"Okay, Bobby, that was great. I guess that wraps it up for today." Those words, spoken by the recording technician, drew a heartfelt sigh of relief from Bobby Darin. He turned away from the mike, intensely grateful that the long, grueling day was coming to an end at last.

He had spent four tough hours in front of the mike, recording some new songs. Over and over again he had sung the same words, the same phrases, the same notes, until he was certain that he would be dreaming about them for weeks to come.

But the songs had to be perfect.

His manager felt that way. The recording company executives felt that way. The studio technicians felt that way. But, most of all, he felt that way, too. What was the sense of trying to carve out a career for himself in this highly competitive field, if he wasn't going to do the very best he knew how?

So he had sung the songs again and again, until he and everyone else was satisfied with the playbacks.

And before that, there had been the hours of rehearsing at home, before he would even let anyone hear him sing the songs.

And the day before, there had been interviews, conferences, discussions--it seemed that nowadays there was hardly time for him to take a deep breath, much less relax and enjoy his new-found success.

As he walked out of the recording studio and stood in the hall, waiting for an elevator, he could feel the tension within him, the tied-in-knots feeling that he couldn't shake off. He was working too hard, he thought, that was the trouble. Yet how could he stop at this stage of his career? But something would have to give. He felt like a balloon that was being blown up bigger and bigger. Sooner or later the balloon would have to pop, unless the pressure stopped. He was like that balloon. He felt that he was dangerously close to a blow-up.

The elevator doors slid open noiselessly.

"Going down, sir," the elevator operator said. He stepped in automatically, still lost in his brooding thoughts. "Well, hi there! Don't you even say hello to people any more?" It was a girl's voice. With an effort, he shook off the thoughts that had surrounded him like a dark cloud and looked up. There, standing right next to him, was Connie Stevens, smiling at him impishly. "My, you must have been a thousand miles away," she said, as the elevator sped them swiftly to the ground floor. He smiled sheepishly. "You're right. I was trying to solve the problems of the world." "Street floor," the elevator operator announced, and they found themselves deposited in the lobby. They continued their conversation as they walked toward the front door.

"What were you doing here?" Bobby asked. "Picking up some new photos to mail to my fan clubs. My manager had them made up for me. Wanna see?" "Sure," Bobby said, "but I don't think we ought to stand here cluttering up the lobby. We'll be a traffic hazard. How about stopping in for a coke down the block."

"Great idea," said Connie. They walked companionably down the block toward the corner drugstore. Maybe this is just what I need, thought Bobby. Some casual conversation and a soft drink. Maybe that'll help me unwind.

He could still feel the tension within him as they sat down in the drugstore and ordered two cokes, but he tried to act as though he didn't have a care in the world.

"Let's see those photos now," Bobby said. Connie drew one out of a manila envelope and put it on the table in front of him. "What do you think." "Well," he said, pretending to study it with a studious expression on his face, "don't you think it makes you look just a little bit chubby?" "Chubby!" she squeaked. "How can you say such a thing? It doesn't make me look the least bit chubby. You must need glasses!" "Now, hold on! I was just kidding. Can't you take a little joke?" "You certainly didn't sound as though you were kidding," she said, her voice still sounding strained and annoyed.

"Oh, come on now, Connie," he soothed. "You know I think you're real cute. I was just trying to be funny and I guess the joke fell flat."

She smiled then and shrugged her shoulders slightly, as if to say, "Okay, it's forgotten," but he noticed that her eyes held a guarded expression, as though she was waiting to see what he was going to say next.

It's my own fault, Bobby thought angrily, cursing himself silently. I'm so worn out I just don't know how to act like a human being any more.

What had started out as lighthearted teasing had ended up as an insult--entirely unintentional, of course, but he had better watch himself. He could tell that Connie still felt hurt, in spite of her smile.

"What did you do today?" Connie asked. "Recorded a couple of new songs," he answered. "Are you still singing in the same style?" "What do you mean," he said, puzzled. "Well, I don't want to sound as if I'm being critical or anything," Connie said slowly, "but lately everyone's been saying you sound an awful lot like Frank Sinatra. I was just wondering if you've been trying to change that."

"Why should I change? I sing the way I like to sing and that's that!" he said abruptly.

"Oh, now don't get huffy. I don't suppose it's really any of my business, but I was just wondering if it's such a good idea for you to get labelled as a carbon copy of someone else. You've got to admit you sound an awful lot like Sinatra. Some people may get the idea that you're trying to cash in on his popularity." "That's nonsense!" Bobby said. He was trying to keep calm, but he felt his face getting red, and he knew by the way the people at the next table were staring at him that his voice was getting loud. "Well, I don't see why we can't have a perfectly normal discussion without you getting all upset," Connie said, her voice beginning to sound a little annoyed. We're both singers. Supposedly, we're both professionals. We can be frank with each other."

"There's nothing to be frank about," grunted Bobby. "If people think I sound like Sinatra on purpose, that's their concern, not mine. All I know is what's in my own mind. I seem to be doing all right up to now, with no advice from you." "For heaven's sake," she cried, "what's gotten into you? You certainly don't sound like the Bobby Darin I used to know?" "Well, I just wish you'd stop picking on me," Bobby blurted out. "You're probably just mad about that crack I made before. Well, for your information, there are a lot of people who are more important than you, who think my singing's just fine. George Burns says I'm great. Jerry Lewis says I'm great. I've even been called 'the best of my generation.' I can show you that in print. So far as I'm concerned you just don't know what you're talking about!"

Connie's mouth had dropped open in astonishment at his violent tirade. Finally, she found her voice. "Well, I never . . . of all the conceited, big- mouthed, stuck-up characters, you certainly take the cake?"

"Stuck-up! You're the one who's stuck- up. You just don't know a thing!"

For one long minute, they sat in silence, staring at each other across the table. They were each horrified at the words they had said, the accusations they had flung back and forth in the heat of the argument. Now they could only sit there, wondering who would be the first to speak.

Finally, Bobby drew a deep, shuddering breath. When the words came, they were soft, almost whispered, and his face was sorrowful and contrite.

"Connie, I'm sorry. I just got carried away. I've been working so hard lately that I'm all wound up. I said some things I really didn't mean just now. I hope you believe me. It's just that I'm so tense. I knew I was heading for a blow-up, but I didn't think it would happen like this, with someone I like as much as I like you. I hope you can forgive me."

Connie's eyes filled with tears. "You're not the only one who should apologize. I really let myself get carried away, too. I guess this was just a bad day for both of us."

"Well, let's get out of here," Bobby laughed nervously. "People are looking at us kind of funny." He threw some money on the table and they walked out. In the street, they faced each other once again. "Well I go that way," Connie said. "And I walk the other way," Bobby said. Connie looked into his eyes and put one hand gently on his cheek. "Let's just forget this happened, Okay? We'll pretend we didn't meet at all today. It was my fault, just as much as yours, that we fought. So don't blame yourself."

Bobby smiled at her gratefully: "You know, I feel much better, now that I've blown off some steam. I ought to thank you for letting me yell at you," he laughed.

"But, seriously," he went on, "let's get together soon and have a real date. And we won't mention today at all, Okay?" "It's a deal," she said, and grinned. "Call me any time." "You bet I will," Bobby said.

They parted then, and went their separate ways. As Bobby walked down the street, he went over their argument again. He knew it was really his fault. He was just grateful that it happened with someone like Connie, someone who could understand and not hold it against him.

There's no one like Connie, he thought. She's the greatest!

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