Chase to the Encore

by P G Loiselle

  I think we showed him that Four-n-Moore and our devoted fans are a force to reckon with, and maybe he’ll think twice about it. Stay tuned…

  Atomic Drop

  Sunday, July 26, 1987

  In looking back, my ends seldom match my beginnings. Sometimes being down and out morphs into unbridled optimism, and other times, hope leads to total despair and readiness to surrender. I must admit, my substance is being chiseled away, layer-by-layer, like desert sandstone trying to endure the eons of harsh winds but giving up, grain-after-grain until what was there, is no more. How could I have been so naive to think that we, as a collective group, couldn’t be shaken and would always come out on top? When it comes down to it, our own personal survival wins out and risking it all for a petty little rock band isn’t a real option.

  I had spent snippets of Friday poking around the office and, after a tip from Sally, had located Amy’s I-Spy Walkman and stowed it away in my top drawer. Being too excited for the gig, I put off that senseless game of snoop and tell until Monday. We were scheduled to meet at the Showroom at about six, so I took my gear with me in the morning and went directly from work. When I pulled out in front to unload my equipment, the new stuff donated by our Woonsocket friends from the Rockin’ Steady, some of the other guys were outside the club dropping off their instruments too.

  “Howdy, boys,” I said. “Wassup?”

  “Not much,” Piano Mike said. He seemed more upbeat than usual despite the black cloud of Stone and his mad search hanging over our heads. “You ok?”

  “Just excited for the show.” I straightened my frame and bulked up my chest, feeling unstoppable. I looked over at the guitar king. “Yo, Stevie.” I flared my nostrils at him.

  He acknowledged me with an upward nod and turned his attention back to whatever he was doing.

  Craig appeared in the entranceway of the club and came out to greet me. “You made it, Champ. Lots, and I mean lots of people are excited about the big event tonight. And I’m certainly one of them.”

  “You and me both,” I said. “I’ve been stressed out lately and this will give me a chance to let out some steam.”

  “Let out all the steam you want. That’s exactly why they love you guys. Because it’s a no holds barred sonic bash every time.” Without waiting for a response, he checked his watch and scurried back inside.

  From the street, I could hear Dale in the club tuning his kit. The pitch of a tom cascaded into the depths and was ratcheted back up again with each turn of the drum key; with every iteration, the sound became cleaner and rounder, with less bong and more boom. I was spacing out on his droning single stroke clockwork rhythm, gaping at the front door with my jaw drooping towards the ground when Tommy peeked out. His attempts to get my attention didn’t register despite the blast of noise slipping through the entrance slit, so he forced his way into my consciousness.

  “Hey, boss,” he screamed and threw in a single clap.

  I snapped out of my daze, looked left, right and behind me. “You talking to me?” I asked. “You called me boss.”

  “You tawkin ta me.” He mimicked me like a two-bit thug. “Yeah, I’m talking to you. Calling you boss is like a saying, even though you can be bossy sometimes. Besides, it adds a foot to your ego.”

  “I’ll add a foot to your ass.”

  “Go for it, boss,” he said and swung his dumpy butt around towards me.

  “Get that thing out of my face,” I said and laughed, thinking how different it was when Stevie called me boss.

  “See, trying to tell me what to do again.” He chuckled. “Need a hand?”

  “Sure. Take this guitar. I’ll bring in the amp.”

  Tommy grabbed the case handle, and I rolled the Fender amplifier along with my bag of stomp boxes, cables and other miscellaneous electronica on top. I walked over to the stage where Dale went from a steady pulse of tuning strokes a couple minutes prior to now banging out a crazy solo, John Bonham style. Tommy, P.M. and Stevie also joined to admire the drummer boy’s dexterity. He’d play a while and every so often stop to adjust the drums and cymbal placement by millimeters to get it perfect. Each time he’d resume, he’d crush it even harder. His kickass backbeat was brought to a climax with an explosion of bombastic fills that slammed us to the wall. A sudden jolt of adrenaline flooded every cell in my body. In mere hours, I thought, I’ll be jamming alongside him and the band. Everything had a purpose again.

