by Brittany Mike

Janice Dumar wanders through the breezeway of the Shady Palms Motel at night crooning her old tunes. Her gray and thinning hair, held together by a faux diamond barrette, hangs on her narrow shoulders. A sequinced ruby red gown that once hugged her frame now drapes her brittle bones.

At one time she headlined hot spots in Chicago; considered to be the Jayne Kennedy of her day. Standing on a stage with her name flashing in lights, it was just her and the mic. Catcalls echoing from the audience never phased her mood and she always ended with a graceful bow.

Now a staggering Dumar churns out slurred words. “Thought I had a lover.” Listening for any man who recognizes her tune, she offers a private performance for money. Poor Ms. Dumar, blinded by her vanity and addiction. Always searching for the high of the limelight in a bottle.

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