A Story of Two Kings

    The man they called The King stood silently in his dressing room, sizing himself up in the huge mirror. Where others could not--or would not-- see flaws, he saw them all and more. At least the nerves were there; that was good. He would need that energy later on out on stage. He checked his hair to see that it was looking perfect, checked it again. And again. He dyed it, sure, but the fans would never know that, and even if they did hear of it, they'd dismiss it as rubbish. That was the extent of their love for him; they would forgive him just about anything. Lined up on the vanity were flowers and good-luck cards from movie stars, foreign dignitaries and at least three members of royal families.

    He checked the costume he was wearing: flashy and form-fitting, but flexible, that was the key. He could’ve kept the audience’s eyes on him even if he had chosen to wear flannel pajamas, such was his charisma, but the way he figured, every little bit helped. He went over some of the lyrics to the old numbers he would perform. This was just part of his ritual: he knew the lyrics so well by now he could do them in his sleep and, truth be told, sometimes it felt like he was doing them in his sleep, he had sung them so often. What saved him from his own worst tendencies was the love of the fans. He had always drawn his power from the crowds, but now it was more than that: he had grown to feel more comfortable on the most unfamiliar stage than in his own magnificent mansion. Out there, there was no need for the pills he used to regulate his life, one kind to pick him up, one kind to bring him down, one kind to counteract the other two.

    He glanced at the people on the other side of his opulent dressing room. This was his circle, his entourage; adults with the viewpoints of children. He had long ago outgrown them. Indeed, some nights he envisioned that they were leeches sucking his blood, taking everything he had to offer and more. But, he also had to admit to himself that they kept him upright at times when he couldn't do that for himself, and not just in a physical sense. He was getting tired of these concerts. He knew he had taken on too big a commitment, knew the tour had become longer and longer, but what was the alternative? With his lifestyle, he'd be broke within a month if he quit now. So he kept going. He vowed his family would never have to scramble for money because he was too tired, too hurt to go out and perform. "That's not what a man does," he remembered his father telling him. Of course, his father had never been any great shakes as a provider himself, but he loved his daddy all the same. Not like he loved his mother -- not with complete and total trust and devotion -- but he did love him, in his own way. At any rate, he had sworn to be a better parent than his daddy had been; he just wasn't sure that was a promise he could keep.

    He loved his daughter above all else. He would try to call her before a show for good luck, would try to call her after a show so her voice could bring him back down to Earth. He would try to call her before her bedtime, would try to get home on weekends. "Would try", "would try", "would try". The problem was that he rarely succeeded. The road was the road, and in his single-mindedness, he forgot things. Important things, sometimes. He didn't hold it against himself too much; he was only a man, and men made mistakes, fell prey to temptations, and the road had a lot of those. His demons were not easy ones to conquer or appease, no matter how many spiritual texts he read, no matter how many gurus and advisors he spoke to. But he would try to make it up to her when he saw her. Anything she wanted, anything at all, he would buy it for her, and everything would be okay again for a while. Still, if there was time after the show tonight, he decided he would call home. He would try.

    He checked his garish outfit again. He did a couple of his old moves. The dull throb in his lower back and ankles protested, but he ignored them, shut them out of his field of concentration. The buckle of his belt glinted in the mirror, flashing his eyes. In that moment, the juice came back to him, the same energy he had felt when he first stepped on a stage decades earlier, little more than a kid. He looked himself in the eyes. He was The King. It was time. He breathed in deeply, exhaled sharply, then turned and walked toward the door of the dressing room. The members of his entourage hopped to their feet and awaited their marching orders. He didn't even turn to look them in the eyes.

    "I'm ready," he said. "Let's go."

    He walked out the door, his lackeys surrounding him in a lock-step protective formation like they had done so often before. They all had the looks of men who were complacent, who thought the good ride would last forever. Minutes later, the arena exploded with energy as The King gave the last of himself to the crowd that he loved, which loved him in return.

    By the following morning, he was dead.