One Man Show Jacques Bogart 1980 Eau de Toilette

He used to be somebody. Now he just sits at the bar, leaning slightly forward, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and a drink in his hand. He used to be somebody, and he never tires of telling everyone. He had success, money, women. Every now and then, people still turn to look at him. Whispering, giggling. They know him, maybe even a few of his raunchy jokes that he used to tell on stage. But no one speaks to him anymore, wants a photo or an autograph.
When he then drags himself home late at night, he pauses briefly on the bridge, the applause of the audience still in his ear. Over the years, his hair disappeared just like the people who celebrated him. He never dreamed that irrelevance could catch up with him someday, too.
Is he numbed enough by alcohol to end it painlessly here on this bridge? Why spend another day in this aging shell? What would be missing if he were gone? He sighs. One last drag on his cigarette before the embers disappear into the darkness of the river. "Not today," he thinks to himself as the shuffle of his leather soles fills the dark alleys.
Home at last. Backyard, second floor. His feet try to catch the outside of the creaky wooden stairs. He doesn't want the neighbors to hear. He used to like being loud, coming home hooting with women and champagne. Today, it makes him uncomfortable. The world has witnessed his decline, and he doesn't want anyone to see his final decay. The key turns in the lock, the room around him. The chair disappears under his overgrown jacket before he falls into bed. With the last of his strength, he turns his head to the window. The neighbors' lights are still on. They know him from before. He used to be somebody.