The Fat Lady Sang
‘It ain’t over till the fat lady sings,’* they say. Well, I had a fat lady for a housemate.
Her name was Nellie, and I had to plan my whole life around her. If I undertook something
that I didn’t want to take too long, I’d say to her, ‘Sing! Sing so I can get this over
with.’ But if I was engaged in something that needed a lot of time, I’d have to say,
‘Don’t sing! Not yet! Whatever you do, don’t sing yet!’ The problem was that she was an
opera singer and sang a lot. She practiced every day, even between opera-singing jobs.
I could be working on an assignment for uni, for instance, and I would be writing as fast as I could, keeping my eyes on the clock all the time since I knew the hour she usually rehearsed. It was best on the days she was out, working as a music teacher, since she didn’t rehearse till she got home late in the day. But still, I could be frantic. I’d run into her room at the last minute. ‘Please don’t sing!’ I’d wail. Sometimes, I’d make a big mess in the kitchen or even in her room to delay her singing too soon. Others, I’d run out of the house or, even better, work on my assignment in a library and just hope that the distance between us was enough to annul the detrimental effects. Of course, I realised that at any time during the day some fat lady in the world would be singing, yet Nellie was my muse—the one with whom I associated the ‘fat lady’ proverb.
It was kind of jinx. I often wouldn’t do well in assignments if I couldn’t finish in time. I knew the proverb usually meant that one still had plenty of time left, that anything could happen yet, and/or that opportunities still existed right up until a thing climaxed or reached its end. But not everyone lived with a fat singing woman.
The proverb had more credence with relation to other circumstances I found myself in. Aside from studying, I also did some babysitting at home. Parents would drop off eight of the little terrors, and my place transformed into a childcare centre for the day. They were all toddlers, so I had plenty of nappies to change, which was always fun, particularly if they had diarrhoea, and they had to be well supervised. I had playdough for them to play with, plus paper and crayons, building blocks, toy cars, dolls and soft toys. I even had a sandpit in the backyard, as well as tubs filled with water and plastic toys for water play. I usually made them a lunch of well-cooked vegetables, and soon after that it was time for their afternoon nap. Things worked out fine when Nellie was out for the day, but there’d be no chance of getting them off to sleep if she started rehearsing early. It was all over once the fat lady started singing. Of course, the proverb wasn’t applicable to the letter in this case, employing the words ‘it was all over’ rather than ‘it ain’t over till’.
It was more faithfully employed when my girlfriend came over to visit and we were making out (though this never happened while I was babysitting). Who could be bothered watching the clock while you’re making out? Yet my girlfriend was always concerned about getting home in time for tea. We figured that if she left when Nellie started rehearsing, she would get home just in time, since Nellie’s schedule was very reliable during this period. But why did my girlfriend always have to be home in time for tea, you might ask? Just how old was she? Well, she wasn’t a schoolgirl, but she did like to be back at her nursing home in time for dinner so that she wouldn’t have to cook for herself. Anyway, so we’d be pashing away (though I might occasionally get my tongue caught in her dentures) and she’d keep worrying about the time, so I’d console her by saying, ‘It ain’t over till the fat lady sings.’
The proverb was even more applicable to a case I worked on. I only studied part time, and when I wasn’t studying, babysitting or making out, I was a private detective heading my own detective agency. One morning, I received a letter that read ‘It’s all over once the fat lady sings.’ It had been written with letters cut from magazines . Of course, from my point of view it meant that ‘it ain’t over till the fat lady sings’. But why inform me? Was there an informant within the enemy camp—someone I could rely on for further leads? Anyway, I figured something big was going to go down at the local opera house. The opening night for their next production—Wagner’s opera Gotterdammerung—was the very next evening, which seemed the most likely night that something big might go down. In fact, Nellie was playing the lead role, that of Brunnhilde. She told me she had a really big sing right at the end of the opera.
I dropped by the police station and gave the letter and envelope to my mate on the force so they could dust it for prints. I told her that the action was probably going down at the opera house the following evening and she should organise a few officers to join me there. She got back to me later with a list of dignitaries attending the opera. There were politicians, celebrities, nobles and various other rich folk. Any one of them could have been a target. She also told me they’d found only my prints on the letter and envelope. A couple of cops tried to arrest me. Can you believe it?! It’s just as well I had my mate to stand up for me.
