Tricky Business

by Dave Barry

  The other bad thing about weddings and bar mitzvahs was song requests. In a bar gig, they could generally slide by these (“Sure, we’ll try to get to that in the next set”). But at a private gig, if somebody requested a song, they pretty much had to play it, even if it was a song that, over the years, they had come to loathe, like “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown,” or—God forbid—“Feelings.”

  At one wedding reception, they’d been ordered, by the mother of the bride, to perform “I Will Survive,” the angry anthem of dumped women everywhere. The band members played a quick round of Rock, Paper, Scissors to see who had to sing it; the loser was Johnny, who mumbled it in a soft falsetto, staring at his shoes, accompanied by the mother of the bride, who stood in the middle of the dance floor, alone, shrieking the words in the direction of the table where the father of the bride sat with his new trophy wife.

  Experiences like that led the band to develop the Retaliation Song. The way it worked was, if they were forced to perform a song they hated, they’d retaliate by playing a song that was even worse. For example, if the band had to play “My Way,” it would counterattack with Bobby Goldsboro’s sap-oozing piece of dreck, “Honey” (She wrecked the car and she was sad, and so afraid that I’d be mad, but what the heck!).

  One night, at a wedding reception, an extremely drunk man ordered the band to perform “The Ballad of the Green Berets,” and then, a half hour later, demanded that it be played again. That night, Arrival struck back with the hydrogen bomb of retaliation songs: “In the Year 2525,” the relentlessly ugly Zager and Evans song with the disturbingly weird lyrics (You won’t find a thing to chew! Nobody’s gonna look at you!). Some guests actually fled the room.

  In recent years, Arrival’s bookings had declined, in part because of the band’s growing tendency to become cranky and hostile toward its audience. This trend had culminated in the unfortunate incident that resulted in Arrival’s decision to change its name.

  It happened a few weeks after Wally returned to the band. Seriously in need of money, he’d booked the band at a west Broward County bar called Boots ’n’ Chaps. This was a country-western bar; Arrival was a last-minute replacement for a real country band, whose bus had broken down outside of Jacksonville. The Boots ’n’ Chaps owner, with his big Saturday-night crowd only hours away, had been unable to find another country band. In desperation, he called Wally.

  “Can you boys play contemporary country?” he asked.

  “Sure,” said Wally. He, personally, did not know any contemporary country, but he figured somebody in the band would know enough that they could fake it.

  As it turned out, nobody in Arrival knew any contemporary country. This was unfortunate, because the Boots ’n’ Chaps patrons were very much into that genre, to the extent of wearing actual cowboy-style boots. Arrival tried to please them by opening with the most country-sounding song in their repertoire, “Sweet Home Alabama.” The Boots ’n’ Chaps patrons tolerated this song as a recognized redneck classic but did not move toward the dance floor. They were waiting for the songs they expected at Boots ’n’ Chaps, the songs that enabled them to perform the complex country line dances they learned on Line Dance Lessons Night here at Boots ’n’ Chaps, augmented by detailed instructions available on the Internet (“Stomp right foot next to left; kick right foot forward; hook right foot across left ankle; kick right foot forward . . .”).

  After “Sweet Home Alabama,” Arrival moved on to “Honky Tonk Woman,” which has the words “honky tonk” in it but is definitely not contemporary country. The crowd’s mood darkened, the patrons sucking sullenly on their Budweiser longnecks. As “Honky Tonk Woman” ended, the band members shot one another What next? looks. Wally, thinking frantically, came up with Buddy Holly, who at least came from Texas. The band launched haltingly into “That’ll Be the Day” in two different keys, which they eventually narrowed down to one. They got through it OK, but the crowd did not move a bone.

  When the song ended, a hefty man at the bar, who was wearing not only a pair of cowboy-style boots, but also a cowboy-style hat, a cowboy-style shirt, cowboy-style jeans, and a belt buckle that looked like a hubcap, yelled “ ’Nuffa that shit! Play some country!” Other patrons hooted cowboy-style, as they had seen done in movies, and banged beer bottles on the tables.

  This did not sit well with Johnny, who happened to be a fan of Buddy Holly, and who had fortified himself for this gig with three tequila shooters. Leaning into his microphone, Johnny said to the hefty man, “So, Buck, how many head of cattle you got on your ranch?”

