Chase to the Encore

by P G Loiselle

  Unfortunately, there’s a price to pay for everything, and I paid mine the next day. Since I was trying to get up enough guts to score this groupie during the after-party, Betty or Bessy or something like that, the Jack and Cokes seemed to evaporate without me even realizing any liquid had touched my lips. The worst part was,

  even though I kept telling myself it wouldn’t be clever, I still ended up taking that girl home with me. Luckily, we crashed right away, both of us drunk and me with a surefire case of Bud-pud, thankfully left untested.

  I woke up in the early hours with a splitting headache, and my overnight guest was in bed with me, breathing heavy and snorting intermittently to break up the monotonous pattern of her oxygen intake. I was trying to piece together the events that occurred after 2:00 a.m., when my recollection started fragmenting, and I realized that it was the pressure on my bladder that was keeping me from falling back to sleep. I got up to pee, swallowed three aspirin, and gulped down enough water to fill an aquarium.

  What a difference a couple of hours makes, I thought, after catching a glimpse of my hellfire eyes and battered face in the mirror. Why so much booze, and how do I deal with this snoring groupie? I was lost in my own thoughts, mind afloat, and BOOM, the door crashed open, and my overnight guest ran in with a forward lean and dove for the toilet. Her head sank beneath the rim of the seat and her throat spewed puke like a fire hose.

  I dashed into the hall to grab something from the closet for her to clean up with, and her heaves reverberated throughout the entire pad. I didn’t realize how wasted she must have been. Armed with towels, I scurried back into the bathroom. My first act was to lift her head out of the bowl by her long hair without hurting her. Her forehead had been half submersed in the water, and her face squished up against the vomit coated porcelain.

  Instead of going back to bed as planned, I nursed that poor girl in the bathroom for the next hour. When at long last even the bitter, yolky bile was fully discharged from her stomach, and she was on empty, I scrubbed her clean from head-to-toe, hair and all, and set her up in some of my old duds. The fact that I had undressed her half-limp body down to her pee-soaked skivvies was irrelevant for her in that helpless state. I relocated her to the living room so she could get comfortable.

  She lay on my couch for hours, with me by her side, most likely praying for death like I would have been. I pulled out every trick I knew to relieve her of her misery. When it’s that bad, though, only time will make it better. Once she could sit up and move about, I drove her home. The ride sucked since I was hungover myself but was glad that she was back at her place and could recover. The goodbye was uncomfortable as the poor girl shrunk back out of the car. I bet she’ll still come to our next event. She’s always there in the front row.

  The rest of the daytime hours I had spent strumming the guitar and listening to tunes in the living room, the biggest of rooms in my modest ranch. It’s not only larger than the eat-in kitchen or shoe-box of a bedroom, it also shimmers of gold when the bay window invites in the sun at certain angles. The pride of the space, an overstuffed bookshelf that Stevie and Mr. Jameson crafted for me, covered most of one wall. I was sitting in my favorite spot on the couch, in the expanding dimple, so thankful for having such a home of my own, when the doorbell rang. I was sure it was Stevie, coming over to work on new material for the recording. I passed through the kitchen, into the breezeway and opened the side door.

  “Hey,” I said. The thin-lipped maestro said nothing. He cut through to the living room trailing behind his long, aerodynamic nose and landed at my favorite spot on the couch. I followed, making a pit stop in the kitchen to get some chips and onion dip.

  “Whahl ya in theah, get me a beah,” he said. That’s Rhode Island talk for ‘While you’re in there, get me a beer.’

  I grabbed two frosty bottles of Bud from the half-empty twelve-pack, along with the snacks, and hobbled back to the living room.

  “Here you go, pal,” I said and placed the munchies on the coffee table before sitting down perpendicular to him on the other end of the sofa. A Bad Company cassette hummed softly in the background, but the only music occupying my senses were cerebral echoes from the Showroom. “Stevie, you kicked butt last night. If you were a babe, I’d jump your bones right now.”

