Sudetenland Tales by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Sudetenland Tales
Page 58
They’d been briefed. Keep a low profile, don’t interrupt the show unless absolutely necessary, and for God’s sake don’t block Bruce’s exit path. Between administering nitroglycerin and arguing about whether the crowd’s betting pool violated local gambling laws, they’d become unexpected stagehands in this surreal production.
Bruce Springsteen: The Boss in the Twilight of Chaos
Bruce hadn’t planned this gig. Bruce was on a spree of being challenged by any planning attempt whatsoever.
It was supposed to be an intimate benefit he thought; one acoustic guitar, a stool, and some heartfelt stories. But when the curtain rose and he saw oxygen tanks lined up beside folding chairs like chrome ghosts, something shifted, making him notice that the thing strapped to his shoulder was as electric as his pacemaker.
He crooned “Thunder Road Rash,” watching a man in the third row raise his bingo paddle and whisper; “Five to one on Shirley keeling over before the bridge.”
“They’re betting on each other, side bets,” he muttered between verses, bewildered and weirdly moved. It was grotesque. It was beautiful.