  The room went silent. The hefty man glared at Johnny.

  “No, wait, Buck, lemme guess,” Johnny continued. “You don’t have a ranch, but you drive a pickup, right? To your job at Wal-Mart? In the housewares department? Am I right, Buck?”

  This left the hefty man—whose name was not Buck, but Herb Tobin, and who in fact did work at Wal-Mart, although in major appliances—with no choice but to defend his honor. He rushed, boots clomping, across the dance floor to the low stage and charged into Johnny, who defended himself by thrusting his bass guitar, a 1973 Fender Precision, into Tobin’s face. Tobin grabbed the guitar and yanked it, along with Johnny, off the stage, and they both fell to the dance floor, grunting and flailing at each other.

  It would probably have been a draw, since neither participant was remotely competent at fisticuffs, plus they had the guitar between them. But the balance was tipped when a shrieking woman—Tobin’s wife and Wal-Mart colleague, Fran, who worked in the bed-and-bath department—pounced on Johnny from behind and clubbed his skull with a commemorative Jack Daniel’s ashtray that the police later estimated at two pounds.

  That was the finale of the Boots ’n’ Chaps gig. Johnny went off in the ambulance; Herb and Fran went off with the police. Wally, Ted, and Jock packed up their equipment quickly under the baleful glares of the Boots ’n’ Chaps patrons and left, unpaid. The bar owner told Wally that Arrival would damn sure never play there again. Wally said that he was sorry to hear that, because they’d really enjoyed meeting the original cast of Deliverance. The bar owner didn’t get it.

  When Wally, Ted, and Jock got to the hospital emergency room, the nurse behind the desk told them that Johnny was still being examined. They went out to the parking lot to smoke a joint, review the evening, and reflect on their cosmic loserness as a band. Eventually, they got around to the name Arrival, which they agreed had become a marketing liability, not to mention a nagging reminder of their pathetic adolescent fantasies of wealth and fame and incomprehensible amounts of nookie.

  By the second joint, they had decided that if they were going to fail as a band, they were at least going to fail with a better name. They were considering various candidates—including “Departure,” “The Original Kings of Apathy,” “No, We Don’t Play Hip-Hop; We’re Musicians,” and “We May Suck, But We Play Better Than You Dance”—when the emergency-room nurse, whose shift had ended, appeared in the parking lot, headed for her car. She stopped a few feet from the three bandmates and looked at them. Jock, obeying a reflex developed in seventh grade, stuck the joint behind his back.

  “You guys want to know about your friend?” the nurse asked.

  “Sure,” said Wally.

  “He’s OK,” said the nurse. “Scalp wound, fourteen stitches. Some contusions. Nothing serious. He can go soon.”

  “That’s great,” said Wally.

  “I thought contusions was serious,” said Jock.

  “You’re thinking concussion,” said Ted.

  “No, I’m not,” said Jock, although he had been.

  “It’s not serious,” said the nurse, studying Jock, who was the member of the band women were most likely to study. “It just means bruises.”

  “Oh,” said Jock, studying the nurse in return, and noticing that she was kind of attractive, in a mature-woman, Ann-Margret-ish, potentially-nice-rack-under-that-uniform kind of way.

  “That’s great,” said Wally, again. “Thanks.”

/>   The nurse, not leaving, kept her eyes on Jock, who still had his hand behind his back.

  “So,” she said, “are you gonna offer me a hit of that?”

  Twenty minutes later, the nurse, whose name was Sandy, and who was 43, and who had learned that very afternoon that her former husband was going to marry her former Avon representative, drove off with Jock in her Toyota Camry, leaving Wally and Ted to finish the third joint.

  Finally, Wally said, “Let’s go get Johnny.”

  “Johnny,” said Ted, suddenly remembering Johnny. “And his contusions.”

  Wally stopped.

  “Johnny and the Contusions,” he said.

  They looked at each other. Then they high-fived, and Arrival was no more.

  Three weeks, one wedding, and nine bar gigs later, at 6:30 A.M., Wally was awakened by his cell phone, which he never turned off.

  “Hello?” he said.

