Freddie

I pressed the "up" button on the lift, cursing my idiocy.  Already I knew somehow, that I had made the wrong choice.

I should have gone back for the notebook, I kept saying to myself.  What am I doing here?  What's the point of this?  I did Wes the first favor by staying so long yesterday afternoon, do I even owe him this now?

Then I rolled my eyes, remembering, Yes, I do- in the amount of no less than three thousand dollars and a binding contract agreeing to show up again within forty-eight hours.  Fuck!  This is why I don't negotiate anything without my people; I make stupid decisions.

I wouldn't have even signed the damn thing if I hadn't been trying so hard to get out.  They simply couldn't bear to see me go, it seemed.  Every time I attempted to leave, Wes would convince me to stick around just another few minutes, until finally I'd ended up spending more than three hours interacting with Benji, callers, viewers, and of course, numerous other people from the station who kept drifting in and out of the producer booth, gawking at me in disbelief.  I wasn't kidding when I said Charles had to basically hustle me out of there forcibly.

But even with his help, I still was tricked into a commitment.  Very well.  Here I was now, living up to the promise.  After this, I would be a free man once more.  But I still felt foolish for not snatching the notebook away from Danny first.  Maybe it would work out.  Maybe he would respect my privacy and my wishes, maybe he'd leave it alone.

Or, maybe not.

This had better be worth my while, I grumbled to myself, and there had better be a little money involved.  If not, I'll-

At that moment, the lift doors opened, and I stepped in with confidence.  While it was inevitable I should attract some attention, I had a plan to keep the majority at arm's length- and not just through Charles.  My coat collar was turned up round my jaw, sunglasses fitted over my eyes, and the dark blue ivy cap I bought on a whim the day before covering my head.  Did I look ridiculous?  Perhaps.  But I was in no mood for another deluge of admirers, and if this somewhat silly disguise would help buffer that, I considered it an all-around success.

"Are you sure it's going to work?" Charles whispered as we rode up.

I lowered my aviators and smirked at him.  "Like a charm, darling," I cooed.

Charles was none too convinced, but his lips stayed sealed.  The lift came to stop a couple of times, and few others stepped on for the ride.  They came and went with nary an off glance in my direction.  I smiled to myself.    I may just pull this off.

As it turned out, however, Charles may have been right to doubt after all. 

When the doors finally opened on the twelfth floor, I found things rather peaceful.  I let myself relax just a bit.  Perhaps I really was making mountains out of molehills.  I'd run into a bad batch there in front of the church, that's all.  Nevertheless, I still just wanted this over with; I simply needed to find Wes.

I'd only just approached the receptionist desk when none other than Benji shuffled round the corner.  I hesitated, waited to see if he'd recognize me- but he didn't so much as look up from the little screen in his hand.  He was thoroughly distracted, walked right past me.  With a sigh, I shook my head.  It was probably just as well.

"Can I help you, sir?" asked the woman at the front.

I cleared my throat and spoke softly, "Uh, yes- I'm here for the meeting or something, I'm Rick Dubroc-"

Her eyes lit up.  "Oh, Mr. Dubroc!" she exclaimed.  "Welcome back!"

"Sh!" I hissed nervously. "I mean, yes, thank you-"

"They're expecting you, shall I let them know you're on your way up?"

I paused.  "Where are they?"

"Floor Thirteen."

"Mm, Lucky Thirteen," I mused aloud.  "Very nice."

"Shall I write down the directions- or wait, Benji can take you."  She craned her neck.  "Hey, Benji, Rick's here!"

The jelly-man turned on his heel.  "Oh, hey, mang!" he cried, lumbering back my way. 

"Hello." I shook his outstretched hand and did my best not to visibly grimace at how dewy his palm was as I pulled away.

"We bee' wai'n for y' all 'ay, mang, whatcha bee' doin'?"

"Oh, you know," I shrugged, discreetly wiping my hand on my trousers.  "This and that.  The, um, the interview or whatever, it's on the next floor, right?"

He nodded, then tossed a wary glance my driver's way.  I understood completely; the day before, as I was making my exit (or, more accurately, my escape), Charles had barreled into the producer booth to escort me out, nearly running Benji over in the process.

Fighting back a smile, I assured Benji, "Don't worry, dear, Charles isn't in the mood for any manhandling today."

