SRU: The Soprano

by

RJMcD

 

Chapter One

"But you got a beau-tee-ful voice," Anthony said.

"I don't want a fuckin' beautiful voice!" Michael shouted. "That's what I'm fuckin' tellin' you."

"Hey, easy," Anthony said. "What I'm telling you is that this is not a simple thing. It's not just snip an eighth of an inch and you're a tenor, snip two-eighths and you're a bass., The doctors can't be that precise. It don't work like that, Michael. Besides, I gotta tell you, in all honesty, you got a beautiful voice. Whoa! Whoa! This is no shit, Michael. I heard you sing."

"Fuck the singin'," Michael said. "A tenor, I could live with. The Three Tenors: Frank Sinatra, Jerry Vale, and Al fuckin' Martino from 'The Godfather'. Them guys can sing, you know what I mean? Yeah, okay. A tenor's a good deal. The girls go for a tenor, you know? Or a baritone. Would that be somethin'? But not a fuckin' soprano, Anthony. A guy's not supposed to be a fuckin' soprano. I went through puberty fifteen years ago, for chrissake! You wouldn't believe the shit I got as a kid. You wouldn't believe it. I could tell you, Anthony. But you would not believe it."

"But you ain't just a soprano, Michael. You're the perfect soprano. The voice of an angel. The Arch Angel, Michelangelo. He's a fuckin' guy angel," Anthony said.

"What church did you go to, Anthony? Michael, Michael! Fuckin' Michelangelo was a painter. Besides, angels ain't fuckin' men. They're ain't nothing. They're like neuters. There's no sex in heaven, you idiot."

"No sex?"

"Naw."

"Jesus," Anthony said. "Whadda they do every night?"

Michael's frustration broke. "How...the...hell...should...I...know? You fuckin' moron! Will you stop talkin' about fuckin' angels! It's my voice we're fuckin' talkin' about. I don't wanna hear another fuckin' word about no fuckin' angels. Okay? Okay?"

"Hey, Michael. Okay. Hey, I was just sayin'," Anthony said.

"Well, don't say," Michael said.

Anthony made a "no big deal" face.

"And I don't care what I end up," Michael said. "Tenor, countertenor, baritone, bass, who gives a shit? As long as I ain't a soprano anymore."

"So let's look into it," Anthony said. "Find out how much it costs, that kinda shit."

Michael was suddenly subdued. "I did. Twelve thousand. And I'm outta work a week."

"Geez. Twelve thousand."

"Cash, 'cause insurance don't cover it," Michael said.

"Twelve thousand," Anthony said quiet. "Cash."

"Yeah," Michael said.

"That's a lot of fuckin' money, Michael."

"Oh, bulletin, bulletin!" Michael said sarcastically. "You moron! I know it's a lot of fuckin' money!"

"Hey, you don't have to always be callin' me a moron," Anthony said, his feeling hurt. "I'm just saying, that's a lot of money."

"You wanna tell me something I don't know? Like why the fuck do I hang out with you?"

"We're friends, Michael," Anthony protested. "We been best friends since high school."

"So loan me twelve thousand," Michael said.

"Hey, if I had it, you know, you'd get it. Bada Boom! Like that, in your pocket."

"Yeah, I know you would."

They were silent for a minute, and then Anthony said, "You think about Paulie?"

"Yeah."

"He'd give it to ya."

"The vig."

"Yeah, the vig," Anthony said. "The vig would kill ya. You'd never be able to pay off the nut; just the vigorish every week. That's how Paulie does it."

"Or he breaks your legs," Michael said.

"Yeah, or he breaks your legs," Anthony agreed. "Paulie's a tough guy."

"Yeah. Paulie's a very tough guy. Fuck him and his vig," Michael said.

"Yeah, you got that right," Anthony said.

They were silent together. Then Anthony said, "So whadda ya gonna do?"

"I'm gonna rob a bank," Michael said.

"No shit?"

"I wish."

"Maybe that's not such a bad idea, you know? I could use some money," Anthony said.

"Bank robbers get caught," Michael said.

"Yeah, they do, don't they. I wonder why that is."

"They got all that security shit," Michael said. "Special money that makes your hands turn purple. You can't spend it."

"No kiddin'?"

"Yeah, my Uncle John was tellin' me. He used to work security in a bank, after he retired from the police force. They got all kinds of crap."

"That's interesting," Anthony said. "A liquor store?"

"You ain't gettin' twelve large from a liquor store, Anthony."

"No, of course not. We got, what? Nine hundred, from that mick joint we hit," Anthony said. "I could really use some money, though."

"What do you want money for?" Michael asked.
"A car. A red convertible. A babe magnet. I wanna get me a babe magnet."

Michael burst out laughing.

 

Chapter Two

Michael could smell the money. He could almost see it. The shoppers with bags had left money in the stores of the mall, and the shoppers without bags still had money. Trouble was, it was all plastic. Maybe robbing a bank wasn't such a bad idea.

