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There seemed to be an inevitable conclusion to his own story – yet, to his own frustration, that eluded the little man.



And, he continued to walk…



Chapter Nine – And the show goes on.



Laura Mae had greeted him at the stage door, with a look on her face that did not auger well for Bertram.



Yet, it was as she began her tirade that Laura Mae noticed something new; the little man, so usually in her thrall, was looking elsewhere as she spoke…



Finally she stopped, looked at Bertram and asked of him, “Did you hear a word?”



“Oh yes dear,” he responded in a far off manner, “I was just thinking…”



“Yes?” Laura Mae snapped, standing in such a fashion that she blocked his entrance to the theatre.



‘I was thinking how annoying you can sound,’ he wanted to say; yet chose discretion and said to her instead, “We’re meant to be on stage in less than twenty minutes…”



“I know Bertram, believe me I know… Now, where have you been?” She asked, as she stood to one side, to allow Bertram egress.



“Just walking and thinking…” He muttered, passing by his irate companion and allowing a stage hand to direct him toward his dressing room.



Within minutes Bertram was dressed in his stage ensemble and waiting for Laura Mae as patiently as possible, when he heard a sound that made him pause for thought.



He heard the sound of presses, as distinctly as if he were in the room with them…



Suddenly he found his knees weak and the ability to stand somewhat difficult, so Bertram found himself holding the nearest wall up.



“Are you alright?” a young lad asked him, mop and bucket in hand.



“Yes, I suppose so…” Bertram muttered, mopping his brow with a handkerchief, as he steadied himself and walked toward the side of the stage, where an Italian tenor was slowly drawing his act to a close.



Then as the curtain fell and Eduado Richards left the stage, following his somewhat disappointing lack of applause.



“Tough crowd tonight,” Edward Richards told Bertram in a distinct Brooklyn drawl, as dancing girls took to the stage, much to the delight of many.



“But, I guess you already knew that didn’t you,” he snarled at Bertram.



“I know your wife is not at home right now an nor is she in the audience is she?” The little man asked amiably.



His head had been aching more than usual, yet dissipated a little, as he spoke…



“Now if you don’t mind…” He told Richards, pushing him aside.



“You what!” The other man blustered, as Bertram walked onto the stage and, the curtains began to rise…

Then he ran his right hand across his light stubble and decided he needed a shave, “Particularly if I’m going on stage tonight…” he ruminated aloud.



Chapter Eight - A Close One, on the journey…



The gin hadn’t helped Bertam’s headache. So, his decision to have his face shaven

Professionally had been a good one he considered, as Guido lathered his face.



The elderly Italian had heard of this local celebrity. But, with someone ‘like that’, he knew how to behave…



‘Besides,’ Guido thought, ‘the last time he was here he tipped well.’



A short while later the old man had nearly exhausted his knowledge of world news, but managed to finish his work, to his own satisfaction.



“There Senór, fini…” He pronounced, drawing the white fluffy towel from around Bertram’s neck, with a theatrical sweep, that would have caused him to grin, if it had not been for his headache.



Yet, the shave had been the fillip that Bertram had needed and, he paid Guido with a light smile… “You do good work,” he told the old barber, running his right hand over his chin as he stood.



The compliment pleased Guido as intended and, Bertram left the store feeling for a moment, as though all were right in his world: “Bar this interminable headache!” he said aloud, causing a passing young couple to stop and stare.



In turn, Bertram tipped his bowler toward them, blushing profusely.



‘There are some things one should say internally and not externally…’ Bertam mused.

The irony of him thinking such a thing was not lost on Bertram.



The fact that he could read others, whilst being aware of a need for such a thing as private thought, was an irony that caused him to pause a moment, deep in thought.



There seemed to be an inevitable conclusion to his own story – yet, to his own frustration, that eluded the little man.



And, he continued to walk…

Bertram then accepted the proffered coffee off Laura Mae and reached for pebble-thick, round, reading glasses.



Briefly he looked up to Laura’s face, as he settled the pile of papers on his lap and then he began to read, sipping at his coffee absently…



Chapter Seven – A Celebrity



Bertram read two articles about them in the local rag- as Laura Mae paced the length of his small apartment.



Then he read more expansive articles in the national papers, aware of her eyes upon him, as he did so…



As he neared the last word on the last line in the final paper, Laura Mae stopped in the middle of the room, to look at Bertram, her arms crossed.



“See Bertram, we’re famous!” She told him, as she left his apartment, with a wild grin on her face.



And, in the quiet that followed her departure, Bertram breathed a sigh of relief



He hardly deemed what had been written as noteworthy himself – ‘Of mild interest,’ he mused, aware that his first prediction had proven accurate.



‘Yet as to being famous?’ He mused. ‘Only celebrities like Douglas Fairbanks, Charlie Chaplin and Clara Bow are famous’



“I’m just a performer, who seems to be able to do… something different…” He considered, aloud.



He set the papers aside and rose from the bed, making his way across the room, to his stash. A few minutes later he sat once more, sipping at gin from an ornate teacup; pleased that the police seemed to turn a blind-eye to illicit alcohol users, like himself.



“Let’s call it prescient fore-memory…” he considered. “It’s like… it’s like… I can see tomorrow, as if it were yesterday, seeing all the nuances of that event, in detail.”



It sort of made sense to Bertram – but, not *uite. For him, there was still the inevitable *uestion, “Why me?”



He had no idea; yet there would be a show that night… of that he had been assured, by Laura Mae. And although his headache might have precluded a smile, he did.



Finishing his drink, Bertram stood and began to get dressed.



The little man couldn’t help but smile, thinking of the delight on Laura Mae’s face, as she had spoken of their new found celebrity status.



Yet, he hated it…



“But, times muster… or something like that?” Bertram muttered, “It just… doesn’t seem *uite right, to me…”



Yet there was no doubt: it was obvious to both Laura and himself, that he would continue to perform. She revelled in the limelight – and, he did like to please her.



Then he ran his right hand across his light stubble and decided he needed a shave, “Particularly if I’m going on stage tonight…” he ruminated aloud.