Bobby Vega!

Gnaw on This dept.

I was sitting at the lunch counter at Canter’s. From the corner of my eye I recognized one of my boyhood idols.

“Bobby Vega!” I exclaimed.

“Do I know you?” he rasped.

“I love your songs.”

“That’s nice,” he said, turning back to his coleslaw.

He looked a mess. I could smell his shirt three stools away. But still—Bobby Vega! His first album, “Here’s How It Looks From The Street” sold ten million units. It was gritty and real and could not be denied.

Bobby Vega

“‘Here’s How It Looks From The Street’ is the best record in the last thirty years.” I said.

“Nice of you to say,” he said, gulping down a cream soda.

“Those songs!” I went on, ‘Alley of Slime’! ‘Gnaw on This’! ‘Girl With a Gorilla’s Head’!—they’re all classics!

“Thanks,” mumbled Vega.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” I said, “Why’d you stop recording? Why only two albums?”

“Look, kid,” he said, turning to me, “You know how much bread I made off that first album?”

“No.”

“8 million bucks.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, fine, except, what was I supposed to write about for album two?”

“You mean “Jetstream?”

“Yeah. That one. Suddenly I’m flying first class, I’m in fancy hotels, taking limos—my subject matter changed.”

“Yeah,” I said, “Jetstream was a departure. Those songs—’30,000 Feet over Newfoundland,’ “Calais Duty-Free Shop,’ ‘Room Service Cognac’—”

“Or ‘Maserati Love,’” he said, “or ‘Blonde Investment Broker.’ I mean, it was different, that’s all—but it was real, you know?”

“I—I guess it was, for you.”

“You know the funny thing?” he said, “I like ‘Jetstream’ better than the first album, even though the record company dropped me afterward.”

“You can still live off of royalties, right?” I asked.

“Well, no,” he said, “I sold my publishing for a set of racing tires and some stock.”

“In what?”

”The Al Gore Library. Would’ve been beautiful. Trees, big lawn….”

“Are you still writing?”

“Yeah,” he said, “And I’m poorer than before my first record.”

“Wow,” I thought, “I bet he’s writing some great stuff again.”

He handed me a napkin with some lyrics on them. Trembling, I read:

“That green dress you’re wearing

“Probably came from Sak’s

“Go get some emerald earrings

“Put it on my Amex gold card

“Won’t we have fun

“Eating roast duck tonight….”

“But this isn’t out of your current experience at all!” I said.

“I know,” he shrugged, “But it stayed with me. It’s the only stuff I can write.”

I finished my root beer and got ready to go.

“I’ve been to the top,” he sniffed, “I can’t go back.”