  “Bravo, bravo,” I said in an exaggerated English accent. “Got to love them chops, Dale. Make sure you keep up the Mojo when the Showroom comes alive.”

  “Don’t worry about me, mister. I’m on fire, and nothing’s going to douse this flame.”

  “I’m sure nothing will, or can for that matter,” I said. “But hey, let’s finish setting up, so we can do our sound check. I’m wicked hungry and need to pack on a mountain of calories before taking flight.”

  Everyone agreed that after the mix was down, we’d grab some eats at Wes’ Rib House to kill time before the crowds came. Since it wasn’t far, we made the journey on foot and once there, gorged ourselves on fatty meats drenched in tangy sauces and hosed it all down with pitchers of icy beer. Within no time, the good old days had returned. We laughed like hell and were back to our old tricks of busting balls and pouncing on whatever sorry bastard had the lamest comebacks. It was as if I were floating above myself watching some good friends having a moment to remember.

  After getting all porked out, and before we passed from a nerve calming buzz to a state of true drunkenness, we paid up and headed back to the club. From afar, you could see the gathering masses, and a tinge of excitement started building inside me. As we neared, the low rumble of voices was interspersed with boisterous undertones. With each step, the volume and aggression intensified which prompted us to quicken our pace. Something was going on and who else could be behind it?

  By the time we arrived, we were sprinting and out of breath. Not only was Babyface and Raunchy Rod at the forefront of the commotion, but I could see Stone himself. He was sitting in the back of his Cadillac, tinted window down, admiring the scene through his oversized sun glasses even though the sun had long set. Spread out amongst the whole perimeter was an army of hired guns, each a zombie, lacking conscience and looking ready to carry out whatever directives the imperial master may well dictate.

  As always, Dale assaulted from the front and got right into Boss Baby’s fatty face. “Now what, assholes?” he shouted.

  He was tackled by a pack of Stone’s henchmen and we all jumped on the pig pile to free him when Babyface gave his orders.

  “Let em up,” he said, stern yet controlled.

  Despite the commotion, they still heard him and stopped as commanded. Before Dale could lunge onto any of the aggressors, we held him back ourselves.

  “Sorry there, gentlemen,” Babyface said to us, “but there, ah, seems to be a technicality, some fire code violations in the venue, and we’ve taken it upon ourselves as concerned advocates to protect the innocent citizens of this great city from possibly, um… you know, getting fried. Right fellas?”

  He held out his palms at waist level and when he had everyone’s attention, raised his hands like talons briskly toward the darkening sky. His fingers flexed, showcasing his lumpy white knuckles. In rapid succession, he jerked his fists, in concert, back and forth towards the sympathetic crowd. The gang of hired hands squealed and howled in blind agreement. And like a conductor of an orchestra, waiving his baton, he brought the noise level back down to piano so he could continue speaking.

  “In cooperation with city officials, we’ve obtained special permission to ensure that this club stays closed until it’s, eh, all straightened out.” He looked around with a conniving smirk, head bobbing. “And guess what? It’s totally legal, all still in the books.” He turned manic, gesticulating facetiously and egging on his followers to exacerbate their whoops and ho
llers. He let his men work themselves into a frenzy and with the drop of a hat, cooled it down again, politicking and agitating like he was representing an important righteous cause. “You know, it’s like a citizen’s arrest, the law put into place in 1856, or maybe fifty-seven, to protect the People,” he said, “from getting poisoned by snake oil, burning in factory fires and crazy crap like that.” He had the stage and paused to relish in his five minutes of fame.

  Groups of potential concertgoers stood by to witness what would happen next, and sure enough, a rabbit was waiting up his hat.

  “Now look to my right to see who’s on our side.”

