Nocturnal Emissions
Page 23
The camera cut to Egan’s face as he watched the shoot. The musician was shaking his head. Then an angle on Widget again, still stamping his feet as he marched, his intense expression making him resemble a baby trying to pass gas. He sang:
“Tunnel of love, tunnel of love
Ooh, baby, take me for a ride
Tunnel of love, tunnel of love
Ooh, mama, take me inside”
The chorus was also picked up this time by the backup singers, three attractive women—one white, one black, one Oriental—in skintight red rubber jumpsuits, who came crawling out of a sewer grate in the set’s floor. In the finished video, they writhed and contorted sensuously behind Rake and Widget, seemingly following them through that endless pink tunnel. Then, it was Rake’s turn again:
“Dancing down the street to the tune in my headThinking of the nights spent in your warm bedI’m anticipating, watching time go by”
And Widget delivered the line:
“It’s so stimulating between your thighs”
He sang it as, “Betweeeeen your thighs.” Then, his jaw opened and a hinged wooden tongue waggled out. He and the backup girls sang:
“Tunnel of love, tunnel of love
Ooh, baby, take me for a ride
Tunnel of love, tunnel of love
Ooh, mama, take me inside
Take me inside”
Somewhere above, something let go—buckets tipped or balloons were burst—and a cascade of water came crashing down on the backup singers, who turned their faces up to catch the sudden downpour. While they rubbed their hands over their wet chests and bellies, Rake droned:.
“Tunnel of love, tunnel of love
Ooh, baby, take me for a ride
Tunnel of love, tunnel of love
Pretty little filly, take me for a ride”
It would gradually become obvious, through the course of the documentary, that Rake managed to slip “pretty little filly” or “silly little filly” into every song they covered. Widget took over:
“Tunnel of love, tunnel of love
Ooh, baby, take me for a ride
Tunnel of love, tunnel of love
Ooh, mama, take me inside”
Camera on Egan again. He had turned his back and was walking away, still shaking his head. Noticing this, Winsome darted anxiously after him, trying to catch his arm. Against the diminished volume of the music, Winsome hissed, “Walter, please, please don’t go!”
Egan stopped and thrust a thumb in the direction of the shoot. “You know, Teddy, I think they just invited me here out of pure sadism, to make me suffer what they’re doing to my song.”
“Come on…it’s just a fun song, Walter, you know that.”
“I tried to look past that ‘Walter Egan tribute album’ crack, but this is all just too much.”
“Walter, please, please…you can’t do this to me!”
“Tunnel of love, tunnel of love,” Rake sang laconically,
“Ooh, filly, take me for a ride
Tunnel of love, tunnel of love
Ooh, mama, ooh, mama
Tunnel of love, tunnel of love
Ooh…”
Widget had finally noticed Egan’s departure, and screeched, “Hey! What’s the problem over there, Teddy?”
The music was cut off abruptly. The crew froze in place like a herd of deer caught in headlights. The backup trio quit their gyrations and stood dripping.
Winsome whirled around, teetered as if he might faint, but caught himself and stammered, “Ahh…sorry to distract you, Widget. We were just talking about the song.”
“What about the song?” the rosy-cheeked puppet demanded.
“Um…well, I was saying how Bruce Springsteen has a song called Tunnelof Love, too, but that Walter’s song came out ten years earlier, and, ah…”
Widget snorted. “Ooh, wow, what an innovator. Did he invent the Internet, too?”“That’s it, man, that’s it,” Egan said to Winsome. He took a step back in the direction of the stage and called to Widget, “What is it with you?
Supposedly you like my song, and you treat me like this?”
“Fuck your song, then,” Widget said. “We’ll scrap it from the album and do a cover of Springsteen’s song instead. Right, Rake?”
“Yep, little feller. Do the Boss instead, mm-hm.”
“Hey, go for it, Sling Blade,” Egan said.
“Ah, get the fuck out of here!” Widget called back sweetly.
“Shut up, you freakin’ ventriloquist’s dummy.”
“You fucking idiot,” Widget retorted. “Clearly I’m a marionette!”
