Transposition
by Valerie
Kravette
Melody Flatt,
mediocre lounge singer, stood so close to Dr. F
that her feather boa tickled him.
“The
creature is nearly ready,” he said.
“Can it
play ‘Feelings’? In my key?”
“He has
all your sheet music uploaded into his brain.”
“Does he
have rhythm?”
“More
than twenty built-in rhythms, including hip-hop,
samba and bossa nova. And you won’t have to
pay him union scale.”
“At last!”
Melody cried, “After years of losing piano
players to death, marriage and other singers, I
will have the perfect accompanist!”
“Turn on
the amps, Igor!”
The hunchback
flicked the switches, and they hummed with slight
feedback.
The creature
stirred.
The mad doctor
raised his arms. “I give you…FRANKEN-STEINWAY!”
The monster
lurched upright. He sported rusted kazoos for
fingers, the moldy skin of old kettledrums, and
wheezed with busted pipes from an old theatre
organ. But in white tux and neck-bolts, he looked
almost dapper. He lowered his manicured hands
onto the electronic keyboard implanted in his
hips and perfectly executed the intro to
“Melancholy Baby.”
“He’s
divine!”
“But you
must remember what I told you --” Dr. F
warned.
“I’m
a professional.” Melody laughed. “Bring
him to the Vacation Inn for rehearsal. We open in
a week!”
********************************************************
In a cheap
chain-hotel lounge, Melody staged her comeback.
When the monster came out in his own spotlight,
the audience recoiled. But then he smiled and
started to play. Beautifully, lyrically, never
upstaging her. The audience was enthralled.
Melody
launched into her Andrew Lloyd Webber medley, and
then her Bette Midler tribute. All was going well
until the margarita mixer in the bar caused a
power surge and the amplification died. Suddenly
Melody couldn’t hear herself, and she
committed the fatal error.
She went off-key
and rushed the tempo.
The monster,
enraged, lurched to his feet. He picked up the
amplifier and smashed it over Melody’s head.
The hysterical
crowd screamed and stampeded out. All except
Sid Finkelstien, off-off-Broadway producer.
“Wow, what an act. Explosive finish.
You, big guy, can I buy out your contract?”
His nerdy
assistant looked at the pile of bloody boa
feathers. “What about her?”
“Eh, bad
lounge singers are a dime a dozen. There’s a
lot more where she came from. In fact, arrange
auditions. We need a half-dozen singers, ready to
go. With this guy, we’ll make millions!”
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