  As if on cue, a slew of Providence police cruisers roared down the street with their lights on and sirens off. The vehicles stopped, but nobody got out, and they made sure not to block Stone’s view.

  “You see. The fine men of the Providence police force are here to make sure you all go home peacefully and that the doors of the Showroom stay shut until it’s proven that it’s not a hazard to the health and well-being of the people.”

  I was infuriated and swore with all the lung power I had. “You big, fat prick, you…”

  He cut me right off. “Now, now, Luke. No need to get angry. We also want to make sure nothing bad happens to you. Don’t we fellas?”

  They laughed, the whole lot of them.

  “Yeah, Herbie,” Rodney blurted out, “nothing bad to happen to Luke Skywalker,”

  Babyface, or should I say Herbie, gave Rodney a stern look, and there was sure to be some form of retribution for divulging his name.

  I latched onto it right away like dancing in the rain after a ten-year drought. “Well, well, Herbie,” I said, drawing out the first syllable of his name to extremities. I felt an ounce of triumph with my new discovery. “No need to protect me, pal. What you need to do is get the frick out of my life and my friend’s lives too. Don’t know a thing about what you’re after, and even if I did, I’d rather burn in hell for all eternity than tell you a god damn thing, HERBIE.”

  “Oh, Moore, when are you going to grow up?” His voice sank to conversational level. He remained calm but must have been steaming inside. “This ain’t the time or place to discuss private matters. So, why don’t you walk and start thinking about where this is leading? It don’t look good for you, Moore.”

  He was right about walking away. The battle for the Showroom was lost, and we were taxed. I’m not sure how much farther they could push us before we broke for good. The innocents, those who were most likely there to listen to our music and party on down with us, those who were silent during the exchange, accepted Herbie’s statement to leave as a decree for them to skedaddle as well and took off in all directions.

  “Fine,” I said. “We’ll get our gear and go, but we’ll be back.”

  “Showroom’s closed,” Herbie said. “There’ll be no entrance”

  “We need our stuff. We really need our stuff.” Without hesitating further, I raced to the front door of the club and banged as hard as I could, almost having a tantrum.

  A piece of paper slid underneath the crack. It read, ‘Will deliver equipment tomorrow. Call you in the morn. Craig.’

  The Four surrounded me as the note was passed around. I looked over at Herbie, and he was shining from ear to ear. He’d beaten us on this one and knew it. We knew it too, so we made for our cars, some of us in tears. Before Tommy even got to his ailing Ford pickup, Tina and three friends intercepted us along the way. She had only gotten there, and Tommy had to make up some story about what had happened. She was bound to get at least some version of the truth out of him at home. I suggested for the rest of us to regroup at The Corner to drink away our frustration, but it was a unanimous no. They were spent, and most said they wanted to sleep in hopes of waking up to a better day.

  Craig rang me up Saturday morning at about nine. I’d already been awake for hours plucking the strings of an old acoustic while muttering improvised nonsense. I hadn’t even slept.

  “Hullo,” I answered, awash in melancholy.

  “It’s Craig.”

  “Thought it’d be you.”

  “Sorry about last night. My back was against the wall, you see.”

  With all muscle strength gone, I let my body fold into itself. My speech became lethargic. “I understand. Yes…totally understand how that feels.”

  “Not sure what’s going on, but you guys got to work it out. Until then, we need to cool it.” It was like he was breaking up with me. He even refrained from calling me Champ.

  “I understand,” I repeated, too numb to show any disappointment. I expected something like that, however, not so cold and impersonal.

  “But hey, once you fix things right, we’ll see about setting you up…swear to God, hope to die. Got me?” He tried to be upbeat but couldn’t drape his anxiety.

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Your equipment should be on the way to your house anytime now. Thought you might need it.”

  “Perhaps,” I replied, as I declined further, knowing that there’s nothing on the horizon.

