"Jody Lynn Nye - Theme Music Man" - читать интересную книгу автора (Nye Jody Lynn)

fought to contain his talent, and the misery song died away. Gruber
looked dismayed and annoyed. Katzenbaum hurried to reassure
him. He needed that loan.
"I've been sick with flu the last few days," he said. "Everything
sounds like that."
"Oh." The banker nodded, unsatisfied.
"About the loan?"
"Well, we'll need a few days to consider it, check your credit
references, you understand." Katzenbaum didn't understand, but he
nodded. The banker rose and offered him a hand. "We'll call you."
"Thanks," Irwin said, and hastily left the bank. He could feel the

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misery song threatening to well up and drown out the Muzak in the
beige marble lobby. He didn't want to whine that he needed a lousy
three thousand bucks to buy a functional used car or lose the
possibility of promotion to traveling sound crew. Superheroes didn't
blubber on bankers' desks. Even marginally employed ones who
really felt like crying.
Theme Music Man. No one outside the big city knew he existed, but
they always suspected something like him did. Whenever a
superhero charged into action on television or in the movies, it was
to the accompaniment of heroic music that stirred the blood, made
viewers catch their breath in awe, fear, and amazement. So where
was it coming from?
If the cameras panned a little to the side of the main event, they'd
show a modest, medium-sized man in a sort of modified
bandleader's uniform. It was coming from him. Music seemed to
burst from him spontaneously: the French horns, the kettle drums,
the bassoons and trombones. He was Theme Music Man.
It all started when he was a kid. He thought he was like one of those
people who wrote to the advice columns asking if they were crazy
because they always heard music in their heads. The difference was
that when it happened to Irwin Katzenbaum, everyone else could
hear it, too. He used to get in trouble in school for making noise.
The teachers kept sending him to the principal's office until they
were convinced he didn't have a concealed radio or tape player.
Then they just thought he was a freak.
Not until he fell in with a few of the real superheroes did he manage
to find a peer group. It started in his teen years in Boston, when the

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street he was walking down turned into a shooting gallery. Ten
mugs in panty-hose hoods were firing guns at a lone man wearing