  “What?” he said. The catatonic Zen Master was sunk down low in the cushions, zoning out. “I better be able to play. Got my first guitar when I was like five. Certainly practiced enough.”

  “Even if I practiced twice as much and started when I was two, I still wouldn’t be half as good.”

  His head swiveled and he looked at me shifty-eyed with his gunmetal-blue peepers. “Yeah, right.”

  “I am right, and I probably know you better than you know yourself. We’ve been inseparable since what, second grade?” I filled my mouth with beer and pursed my lips as the golden liquid descended into my thorax. “When I moved to Cumberland, I figured I’d be a loner for life. Seeing you at recess playing chase, I wanted in. And you took me in…like a lost puppy.”

  “Yeah, well…you looked like a lost puppy.” He snickered, letting his subdued vocal rumble trail off. “Sensitive guys like me have a thing for lost puppies.”

  I grinned. “And when you brought your guitar to school for show-and-tell and played “Wild Thing”, Hendrix style, you became my idol.”

  “Idol? Stop it, will you? Sure you won’t try and make out with me or something?”

  “Stevie, buddy, whether watching you play air guitar in your pajamas, or seeing your first gig ever, at the Pizza Palace, it’s always astounding.”

  “Stop,” he said. “You win, alright? I’m like a god, like Thor, with my guitar, instead of a hammer.”

  “Now that’s better.” It felt good to hear it from him. I downed the rest of the brew, more than expected and tried not to burp back into the bottle.

  If it were anyone else lionizing him like that, I’m sure he would have fled the scene, head shaking and red-faced, but with me, he bore it and let me carry on. Today I laid it on thick and meant every sappy word of it. Really. The way he danced with, stroked, whacked, pounded or even jilted his guitars, was awe inspiring, as if he was constantly proving his devotion to that Les Paul or Fender Strat of his, while demonstrating who the true master of the sound was. Every time I saw him work those instruments, I wanted to be like him. No. I wanted to be him, to have people feel that way about me, adore me, respect me and even fear me. What I wouldn’t do for that.

  “But Luke…” he said and paused for too many seconds. “You say I’m good. Check out that video, the Diamond Hill Open Air. You’re the real star.”

  I pictured it in my head, and he had a point. As singer and spokesman for Four-n-Moore, the focus wasn’t only on me yet a lot on me. Still, I owe it to Stevie. We were sixteen when we founded our maiden band and have been playing together in a multitude of formations ever since. Dale, Tommy and Piano Mike are a great bunch of musicians, but Stevie and me, we’re forever. He taught me everything he knows, and not only about jamming on the six-string. The guy’s aura evokes instant affinity, like that of a friendly park ranger, and he employs it to connect to his audience. He showed me the art of drawing the crowd into the act and making them part of it all, making them feel that they’re the ones onstage grappling with the sonic beast and coming out on top, giving them the feeling that all they need to do is to surrender to the music and it won’t swallow them whole but lift them up. They’ll boogie, freak, laugh, and even whimper, all on our command. It was an amazing process to go from clueless to fearless on stage, and in the end, I’m no Stevie, but I do think some of that, whatever it is, rubbed off on me.

  “Maybe you’re right,” I said. “You’re Thor and I’m the Zeus of rock. And now that we got that straight, go grab those Italian grinders in the fridge, and more beers too.”

  Stevie fetched the sandwiches and drink without any qualms. He’s not blo
od, yet I love him like a brother, more than anyone else on earth. Him and Mr. Jameson, Fred, his dad, are the only family I have.

  The remains of Saturday were swallowed up by nothing but sloth and gluttony. We didn’t do a single ounce of work as planned, and instead, watched a movie that could have won the ‘biggest waste of Kodachrome’ award. We made up for it today, God’s day of rest, with a fruitful, marathon writing session that yielded two new songs.