  “So, uh, take care.” With a quick and whisper-like “Bye,” he hung up the phone before I could even get a word in.

  “Good…bye,” I said and let the receiver drop onto the station.

  They got us. Those other times, we escaped their grip, but last night, they hit hard. We’re not unstoppable, and it stung finding out how fragile our world really was. I decided to take a spin in the Grey Beast as a distraction. My first stop was Stevie’s. He wasn’t there, or at least he didn’t come to the door. Piano Mike was gone too. Tommy was home, and Tina’s parents were over for breakfast. I thought he’d at least invite me in for coffee, but he kind of shut the door in my face while Tina ragged in the background. The last one of the Four remaining was Dale. Being a Saturday, he was sure to be hustling over at Magic Cars, so I cruised over to talk to him. With no time for a chat, he cut me loose as soon as the next customer walked onto the lot.

  “Got to pay the bills,” he said. “Certainly not making it as a rock and roller these days.”

  The only place left to go was The Corner. Don always helps me put things into perspective when all seems bleak. It was almost noon and some grub and a couple of beers would be fitting. The place was almost empty, and my usual stool looked lonely without me. Some guy I never saw before, who looked like he’d been born in an alley, stood behind the bar and cleaned glasses. He polished about six more mugs before coming over.

  “Hey, buddy. Whatchya havin?”

  “Bud bottle and a chicken pot pie.” Before he could fully turn to carry out my request, I stopped him. “Don around today?”

  “Don?” he said, almost like he didn’t know him. “No, he has the weekend off.” He left to put in my order without offering any more information.

  I was nearly alone in there with this stranger, and after he brought my drink, he went right back to polishing the next batch of glasses, as if that would be better than wasting his time conversing with me. Bowling for Dollars was on the old black and white TV, located behind the bar, and like always I rooted for the underdog. The audience’s favorite contender hit strike upon strike, and the underdog turned out to be a major loser. I couldn’t help thinking that would be me in the end. What did I do to deserve this? Helped a friend? Tried to make it for me and my bandmates in the music business?

  I drank my beer, ate my pie, which was still cold in the middle, and left for home to wait for the equipment. The delivery person was already there and pissed off that I was gone when he arrived. What? Because he had to wait a couple minutes? How could I know when he was coming? Was I supposed to wait all day? I unloaded and lugged everything inside by myself while he watched from within the cab of his truck, listening to some boring AM talk radio station. Soon, I was by myself again and with nobody else to turn to, my last shot to find a sympathetic ear was to call Amy on
the walkie talkie. I tried for ten minutes; there was no answer. Maybe it was off to save batteries? In my greatest time of need, I was doomed to be on my own.

  So, what else was there to do but plop myself onto the couch and waste the day and the night just the same watching B movies in between nod off sessions?

  Sunday morning brought the second call. It was even more dramatic than Saturday’s since it was unexpected.

  “It’s me, Jake.” His familiar voice perked me up.

  “Pleasant surprise hearing from you today.”

  “What I need to talk about isn’t so pleasant.” Mr. Chill came across as being Mr. Icy. “There was an extremely uncool situation at the studio yesterday, and one of my guys landed in the hospital with some broken ribs. I’ll spare the gory details, but it was made crystal clear that if I continue to work with you, and Stevie, it’ll be a major disaster for the studio and for me personally.” He waited a couple of seconds before continuing. “Luke, I really dig you. Stevie too. And I’m totally high on your talent and artistry, and your rad tunes and poesy. But what a buzz-kill, man.” He paused again to let what he was saying sink in. “You know me, Luke. I have ideals. I keep my word. And I don’t compromise. I’m a businessman too, and a family guy and lots of people rely on me, and Free Range. I’m one of the chiefs that keeps things rolling. Get it? And it needs to stay that way.” He stopped once more. This time even longer, an uncomfortable length of silence. I could already guess what was coming and didn’t bother to brace myself.