This is the worst day of my life.
Francis Albert Sinatra, holding a glass of bourbon in one hand and a cigarette in the other, stood in a dark corner of the bar between two attractive but fading blondes who sat waiting for him to say something. But he said nothing; he had been silent during much of the evening, except now in this private club in which he seemed even more distant, staring out through the smoke and semi-darkness into a large room beyond the bar where dozens of young couples sat huddled around small tables or twisted in the center of the floor to the clamorous clang of folk-rock music blaring from the stereo.
The two blondes knew, as did Sinatra’s four male friends who stood nearby, that it was a bad idea to force conversation upon him when he was in this mood of sullen silence, a mood that had hardly been uncommon during this second week of June. He tapped his fingers against the bar fast at first, but they slowed down as he became rather disinterested with even that mere action. His blue eyes that were the most evident feature on the mans face with how bright and perplexing they were - almost like laser beams - gazed around the room solemnly. He wanted entertainment and life and charisma and drama and romance.
Yet at the same time, it was uncertain that even if one of these things approached him, he may not even be slightly interested in pursuing it on this particular evening.Sinatra had been working in a film that he now disliked, could not wait to finish; he was tired of all the publicity attached to his lifestyle including any possible dates he had or relationships that seemed to decay with the enormity of pressure that came with being with the iconic man but also because of his personality: he was a gentleman but his mood swings at times made him become a chore to be with.
Yet what put the crooner in such a sullen, uninterested mood away from a usual air of delight that followed him combined with the tension that shadowed over him alongside his power was something that made him a victim. He was ill. He was the victim of an ailment so common that most people would consider it trivial. But when it gets to Sinatra it can plunge him into a state of anguish, deep depression, panic, even rage. Frank Sinatra had a cold.