I received no more leads. The next night, I packed my piece and got to the opera house early. I waited outside for an hour, hoping to make contact with the informant, but no-one showed. I entered the auditorium shortly before the start of the show and the lights were still up. I had a good look around. Was it a gunperson I was looking for? There weren’t any places where you could get off a shot undetected except from a private box, and they were all occupied by posh folk.
Nellie had given me a CD of the opera to listen to, so I knew just when the finale was approaching. As it neared, I gave the police the heads up. They patrolled the corridors leading to all the entries while I used my opera glasses to study those private boxes. Then Nellie sang the finale. I held my breath, absolutely feverish, but nothing happened. No-one shot anyone. I was quite disappointed.
Had I been correct in my assumptions? Perhaps something other than an assassination had occurred, such as an exchange of contraband. If that was the case, we’d missed it. Yet it was my guess that we’d come on the wrong night. So, I went to see the show every night it was on. It ran for four weeks—an average season for a grand opera in this town, and certainly long enough for me. Nellie was rapt that I came to so many performances. I couldn’t tell her the real reason I came. Every night was the same routine—waiting outside in case the informant showed, keeping an eye on the private boxes and patrolling the corridors. The police stopped attending. They figured that whatever was to happen had already happened, but I was far from convinced.
Nothing occurred in those four weeks, but when the final night came around, I was certain there was to be an assassination attempt—a shooting or perhaps a stabbing. I didn’t know if there were any dignitaries present, but only one of the private boxes was occupied. I checked the other three boxes regularly during the course of the performance, studied the audience with my opera glasses, and paced the corridors. At last, Nellie’s grand finale was approaching. I checked the boxes one last time, then again entered the auditorium. I looked at the audience about me with feverish intensity. I couldn’t spot anything sinister or out of place. The music started to mount. Nellie was about to start singing. I had to do something.
‘Don’t sing!’ I yelled at the top of my lungs. ‘Don’t sing!’
Audience members all around angrily told me to be quiet. Then Nellie started singing. I ran to foot of the stage.
‘Don’t sing, Nellie!’ I yelled. ‘You mustn’t sing!’ But she continued singing.
‘Please, Nellie! Stop singing! Stop!!!’
She stopped.
‘Will you get the fuck out of here!’ she roared.
Then I was mobbed by security guards and ushers. As they led me out of the auditorium, the orchestra started to play the lead-in to Nellie’s song again. I tried to explain the importance of the situation to the goons, but they kept me restrained until the cops arrived. Thankfully my mate was among them. She got them to search the auditorium. The opera was over by then and people were streaming out. They found nothing.
Could it have been a hoax? In any case, it was all over for me when the fat lady sang. Nellie had gotten a severe reprimand for using the ‘f’ word on stage, and she was furious. She didn’t want anything more to do with me. She said I had to move out.
It turned out she wanted more than just to see the back of me. She wanted revenge. While I was busy packing my belongings into boxes, she offered to make me a cup of tea. She was unusually friendly given the recent tension. Perhaps she wanted to make up. But the tea was drugged.
I awoke strapped to the coffee table with my neck positioned underneath a guillotine blade. A rope was holding up the blade, and the other end of the rope was tied to a champagne flute that was secured to the guillotine’s frame. Nellie put on a CD and turned up the volume. It was of an opera chorus.
‘This is a recording of one of my finest performances,’ said Nellie. ‘At the end of the chorus, I break into song. My first note is so piercing that it will shatter glass! It will shatter that champagne flute and the guillotine blade will fall, bringing an end to your feeble existence! Ha! Ha! Haaa! It’ll be all over once the fat lady sings!’
‘But it’s not over yet!’ I screamed. ‘It ain’t over till the fat lady sings!’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘No, you didn’t. The emphasis is different.’
But she ignored me. She stormed out the house while I struggled to loosen my bonds.
