Ladies and Gentlemen...The Redeemers

by Michael Scott Miller

  Inside the swinging glass doors, Bert and Dave were met by a middle-aged receptionist sitting behind a desk off to the left side. Straight ahead, the white tiled floor gave way to an expanse of cream colored carpet which defined a sitting area, complete with sofas, armchairs, and coffee tables. An elderly gentlemen sat reading quietly in one of the armchairs, but otherwise, there was no activity.

  Bert asked at the desk for Gene. The receptionist looked up the phone number in the faux leather bound residence directory and dialed. Bert and Dave waited anxiously for the woman to start speaking, but she continued to hold the phone to her ear in silence. After what seemed to be more time than was reasonable for someone to make their way to the phone, she placed the handset down.

  “He’s not answering,” she said, stating the obvious. Then she added, more helpfully, “You may want to try the clubhouse. I know he spends a lot of time there.”

  The clubhouse was tastefully decorated in wood with gilded accents. It wasn’t Bert’s taste, but it offered a sense of casual elegance. Both men were immediately struck, though, by its eerie quiet. There was something sterile and uncomfortable about the place.

  They wandered along, listening as the sound of their own footsteps clattered on the tiled floor. Eventually, they heard some noise and entered a large sitting room that held a piano, couches and chairs, an unlit fireplace, and a buffet table with danish and coffee. There was a cluster of elderly ladies chattering away and Bert could discern ‘Can you top this?’ stories about one another’s grandchildren.

  Off to one side, a smaller room contained three card tables, one of which was occupied by a group of men playing poker. Almost immediately, Bert recognized Gene and signaled to Dave to wait in the larger room for him.

  Bert walked over to the card table. The men were in the middle of a game of seven-card stud, and the five men still in the game had two cards face down and three cards face up in front of each of them. Gene was showing the two of clubs, six of spades, and nine of hearts. It didn’t look good.

  Gene looked up at Bert. “You look familiar.”

  Surprised, Bert answered, “We’ve worked together. The music business.”

  Looking at his cards, Gene thought for a minute, nodded with a self-satisfied smile, and then proclaimed flatly, “Fried Monkey Spleen.”

  “Excuse me?” Bert responded as Gene folded his hand.

  “Fried Monkey Spleen,” Gene stated again, as if this were a perfectly normal course of conversation.

  Then it registered and Bert let out a laugh. He and Gene had worked together on a handful of projects, some of which had been moderately successful. But the one that had stuck with Gene was the comically disastrous Fried Monkey Spleen incident. Bert had almost completely forgotten about it.

  Fried Monkey Spleen was a band for which Bert had taken on management responsibility. He would have described the appointment as a lapse in judgment if not for the fact that he had tried as hard as he could to steer clear of the band. The four-member band, if you could call it that, was a collection of nineteen and twenty-year-olds from Omaha, Nebraska. Bert had often wondered if they had been kicked in the head by mules a few too many times.

  The bunch of wild, hillbilly rockers could barely play their instruments. But they had somehow captured the spirit of America’s youth and become worshipped poster children for anti-establishment teenage rage. An independent single had received some airplay locally and the attention became national when their antics started making headlines.

  By the time Bert got involved with them, they were on their third label and fourth manager, and they still hadn’t completed their first album. It was almost becoming a battle of personal pride for the band to see how many of each they could wear out.

  When the band booted out their fourth manager--their first while under contract with Sapphire Records--the recording company had turned to Bert. He protested, begged, and pleaded, but to no avail. He was seasoned, and Sapphire thought that if anyone could tame the band, Bert could.

  Bert inherited the partially complete recording and had brought in Gene and a bunch of other studio musicians to try to enhance the album with something approximating music. His strategy was to use the Fried Monkey Spleen members to lay down the basic tracks and then fill in around them.

  It wasn’t a bad strategy until the lead singer found the drummer having sex with the singer’s girlfriend in the equipment room during a break. As the girl scrambled to dress and get out, the two boys took turns hurling musical equipment at one another -- guitars, microphone stands, amplifiers, whatever they could get their hands on.

