Supernatural Actually
Rufus/Bobby
Caleb wished, for what would be thousandth time in the past four hours, that scientists would create a technology to replace the talent with AIs or Avatars…maybe he should call up James Cameron? He was a friend of a friend of a friend. Surely he could create something that looked like a star, sang like him, but could remember the fucking words to the song! Caleb was trapped in the tiny studio for lesser talents, with three back up singers, recording the vocal tracks for a redo of the an old legends most popular (and most trite) single; luckily he was in the booth with the sound engineer and Rufus’ beleaguered assistant, Bobby. Without that glass between them he might have throttled the old man, or tried to. Caleb was under no illusions that Rufus at 60 could probably tear his 40 year old ass a new one. Still, 20 takes for the single from an album that would be in the bargain racks before Christmas Eve was making him want to Hulk smash the bastard. Caleb patted the engineer, Jimmy Novak, on the back and he restarted the instrumental. Rufus closed eyes and started singing in his famous bluesy warble.
“I feel it in my fingers…I feel it in my toes!” he crooned, swaying just a bit on his stool, long black jeaned legs twitching in time with the music. His dark skinned face was weathered from all the hard living though his voice was just as toe curling as ever. The man could still blow.
“I feel it in my toes, yeah.” The backup singers responded in perfect three part harmony.
“Love is all around me And so the…” His back-up singers collectively rolled their eyes.
“You did it again. “ Caleb said through the intercom.
“What do you expect?” Rufus gritted out. “I’m used to the old one.”
“So is everyone else which is why we’re redoing it and releasing it as a single.”
Rufus growled and if possibly looked more grouchy. If the Johnny Walker coming off of him in waves was any indication, he had spent the night or possibly the morning before this session bathing in the stuff. Caleb sighed and squeezed the bridge of his nose. It was patently unfair that his country background made him the choice to produce Rufus Hickman’s ‘comeback.’ The word at the water cooler was that the new CFOs mother was a big fan and she thought it would be just darling if Rufus Hickman recorded a Christmas album. The word in the executive washroom was much more salacious; Rufus used to bang said Mom and was in possession of some very incriminating videos involving not just him but all of the members of his band, male and female, illicit drugs as well as a few barnyard animals. To quote Rick James, cocaine is a hell of a drug and apparently the CFOs born again mother had quite the problem with it. When his record company acquired the smaller country label that still owned Rufus’ contract…well it made financial sense to allow the old star a chance to come out with his first new album since 1990 and release a single. Whoever thought said single should be a rework of one of the singers most famous songs…well they should be shot. Set on fire and shot again.
“Let’s start again.” He patted Jimmy on the back. Caleb bent over the engineer and whispered in his ear, “This time just keep going and we’ll splice this shit together in post.” Jimmy shivered and nodded his head; every time Caleb had a difficult session at the studio they engaged in some stress relief after everyone was gone. Neither of them were gay; Jimmy was married to a lovely woman named Amelia and a devout Catholic just like Caleb was a Southern Baptist and married to lovely woman named Nadine. Sometimes they needed a little masculine attention. Their relationship was monogamous (well except for their wives) discreet, safe and had been going on for the last 10 years. He clapped the engineer on the back, rubbing his thumb against the nape of his neck. The sooner he finished the song the sooner both he and Jimmy would be feeling it in their fingers and their toes. The strains of Rufus’ truly awful song started again.
“I feel it in my fingers, I feel it in my toes. “
“Feel it in my toes, yeah…”
“Love is a….motherfucking cocksucking sumbitch!” Caleb laughed, he couldn’t help it. Rufus hung his head and, twirled his finger and started again.
“In my fingers…I feel it in my toes.”
“Feel it in my toes, yeah.”
“Christmas is all around me.”
“All around me.” Responded the back-up singers.
“ And so the feeling grows. It’s written in the wind, It’s everywhere I go. So if you really love Chistmas, Come on and let it snow!”
Bobby snorted. Caleb turned around and saw the older man covering his mouth to keep from laughing.
“This is shit ain’t it?”
“Let’s hope it’s solid gold shit!” Caleb laughed.
John
John Winchester sat in his lovely breakfast nook, in his lovely kitchen in his lovely Vienna, VA 5 bedroom home, with a not so lovely bottle of whisky in his hands. Yesterday he had buried his second wife. He had loved his first wife Mary, oh how he had loved her. They had met in college and fallen in fairy tale love and produced two fairytale children. While he was kissing babies and shaking hands (and engaging in backroom deals for the citizens of his district) his perfect all american wife with a perfect pedigree kept hearth warm and raised his sons. During his first senate campaign she got sick and died, guaranteeing the young widower with two adorable children the election. There had even been whispers about the white house at some point; good looking, red state, Vietnam vet John darling of the party could be the next Reagan, but John refused to get remarried. Back then nobody thought a single man, even under such tragic circumstances, could ever be president. Current events had proven everyone wrong. John took a long swallow of his whisky.
Five years ago, he had retired ( he knew certain scandals had destroyed his chances of winning) joining the private sector, getting rich and an ulcer. His son hooked him up with yoga instructor/masseuse Lisa Braeden and that was that. He figured old man , young wife, she would take care of him and he would reward her with a good portion of his money when he passed on. It didn’t work that way. And now he had an 11 year old stepson to take care of. He picked up his phone before the waterworks started again, catching a glance at his distorted face in window. He still had his thick curly hair, shot with gray, and at 60 he still looked virile. Maybe he could try wife number 3. He sucked back his tears and dialed Dean’s number.
“…Do you want me to come back there?!” John could here the twins in the background bickering as usual. They were on speaker, of course, in the car, stuck in D.C. traffic.
“Dad, not a good time. We’re late for school.” Dean answered.
They were always late for school.
“Its just…”
“I don’t want to seem like I don’t care your wife just died…the…fu…you guy need to stop. every morning we have to go through this!”
“Claire is jealous that I’m going to be the lobster in the Christmas pageant.” Jesse.
“Am not!”
“Are too!”
“There was a lobster at the birth of baby Jesus, who knew.” That sounded like their driver/secret service agent, Garth. John secretly loved the painfully skinny man; he gave great hugs and getting old had apparently turned him into a woman. He sniffled.
“I’ve got three lines, too and a solo!” Jesse piped up. Claire had an awful singing voice and pathological stage fright. It didn’t stop her from trying out for everything so she could one up her artistic twin, god bless her. What she lacked in the dramatic arts she more than made up for in more physical pursuits; the ten year old had a mean right hook and poor impulse control.
“Ow, daddy she hit me I’m bleeding!”
“That tears it. I’ll call you back after I murder my children or better yet...”
John could hear a scuffle then the line went dead. He sighed and took a long pull from his whiskey. Maybe he should have been a better dad.