  The problem is getting it out of my head. Not only the music, all of it I mean: Friday’s bang up performance, barfing Betty, the talk with Stevie, the waiting for a much-needed breakthrough, the uncertainty of what’s to come and thoughts about all the precious time I’m wasting as a bean counter, slaving away for that loser boss. The thing is, even though I’m exhausted and have been writing for hours to try to free myself from all this mulling, it sticks to me like a dingleberry on a cocker spaniel. I can already feel it physically too. My head is pulsing a hollow, dull ache, the echoes grow longer in the endless pit of my abdomen, and every cell of mine quivers from exhaustion. It’s half past midnight, not even late, but again, sleep’s a phantom.

  As always, the noises seem to amplify as the night hours progress. There go those creaks again, but this time they’re CREAKS, and that tick-tock becomes a TICK-TOCK. And the neighborhood kids amble by, sauced up and wily, nocturnal pests clutter the night air with unsolicited song, and dual exhaust hot rods race through the streets, periodically, jolting me awake every time I begin to nod off. Maybe I’ll put on that movie we suffered through yesterday. God knows how many times I fell asleep watching that prize of a film. Or better yet, why not fantasize about Amy and how grand it will be to see her after two days of abstinence? On Mondays, she’s extra sweet to me in her own sadistic way. She knows my pain and helps me survive the day with her no holds barred wit and in-your-face sarcasm mixed with a dab of flirtation thrown in at just the right places to make a man feel, well, special.

  Wednesday, June 17, 1987

  Amy Lynch, guardian of my sanity and rescuer of my spirits. Each Monday, as I first enter the building of Far Out Imports, it’s as if I’m being beamed through a doomy, gray tunnel, not noticing anything or anyone, not even noticing my legs moving. I waft through the office space like the scent of a reheated cheese casserole that wasn’t particularly tasty the first go around. Nobody looks at me and I avoid eye contact with others. A short toss before reaching my cubicle, I make a hard right and a soft left and stand before her. There she was this morning, like always, hunched over her computer, probably working on her fifth cup of coffee. A switch turned on inside me, and I lit up like a movie theater after the closing credits finished rolling.

  “Morning, Amy.”

  “Hey there, Luke. Been waiting for you. Coffee wasn’t perking me up like I needed.”

  Damn, what power words. We exchanged a couple of sentences before I made for my desk. Usually, if I stick around too long, Mr. Carney will start in on me like a sewing machine on steroids needling a tattered rag.

  Most Mondays, Amy and I hook up again at noon to grab some lunch and trade weekend war stories. Usually, we’ll go to D’Angelos or Papa Ginos or anywhere where the food is quick and we’re out of Carney’s sights. For a change, we decided for a pub burger at Alias, Smith and Jones in East Greenwich.

  Shortly before twelve, I snatched my car keys, pivoted to leave, and there he was, Carney, less than a foot away, rearing to confront me with something. That loathsome reptile might have arrived that instant or could have slithered up minutes earlier. He stood wide-legged with each foot positioned at a forty-five-degree angle from the center, and his pelvis was so far forward, his butt cheeks must have clenched together. With his side to side classic comb-over, thick caterpillar mustache and the face of a sneak, I could barely stand to look at the loser.

  “Going somewhere, Moore?”

  “Matter of fact, I am: lunch.”

  “At five of?”

  “Bathroom first. That counts as lunch?”

  “Moore,” he said, changing the subject. “Had a little chat with Marge and Sally this morning. Those…those know-nothings filed some numbers the IRS didn’t quite like.” He crumpled a letter he was waiving about into his shirt pocket. “Now this witch, from the tax office, is nosing around our business, and we have to pay some high-priced specialist to dig us out of this mess.” With that, the guy stiffened, interlocking his fingers behind his head as his shoulders crunched up. His face, overwrought, looked past me as he breathed in and held it, driving his complexion up the spectrum of reds. I thought he’d pass out, or his head would explode until he exhaled, long and intentional with his eyes closed. “Moore?” he said in a sober tone, gradually rolling back his lids.

  “Yes?”

  “Did you hear what I said?” he yelled, thrusting his hands at me. “Pay some high-priced specialist. To dig us out of this mess.”