  The violence spilled out into the studio and continued until virtually every piece of recording equipment had been smashed, several windows had been shattered, and both boys had ended up in the hospital for treatment of their cuts and bruises.

  The band never mended after that incident and Sapphire ended up releasing a mini-album of five of the tracks, which was greeted with respectable, if not overwhelming, enthusiasm.

  Bert laughed hard, a deeper and more natural laugh than he had had in quite some time.

  Gene rose while addressing the other players. “Deal me out for a bit.”

  “That’s quite a hand you had there,” Bert said to him in jest as they walked away from the table. “I hate to pull you away from it.”

  “Yeah, that’s how it’s been running all day. But it’s better to have lousy hands like that than hands that are just good enough to lose. That’s when it gets expensive.” He winked at the wisdom of his own commentary. “So what brings you out here, uh--I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”

  “Bert Ingram.”

  “Ah, yes. Bert. What brings you out here, Bert? You’re not ready for a retirement community, are you?”

  “Just the opposite, actually. My activity level hasn’t been this high in years.” Bert went on to tell him about the band.

  “… and so,” Bert concluded hopefully, “I’m here to coax you out of retirement. What do you say? All we need is a bass player.”

  “Wow,” Gene mused, “that’s quite an offer.” He chuckled to himself. “I can just imagine the look on my granddaughter’s face if I told her I was working again.”

  “Why wouldn’t she want you to?”

  “Oh, you know, the usual stuff, my health, my age. And she always felt that I was taken advantage of. You know, she and I are pretty close, and she’s always tried to look out for me. I think she thinks that I could have been some famous musician, but that I got relegated to the background, helping other musicians make the big time while my contributions remained virtually nameless on the fine print of the album sleeves.”

  “Could you have been?” asked Bert.

  “What? Famous?” Gene asked. Bert nodded. “Sure, I mean, I was always confident of my talent. But it just never happened for me. So that’s what she’d be concerned about. More of the same. I guess that’s my reservation too.”

  “It wouldn’t be like that this time. You’d be a permanent and equal member of the band. Creative input and everything. Just a bunch of guys chasing the same dream.”

  “I have to admit, it does get a little dull around here. There’s only so much poker, bingo, pool, and stories about grandchildren a man can take.”

  “You’ll give us a shot?” Bert asked.

  “Let me think about it. Can I give you a call in a day or two?”

  “Of course,” answered Bert warmly, removing a business card from his jacket pocket. “Here’s how to reach me. I look forward to the call.”

  * * *

  Rather than return to the card game, Gene took a detour to his apartment. He needed to know more about Bert. He placed a call to Sherman Mack, his former agent. Sherman, who was on his way to a client, didn’t have any recollection of Bert Ingram, but he told Gene he’d make a few calls and see what he could find out.

  Gene returned to the card game, but he couldn’t concentrate. All he could focus on was Bert’s proposal. After aw
hile, he returned to the apartment and spent the remainder of the day mulling over the offer. One more try. Should I give it one more try? Gene liked what Bert had said about being a permanent and equal partner in the band. He had always felt that his awkward appearance had played some role in his inability to become a permanent member of a band. Bert was looking beyond that. He always had. The more Gene thought back, the more he remembered his time spent working with Bert. Bert had always treated Gene well.

  Gene’s thoughts were finally interrupted by the sound of his telephone ringing. It was Sherman.

  “Okay, Gene, here’s what I found. This guy, Bert Ingram, was a pretty successful guy at Sapphire Records awhile back. You probably knew that already, though. He rose through the ranks pretty quickly, but then he flamed out.

  “But here’s the real kicker. No one in the industry has heard anything from him or about him in at least ten years. Word is that there was a big falling out over at Sapphire and the execs there lost faith in him. It sounds like whatever it was turned out to be a career ender. Seems he just disappeared after that. Can I ask you why you’re asking about him?”

