Free 9:41 by John Nicholas; Iannuzzi

Waters, the singer.
    Joe had always been around the neighborhood, always singing, and bothering people. That’s the right word—bothering.
    But now came a transformation for him. Now he was making a name for himself in the entertainment field. Now he was a celebrity. His singing was no longer bothersome, but rather pleasing. He was in show business. His little world had expanded to embrace the world of the outside, the world that is open to so few from the neighborhood. Joe was a big man, now. His world extended past the corner hangout, past the street lights, past all the people in the neighborhood, past all those who secretly wished to be more than one of the neighbors; they envied him silently and paid homage to him verbally. He was the most talked about and most boasted about person in the neighborhood.
    This transition from local performer to national success was not without its effect upon Joe, who now was displaying a hitherto concealed knowledge of famous people and of facts having to do with the theater. The transition had an effect not only on his knowledge of things but even on his personality. This underwent a remarkable change, for not only was he not an insecure, unsure kid anymore, but now he fashioned himself on his expert appearance and opinion, his judgment and savoir faire.
    An instance of this newly acquired knowledge and opinion was when he walked into Sam’s soda store on the corner one evening. For years this had been his hangout. The place where he would spend the night, talking to the boys. Leaning against the wall with one leg bent at the knee, foot pressed against the wall, cigarette dangling his thin lips, he would discuss the girls in the neighborhood, or the Dodgers, or the horse races, but now, ah, now this was Joe Waters, the rage of the popular singers, the boy who sold almost a million records with his recording of “I’ll Never Let You Know”.
    He walked into the store in his tapered slacks, no more peg—that was so unsharp—“taper, taper, man, that’s the only way to wear them. Everybody in the ‘biz’ wears them this way. You know man, like, get hip”. Over these conservative pants he wore a quiet shirt with button-down collar. On his feet were thin, Italian styled slip-on shoes.
    The commotion, and confusion of the syrup sweet air hushed to a murmured undertone anytime Joe made an appearance—a very rare appearance as a matter of fact. He was too busy to spend much time around the neighborhood these days. He indicated he would sit at the table where his old acquaintances were sitting; a space was quickly made for him; a chair hoisted through the air, and he was seated, to the satisfaction of all the beholding eyes, to his own satisfaction, for everyone was stealing glances at so august a personage, and to the satisfaction of the people he was sitting with, for now they basked in the effulgent light of his illustriousness. After many minutes of awareness, the consciousness of his presence dimmed, and things began to take a more ordinary course. The conversation at his table started to mull over the picture at the Globe, “Gibraltar Affair”.
    â€œYeah, let’s go see that, it supposed to be pretty good”, said Tommy.
    â€œNaw, whadd-a-ya-kiddin, it’s a real lemon. The guy kisses the broad goodbye and sails away, big deal, what do I need to go to the movies to see that. I’ll save my money and stay here”, said Pete.
    Eddie turned to Joe and said, “you seen that pitcha, didn’t you Joey? How was it, any good?”
    â€œI caught that flic last week with my agent and I thought it was poor. The acting was unconvincing and the story had a lot of loose ends. On the whole I didn’t think it was very good”, said Joe in a serious, knowing way. All of this, however, was said in a measured copied way. Not only was the enunciation copied, so was the criticism. What did Joe know about acting or