Charlie walked off the stage and headed towards his dressing room. The performance was obligingly given a huge send-off from the crowds; whistling from men, women flashing their various body parts, and cheering from everyone. He grabbed a bottle of water and a bottle of Bailey’s from a waiting assistant, and stormed into his dressing room. The door to the room had a sign written in red ink, stating “PRIVATE – STAY OUT!!” which was written in a fury after a show in Toledo five years ago, when Mitch walked in after that show to find three women partying with a roadie. The roadie was fired, the women stuck around long enough for Charlie to grab and squeeze to his heart’s content. That is, until his wife –and manager – walked in. Sheila wrote the sign, and instructed her assistant to use it at every gig, for the rest of their lives, or perish.
The dressing room was set up according to Sheila’s tastes for Charlie. It was not a band room, by any means. There was one love seat for Sheila and perhaps the band manager to sit on while they talked to Charlie, as he was prepped for the shows. He would sit on the barber’s chair or stool – whatever the venue provided – to get his hair done, to watch his clothes be picked out, and to look at other people in the mirror as they walked in to give him their best wishes. There was a moveable rack of clothing at the side of the room, a table set with flowers (nothing too fragrant to set off Sheila’s allergies) to offer a homey feeling, and an assortment of refreshments and beverages to quell his stomach before the show. This assortment was replaced with water, alcohol, liqueurs, and candy when the show was over. “Keeps the performance ‘real’,” as Sheila had said.
Charlie walked in and automatically headed for the table. Sheila followed him into the room immediately, along with her assistant Chad, who clutched with white knuckles a clipboard close to his heart. Sheila stood at the dressing table, staring at her face in the mirror. She adjusted her earring, rubbed some mascara off her eyelid, and looked squarely at the back of Charlie’s head in the mirror.
“What the fuck was that, Charles?” she demanded.
“I don’t fucking know, why don’t you ask Terry the same question?” he retorted. “He was the one who fucked up the intro to Combustion, and then Twig went off and tried to reign him in, and I got completely muddled and lost it! Alright? That’s what fucking happened!”
She could see the veins popping out of the back of his arms in the reflection. She glanced over to Chad, without turning her head, and gave him a wink. Chad immediately turned around, walked out the door, and quietly shut it behind him.
“Now, baby, you need to relax, I know it wasn’t your fault that the set got totally shredded to shit. I just wanted to hear what you had to say about it.”
“Really? Is that what you want to hear? What I have to say?”
“Yes. And stop repeating me for Christ sakes.” She could sense her face turning red, and glanced back to her reflection.
“Well, She, I’ve got to tell you, then – I’m fucking over this shit!” His eyes were flooded and red, and he refused to look at her, to show her his emotions. She knew how vulnerable he felt at the end of a show, and she knew how to play on his emotions to get what she wanted out of him. He wasn’t going to let that happen tonight. He took a quick swig of Bailey’s, chased it with some whiskey, grabbed a handful of M&Ms, and belched.
Sheila pulled out two tissues from the dressing table and walked over to Charlie. She knew he was chocking down tears, and she wanted him to know that she knew. He looked over his shoulder at the tissues, scoffed and walked into the bathroom, quickly shutting the door behind him.
Through the door he shouted out, “Stop pitting me against these guys, you got it? I see how they look at me now, they know I make a shit-load more than they do and I don’t even write most of these songs! So if you don’t start making some good shit happen for a change, to get me in good with them, then I’m out!” His voice was getting louder, uncontrollably more irate with every breath. “YOU HEAR ME! I’M FUCKING OUT!” He kicked the door with this last word, and Shelia actually flinched.
She was so accustomed to rants and tantrums, having been in the music business for a good twenty years, but had never seen Charlie injure anyone, let alone a stationary object. It was rare for a lead singer in a hit rock band to be so non-physically ‘expressive.’ Violence was all the rage among young, upstart hit makers. That’s why she liked Charlie; he wasn’t the typical star. He was fresh, and had his moments, but on the whole he was likeable and mellow, and seemed to thrive under her management. Seven hit singles since she started to watch his career.
When she informed him that she wouldn’t be able to help him professionally anymore, since they’d become romantically entangled and furthermore found out by the band’s manager, Charlie appropriately took the hint and proposed marriage to Sheila. Frank, Accelerator’s manager, was properly fearful when Sheila came into Charlie’s life, and even more frightened when they got married. But the band had hit the big time with Frank, and even stuck with him when things got rocky, so he figured he’d be in for life with the band even if Sheila was going to be the one speaking for Charlie at band meetings.
“O.k., Charlie, I’ll just tell Frank that, and the guys can figure it out from there.” Her comment was met with silence.
“Alright, Charlie?”
Nothing.
“Charles…”
He recognized the maternal, authoritative voice behind her words. Especially when she called him Charles. It infuriated him for all these years. He swallowed his pride, let her have her dominance over him – she seemed to know best what to do, so why bother picking a fight over something like his name? But now, standing over the toilet in the tiny bathroom he felt his anger fill the room to capacity, and couldn’t stop the bursting rage inside of him.
“Charles!” she finally shouted.
