The Spotlight

The waiting is killing me, thinks the old man. A dry cackle is forming in his throat, but it wouldn’t do to let it out. What would all the people in the main room think? To distract himself from the inappropriate mirth he goes over his looks once again. His suit isn’t new, but it will have to do. Haven’t worn it in - what? Five years? No, three. Greta’s funeral was three years ago. And Bart said the coat was too tight, better leave it unbuttoned. Who even cares what an old geezer like you looks like?
I’m sure Bart will have a laugh when he sees me today, all buttoned up, handkerchief in the right pocket and shoes polished enough to reflect the light bulb above. (What kind of moron came up with the idea of putting a blinding light in white-tiled room, so barren it makes your heart ache. Not to mention the eyes. Should’ve brought sun-glasses.)
Bart be damned. I cannot screw up today. Must be dressed to the nines. My chance to be in the spotlight.

The competition is stiff. The guy in the other room is young and handsome. He’d had a glimpse of him coming in. Suit screaming new on him. Probably never worn one before, God bless him. The kids milling around outside must be his friends. Enough of them to give him a roaring round of applause when he comes out.
God, I’m stupid. What am I doing fighting a kid who barely knows anything for applause that means nothing at the end of the day? Hope Old Fart doesn’t pull one on me, like shouting ‘You go, Geezer’! Wouldn’t put it past him.

How long now? He’d heard something about 12 o’clock, but it must be way past noon, judging by the sun. The girl in the white lacy dress sure takes her time, although what would she have to show for herself? Too young to have learned many tricks. Too young to have a strong party there for her, like young Mr.Handsome next door. It’s not even fair, if all she can give them is woulds and coulds. It’s all about doing, and fucking up, and trying again. Not wishful thinking.
Wait till I go in. He could talk for hours about his deeds, his impeccable career, the book he wrote. That brick full of nonsense, as Bart calls it. He pretended he couldn’t read it, but I know he did. Maybe today is the day when he admits it. I’m counting on you, Old Fart. If only Greta were here. She’d make an excellent case for him, but, no, Greta had to get that stupid cancer.
Stop thinking about Greta. Stop it. You don’t want to go out there frowning. No one wants to see that. You saw young Mr. Handsome? All calm and serene. Picture of bloody bliss. Like he’s waited all his life for this moment.

Feet shuffling in the main room. Chairs being moved. Muffled whispers. Footsteps down the corridor, coming closer. Door opening. Damn, how could I forget about her? There was that woman in a green dress, in the opposite room. It’s her turn. Not mine. He didn’t get a good look at her, but she seemed rather unassuming. The type of woman you see working in HR or logistics, some crap like that. Cat lady type. I didn’t hear any applause for the girl and this one isn’t getting any, I’m sure.
The look on her face said it all. Don’t mind me. I didn’t want to be here, but you know how it is. I don’t want to take up your time. I’ll be quick. So sorry about this. It’s OK, he answers her unuttered apology. Ladies first. I can wait. Couldn’t say the same about Bart who must be stinking up the waiting room by now. It’s just when I’m nervous, Bart apologizes. It's just when you're old, but I never had the heart to tell you. As if I didn’t know, Bart laughs.

Why did I let them put that stuff in my hair? Now I look like an idiot, like a cow licked my hair. Guess they have their rules and messy hair isn’t one of them. I wonder what time it is. Why wouldn’t they let me wear a watch, I’d like to know. What difference does it make, the Bart in the main room wants to know. Got any place better to be? We’re all here waiting for you so you’d better put on a great show, God damn it.

Shit, the lady in the green dress must be done. There’s shuffling and whispering again. I’m not ready for this, I’m not ready.
It all happens so fast. Barely the time to spy on young Mr. Handsome who seems to be cracking his long graceful fingers ahead of the show.
At least the lights are muted in the main room. That’s a relief. Hope Old Fart doesn’t start to snore mid-performance.
Here we go. Urgent mutters from a side door. Get moving people, we have the pianist’s memorial slotted for 1.30.