  I retreated three steps. “So?” I said, trying to come off unflustered. “What’s it got to do with me?”

  He charged, getting right in my face. “What are you stupid? The numbers, Moore. They came from you. You’re bookkeeping. Isn’t that so?”

  “That’s how it works, Mr. Carney. Cash comes in, it’s a debit, cash goes out, it’s a credit. The numbers are the numbers”

  “Don’t bore me with your fancy-dancy accounting nonsense. You need to learn creative number crunching, Moore. We’ve got a business to run and can’t let anyone run it for us. I don’t know what the IRS, those…those, vermin are after, but if someone needs to take a fall, you’ll be leading the pack.”

  “But Mr. Carney…”

  “No buts. I have important meetings this afternoon. When I get back, it’s time for your first lesson in creative accounting. Three o’clock. My office. Got it?”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “What?”

  “Yes sir.”

  He scanned me up and down, did an about-face and marched away.

  Such threats, being commonplace enough, didn’t scare me too much. What was disheartening would be having to face him for an extended period running on a meager amount of sleep.

  Unfortunately, it was past noon, and the clock was ticking. I scooped up Amy, and we headed to the pub. She had called in the order while waiting for me, and they served us the patty-filled buns only minutes after we walked through the door.

  “Missed a wicked cool show on Friday,” I said. “The after-party was even crazier.”

  “Luke, you know I practically cream my panties when I see you nerds rock out.”

  “Yeah, right, Miss Potty-Mouth. Why weren’t you there then?”

  “I was busy. Happened to have a date.” She tucked her cheeky smile into her rolled-in shoulder.

  “And it was probably like always. You thought he’d be a decent guy, potential husband and father of your five unborn children. Instead, he turned out to be a stuck-up numbnut, and you were home by midnight, pissed off you didn’t come see us at the Showroom.”

  “Kind of like that,” she said. “He was more like a conceited little fairy boy. I gave him all my attention, but that sad excuse of a male was only interested in himself…in the mirror behind me. What a waste. At eleven-thirty, I told him I was on the rag, had a headache and needed to get home.” She grinned like a devil, looking beyond me. “Yep, those exact words. Got me home pretty quick too.”

  I eyed her, smirking myself because I knew something like that would happen. She’s constantly interested in these macho wannabee studs and it always ends up the same way. Amy’s not only cool, she’s smoking hot with a killer body that even looks great in Gloria Vanderbilt designer jeans. Her lips are opulent; nose, delicate; and face, a perfect bronze yet splattered with transparent scarlet freckles. She has seductive eyes of indigo and luscious hair that flows like silky caramel with patches of harvest gold. Amy’s tall too, about 5’11”. Compared to her, I’m a sh
rimp at 5’6” with a slight build and an ass as flat as a scrabble board. She always busts me up about my size, especially my height. I try to shirk it off, but it irks me to no avail.

  “When are you going to realize that I’m your Mr. Right? You know, once I’m a rich and famous rock star, it’ll be too late. Then I’ll be dating super models and have no time for an East Providence girl like you.” I said it only to tease because I know there’s almost no chance of landing her as my girlfriend…even if I was a star, and we were a perfect fit in the hay.

  “Luke honey, you know I’m saving the best for last.” She jostled me from across the table, and I almost fell off my chair. “Besides, you see what happens with the guys I go out with. It’s over before it’s even begun.”

  “Jerks you go out with, you mean.”

  “You know I adore you, darling,” she said with a rich lady snob accent. “But why would I want to lose you as a friend, just so you can get your noodle wet for five minutes. I’d probably dump your ass after the first time, out and you’d lose all respect for me. Who wants that? Nobody. So, shut up and eat your curly fries.”

  “Only busting, Amy. I know you’d eat me alive. Besides, why would I want to go out with an Amazon like you who towers over me like the Statue of Liberty? People would stare. Short guys with gargantuan girls look like pimps, or sugar daddies.” That’s what I said, but I didn’t mean it. I worship that girl.