“Okay, Walter, come on,” Winsome said, pulling him away toward the door. “You’re going to have to leave, I’m sorry…you’ve stirred them up enough. God, now there’s going to be hell to pay!”
“Well good luck to you with that, Teddy,” Egan told him. And over his shoulder he shouted to Widget, “Hey, keep wishing on a star and maybe someday you’ll be a real boy, Pinocchio!”
“Fuuuuuck youuuuu, Egan!” the marionette shrieked.
The scene cut after this, and led into another segment that was really much the same thing. Asinger named Bruce Springsteen was invited to watch Rake and Widget shoot a video for their cover of his song Tunnel of Love. Like Walter Egan, this performer also appeared not to have heard of the duo before despite Winsome’s assurances that they were “massive” with the young crowd right now.
The same set was employed, the treadmill in front of a greenscreen (the same background, added later, of a pink-painted tunnel), the same cavorting rubber-sheathed backup singers. But Springsteen, plainly appalled, put a stop to the proceedings quickly. Widget hurled some abuse, and Winsome took the rock star aside to try to calm him down. “Bruce, come on—it’s Rake and Widget, man!”
“Okay, then!” Widget yelled. “If you don’t like that one, let’s try another one of your songs!” Stomping in place with his lowered brows and wooden pout, the puppet launched into a rollicking number called On the Dark Side.
“That isn’t my song!” Springsteen barked. “That’s John Cafferty and the Beaver Brown Band!”
Widget stopped singing and said, “What are you talking about—of course that’s one of your songs!”
“It isn’t my damn song! I think I’d know!”
“Okay, right, whatever you say. How about this one, then?” And the marionette launched into a rollicking number called The Boys are Back in Town.
“That isn’t my song either and you know it!” Springsteen bellowed, causing Widget to cut his singing. “It’s Thin fucking Lizzy!”
“Ah, get the fuck out of here, you washed up has-been!” the puppet raged.
Springsteen started toward him but Winsome struggled to hold him back.
Widget added, “And if you ever disrespect me again, I’ll shove my cock so far down your throat you’ll be coughing up splinters for a week!”
After this, an excerpt was shown of a video the duo had managed to complete: their cover of a song called Little Green Bag by the George Baker Selection (who made no appearance in the documentary). The video started with Rake’s long, thin, black-clad legs walking into the frame in slow motion, followed by Widget’s stumpy limbs also wearing black trousers, his floating feet barely lighting on the ground as usual. The camera setup changed to a long shot to show that Widget wore a miniature dress suit like a child might wear to its baptism. Both he and Rake wore dark glasses. Later in the video Widget was shown dancing wildly in this attire, his toddler’s legs blurring in a frenzied jig, pouting and drawing forked fingers past his eyes.
The documentary took an interesting turn in another direction, interviewing the three backup singers seen in the Tunnel O’ Love/Tunnel of Love videos. The black girl complained about Widget’s advances (“One time I felt something poking me in the butt and I turned around and that little fucker was smiling up at me. It was his goddamn nose.”). But more intriguing was a story the white girl had to share, sniffling and dabbing at
tears while the Oriental girl put an arm around her shoulders consolingly. This young woman related:
“One time I was looking for Rake and Widget to ask them something about the next day’s shoot—they were the directors, ya know?—and I knocked on their trailer’s door. I didn’t hear anything, so I opened the door and called out for them. I saw a blue kind of light, like TV light, in another room, so I went inside the trailer and followed it. And I saw…oh God…”
“What did you see?” asked an off-screen interviewer.
“Widget was in the corner of their little kitchen, sitting on the floor and kind of slumped down with his head hanging to the side, like this.” She demonstrated. “His eyes were open, but he wasn’t moving. In this funny blue light, I saw that he had strings. Strings, like a puppet!”
“You mean like a marionette?”
“Right, like that. I’d never seen them before, but they showed up in this light for some reason, kind of shiny and glowing. But they, they looked like they went straight up through the trailer’s ceiling!”
“And what was this funny blue light?”