  Gene told him about the conversation earlier that day.

  “I don’t know, Gene. Sounds a little peculiar if you ask me,” Sherman said after Gene finished. “Listen, I need to run. I’ve got someone here waiting for me. Give me a call if you need any help.”

  Gene thanked him.

  “Anytime,” Sherman replied. “Just be careful with this guy.”

  Gene hung up the phone and thought some more. He felt like a jilted lover who couldn’t stop returning to the cheating partner. He continued deep in thought until he drifted off to sleep for the night. The next morning, his gut told him the answer that his head had tried to convince it of the night before. He took a deep breath and made the call to Bert.

  “Give me some good news!” Bert said after Gene announced himself.

  “I’m in,” Gene stated firmly.

  Sounding jubilant, Bert told Gene that he would be in touch for their first rehearsal shortly.

  The band had been born.

  Chapter 7 – The Garage

  Bert looked at the faces of the men assembled before him: a motley group. He chuckled at the contrasts between young and old, black and white, and large and small, as well as the range in social strata, from desolate at one end to borderline comfortable at the other.

  The men sat in the living area of Charlie’s small apartment, with Bert’s sleeping bag rolled up and tucked neatly into a corner. Abe sat next to Gene on the couch that doubled as Charlie’s bed, the huge singer dwarfing the elderly bassist. Aaron, his dreadlocks bouncing, leaned on the armrest at one end, while Charlie perched on the other end, managing to look elegant. Dave stood behind the couch, surveying the room as if ready to teach a music class. Ethan sat off to himself on the floor, leaning against a small side table and looking sullen, his legs fully extended in front of him in his usual student’s jeans. The musicians eyed one another awkwardly, uncertain what they had gotten themselves into.

  Four days had passed since the late October trip to San Rafael that had landed Gene. In that time, Bert had contacted each of the band members and instructed them – yes, instructed, for he was now their manager -- to meet at the apartment to kick things off.

  With everyone gathered, Bert performed the introductions and asked each of the members to give a little background information about himself. One by one, the members spoke.

  Throughout the bios, Ethan sat alternately staring at his shoes and tilting his head up toward the ceiling. Eventually, Charlie reached the point where he could no longer ignore Ethan’s body language. “What’s bothering you?” Charlie asked him.

  “Nothing,” replied Ethan flatly. “This just isn’t really my scene.”

  “Oh, I get it,” responded Charlie, “You’re a college man. Born into a life of privilege--”

  Ethan cut him off. “Look, it’s not that I think I’m better than you.” He paused in thought for a moment. “Just diff--”

  “Let’s talk about our musical style,” Bert cut in before Charlie could escalate the confrontation. “We need to feel like we’re a rock n roll band with the soul of the streets in us. We’ll be heavy on the saxophone and the bass line, so we’ll cross over into R&B and funk. Sound good?”

  “Works for me, dude,” replied Aaron.

  A few of the others nodded, while the rest just looked at Bert, signaling they were with him.

  Bert continued, “To get us started, I have a CD for each of you of some songs that I’d like you to practice so we can learn to play together.”

  Over the last couple of days, with the assistance of Dave and his computer equipment, Bert had scraped together a basic collection of soulful rock music from Abe’s collection, making CDs for each of the band members. It had taken some convincing for Abe to let the strangers into the sightless, organized world of his little apartment, but Bert had reminded him that his word was his bond and that he had come through on his end of the deal by finding the other band members. Part of being in this band was sharing resources, and Bert knew that Abe’s collection would be a great source for music from the industry’s legends.

  Bert continued to address the assembly as he distributed the discs. “The purpose of these is to establish a common ground so we can start learning each other’s strengths, weaknesses, and tendencies. Dave here has a gift for writing and he’s already put one song together, which is also on the CD. We still need to come up with the lyrics, but the music will get us started.”