  “You with Arrival?” said a voice.

  “What?” said Wally.

  “The band,” said the voice. “On this business card, where I got this number, it says Arrival, Contemporary Music for All Occasions.”

  Wally looked at his clock radio.

  “It’s six-thirty in the morning,” he said.

  “I know that,” said the voice. “I got a watch. What I need is a band.”

  “Now?” said Wally.

  “Tonight,” said the voice. “On a casino boat. I need a band. You show up, do a good job, you get steady work. But you gotta be there tonight. You can do that, Arrival?”

  “Actually,” said Wally, “that’s an old card. Our new name is Johnny and the Contusions.”

  “What?” said the voice. “The card says Arrival.”

  “I know,” said Wally. “We just changed our name to Johnny and the Contusions.”

  “Contusions?” said the voice.

  “It means bruises,” said Wally.

  “I know that,” said the voice.

  “Funny story behind that,” said Wally. “Our bass player, Johnny, he got into a . . .” He trailed off, realizing that this was not a good story to tell somebody who was considering hiring the band.

  “That’s a dumb-ass name,” said the voice.

  Wally said nothing, because maybe the voice had a point.

  “I need to know something about the band,” said the voice.

  “OK,” said Wally, “we do mostly classic-rock covers, but we can do almost any—”

  “No,” said the voice. “What I need to know, does anybody in the band get seasick?”

  “No,” said Wally. “I don’t think so.”

  “I don’t need a band that pukes on the customers,” said the voice.

  “No,” agreed Wally.

  “Two hundred dollars a night,” said the voice. “You play five hours.”

  “I dunno,” said Wally. “Usually, for this kind of job, we would charge—”

  “Two hundred dollars,” said the voice.

  “OK,” said Wally.

  “You know the Chum Bucket?” said the voice. “On the bay?”

  “Yeah,” said Wally. “In fact we played there a couple of—”

  “Boat leaves from there,” said the voice. “Extravaganza of the Seas. You and the rest of the Concussions be there at five-thirty.”

  “It’s Contusions,” said Wally. “Johnny and the Contusions.”

  “Dumb-ass name,” said the voice, and hung up.

  ESTELLE WAS ABOUT TO BITE SUMO BOY. FAY could see it in her eyes.

  Sumo Boy was the least-pleasant child in Estelle’s Tot-a-Rama class, where Fay took Estelle three days a week so she could play with other babies. Except that the Tot-a-Rama instructor did not call it “playing.” She called it “interacting.” That’s how the Tot-a-Rama instructor talked, as a result of taking courses in Child Development. If Estelle was trying to put a ball into a bucket, the Tot-a-Rama instructor would inform Fay that Estelle was working on her spatial relationship skills. Her favorite word was “cognitive.”

  Fay found this very amusing but had nobody to share the joke with; the other moms seemed to take the Tot-a-Rama instructor seriously. Fay felt out of place in this class, and not just because she was the only mom who drove an eight-year-old Ford Probe as opposed to a new SUV the size of a mobile home. She also believed she was the only single working mom in the group. She was sure she was the only mom who, at night, wore a skimpy costume and served cocktails to groping morons on a casino ship.

  So Fay was not crazy about Tot-a-Rama, especially since it cost her money that she didn’t always have, and sleep that she desperately needed after long, late nights on the ship. But Estelle loved Tot-a-Rama and got along well with the other babies. Except for Sumo Boy.

  Sumo Boy, whose real name was Christopher, was huge for a 19-month-old, weighing in at around 40 pounds, 13 pounds heavier than Estelle. Sumo Boy was very possessive, and right now he was getting on Estelle’s nerves, over the beanbags. There were dozens of beanbags, plenty for everybody, but whenever Estelle picked one up, Sumo Boy would yell “MINE!” and grab for it with his chubby hands. Estelle, who was a good sharer, would let go of the bag and pick up another one. Sumo Boy would then drop his current bag, yell “MINE!” again, and grab for the new one.

  Fay could see that Estelle was getting tired of sharing and was just about ready to retaliate. Fay kept waiting for Sumo Boy’s mother to do something about her son’s behavior, but Sumo Mom just smiled, as though this were the cutest thing she’d ever seen.

