Jack Robbins lifted his modest girth from the top of the stair, twirling a dull fading toothbrush between his hammed left hand fingers. The gray robe was girdled neatly across his waist, leaving the ends of the cloth belt to dangle helplessly about his knees. He brought the brush lazily to his mouth and spelled out a melody:

-I’ve got the world on a string

He let the melody fade and perked his ears for a response. When the silence pressed on too long he belted out a ragged and course repetition:

-I’ve got the world on a string, and this is where Scotty should sing!

He approached the communal bathroom counter and brought a half squeezed tube of toothpaste and a Bic razor out on the surface. He raised an eyebrow at the coy reflection, blinking happily at the crooked smile. Then, as Scott made his way in through the door, he adjusted his gaze and beamed Sinatra towards him. Scott, walking on little sleep, looked at Jack’s reflection with a meek smile and proceeded to the sink adjacent, trying to feign amusement at the shaken melody and forgotten lyric. 

Jack ceased singing and began telling Scott all the ins and outs of great songwriting. 

-All great songs are simple, with an unforgettable hook. No man has ever gotten rich singing a book on tape. When will such modern minstrelsy accept the inevitable and degrade itself to rightful fodder? Music is to humanity what masturbation is to teenagers, harmless whacking into fantasy. 

He peered into Scott’s tired touseled face and began to sing again, showing off his bright white grinders in a half-moon smile. As he sang he spilt paste onto his brush and popped it into his mouth mid sentence. Scott brought out the mint green Listerene under the counter and slid it between them.