Me and My Shadow: A Rock and Roll Short Story

What happens when a rock god with a god complex loses everything but his own echo?

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Even before the last screeching echoes of guitar died away and the band left the stage, the audience exploded into whoops and cries. Boots and high heels thumped on the stadium floor, finding a rhythm, creating a backbeat to their chanting: “Shadow!” Thump! “Shadow!” Thump! “Shadow!” Thump!

Backstage, the Shadows’ lead singer Derek Lonewolf (formerly Derek Feldmann) smirked, peering out between the curtains to watch the frantic crowd calling for more, calling for him.

“Dude!” The band’s manager stepped up, handing Derek his favorite jacket, handpicked for their “spontaneous” encore. “They love you, man. They adore you. They bloody well worship you.”

“I know,” Derek answered, not taking his eyes from his fans. “And I bloody well love it! Love them.”

The manager checked his watch, gauging the crowd’s reaction. “They’re primed. Get back out there.” He slapped Derek on the back. “You’re the best, man.”

Derek nodded once, drawing in a deep breath before striding back on stage one last time to give the fans their due, just as they were giving him the adoration he so richly deserved.

Behind him, Derek’s bandmates picked up their instruments. Derek adjusted his headset mic, wincing at the inevitable shriek of feedback. “Ouch,” he said, grimacing. “All this technology and they can’t seem to fix that.”

The crowd laughed, right on cue. He played them with as much skill as his band played their instruments.

Then he ran through the required words of appreciation, thanking the fans. Without them, he’d be nothing. He owed them everything. Yada yada. Same shit; different town.

Then he signaled for the song that had launched their superstardom—the song they’d been named for: Derek Lonewolf and the Shadows.

The guitars wailed, and the drums thundered, rocking out their heavy metal version of Derek’s grandparents’ favourite song. The crowd screamed and stomped their enthusiasm. Like the showman he was, Derek let the band play a full verse, waiting for the crowd to settle before he began.

“Shades of night are falling,” Derek screamed into his headset mic. “And I’m lonely. Standing on the corner feeling blue.” He ran a finger down one cheek, miming a single tear. “Sweethearts out for fun, pass me one by one,” he held up first one and then the other middle finger in his much-loved signature move. The crowd roared, aping him—middle fingers for all. “Guess I’ll wind up like I always do, with only… me and my shadow.”

He sang three more raucous verses before they reached the final chorus. Now, the band slowed, softening the tune, switching to a heart-tugging minor key. A single spotlight highlighted just Derek as he added a plaintive note to his voice. The audience hushed, the houselights dimmed, the only illumination coming from the lighters and cellphone flashlight apps raised throughout the stadium.

And the spotlight on Derek, of course.

“And when it’s twelve o’clock,” he crooned, having timed it to hit exactly at midnight. “We climb the stair. We never knock, ‘cause no one’s there. Just me and my shadow. All alone and feeling blue. All alone and feeling blue.”

Derek bowed to his fans as they began to scream louder still. “Thank you. Thank you!” he shouted into the mic, although he doubted he could be heard above the yells and applause. “You guys are the best. Without you, I’d be nothing. I’d be just me and my shadow.”

With one more wave to the crowd, he left the stage, his manager immediately hustling him toward the exit and a waiting limo.

“I wanna go to the hotel,” Derek said, eyeing a gaggle of eager young girls—and boys—held back by stadium security. “I live for these moments, you know.”

“Sorry, Derek. Wheels up in thirty. I promise there’ll be blow and groupies of all genders at the next venue, but we gotta go now.”

Derek sulked all the way to the private airport and during the boarding of the luxurious charter jet. But fifteen minutes in, he joined his entourage, just as they’d known he would. “I can’t stay mad at you guys. I get lonely,” he joked, although inwardly, he knew it to be true. He hated being alone. Fear of being alone had driven him to pursue stardom at any cost.

And now he revelled in it.

A couple of hours later, the flight attendant brought him his third scotch and soda. She was starting to look good to him, even though she must be well over thirty. Maybe he could get her to—

An explosion rocked the plane. Screaming passengers and loose cargo flew around the cabin as the aircraft dipped and shuddered.

“What the—?” Derek demanded, as he was tossed from his seat and bounced off the nearest wall. His heart hammered and he couldn’t seem to catch his breath. A half-empty bottle of scotch rocketed through the air straight for his head. 

That was the last thing Derek Lonewolf, née Feldmann, saw before waking up on a beach, waves lapping at his legs.

Shaking his head to clear it seemed like a good idea, but it only caused his head to throb. He touched his fingers to his temple. They came away bloody. Another waved pulled at his legs and he crawled further up the beach, collapsing on the sand.

A few hours later, he sat on a log, his aching head held in his hands. A frantic circumnavigation had revealed he was shipwrecked on a tiny deserted island. Plane-wrecked. Whatever. He was sunburned, filthy, sore, bug-bit, and hungry. At least he’d found water.

For the past hour, he’d sulked and cried, railing against his fate. Now the sun slipped lower in the sky. He knew darkness came suddenly in the tropics, although he had zero clue where he was. “Well,” he said, glad he wasn’t entirely alone. “I guess we’d better find shelter for the night.” He waited expectantly, but his shadow didn’t answer.