He looked us over cautiously, then shrugged.  "Whatever, mang.  C'mon- wait, hol' on."  He pointed at the little Christmas tree.  "Didja ge' one?"

"Hm?"  I frowned.  "One what?"

"Envelo's, mang.  Didja?"

"Env- Oh!"  I shook my head.  "The envelopes.  No, I thought they were for the people who work here or something."

"Nah, mang, pi' one!"

I looked at the receptionist for confirmation.  All she did was shrug.

"Oh, why not," I sighed.  I went back up to the little tree, much less crowded with white paper than it had been yesterday.  At its base sat the same one I'd knocked off the branches earlier; I plucked it from the table. 

"Got it!" I announced.  "Thanks."

"Cool.  Now les' go!"

The three of us piled back into the lift.  Benji pressed "13" while I stuffed the still-sealed envelope into my coat pocket. 

"How big is this thing going to be?" I asked.

"Huh?"

"How long, I suppose is what I'm asking.  I have to be somewhere."  The longer Danny had custody of the notebook, the more high-strung I felt.  I could not rest till I had my hands on it once more. 

"I don' know, mang.  Not too long, pro'lly."

"That's good."  I shot him a sidelong glance.  "Long enough for a cigarette, though, you think?"

"I don'- hey!" Benji protested.

I winked.  "Just kidding."

He rolled his eyes, snorting as he laughed.  I covered my mouth and smiled to myself. 

As soon as the doors opened, Wes greeted us, "There you are!  Where'd you go, Rick?  You were right behind me."

"Had to drop the boy off for his rehearsal thing," I explained. 

"Okay, yeah, that's right.  Danny's Christmas program.  Come on, everyone's down here.  Follow me."

Wes led us down a short corridor, toward a wide room whose door was open and guarded.  I could see camera flashes from within- and from the noise level, the place was absolutely packed.  Wes ran on ahead, while instinctively my footsteps slowed. 

And Charles, who walked right alongside me, noticed.  "You all right, sir?" he whispered.

"Yes, it's just, I'm- having second thoughts," I murmured.

"It's probably fine," he assured me.  "Just don't forget your accent."

I squinted.  "What about my accent?"

"Don't use it."

"Charles, whatever are you talking ab-"

I cut myself off.  He most likely couldn't have heard me even if I were to continue.  For by this point I had entered- and there they were.  My insides pulled taut.

The press.

The fucking press. 

Cameras, recorders, notepads, pens, assumptions, and hungry leers.  Everything I hated the most about my life was stuffed into this one big room. 

"There he is!" someone in the back cried.

All heads turned, all eyes fell on me.  I tried to step back, turn around, run back out, but Charles was standing in the way.  Before I could process what was happening, someone ushered me to a chair at the front of the room, where Wes himself was already holding court.  While he kept talking, Joe Schmoe tiptoed over and greeted me with a friendly slap on the back.

"I tried contacting you at your number, but there was no answer!" he whispered.

"Oh, sorry," I replied, "that's the old number, I keep forgetting."

"That's a brilliant outfit, by the way!  Coming all covered up like that, the slow reveal, that'll kill them!"

"Oh?  What am I doing, a strip tease?" I quipped- but inside, I felt ready to throw up. Slow reveal? What's going on here?

"...So, here he is," Wes went on, " and as you can see, it's no hoax.  The inspiration for #Freddiestwin and for the worldwide overnight wave of Queen-mania, here's Rick!"

As they applauded, Joe put his hand on my shoulder, told me that was my cue to stand up and join him at the center.  And then I realized, they wanted me to show myself- prove how much I resembled the late Freddie Mercury, from the voice right down to the fucking teeth.  I was going before yet another mob, only this mob was licensed and professional whereas the last one had been disorganized and amateur.  

My God, they're feeding me to the fucking sharks.  I didn't sign up for this!

"You okay, man?" Joe whispered, bringing me back to Earth.

Quietly I gulped back my fears.  I was cornered, that much was certain, but not for long.  Just a few minutes, and this time I would not be cajoled into staying any longer than I so chose to stay.  And furthermore, they were simply going to have to do without a good look at my face, they saw enough of it the day before as it was.  I didn't owe it to them now.  That was that.

