The Stars of New York by Tamara Palmer
It was the first time Sid had seen stars in New York. He’d been the star on stage for half his life, but the blinding stage lights would never have let the beauty of the real stars — the ones in the sky – come through. Sid lay with his last bottle of Côtes- du-Rhône, a case he had imported direct from Provence after tasting the heavenly 1987 vintage in a winery in the bowels of an aging castle in Chateauneuf du Pape. The bottle was from an era when importing French wine was a part of a normal vacation, just like shipping Almas caviar home from St. Petersburg, or Honyaki sushi knives from Tokyo. Everything had to come from the source and only the best. Did it matter that he only mildly liked caviar and never once prepared sushi in his home? It was all in the acquiring.
Lying now, deep in Central Park, in a secluded nook he remembered from his pre-fame days, he tried to count the dots that glittered above him. It had been years, no ages, since he was a boy in summer camp in the Adirondacks counting stars and making wishes. He wanted to share the moment, but there was no one left. First it had been Sheila who went back to London, then it was Dixie who went back to Dixie, and then one by one the harem that surrounded him had all disappeared from his life, the way insects are there in the summer, but then vanish together one day when the weather turns bad, leaving you to wonder if they’re having a party somewhere without you.
The blackout wasn’t his fault. Just before the power went out he’d been watching news reports of old ladies trapped in buildings without elevators, one creaky old fan bringing a modicum of fresh air, while his line of sight passed his T.V. and landed on his wine refrigerator which he dared not unplug and risk damaging the last of his precious Gewurztraminer and Reislings from his stop in Mosel, Germany on the private boat tour along the Rhine. None of this was his fault, but with the way his life had been going lately, it was easy enough to claim the guilt.
Sid successfully extended his fifteen minutes of fame for eighteen years, amassing a small fortune that brought him more Dionysian decadence than a fourteen year old could ever dream of, lying alone on his bed jerking off to his Dad’s Playboy. He sipped his Syrah and tried to peel apart the tannins and record every sensation of taste, as if it were his last supper. Sid slipped off his Doc Martens, the ones that had been designed just for his band, another marketing ploy his agent ingeniously came up with that made Sid a good million or two, but who kept track? He languished in the grass, his bare toes digging in, letting the blades tickle between them and watching the stars, trying to formulate his wish.
The timeline was muddy, and what happened and why was really unclear and rather irrelevant. All that mattered now was that Sid was down to the last of everything, and that the money was going faster than it had ever come in, and if he didn’t snap out of it fast, soon he would have to give up more than just the toys.
Sid tried to put all of that into another compartment of his brain, a trick his shrink had taught him. “When you wish upon a star,” Sid began to croon in his deep baritone voice that caused the backs of women’s knees to collapse and their panties to come crashing to the ground. He sang it Elvis style as the wine made its way through his system. “Makes no difference where you are,” he bellowed louder and deeper and fuller, “Anything your heart desires will come to you.” But what did his heart desire? That was the magic question. Whatever it was, he could no longer afford it.
“If your heart is in your dreams,” he sang an octave higher, propping up his lounging body onto his elbows and calling forth the sound from deep within his diaphragm, letting it echo out across the expanse of the shadowed park. “No request is too extreme. When you wish upon a star, as dreamers do.” From behind him came a rustling and he instinctively palmed the carved ivory handled pocket knife that he always kept in his front pocket. But then a woman’s voice began to sing, “Fate is kind. She brings to those who love, the sweet fulfillment of their secret longing.” Her voice was breathy and powerful like a gospel singer from a southern choir on a sultry Sunday morning. The woman didn’t hold back, and the words honored her by hanging in the air long after they left her lungs. Sid turned and found himself within arm’s grasp of a woman, her bags hanging off her wrists like a puppeteer trying to manage the weight of the world. In the darkness he could barely distinguish her features, but her glowing white pupils popped out proud, leading her face forward.
“Like a boat out of the blue, fate steps in and sees you through,” Sid continued and the woman’s smile cracked open wide revealing a set of perfectly kept, pearly white teeth. Sid wondered for a second if he’d seen a ghost and rubbed his eyes with his fists. He tapped the ground beside him and the woman sat down. Her bags slipped to the grass, freeing her arms to become bellows that brought forth a sound Sid would have paid beaucoup bucks for in a studio at any point in his career.
“Fate is kind. She brings to those who love, the sweet fulfillment of their secret dreams. Like a boat out of the blue, fate steps in and sees you through.” The irony of the last stanza was not lost on Sid. But she was smiling with all her might and wasn’t going to stop. Together they sang, “When you wish upon a star. Your dreams come true.” Their voices resounded through the park, drawing in a small audience. Mostly it was homeless people, as the elite of New York had no interest in Central Park after dark. There were a handful of poetic artist types tripping out on something, and Sid smiled along. He picked up his nearly empty bottle and like a good wino, tipped it back to polish it off. The whole gathering, around ten of them, joined together for the final stanza, “When you wish upon a star, makes no difference who you are, your dreams come true.”
Sid couldn’t believe that no one had recognized him. The anonymity brought a foreign euphoria to him, and he marveled at the notion that everyone there had also once been ten years old, lying in the grass, watching the stars.
When the park lights began to hum as the fluorescents warmed back to life Sid was left believing that their singing had re-lit the city.
Tamara Palmer knew she was going to be a writer before she could even write. She would play elaborate dramas out with her Barbies for days,even weeks,on end. As she got older the stories made their way onto a typewriter and as the story goes… Tamara is actively seeking publishers for her two completed novels, Missing Tyler and Finding Lancelot. Her work has appeared in edifice WRECKED. She lives in Boulder, Colorado with her husband. You can read more of her work at www.tamarapalmer.com