He wandered into the food court and checked out the action. Better. Cash. But in such small amounts that even the shops doing gangbuster business wouldn't have all that much. Certainly not twelve thousand dollars. Besides, there was no exit. If he pulled the gun he'd end up running down one of the long corridors to the parking lot, and security would be all over him.

The mall was a stupid idea. Nobody robbed a mall store. The gun was a stupid idea, too. What the hell was he doing walking around a family mall with a gun in pocket? He called Anthony a moron, but look who was behaving like an idiot.

Michael was disgusted with himself.

He turned and started down one the wings of the mall. It was the one with the fewest shoppers, but it didn't come out at the parking lot where he'd left his car. He'd dismissed the idea of knocking off one of the stores. Dumb, dumb, dumb.

Then he saw it. A small storefront that was different from the others. It reminded him more of a store in the old neighborhood than a shop in a mall. It wasn't shabby, but it wasn't new and shiny, either. Because of that, it stood out, almost like a sign flashing "Vulnerable, vulnerable!"

Michael stood a little taller, and checked the gun in his pocket. He sauntered toward the store entrance, looking right and left. There weren't many people, and none of them were coming his way. He turned the doorknob and slipped inside.

The inside of the shop made less sense than the outside. There was no theme or central focus, and the fixtures looked far older than the mall itself. Wooden shelves held an eclectic collection of goods, from antique dolls to dull, colored bottles. Half a dozen mannequins had been placed along the left wall; one was nude, and the others wore a disorganized group of period outfits.

Michael tried to size up the store and its income. Were they selling antiques? Would people pay in cash or with plastic? Hell, did the place even have any customers?

"Is that a pistol in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?"

Michael jumped at the voice. He looked toward the back of the shop and saw a short, Asian man shuffle toward him. The man pulled the tie of his blue bathrobe tighter as he walked.

Michael was thrown by the man's appearance. A bathrobe? What was with that?

"Come on in and look around, Michael," the man said. "There's no cash here, but the store has lots of interesting things."

At the sound of his name and the mention of cash, Michael tensed. "I know you?"

"I know you," the man said, and smiled.

"From where? I don't know many Oriental guys."

"Asian," the man said. "A rug is oriental." He waved his hand, "But never mind. Look around. Do you have something specific in mind – outside of money, of course."

No cash and the guy somehow knew his name. Michael immediately dropped his vague idea of robbery, and assumed the role of innocent customer.

"No, nothing specific," he said. "Just looking around. I never been in here before."

The Asian smiled again. He scratched his two-day beard and watched the thin young man.

Michael did a visual 360, "Is this, like, an antiques store or something?"

"More like 'or something'," the man said. He adjusted his bathrobe. "It's a magic shop. I sell spells, hence the name."

"I didn't notice," Michael said.

"'Spells 'R' Us'," the man said, a bit of irritation in his voice. "There's a big sign over the door."

"I didn't see it," Michael said. "You should make it bigger."

The man was about to reply, but held himself back. Finally, he said, "Perhaps I should."

"Yeah."

"So what would you like? Something for your voice, perhaps?"

"What the fuck's wrong with my voice?" Michael said, anger showing in both tone and posture. "You got something to say about my voice, old man?"

"No offense," the man said. "It's just that I happen to have a potion that would . . . Well, never mind."

Michael gave the man a hard stare to establish his dominance. When it went unchallenged he relaxed a little. "A potion? Whadda mean by that?"

"An elixir. A mixture of magic and common ingredients in an ancient formula concocted by other Wizards long ago. What they might call a 'drug' today, although potions aren't advertised on TV by happy people who never read the small print – 'side effects may include death, loss of limbs, total or partial paralysis, or an uncontrollable desire to walk on all fours, braying at the moon. Do not take with oxygen.'"

Michael stared for a minute, then burst into a smile. "I get it! It's like a Disney store or something. Wizard of Oz and all that shit, huh? And you're in – what do they call it? You're like a 'character', right? Like at Disney World." He turned to look at the items on the shelves. "This stuff is, like, all from old movies and stuff, right? Yeah, yeah, I get it. Very good job. You, too. What're you, an unemployed actor playing a Wizard from, uh . . . Not the Wizard of Oz. I seen Mickey Mouse with a Wizard once. That the one you're playing? This is excellent. I gotta tell ya, you're good, old man."

The Wizard controlled his anger, turning and walking back toward a counter so Michael wouldn't see him fuming. A Disney character! An unemployed actor!

Michael, his excitement tempered, said, "But I don't remember no Wizard in a bathrobe . . . "

He followed the old man to the counter, still trying to match the shop to a movie he'd seen. "M-G-M? I seen the Wizard of Oz on TV and it was M-G-M, right?"

The Wizard had regained his composure and he spoke as he moved behind a glass counter, "Not M-G-M, Michael. I'm a real Wizard. These," he said, indicating the bottles under the glass top, "are real potions. There's one for just about anything you can imagine – and for things you can't imagine. There's a potion to make your muscles bigger, or your feet smaller, or your voice deeper, or yo . . ."