I strode forward, head held high, nose in the air.  I smiled tightly at the crowd before me, placed my hand strategically over my mouth. "Don't use your accent," Charles had warned me.  Right.  I could do that.  I'd simply replace it with another.  So I cleared my throat nice and loud, and went for it.

"Good afternoon, everyone," I spoke into the mike- but in that forced American accent that amused Danny so much, the so-called "Agent Smith." "Sorry to keep all of you, um- waiting, but I'm here now."

The reporters' eyes seemed to glaze over, turn rather confused.  Much to my delight, I saw a few heads knock together as they asked each other what was going on, was this a trick after all.  In the front row, however, I caught sight of a very old man staring hard into my half-hidden face.  Something about him made me terribly more uncomfortable, but I couldn't quite say what yet.

"I haven't really been told all the details as to sort of why I'm even here, so I- don't quite know where to begin," I went on.  "Did you people have questions or something?"

"Mr. Dubroc, where are you from?" some man in a checkered shirt asked.

I balked.  Good question.  "Currently I live in New Jersey."

"What's your line of work?"

"Music."

"What kind?"

I swooped my hands around.  "The best, of course."

Amid amused titters, the bloke gave me a tight smile, clearly dissatisfied with my answers.   Everyone else, on the other hand, had already grown tired of beating about the bush- especially Joe. He moved back to my side, and whispered, "What are you doing, man?"

"I'm giving them what they want, now shoo, dear," I replied flippantly, accent slipping somewhat at the "dear." I looked down at the front row again.  The old man's eyes grew bigger behind his own tinted glasses, and he seemed to sit up a bit straighter.

"Do the voice, man!" someone coaxed out of turn.

"Take off the glasses!" cried another.

"Take them off, eh?" I smirked, peering over my sunglasses at them suggestively. "Anything else?"

"When you say, you're in music, what does that mean?" some woman asked.  "Do you sing?  Play an instrument?  Write?  Produce?"

"Yes," I replied.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, I do all those things."

She blinked.  "So you do sing?"

I nodded impatiently. 

"Would you mind giving us a demonstration?" she asked.

This was beginning to seem more and more like Rio all over again.  And they call themselves journalists. My God. This is such a complete fucking waste of time. "My dear, do you even realize what you're asking me?"

Before she could sputter out a response, the old man put his hand in the air.  "Sir?"

I looked down.  "Yes?" 

The old man stood up, came closer, squinting hard. It really was wearing at me, something about this man.  Clearly I was bothering him as well; he didn't seem to be a member of the press, I wondered what he was even present for in the first place.

"Mr. Dubroc, I want to ask you," he murmured softly in an English accent that fired little pangs of homesickness into my heart.  "And this may seem an odd question, perhaps, but I must know, and I must know honestly: are you in any way, shape, or form, related to Freddie Mercury?"

I blinked, but maintained a certain level of glibness.  "Why do you ask that?  And don't say it's because I look or sound like him, you have no idea how often-"

"That's beside the point," he said.  "I ask- because if I didn't know better, I'd say you were the real thing- but I know that's impossible."

"Oh, yes?"

"Yes."  He swallowed.  "I knew the real thing for many years- and I was there with him the day before he died."

I felt all the blood in my body flow into my feet; it was suddenly very cold in the room.  I can't tell you how hard it was to keep my voice level as I murmured, "How- charmingly intimate.  And how- how, my dear fellow, would you have all this access to Freddie Mercury?"

"Simple."  He lowered his glasses.  "I'm Queen's manager, you see.  My name is Jim Beach."

I utterly froze, heart coming almost to a stand-still.  I forgot all pretenses, abandoned all masquerades.  I too took off my sunglasses, mouth drying up as my jaw hung slack.

And I whispered, in my normal voice, "...Miami, is that you?"

He didn't answer right off.  All he did was shake his head, cover his mouth, and say over and over through his hands, "Oh, my God... Oh, my God..."

With superhuman effort I tried to look past the fact that my dear manager, technically only four years older than me, looked like he could pass for somebody's great-grandfather now. Needless to say, I failed.  "Miami, dear, what's happened to you?  My God, you look so-"

And then I remembered where I was- and who was around. 

I swallowed.  "Oh, shit."