♪♫ ♪♪♫ ♪♫♬ ♪♫♪
Eddy Burger is a Melbourne writer of funny and experimental novels, novellas, short stories, plays and poetry. He is an anti-realist, anti-conservative, postmodernist, absurdist and champion of the imagination. His stories have been published in journals and anthologies in Australia and the US. His story ‘The Fat Lady Sang’ is from a collection based on the literal interpretation of proverbs.
I could be working on an assignment for uni, for instance, and I would be writing as fast as I could, keeping my eyes on the clock all the time since I knew the hour she usually rehearsed. It was best on the days she was out, working as a music teacher, since she didn’t rehearse till she got home late in the day. But still, I could be frantic. I’d run into her room at the last minute. ‘Please don’t sing!’ I’d wail. Sometimes, I’d make a big mess in the kitchen or even in her room to delay her singing too soon. Others, I’d run out of the house or, even better, work on my assignment in a library and just hope that the distance between us was enough to annul the detrimental effects. Of course, I realised that at any time during the day some fat lady in the world would be singing, yet Nellie was my muse—the one with whom I associated the ‘fat lady’ proverb.
It was kind of jinx. I often wouldn’t do well in assignments if I couldn’t finish in time. I knew the proverb usually meant that one still had plenty of time left, that anything could happen yet, and/or that opportunities still existed right up until a thing climaxed or reached its end. But not everyone lived with a fat singing woman.
The proverb had more credence with relation to other circumstances I found myself in. Aside from studying, I also did some babysitting at home. Parents would drop off eight of the little terrors, and my place transformed into a childcare centre for the day. They were all toddlers, so I had plenty of nappies to change, which was always fun, particularly if they had diarrhoea, and they had to be well supervised. I had playdough for them to play with, plus paper and crayons, building blocks, toy cars, dolls and soft toys. I even had a sandpit in the backyard, as well as tubs filled with water and plastic toys for water play. I usually made them a lunch of well-cooked vegetables, and soon after that it was time for their afternoon nap. Things worked out fine when Nellie was out for the day, but there’d be no chance of getting them off to sleep if she started rehearsing early. It was all over once the fat lady started singing. Of course, the proverb wasn’t applicable to the letter in this case, employing the words ‘it was all over’ rather than ‘it ain’t over till’.
It was more faithfully employed when my girlfriend came over to visit and we were making out (though this never happened while I was babysitting). Who could be bothered watching the clock while you’re making out? Yet my girlfriend was always concerned about getting home in time for tea. We figured that if she left when Nellie started rehearsing, she would get home just in time, since Nellie’s schedule was very reliable during this period. But why did my girlfriend always have to be home in time for tea, you might ask? Just how old was she? Well, she wasn’t a schoolgirl, but she did like to be back at her nursing home in time for dinner so that she wouldn’t have to cook for herself. Anyway, so we’d be pashing away (though I might occasionally get my tongue caught in her dentures) and she’d keep worrying about the time, so I’d console her by saying, ‘It ain’t over till the fat lady sings.’
The proverb was even more applicable to a case I worked on. I only studied part time, and when I wasn’t studying, babysitting or making out, I was a private detective heading my own detective agency. One morning, I received a letter that read ‘It’s all over once the fat lady sings.’ It had been written with letters cut from magazines . Of course, from my point of view it meant that ‘it ain’t over till the fat lady sings’. But why inform me? Was there an informant within the enemy camp—someone I could rely on for further leads? Anyway, I figured something big was going to go down at the local opera house. The opening night for their next production—Wagner’s opera Gotterdammerung—was the very next evening, which seemed the most likely night that something big might go down. In fact, Nellie was playing the lead role, that of Brunnhilde. She told me she had a really big sing right at the end of the opera.
I dropped by the police station and gave the letter and envelope to my mate on the force so they could dust it for prints. I told her that the action was probably going down at the opera house the following evening and she should organise a few officers to join me there. She got back to me later with a list of dignitaries attending the opera. There were politicians, celebrities, nobles and various other rich folk. Any one of them could have been a target. She also told me they’d found only my prints on the letter and envelope. A couple of cops tried to arrest me. Can you believe it?! It’s just as well I had my mate to stand up for me.
