It was apropos that Harry Starr blew his first big break in the basement. He was after all, a subterranean kind of guy.
Unlike Stevie Dash who clip-clopped down the basement stairs in his spiffy new clogs. He raised an eyebrow and blew off a deliberately misplaced shock of dippity-dooed blond hair that graced his noble brow.
"I'm gorgeous," Stevie's sculpted look advertised. Nature's undesirable mutations like his old hooked beak of a nose, now carved and whittled away into a glorious equine profile punctuated with petulantly flared nostrils snorting out imaginary clouds of steam like a true warrior. Gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous, Stevie Dash was oh so gorgeous.
But not as gorgeous as cellar-dweller Harry Starr. Tall dark and handsome Harry Starr. Cary Grant-gorgeous au naturel.
Two prized bucks alone together in one room. An ode to beauty, a testament to the work of The Almighty. Regrettably, no one was watching.
"Harry, Harry, Harry! How long has it been?"
Long enough to see that you got a new beak.
Harry hated Stevie Dash - not really, but there was always a bit of hate, as far back as the good old days, even when they were best friends. Stevie Dash, always pushing, pushing, pushing.
"I dunno, Stevie, six - seven years?"
Until you became too cool and important to hang out with me.
"That long, man? I've been so busy, it's like I lost track of time."
Yes, the world that they were growing into was crass and unfair, teaming with injustice, abound in philistine tastes. How else could one explain Stevie Dash riding the crest of success as an emerging film-maker when luxuriant hair and unbridled chutzpah were his key assets, while Harry Starr was mired in the faux wood-paneled Baba O'riley basement wasteland?
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