“It came from a big glass jar on the kitchen table. Something was inside it, floating in water or whatever and glowing blue. It looked like…maybe like a head of cabbage, or some cauliflower.”
“And you saw Rake, too?”
“Yes,” she choked. “Rake was sitting on a chair in front of this little table, kind of slumped forward, too, with his head drooping down like he was drunk.
His eyes were open, but they were rolled up all white. His…his cowboy hat was on the table, and…oh God…and I swear, the top of his head was open.
Like someone had sawed the top of his skull off! And it was just black inside…all black inside his head!”
Nothing was provided after this segment, by the interviewer or a narrator, to explain the significance of the woman’s disclosure, to elaborate on it or pursue it in any way. Instead, following this it was another scene wherein a performer was called in to watch Rake and Widget interpret one of his songs in a video. This artist was what was called a “rapper,” with the stage name Ice E (his full stage name being Ice E. Conditions, formerly Ice Dover). This man looked wary and ready for hostility right from the start, once he’d had his first look at the singing duo who had invited him. Rake was dressed as usual, but Widget wore a baseball cap fitted on his head sideways, a shiny sports jacket and matching pants, baggy and riding low, and a series of gaudy gold chains.
But if Ice E was wary before, he was clearly fuming once the shooting got underway. Rake and Widget took turns signing his song King of Humility, the puppet starting off with:
“The other day I drove my ‘cedes back to my old hoodAll the folks there thought I was gone for goodTold them as I stepped out from behind the wheelEven with all my fame I was keeping it real”
Then Rake, stiff as a board while Widget stomped in place beside him and gestured toward his own chest with his little arms, sang without a drop of inflection:
“My mansion’s got a wine cellar full of champagneWhen they stocked it up they had to use a craneBut now I stood on the corner with all my old crewTossing back a forty of our favorite old brew”
And Widget again, with his surly lowered brows and wooden pout:
“I’m fuckin’ all the bitches
While you just masturbate
I’m buried in riches
But my head is on straight
I’m the king of humility
Can’t you see?
Ain’t no motherfucker more humble than me!”
Of course, the last bit was sung liltingly as: “…more huuuuumble than me.”“Hold up, hold up,” Ice E roared, moving forward into the stage lights and waving his arms, “what the fuck is this shit?”
Widget waddled to the edge of the little stage they were being filmed on.
“Excuse me?”
Ice E whirled and shouted at Winsome, while pointing back at Widget.
“Nobody told me this freaky little midget was gonna cover my damn song!”
“Oh my God,” Winsome cried, “Mr. E…please don’t!”
“I ain’t letting it happen! You hear me? This is bullshit!”
“Hey, ‘G,’” Widget said, “we’re covering your ‘damn song’ whether you like it or not.”
Ice E turned around again, very slowly, to face the hip hop-attired puppet—his eyes bulging, white all around their pupils. “What the fuck did you say?”
Widget started weaving his head from side-to-side, as he repeated, “I said, we’re going to cover this song…and if you don’t like it you can kiss my woooooden ass –“ he tilted his head to one side, batted his eyes adorably and added in his sweeter-than-sweet voice “– bitch.”
Winsome and one of the crew members managed to restrain the rapper for a moment, but he tore free, reached inside his jacket and pulled out a semi-automatic pistol. He thrust his arm out to its full length, the pistol held horizontally rather than vertically, and fired off shot after cracking shot.
(“Oh my God! Oh my God!” Hee cried out, so tightly wedged in my recliner beside me, “I didn’t hear that this happened!”) Widget was thrown back, the baseball cap falling from his head. Rake went down on a knee beside his sprawled partner, while Ice E spun around and bolted for the exit. People were screaming, pulling out cell phones to call for the authorities, or to take videos of the fallen celebrity. Winsome dropped to both knees, holding his head between his hands, squeezing his eyes shut and presumably mouthing a prayer.
The documentary camera rushed closer to shoot over Rake’s shoulder, and there lay Widget, struck by multiple bullets. Vivid red blood was leaking from the holes punched in the puppet, forming a growing puddle under him in which splinters floated. Rake held one of his chubby little articulated hands, and looking up at him with half-closed lids, Widget said, “Aw, fuck, man, I’m dying.”
