These Dreams of You

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Jasmine has been working for the record company four years when she’s assigned its biggest client. “See what you can do with him,” says the executive across the desk from her, in an office overlooking Highland Avenue, “this calls for personal attention.”

“What do you mean personal attention?” Jasmine says suspiciously.

“At the rate he’s going, he’ll be dead within the year.”

“Drugs.”

“Kilos.”

“He’s a Nazi,” she says.

“Those,” sighs the executive, “were just silly things he said to an interviewer.”

“Sieg heil from the back of a car at Victoria Station?”

“He loves black music!” the executive exclaims, and Jasmine stares at him stonily. “You’ve got to learn not to take these things personally.”

“I once learned from someone,” says Jasmine, “to take everything personally.”

“Was he in music?”

“He ran for president. Does our rock and roll spaceman from Mars or Nuremberg or wherever it is this month still wear dresses?”

“That was one album jacket five years ago.” Jasmine tries to remember if Kelly designed it. “He’ll be back in town in the next couple days and has rented a house over off Doheny. Why don’t you drive out there? Talk to Anna, his personal-assistant/backup-singer/girlfriend.”

“So he does fancy girls then.”

“He’s always liked girls. Don’t tell anybody, at least not yet. Our marketing on him is just entering its heterosexual phase.”

“He’s in his Nazi phase now,” nods Jasmine.