No one made a sound.  Well, actually, for about three seconds, someone's Magic Mirror trilled an irritating little jingle till they finally took care of it and restored the deafening silence.

And I sprang into motion.

I clapped my hands once, startling everyone (especially Miami, poor man, and I really would have preferred to stay and talk to him but I was in enough trouble already, and here and now was not the place or time to catch up), and declared, still in my own voice, "Well!  This has been fun, really it has, darlings, but I really must dash, I have to, uh-" I fumbled a moment for an excuse, and this is what fell out: "I have to go pick up my kid."

I would have corrected myself, of course, but there was no time.

And as everyone seemed to reanimate and find their voices again, I sprinted out with Charles close behind, leaving Wes and Joe absolutely speechless.  I didn't want to chance waiting on the express elevator, so I opted for the stairs and ran thirteen flights down.

We didn't stop running till we hit the lobby, and only then did I feel safe enough to slow to a fast walk till Charles unlocked the door, and I climbed in, and he locked them again.

We were safe and sound. 

And I had a very quiet, very minor, very immaterial, very insignificant, panic attack.

I shook all over, realizing what had just happened in the last five minutes.  I was caught on record calling him "Miami" by every reporter in the room, in my voice, revealing my face, for all the world to play back and hear and see at their leisure.  Eyewitnesses galore.  Confusion a-go-go.  And no tricks, no hoaxes, no fooling.  It was official: this was real.

And he's so old, I said to myself.  Miami, you're so fucking old.

And so was probably everyone else I ever knew in my life.  The ones that weren't already dead, that is.  I was aware of that from the start- but understand, this was the very first time I had come face-to-face with that fact, literally.  And it absolutely cut me to the quick.

Charles turned around, faced me.  "Hey, Rick," he ventured, "You okay back there?"

I covered my face a moment.  "This... has been... some kind of day, I tell you."

"Can I take you anywhere?" he asked. 

"I don't know."

"Better think of something fast, there's a guy behind me who wants my parking space."

So I did.  "I want Julia," I whispered in a tremulous voice.

"You got it."  Charles started the car.  "Where is she?"

"I don't fucking know!  Home maybe?" I snapped, then hung my head wearily. "Oh, never mind.  I'll see her later I suppose."

But I want to see her now.  I need her.  I need her right this fucking minute.

He looked at me through the rear view mirror.  "Shall we try for the notes now?  Or wait till later?"

 I gripped my hands, tried to stop their shaking.  "We might as well head back to the church, see if the crowd's sort of dispersed."  Good God, I hope it has. I don't think I could take another wave of this today.

"Brave man," he whistled.  "Okay, let's go."

********************************************************************************************

I stormed into the building at top speed.  As I had hoped, the people outside had vanished, gone about their business, but I wasn't taking any more chances.  I had, however, gone in by myself this time; Charles, apparently, thought it a better idea to wait in the car.It was a lovely building as well, with high ceilings and intricate artwork- at least, I assumed as much, everything seemed a bit blurry, I passed it so quickly.

"Excuse me," I accosted the security woman, "where's the Christmas program rehearsal thing happening?"

"The sanctuary," she replied.  "Entrance is to your left."

I thanked her and sped away as directed.  In a matter of seconds, I rammed the doors open, and stood at last in the great auditorium.

There weren't a lot of people around, save for the choir, a handsome group of about one hundred fifty which stood attentively listening to their conductor below- and two sparsely filled rows near the stage, where I assumed Danny was sitting. 

While I surveyed the surroundings, someone bumped into me from behind.  "Oh, I'm sorry, excuse me," she muttered and kept going.

"Quite all ri-" I began, before the voice and the long wavy hair swishing back and forth as she walked past, registered.  I wasted no time.  With a little smile, I marched along right behind her, overtaking her pace till I reached out at last and tapped her shoulder.

She turned around.  "Yes?"

Our eyes had scarcely met when I threw my arms around her and held her close. 

A slight pause, and then she cried, "Freddie!  Oh, my Go- um, gosh!"

"Nice save, darling," I chuckled.

"Had to, I'm in a church," she whispered back.  I could feel her try to pull back and perhaps have a look at me, but I wasn't ready.  I kept holding her just as tightly, breathing her in, almost afraid to let her go.  Eventually, though, I forced myself to disengage, even if only slightly- but not without kissing her cheek first.

