Page 19 of Meet Mason, the Billionaire

When the chorus picked up he started throwing eggs on the stage. Apparently, the eggs were hard-boiled, because they bounced and cracked, but didn't shatter.

When the music reached its crescendo—the almost uplifting end of the overture—he took out an enormous wooden mallet and started smashing all the eggs.

Bits of shell and white-yellow fluff shot out in all directions—including on us in the audience. A big, fat gobbet of yolk smacked right into my forehead, causing me to flinch.

Megan looked at me in horror, perhaps fearing I would freak out about it. I laughed and wiped my forehead with a handkerchief. “It’s an interactive production, I see.”

Megan relaxed, her eyes flooding with relief. She kissed me on the cheek and settled back into her seat.

Now that he’d smashed all the eggs and the music stopped, Howard—or How Weird—had reached what seemed to be the ‘spoken word’ portion of his act.

“I’m a rambling, gambling man,” he said, a big smile on his face. It was hard to tell under all that gold body paint, but I think that Howard was in his late thirties. He had a bit of a paunch which hung over his loincloth. It was a testament to his artistic prowess that I hadn’t taken notice of such things until then.

“I’m a rambling, gambling man,” he said, a bit softer, his smile fading. Then, suddenly, his face contorted into a mask of rage.

“I’m a RAMBLING GAMBLING MAN!” He kicked apart the cardboard carton which formerly housed his hard-boiled eggs. He just kept shouting the phrase over and over again.

Finally, he wound down, and knelt on the remnants of the carton. He looked out at us and spread his hands toward the audience.

“I’m a rambling…gambling…man.”

He collapsed into a heap and held perfectly still. The spotlight went off, and O Fortuna kicked up again.

I started clapping, but Megan quickly silenced it by grabbing my hand and shaking her head. The lights came back on and we were treated to another forty-five minutes of Howard saying “I’m a rambling, gambling man” in different ways. Sometimes he raged, sometimes he wept.

Somewhere in the absurdity of it all, I realized I was having fun. They say misery loves company, and I don’t think anyone there understood what was happening on the stage—not even Howard himself. However, we were all there to support the artist, even though we didn’t comprehend his vision.

When the act ended at last, and Howard took a bow, rivulets of clear skin showing where his tears and sweat had washed it away, I turned to look at Megan.

“I don’t think I can comprehend this kind of brilliance.”

Junebug burst into laughter, and I felt like I’d passed a kind of test. That was good, because I wanted to see more of Megan.

Lots more.

Chapter Nine

Megan

After How Weird’s performance, he sprang for all of us to eat at his favorite restaurant, Chuck E. Cheese. Howard claimed that it was at least honest about being a den of capitalist iniquity.

Better yet, Mason gave us all a ride in his limo. With ten people, it was a tight squeeze. I sat right next to Mason, my hip pressed up against him.

“So, have I passed muster with your friends?” he asked.

“Most of them. My BFF Sage is out of town, but I’m sure she’ll like you. If you keep being awesome.”

“I have every intention of doing so.” His lips stretched in a smile that warmed my heart.

The limo parked in front of the restaurant—if you can call it that, more like a kiddie casino—and we disembarked. Mason stared up at the marquee and shook his head.

“What’s wrong? You don't like this place?”

“I’ve never been.”

“Really? Not even when you were a kid?”

His lips twisted into a frown. “My folks didn’t have a lot of money, but my mother put on airs as being upper, upper class. She said that it was too ‘gauche’ for people of our station to go. After they died, I was pushing past the age limit of this place.”

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