  Fay was not a big fan of Sumo Mom. Once, while the class was developing some cognitive skill or other by playing Marching, Marching Round and Round, Fay had gotten a cell-phone call from her ex-husband, who was pissed off about a letter he got from Fay’s lawyer about being behind on his child support. Fay was marching, holding the cell phone to her ear with her right hand, holding Estelle’s tiny hand with her left.

  “Todd, I can’t talk now,” she whispered.

  “You want another court fight?” Todd said. “Is that what you want?” Todd loved to fight. He spent considerably more on legal fees than it would cost him simply to send Fay the money he owed, but for him the added expense was worth it.

  “No, Todd,” whispered Fay. “I don’t want to fight. I just want you to fulfill your—”

  “Well, you’re going to get another court fight,” said Todd, hanging up.

  “Shit,” said Fay. She said it quietly, but Sumo Mom, who was marching right in front of her, heard it and turned to give her a glare.

  “I’m sorry,” Fay said.

  “There’s no need for that kind of language here,” said Sumo Mom.

  “I know,” said Fay. “I’m very sorry.”

  “Little children have big ears,” said Sumo Mom.

  Your child also has a big butt, thought Fay, but she said, “Look, I said I’m sorry. The kids didn’t hear anything. I’m just having a personal situation that . . .”

  But Sumo Mom, having taken the moral high ground, had turned away and was marching righteously onward. Later, Fay saw her talking to the Tot-a-Rama instructor, who pulled Fay aside after class and gave her a little lecture concerning inappropriate contexts for hostile verbalization.

  Fay had exchanged no words with Sumo Mom since that day, but she was getting close now, as she watched Estelle, having had enough, yank her beanbag out of Sumo Boy’s grasp.

  “MINE!” said Sumo Boy, barging into Estelle, hands out. Estelle opened her mouth, clearly intending to chomp down on one of Sumo Boy’s plump arms.

  “No!” said Fay, grabbing Estelle and swooping her up. “We don’t bite, Estelle. We never bite.”

  “MINE!” screamed Sumo Boy, as the beanbag, still in Estelle’s grasp, soared out of reach.

  Sumo Mom was outraged. “She was going to bite him!” she informed Fay. “She was going to bite my son!” Around the room, nine mommy heads swiveled their way.

  “MINE!” shouted Sumo Boy.

  “I’m sorry,” Fay told Sumo Mom. “But
your son was taking all her beanbags, and she gets . . .”

  “MINE!!” said Sumo Boy, pounding on Fay’s leg. “MINE!!” He hit hard, for a baby; Fay’s leg hurt. She was also getting a headache.

  “Do you have any idea how dangerous a human bite can be?” said Sumo Mom.

  “Yes, but she didn’t—”

  “MINE!!” (Pound.) “MINE!!” (Pound.) “MINE!!” (Pound.)

  “The human bite is very dangerous,” said Sumo Mom. “My husband is a doctor.”

  At that moment, Sumo Boy sunk his sharp little teeth into Fay, penetrating her jeans just above her left knee.

  “OW!” said Fay, yanking the leg away. Sumo Boy, suddenly unsupported, fell on his face. After an ominously silent two seconds, he emitted a glass-shattering shriek. It was matched in volume by one from Sumo Mom, who fell to her knees and scooped her wailing child into her arms. He looked unhurt to Fay. She, on the other hand, felt as though she’d been stabbed with an ice pick.

  “What happened?” said the Tot-a-Rama instructor, scurrying over.

  “She tried to bite my son!” said Sumo Mom, pointing at Estelle.

  “We can’t have biting behavior in Tot-a-Rama,” the instructor told Fay.

  “My daughter didn’t bite anybody,” said Fay. “In fact—”

  “She tried to!” said Sumo Mom. “She was going to bite my son.”

  “We cannot allow aggressive behavior that jeopardizes the physical well-being of our participants,” said the instructor.

  “But what I’m telling you,” said Fay, “is that she didn’t—”

  “Human bites are very dangerous,” said Sumo Mom. “My husband is a doctor.”

  “Then maybe he could sew your mouth shut,” said Fay.

  Sumo Mom was stunned speechless. The instructor was very displeased.