His head, arms, and fists shook as he let out a primal scream. The roar could be heard beyond the dressing room walls, out into the backstage halls, and into the band’s sitting room where they sat and drank and made out with groupies. Frank’s head lifted up from a pile of travel documents he was reviewing for their trip to San Francisco. He looked over to Chad and asked, “Who the hell is that coming from?” Chad shrugged his shoulders, looking innocently ignorant, as Sheila had trained him through the last five years of his employment with her.
Frank immediately blew off Chad’s response, having seen it so many times before, and
followed the sound of the bellowing beast. He was surprised to find it coming from Charlie’s room, and even took a second to look around to make sure there wasn’t a fight brewing among some roadies nearby. Almost assured that it was Charlie’s yell, he carefully opened the door, just in time to see Charlie bolt out of the bathroom and lunge for Sheila’s throat.
“Holy shit! Charlie!” Frank shouted. “Stop it! Stop it!”
Charlie was bright red, and Sheila’s eyes were bugged out as he strangled her. Shocked to hear Frank’s voice, Charlie stopped and immediately withdrew his hands from her throat. Sheila sobbed and laid out on the love seat. Frank grabbed hold of Charlie’s arm, both men panting with excitement. The band, Chad, and the stage manager Tim flooded into the dressing room. Tim slammed the door shut and told Chad to “guard it with your life.”
“Screw you!” Chad responded. “Sheila – are you alright?” He rushed to get near her side. Twig, the band’s drummer, grabbed Chad and gripped his shoulder so hard Chad gasped in pain.
“Don’t you fucking move, got it?” Twig whispered into Chad’s ear.
“Yeah, yeah! Let me go!” Chad was wincing. Twig released him and gave a satisfying look to Tim. Chad rubbed out the pain on his shoulder, still holding the clipboard with his other hand.
“Everybody get the fuck outta here!” Sheila shouted. Tears had stopped streaming, but her mascara was visibly running down her cheeks. She was embarrassed to look so weak in front of this group of men, guys she’d made sure knew who the big fish was (her) and who the big fish looked out for (Charlie). She could imagine her status dwindling away as quickly as her makeup. She looked up at Charlie, who was straddling her body on the sofa. In the silence of the shocked crowd she slapped him square across the face. “You bastard!” she shouted at
him. “How dare you try to fucking kill me!”
“Sheila, I – I don’t know what came over me,” he stammered out at her, restraining himself from touching his red-hot cheek. “I got so pissed off, oh my god, I don’t know what I was trying to do.”
“You were trying to kill me, that’s what! I hate you! I made you and I can destroy you, you got that!” Sheila pushed him off and got to her feet. Frank stepped out of her way, and turned to make sure that the other guys moved as well. She walked over to the dressing table and got more tissues to wipe her face clean. “Chad, come here!”
Charlie pleaded with Frank, “Frank, you gotta tell her, I didn’t mean it! I was out of control, you know? Oh my god. Come on, babe!”
Frank walked over to her side and looked at her in the mirror. “Come on, She, you know Charlie wouldn’t hurt you. And look, you’re fine – no marks, you can breathe.”
Sheila rolled her eyes at Frank. Chad brought her lipstick and mascara. She started to put these on, and told Frank, “He’s just scared, I know. I play this game better than any moll or wench out there. But he’s really pissed,” she took a deep breath, “because these boys can’t get their shit together out there.” Charlie heard this, and looked up at Terry, Aaron, Michael and Twig. They stared at Sheila and slowly turned to look at Charlie. He was as white as a ghost.
“That’s not true, Sheila…” he protested in a whisper. “That’s not it at all.”
“Oh come on, Charles, get with it! You know you’re the center of everything out there! You said it yourself to me tonight – Terry fucked up the intro to Pay Day, and so did Twig. Don’t lie about it now.”
“Did you really say that, Charlie?” Twig looked at him and raised his eyebrows, and Terry and the others looked for his response as well.
“That is not the point, and you know it Sheila!” Charlie couldn’t believe that after the fighting and the shouting she could start another fight in front of everyone. “You want me to lose it again, don’t you?” he asked her.
“Charlie, pull yourself together man,” Frank said. He went to go hold his shoulders, but was pushed away.
“No way, she wants me to kill her! She’s totally fucking nuts!”
“I told you that from the beginning,” Terry whispered to Frank. Sheila heard this and marched up to Terry, her hand cocked back to slap his face. Charlie stepped in and grabbed Sheila’s hand. Chad was holding his clipboard like a teddy bear, frowning as if he was watching his mother get in a fight.
“Don’t you touch me, you asshole!” Sheila shook her hand free and swatted at his chest. Frank came in and took hold of her other hand.
“Everybody get the hell out, except you Tim – come on, move it,” said Frank. Slowly the room cleared out. When everyone had left, Frank and Charlie let go of Sheila, and moved her to the sofa. Tim grabbed a water bottle and a beer from the table, gave the beer to Sheila and the water to Charlie, and sat at the dressing table.
“Listen, you two, what the hell is going on? What started this whole mess?” Frank looked alternately between Charlie and Sheila, and patiently waited for a answer. After about two minutes of silence and some sighs, Charlie finally explained what the fight was all about.
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