Pamela Ebel

FREDDIE'S DEAD

“The speech is on the coffee table Sir. I’ll be back in 30 minutes.” The door closes as you look at the plush surroundings of the Suite. You laugh out loud. This is one of the best grifts yet. Always stay in your own hotels, with plenty of hangers-on so all that profit goes right into your personal account.

Everyone thinks you use this time to look at your speech, get prepared. Another laugh. You never follow a script written by some sucker who thinks they know you. No! This time is to get the right mood going and for that you need to pick the right song – just like when you were in high school and college. In the sixties it was "The Duke of Earl"; in the seventies "My Life" and a favorite, "I Did It My Way!"

Songs flood your memories, telling how clever and smart you were and are, to have got here. Not once, but twice.

The memories of your father telling you how people wanted to be told that everything, every place was just like when they grew up. You listened to everything he said. You worked to be like him and waited to take over the empire he’d built

There was just one problem. Freddy.

Eight years older than you, favored son in a patriarchal system, the brother being groomed for the job that was rightfully yours. Even at ten years old, you knew the business should be yours.

Then sixty years ago you had an epiphany. On a hot summer day, out boating with Freddy and his college buddies you listened to him say how your father didn’t like him drinking.

“He says after graduation no more drinking or fishing, guys. Just working with him.”

“And it doesn’t help that you keep saying your Jewish because you joined our fraternity.”

That brought a laugh from everyone except you. They saw funny, you saw opportunity.

You still remember the day you set your plan in motion and still marvel at your cleverness.

“Did you have fun on your weekend boating trip with Freddy, son?”

You looked out the car window so your father couldn’t see your face. “It was okay. Except it was hot and the guys were drinking a lot of beer.” Angling your head, you saw the look of disapproval in his eyes as he turned to you.

“Don’t you worry, son. There won’t be any more of that. Freddy will come to work with me and we’ll straighten things out. When you’re finished with college, you’ll come work the business with your brother and me.”

But there was plenty more, drinking, carousing, and pushing back against being in the business. Freddy balked at being berated by your father, hated the stress, and took up flying to get away. Eventually, he flew for a major airline; married; had two children and did what he wanted. But mainly he wanted to drink!

But you couldn’t afford to help him or tell your father Freddy needed help. You made sure everyone knew he was still drinking. You felt some sadness when his wife divorced him, taking the children, but you had the business to run and couldn’t let Freddy back in the picture.

He died of complications of alcoholism and you put on a good front at the family gathering. All went well except you had trouble coming up with a song to get in the mood. To your surprise all you heard was "Freddie’s Dead." That Freddie died a junkie, and Freddy wasn’t much better, so you let the verses fill your mind.

His brat kids are still writing books about you because you cut them out of their inheritance. You smile because they will be the first to feel your revenge and retribution.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, the President of the United States.”

The door opens and you walk to the podium searching for the right song. You shake your head. No, "My Way" or "Duke of Earl" – just "Freddie’s Dead" and Freddy’s face is on the teleprompter.

Staff come to help you off the stage. Media outlets show your face over and over and they spin ‘just overworked from the campaign’ while ‘a mental breakdown’ keeps surfacing and the Vice President wants to know when he can take over?

The next morning, everyone moves around you. Slowly, you walked to the window and look out at the Rose Garden. Freddy looks up, smiles, waves, then disappears and you realize that the only thing that matters is ‘Freddie’s Dead’ thanks to you.


Pamela's YouTube reading of "Freddie's Dead"


Pamela confesses: "'Freddie’s Dead' is my take on just one of ‘the liar in Chief’s’ many unspeakable deeds and based on his real life actions."

PAMELA EBEL was born in Northern California and raised by southern women; part of the diaspora created by the Great Depression. She returned to her roots at twenty-one, receiving an M.A. from LSU-Baton Rouge and a J.D. from Loyola New Orleans. Her careers have included lawyer, university professor, associate dean, and now fiction writer. She travels between New Orleans, California, Alabama and the Mississippi Delta sharing tales from the crossroads of America. And like the ancient Greeks and the Irish, as a southern writer she knows you can’t out run your blood.