s what they look for now isn’t it?”
    He had long since given up asking if they had thought about the glamour industry; this was only after a mother had vaulted his desk and beaten him to the floor with her handbag. What had angered him on that occasion was not so much the physical abuse, but the small-minded stupidity. The “how dare you talk about my daughter like that” parents! Their emotion blinds them from viewing their different options with a business mind-set. He had offered the suggestion as a sensible career direction, after hearing the little lovely belt out a very special version of I will always love you .
    Now, he tried to make a point of steering away from dealing with parents—unless this conflicted with his main rule of following the pound notes. If it did, the latter would prevail, even if it might well involve Fame having to consume copious amounts of his ‘calming pills’. These were an absolute necessity to any agent or manager who worked in the showbiz world.
    Max Fame looked across at the drawer that kept his endless batch of pills. He wouldn’t need those for this meeting. This was an altogether different type of difficult conversation to that. The man who was sat in front of him was only a few years younger than he was; he was all that was left of one of his very first acts he had managed.
    The two of them had made a fair amount of money together. In the nineteen-nineties, both had been on a similar upward trend in their respective careers. Indeed, to an extent, they had both got their own first tastes of success together. But whereas Fame’s had plateaued for the last ten to fifteen years, at the top of the showbiz game, Ronny Wild’s had been descending since the new century had begun.
    Ronny Wild still had his famous long hair, held back by expensive sunglasses; he was covered by expensive jewellery, on his fingers, ears and around his neck. These all only served to reflect his former glories.  He could still just squeeze into his leather trousers and wore an expensive blazer over the top of a white t-shirt in the way that only a rock star can pull off. He was a picture of delusional grandeur.
    “So when we talking, Maxie baby?” Ronny asked again.
    “I’ve been meaning to speak to you about this Ronny,” Fame said. He was sitting up in his seat now, in the similar way that a hospital consultant would before delivering a dire diagnosis.
    “I was thinking about possibly an acapella album next? Show off some of the old vocal range. I’ve been working on it for a couple of weeks.” Ronny looked for a response from Fame, that didn’t come. “I could use my voice to make the beat and the guitar sound, like this…”
    Fame stared back as the rock singer, whom he had