I received no more leads. The next night, I packed my piece and got to the opera house early. I waited outside for an hour, hoping to make contact with the informant, but no-one showed. I entered the auditorium shortly before the start of the show and the lights were still up. I had a good look around. Was it a gunperson I was looking for? There weren’t any places where you could get off a shot undetected except from a private box, and they were all occupied by posh folk.
Nellie had given me a CD of the opera to listen to, so I knew just when the finale was approaching. As it neared, I gave the police the heads up. They patrolled the corridors leading to all the entries while I used my opera glasses to study those private boxes. Then Nellie sang the finale. I held my breath, absolutely feverish, but nothing happened. No-one shot anyone. I was quite disappointed.
Had I been correct in my assumptions? Perhaps something other than an assassination had occurred, such as an exchange of contraband. If that was the case, we’d missed it. Yet it was my guess that we’d come on the wrong night. So, I went to see the show every night it was on. It ran for four weeks—an average season for a grand opera in this town, and certainly long enough for me. Nellie was rapt that I came to so many performances. I couldn’t tell her the real reason I came. Every night was the same routine—waiting outside in case the informant showed, keeping an eye on the private boxes and patrolling the corridors. The police stopped attending. They figured that whatever was to happen had already happened, but I was far from convinced.
Nothing occurred in those four weeks, but when the final night came around, I was certain there was to be an assassination attempt—a shooting or perhaps a stabbing. I didn’t know if there were any dignitaries present, but only one of the private boxes was occupied. I checked the other three boxes regularly during the course of the performance, studied the audience with my opera glasses, and paced the corridors. At last, Nellie’s grand finale was approaching. I checked the boxes one last time, then again entered the auditorium. I looked at the audience about me with feverish intensity. I couldn’t spot anything sinister or out of place. The music started to mount. Nellie was about to start singing. I had to do something.
‘Don’t sing!’ I yelled at the top of my lungs. ‘Don’t sing!’
Audience members all around angrily told me to be quiet. Then Nellie started singing. I ran to foot of the stage.
‘Don’t sing, Nellie!’ I yelled. ‘You mustn’t sing!’ But she continued singing.
‘Please, Nellie! Stop singing! Stop!!!’
She stopped.
‘Will you get the fuck out of here!’ she roared.
Then I was mobbed by security guards and ushers. As they led me out of the auditorium, the orchestra started to play the lead-in to Nellie’s song again. I tried to explain the importance of the situation to the goons, but they kept me restrained until the cops arrived. Thankfully my mate was among them. She got them to search the auditorium. The opera was over by then and people were streaming out. They found nothing.
Could it have been a hoax? In any case, it was all over for me when the fat lady sang. Nellie had gotten a severe reprimand for using the ‘f’ word on stage, and she was furious. She didn’t want anything more to do with me. She said I had to move out.
It turned out she wanted more than just to see the back of me. She wanted revenge. While I was busy packing my belongings into boxes, she offered to make me a cup of tea. She was unusually friendly given the recent tension. Perhaps she wanted to make up. But the tea was drugged.
I awoke strapped to the coffee table with my neck positioned underneath a guillotine blade. A rope was holding up the blade, and the other end of the rope was tied to a champagne flute that was secured to the guillotine’s frame. Nellie put on a CD and turned up the volume. It was of an opera chorus.
‘This is a recording of one of my finest performances,’ said Nellie. ‘At the end of the chorus, I break into song. My first note is so piercing that it will shatter glass! It will shatter that champagne flute and the guillotine blade will fall, bringing an end to your feeble existence! Ha! Ha! Haaa! It’ll be all over once the fat lady sings!’
‘But it’s not over yet!’ I screamed. ‘It ain’t over till the fat lady sings!’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘No, you didn’t. The emphasis is different.’
But she ignored me. She stormed out the house while I struggled to loosen my bonds.
Eddy Burger is a Melbourne writer of funny and experimental novels, novellas, short stories, plays and poetry. He is an anti-realist, anti-conservative, postmodernist, absurdist and champion of the imagination. His stories have been published in journals and anthologies in Australia and the US. His story ‘The Fat Lady Sang’ is from a collection based on the literal interpretation of proverbs.
* First coined by American sports commentator Ralph Carpenter, as reported in the Dallas Morning News, March 10 1976.