  Abe spoke for the first time outside of his exceedingly brief bio when he had said, “I’m the singer. I sing. I’m not here to give a history lesson.” Now he motioned in Ethan’s direction. “I have an idea. Why don’t we let our little scholar here write the words for us?”

  Ethan responded, his abrasiveness rising. “I don’t know that I can put together the word from the streets. I’m that ‘child of privilege,’ remember?”

  “Heh, heh, the college boy can’t write,” laughed Abe.

  “At least I have some personal pride, unlike some of you. Do you really think anyone is ever going to invite us to go on stage one day looking like this?”

  Bert cut in again. “All right, ease up everybody. Here’s what we’re going to do. We don’t need to love one another. Lots of bands have survived and even thrived with internal conflict. But just so we all know, this is not a five-year development plan. Everybody’s hungry. We don’t know each other that well. We’ll get restless quickly, I know, so I want us to move forward with a sense of urgency. Keep your focus on the band and your role and leave the rest to me. Okay?”

  Bert looked at each member. No one spoke, so Bert raised his voice. “Okay?” Heads nodded. “Okay, then. Today’s Tuesday. Let’s meet at Dave’s house for our first practice session two weeks from today, say three o’clock? It’s okay if we use your place, isn’t it, Dave?”

  Bert had been unable to come up with another practical location for the band to practice. He’d ultimately decided that by asking Dave in front of the others, Dave would have difficulty turning him down.

  Dave’s face turned pale. “B-b-but, Bert,” he said, “I haven’t, I mean, I need to clear this with, you know, my wife. I’m not sure how keen she’s going to be to use our house as a rehearsal studio.”

  “You have a garage, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “There. So we don’t even need to go in the house.”

  “That’s not the point. She already thinks I’m half crazy with this band. Once the neighbors start complaining and …” Dave caught the crushed look on Bert’s face. “Oh, all right,” he said in surrender. “I’ll work it out.”

  * * *

  Ethan waited until each of the other band members had filtered out of the apartment, and then approached Bert. He looked uncomfortable. “Listen, maybe I shouldn’t have come here,” he said.

  Bert desperately needed a way to lock in Ethan un
til the band got some traction. “Ethan, I know we can work through this,” he said earnestly. “Let me make you a deal. Give me until the end of the school year. If you still don’t want to be here then, you can walk away and you have my word. No more stalking.” He smiled at the word, thinking back to his travails in getting Ethan here in the first place.

  “How do I know I can trust your word?” Ethan asked.

  “It’s all I’ve got,” replied Bert with a fixed gaze.

  Ethan thought for another moment and then answered, “All right. That’s fair. I’ll give you until then. But no longer.”

  * * *

  Dave had cleared out his one car garage as much as he was able. He lived in Bernal Heights, south of the city’s downtown area. His home was modest in size and painted pale blue with white trim. Both the blue and white paint showed signs of aging and cracking, but for the most part, the house gave the impression of a firmly middle class family taking pride in what they owned.

  The split-level house itself was already cramped with Ann and the two children. Between the three bedrooms, the family room/living room with attached small dining room, the tight kitchen that wasn’t large enough to accommodate even a small table, and the one and a half baths, Dave and his family were using all the available space. Now Dave had needed to clear out much of the detached garage and find places for the years of accumulation somewhere inside the house. Much of it made the trash pile, but what didn’t, Dave piled onto the top shelves of virtually every closet in the house.

  He wasn’t sure what to expect when the band arrived, or even if they would arrive. At some level, he felt that this whole experience bordered on the surreal, and that he would one day awaken to find that it had all been a dream. After all, here he was, a forty-two year old suburban music teacher, aligned with downtrodden strangers in the hopes of rekindling his lifelong pursuit of musical accomplishment.

  But am I chasing accomplishment or merely acknowledgment? he wondered. He couldn’t deny his deep-seated need for external recognition of his musical skills and a justification for the years spent practicing. It wasn’t about the fame or money. It was about self-worth. Or is this what a midlife crisis feels like?