My God, I marveled to myself.  Of all the people to feel safe with...

"What are you doing here?" she whispered.

"I was just about to ask you the very same question," I said.

Julia smiled sheepishly.  "Danny left his notes for the performance.  I was bringing it to him."

"You drove all the way up here to bring him that?"

"Sure!"  She showed me the folder as if to prove her point.  "Just in case he forgets something, my understanding is that Mr. Arthur is not the most forgiving of souls."

"Right."

"What's your story?  Wasn't there something you had to go to at the radio station?"

I nodded solemnly, and shivered.

She frowned.  "What happened?"

"Tell you in a moment.  Where's Danny?"

"Up there in the second row.  Why?"

"He's got something of mine. Wait here."

So saying, I made my way up to where the boy was seated, with his head down.  My stomach turned as I sidled up close behind him, peered over his shoulder.  He was reading to himself- and not out of the Bible, either.

"Mr. Phantom, would you mind handing that over to me, please?" I managed. 

The boy whirled- and his cheeks turned pink, eyes filling up the lenses.  "I- I was just reading the lyrics!" he said quickly.  "I promise, I didn't see anything you didn't want me to-"

"Would you just hand me the notebook?  Thank you."

Danny gulped.  "Are you mad at me?"

"I haven't decided yet.  Let me have it please."

Hanging his head, he gave me my notebook back. "Please don't be mad at me, Freddie."

Right away, I felt I'd been rather harsh in tone just now towards him, but before I could apologize...

"What's going on?" asked a female voice, one that was not Julia's.  I turned to see Julia was indeed standing there, but not alone.  And my heart sank, even as Roxie's voice rose.  "Why, Rick!  What a surprise!  Are you feeling better now?  Julia said you were having a rough morning."

Try rough entire day, I grumbled inwardly, this time being sure to use the fake accent, "I'm much better, thank you."

She gave me a dazzling smile.  "Here to watch the practice?"

"Um, actually-"

"Anyway, here's your stuff, Danny," Julia said quickly, "call me if you need anything, see you when you get home.  Love you."  She smiled at Roxie, and hugged her neck.  "Thanks for driving him later.  I've got something for you when you get to the house."

"Couldn't be anything rummy, could it?" Roxie winked.

Julia laughed.  "You know it.  See you in a bit."

She went a little way down the aisle before I caught up to her.  "You mean, you're leaving?" I frowned.  "You just got here!"

"I have to go home and make dinner," she smiled- but now the smile seemed a bit melancholy.  Maybe it was the look in her eyes.  "After all, this is probably your last night here, I want to make sure it's a nice one."

I blinked.  "Oh, yes.  It is."

"Mm-hm," she nodded, looking down at her shoes.  "So.  Are you planning on going out and about tonight, or coming home?"

"Oh, I'm coming home all right."  I was too exhausted to "prowl," as Julia called it.

"Good," she smiled.  "Is there, um- anything you would like in particular, food wise?"

"Not really."

Her voice almost sounded playful.  "Not even caviar?  I know a place that carries beluga.  Doesn't get any better than beluga."

I allowed myself to laugh a little at that.  "No, I'm really- I'm fine with whatever you choose to make.  Honestly.  You've, um- outdone yourself as it is."

Julia shrugged.  "You're very kind."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"Oh, very well, if you say so."

We stood there like this for far too long for things to become anything less than awkward.  For some reason, Julia could not bring herself to look me in the face- and I couldn't bring myself to speak.  But I wanted to.  I wanted to so much.  There were words on my tongue, trapped in my throat.  Things I wanted to tell her, things I wanted to ask, things I suddenly now had the courage to say, but not the strength to actually pry my lips open and force them out.

Finally, Julia laid her hand against my cheek, and kissed the tip of my nose before nuzzling it with her own. 

"See you later, then," was all she said, before she slipped on out the door, and out of sight.  But the words were still there- words I had every intention of writing down as soon as I cleared things up with the boy.

But then I felt a hand on my shoulder. "So nice of you to stick around, Rick!" Roxie crooned.  "Here to watch Danny's rehearsal?  That's so sweet.  If you want you can just take a seat right there, I'll be right back..."

I rolled my eyes.  Oh, good.  Here comes Round Three.

No rest for the weary, they say.