I used to think that Vicki had something going for her but now, when I ask myself how I ever got such a notion, I shrug my shoulders and chalk it up to my past ignorance and youth. I was maybe ten years old when Vicki decided, out of nowhere, to join her high school chorus. She auditioned and was accepted, just like that. I can recall listening to her practice all alone in her room, holding a stick of deodorant in place of a microphone. Her voice was nothing special but she never allowed that fact to dampen her spirits. “I’m very much into music. I’m so much into the whole fucking entertainment industry that it practically scares the life out of me. I’m destined for something big, some-thing bigger than the both of us. Something huge.” I watched as she stood before the mirror, brushing out her hair and challenging her reflection. “You are a winner, at the top of your game. You call the shots, nobody but you.” She would then change her clothes three or four times while discussing her future and all the records she would release. I would observe her, lying on the bed with a stuffed animal and see that as a record cover: Vicki, The Early Years, or Playfully Yours, Vicki! I had it all worked out.

I figured that, once her career took off, Vicki would go through several managers before turning to me. “Please, Chug. If you want me to beg I will. I need you now because, damn it, you’re the only person I can trust.” As her manager I would ac-company her on all of her concert engagements, where ordinary people would approach her, thrilled and nervous, their faces shiny with admiration. Vicki might sign autographs and pose for snapshots but with the understanding that none of these people could ever be her true friends, only her fans. After a concert we would be led out of the stadium to a waiting tour bus equipped with a refrigerator, bathroom, and comfortable seats that fold into beds when you’re ready to call it a night. Vicki would curl up in the seat beside me and whisper, “What do you think of the way I performed 'Love Don’t Stand a Chance'? Honestly, Chug, what’s your opinion?” Then I would tell her, honestly, taking her fragile personality into consideration. First I would mention that her hair and makeup looked really great. “That satin poncho is a knockout!” I would highlight all the positive aspects, and then, very gently, I might say, “Perhaps at tomorrow night’s show it would be a good idea to hold the weeping until the end of the concert.”

Vicki would nod her head and remove a small notebook from her tour purse. “Good idea, Chug,” she would say. “Excellent suggestion.”