I had a dream this morning, just before the alarm clock went off. The premise of the dream, unstated but quite obvious once I put some actual thought into it, was that at some point in the past, the technology was discovered to make miniature versions of people – indeed, pretty much of anything – and do it safely. This technology was of no real use to anybody, except the showbiz industry who discovered that they could make sets and costumes and whole productions for considerably less money if they used the little versions of people instead of the full-size ones.
My dream was in the form of a movie flashback (my favourites), narrated for some reason by Rodney Dangerfield.
So I went on down to Hollywood and I was privileged to see Frank Sinatra live at the whatever the Hell it was called club. That was quite an honour. I got backstage passes and everything. Think about it, a schmuck like me.
So I went in there, went to the dressing rooms and found the door with the star on it, and whaddaya know, his dressing room was empty. He was off chasing tail or I don’t know, whatever it is Frank Sinatra does in his free time. I looked at the photos and the flowers and that was about all there was, and I didn’t want to get caught stealing one of his spare ties, so I left. I went on downstairs to where the little guys were. You know, they have those big old basements, and the dressing rooms of the miniatures are all stacked up like shoeboxes along the walls, I tell you, it was creepy down there.
Anyway, I find the box where Little Frank, you know, was putting on his tiny suit and adjusting his tiny carnation. And I mean those things were tiny. The little guy himself is less than two inches tall, I’m talking tiny. His jacket wouldn’t have buttoned closed around my finger.
“Evening,” he says to me, casual as you like.
“Hey,” I say, and I didn’t know what to call him. Mister Sinatra? Frank? Little Fella? What do I know about showbiz? I settled on, “it’s an honour to meet you.”
“I’ll be up on the sound stage under the lights, doing most of the recording,” Little Frank says to me then, “everyone else’ll be upstairs watching the show. I guess that’s where you’ll want to be, up with the people watching the actual stage,” I didn’t know what to say to that, but he seemed to realise that and he didn’t judge me too harsh. He understands, I guess. All cordial-like, he goes on, “say, would you mind giving me a lift back up to the backstage area? It takes me forever and I don’t want to get dust on my new suit.”
“Sure,” I tell him, and he climbs into this little sort of basket tray thing, so I could carry him. I tell you, walking back up those stairs was the longest trip of my life, I was terrified of dropping him or squishing him or something, it took years off my life.
We get to the sound stage, and there’s the man himself. Frank Sinatra, full-size and in all his glory, standing there with his collar unbuttoned and his tie draped over his shoulders, just chilling and getting ready for his show up on the stage, you know, in front of the real people. He sees us come in, and he gives me a nod, you know, cool from the top of his head down to the ground and back up again. I nod back, feeling like a jerk, and I hold up the tiny basket with Little Frank in it.
Mister Sinatra gives another nod, and I reckon this one has a whole lot more respect in it. “Hey,” he says, stepping forward. “Yo, Frank…
“Can I borrow your shoe polish?”
All the world is a stage, and all the men and women merely players. What you have to ask yourself is, are you the normal-sized one, or the cheap-arse miniature?