"Hey!" Michael barked, a sharp warning in his voice.

The Wizard looked at him, waiting.

"Watch your mouth, old man," Michael said.

"Why? What's it going to do?" the man asked, with mock surprise, rolling his eyes downward.

Michael shook his head at the nonsensical question.

"Would you like a potion?" the old man asked.

"You gotta be bullshitting me," Michael said.

"Why?"

"There's no such thing as Wizards and potions. That's why."

"How about France? Does France exist?"

"Of course France exists! Man, you are fuckin' weird."

"But you've never been there, never seen it," the Wizard said. "I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I've got two potions that would be just right for you. You can have either one. If it doesn't work, there's no charge. If it does, then you come back and we'll figure out what's fair. You can't beat that. But you only get to take one, remember. It's an offer you can't refuse."

"What's your end?"

"I know they work," the Wizard said, "so I figure to get paid."

"And you're gonna trust me to come back?"

"Oh yes. I'm sure you'll come back, Michael. In fact, I guarantee it."

Michael thought about it. "Is this stuff FDA approved?"

The Wizard suppressed a giggle. "Absolutely," he said.

"Nothin' up front?"

"Nothing."

"You said there were two . . .?"

The Wizard took two tiny vials from under the glass and put them on the counter. "You take one before bedtime, but don't call me in the morning." He looked at the dark young man but didn't see a smile. Oh well. "With this one, when you wake up you look under your mattress. You'll find $12,000 in cash."

"How the fuck did you know that?" Michael asked. He didn't like finding out that the old man knew so much about him.

"A wild guess, Michael," the Wizard said. "A dozen is a nice number. So is a thousand. Does it mean something special to you?"

"Go on."

"If you choose this vial," the Wizard said, holding up the darker container, "you'll wake up in the morning with the voice of a baritone. I've got one for a bass, too, but that's too much, I think."

Michael stepped back and looked away while he thought it over.

A minute later he summed up his thoughts, aloud, "If they don't work, it doesn't matter which one I pick. If they do work . . . With one I'm a baritone and I tell everybody it just happened. What do I know, right? It's a mystery. But suddenly being in possession of twelve large – I gotta explain how I got that, and there ain't any explanation. The cops hear and they'll try to make me for a robbery somewhere. I lie with that, and I get caught."

He seemed to want the old man to approve his logic, so the Wizard nodded sagely.

"I want both of them," Michael said.

"No can do." The Wizard shook his head. "Contra-indicated," he said. "They produce very different results if mixed."

"How do I know you're telling me the truth?"

The Wizard shrugged. "You either believe me, or you don't," he said.

"I don't," Michael said, drawing the gun from his pants pocket.

 

Chapter Three

"Hi," Anthony said, when he saw the Wizard come into the shop, from what appeared to be the back room.

"Hi to you," the old man replied.

"Listen," Anthony said, "I never been in here before, but my girl says she shopped here." He turned toward the beautiful brunette on his arm.

"Hello Michella," the Wizard said, smiling gently.

"Hi, Wiz," the girl said, in a voice that was surprisingly deep for such a lithe girl. "I brought my payment."

"I see you did," the Wizard said.

"She says you got some good stuff here," Anthony said, retaking control of the conversation. He wasn't about to stand around like a dope while his girl and the old geezer did their chit-chat thing.

"I think we do," the Wizard said.

"My angel says it's all FDA approved. Am I right?" Anthony said, a little nervousness in his voice.

"If you say so," the Wizard said. "What did you have in mind?"

"Well, I . . ." He paused, and then turned to the dark hair girl. "Go over and look at some clothes or something."

"But, Anthony . . ."

"Go!"

Michella pouted but obeyed. When she was outside of earshot Anthony said, "I'm lookin' to get a convertible. Red."

The Wizard smiled. A simple material request. The guy had no vision.

"A red convertible," the Wizard repeated.

"Yeah. Like a babe magnet. You know what that is?"

"Oh yes," the Wizard replied. "Would you like to be taller?"

"What?" Anthony said, in a tone that dared the old man to say that again.

"Never mind."

"No, wait. Can you do that? I mean, you got a drink that will make me taller?"

"Sure."

"I dunno. Michella says your stuff works, but I never heard of anything that did that."

"Ever hear of Pitcairn Island?"

"No."

"It exists," the Wizard said, "though it's a long way from France."

Anthony frowned.

"So, which will it be: the babe magnet, or the taller you?" the Wizard asked.

"How 'bout both?"

"I'm afraid not," the Wizard said. "They don't mix. Other things result. Ask Michella. You can have one or the other."

Anthony thought for a moment, and then glanced over his shoulder. Michella was busy looking at the clothes on the mannequins. He reached into his pants pocket. "I want it all, old man, and there's not a thing you can do about it."

The End

 

 

 

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© 2002 by RJMcD. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.