“Hold on, little feller,” Rake said tonelessly.
“I’m fucking dying, man.”
“I’m with you, little feller, mm-hm.”
A sound between a dry rattle and a wet gurgle was emitted, and then Widget’s wooden tongue was thrust from between his painted teeth.
If that didn’t make the outcome clear enough, the next sequence left no room for doubt. Expensive cars and limousines were driving up in front of a funeral parlor. Camera crews and journalists from TV stations and newspapers crowded about for shots of the celebrities who emerged from the cars and moved inside for the ceremony.
The documentary switched to the proceedings inside—and there among the milling VIPs was the singer Walter Egan, dressed in a nice suit and tie, but with an electric guitar slung across his body. Teddy Winsome stood beside him, and was saying, “Please just do this, Walter. I’ll have a nice check for you after it’s all over, believe me.”
The musician sighed, and said, “That’s fine, thanks—not that I’m as mer-cenary as you think, Teddy.”
The camera cut to Rake standing over his partner’s coffin, which more resembled a shoe box. Inside, dressed in his trademark short-sleeved white shirt and green lederhosen, the rosy-cheeked, baby-faced puppet smiled bliss-fully. Rake removed his black cowboy hat and held it over his chest. When he did so, he inadvertently exposed a white scar that entirely encircled the top of his head, set off by his slicked black hair.
“Goodbye, little feller,” he said, “mm-hm.”
Then, a cut to Walter Egan playing his electric guitar, which he’d plugged into an amplifier, accompanying Rake as the latter sang for the assembled mourners:
“Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me…
I once was lost but now am found,
My pretty little filly.”
After the ceremony, when the attendees were once again forming little groups to talk, Winsome thanked Egan and handed him his check. “Thanks,”
the singer said, folding it away. “So, ah, whose request was it that I play, anyway? Rake?”
“No, no.” Winsome pointed across the room. “It was their request.”
Egan turned to look, as did the eavesdropping documentary camera.
There stood two very different figures. One was a female dressed in a black leotard that included a tight hood around her head, baring only her face, which was made up in white and black mime makeup. Hanging from her mid-section was the upper body of a partly developed conjoined twin, the woman’s leotard having been artfully extended to encompass its body, too. The parasitic twin’s slack, drooling face was also made up in mime makeup, its gnarled hands convulsively thumping at some imaginary window. Beside the woman, a German Shepherd sat patiently. It wore a brass deep sea diving helmet, with the front hatch open to allow its snout to poke out.
Teddy Winsome explained brightly, “They’re my new clients, Walter, and they really love your work!”
#10: Ya Jest Gotta
Hee was nearly inconsolable after learning of the death of Widget. She let me borrow a disc she’d acquired or recorded somehow of Rake and Widget’s work; I don’t know if she heard something different from me, or if the disc had gone defective, but all I heard was static as from a poorly tuned radio and, somewhere behind it, maybe a cat in heat (or was that a baby crying?) and a woman singing opera (or was she sobbing?). To take Hee’s mind off the tragedy, and frankly, in the hopes of tilting our flirtation toward something more fulfilling, I took her out the next evening for dinner at a brand new restaurant I’d learned of called The Magical Negro.
I didn’t know quite what it was all about, at first, though I felt the restaurant’s name was a wee bit ill-advised. It was a rather small and humble affair, tastefully decorated with framed photographs of distinguished-looking people of color. Local men and women of note, maybe doctors at the nearby hospital, professors at the local college? It turned out that Hee, with her fanaticism for TV, knew more about the eatery than I did, and she pointed out certain faces to give their names. “That’s Scatman Crothers. He’s an African-American actor famous in the dimension you and me were watching on TV—you know, where Rake and Widget were visiting? Him, too, over there—that’s Sidney Poitier.” She turned in her seat. “Ruby Dee, over there, and that’s Morgan Freeman, of course, the most magical one of the bunch.”