He looked at her smugly and replied, “New band. Farley and I only play songs by artists that have bee in their names, like the Bee Gees, BB King. We wanna do that King Bees song — I forget the name.”
“This group exists?” she asked, knocked off balance, unable to track how the conversation had gotten here so abruptly and whether she’d be able to navigate back to the topic at hand.
“It exists on paper. I knew the idea was too awesome to stay a secret for long.” Vicar softly sang “Rock Lobster” under his breath.
A secret? Ye gods. That kind of rubbish didn’t need to be cloaked in secrecy. He could have screamed it from the highest mountaintop and no one would have given even the slightest shit about it. Just when she thought she understood the guy, he’d swoosh off on some night flight to rock ’n’ roll heaven.
Jacquie stared down at the floor for a few moments and distracted herself with the pattern on the kitchen tile — a sliver of late afternoon sun glowed upon it.
As he fiddled with the stereo, Vicar erupted in atonal song. “Daydream BEE-liever and a homecoming queen … bee …” He smirked.
Jesus, I think his landing strip has a few potholes that need paving, Jacquie thought, aggravated by his lack of concern. The disconnect she was witnessing made her short of breath. Usually, Vicar seemed so normal — bright, even — but mention one of his bands, and he was off like a terrier after a rodent. She flashed on a memory of her auntie, a schoolteacher with an advanced degree in education, who, with a straight face, had once told her about a friend of a friend who had come home from Hawaii with a pimple that later erupted and spewed forth a thousand baby spiders.
Feeling the urgency of the situation boiling up, Jacquie looked up and sharply said, “Tony! Hey!” She clapped her hands. Vicar stopped singing and looked at her. “She wants an audience. You know, like you’re the pope or something.”
Vicar levelled his gaze at her for a heartbeat or two, then laughed. “Oh, piss off!” He began humming again.
Even with three years of psych under her belt, Jacquie couldn’t figure out if this music thing was enthusiasm, denial, or a mental disorder.
“Tony, she wants you to use your hidden powers to choose the sex of her grandchild.”
Vicar tilted his head, his face screwed tight in disbelief, as if he were seeing through a silly little prank.
“I am not kidding. You must believe me. She is loony. She asked — she practically demanded an audience. This is scary.” She paused for a moment. “You have to be careful. This is beginning to get out of hand.”
Seeing the grave look on her face, Vicar stiffened, the cloud-cuckoo talk of his band vanishing like smoke.
---
The BC Lottery Corporation’s press conference was under way in a brightly lit, glass-walled media room in Richmond, across the bridge from Vancouver.
“Well, actually, I bought it at the liquor store in Tyee Lagoon, at the same shop where that Liquor Vicar works.” There was a buzz from the small crowd of enthusiasts and press. Everyone had heard that news story. Cameras zoomed closer.
“Is he the person who sold this five-million-dollar winner to you?”
The man thought for a second and then said, “Actually, no, but when we asked him to bless the ticket for good luck, he did, and, it worked!”
“Really? He blessed the winning ticket?”
He held the mic steady but looked all around the room to elicit a response, which he duly succeeded in doing. “Yeah, he told me it was a ‘sure winner.’”
The media started writing their story before they’d even left the room.
Eighteen / There Are No Small
Gigs
The red Peugeot rattled down the road, laden with guitars, speakers, and a breathless Jacquie O. She was in the front seat, twisted uncomfortably, her high heels stuck to the floor mat with carelessly spilled root beer. A long microphone stand was poised to take out her eye, and she held a milk crate full of foot pedals on her lap.
How had all this come about? One moment she’d been looking up a recipe online, and the next, she was rushing out the door to go with Vicar and his buddy Farley Rea to the Tyee Trapper.
“I think those guys missed the ferry.”
“What guys?” she asked.
“The group they booked from Vancouver — Old Man Smell.”
Jacquie rolled her eyes. “Riiight. How could I forget? Remind me who they are?”
Vicar replied sonorously, “They are a really good vocal band. They do a ton of Crosby, Stills & Nash. I think they’re better than Marrakesh Espresso from Seattle.”
“Mm-hmm,” Jacquie said noncommittally. This insider stuff was proving too much to track. They got so precious about it. She sometimes felt like a bowling groupie hanging around with polyester nerds who never stopped talking about wrist supports. Lord, if she got herself a polka-dot skirt, she could load up a basket full of bratwurst and break hearts down at the lanes.
She looked over her shoulder at Farley sandwiched between an amplifier and an ancient suitcase full of cables. He wore an orange toque pulled so low he looked like a troglodyte, with bold stitching on it spelling out the word MEAT. A poor fashion choice, it did nothing to make him look more intelligent. He wore antique Dacron flares in a bold check too ghastly for public use. Also, high-top moccasins with rabbit-fur pompoms. Jacquie’s flesh crawled at the sight of them. But he blushed as he grinned at Jacquie. He seemed extremely nervous in her presence.
He followed Vicar around like a puppy, and every once in a while, he did something hilarious. Jacquie supposed that was why Farley was there. The pompoms must be part of his mascot’s costume. As silly as he looked, she saw the puppy love in his eyes and felt warmth for him. He reminded her of junior high school.
Vicar and Farley had rushed to get organized and set up, having only an hour’s notice. At the stroke of 8:00 p.m., Vicar got on the microphone.
“Good evening. We’re the Loitering Goitres, here for your listening pleasure.”
Hearing this, Jacquie squinted uncomfortably. Vicar’s tired patter reminded her of the blowhard DJs at her old club, Beaver Fever — they’d all sounded like game show hosts on cough medicine.
Vicar and Farley commenced their first song, and Jacquie was immediately concerned. Somebody was badly out of tune. She presumed it was Farley, because Vicar kept looking at him with annoyance. Whoever the offender was, the music sounded awful. Farley was unaware, dancing about without a care and making his pompoms bounce merrily. She tried to look away but couldn’t.
The song seemed to match the era of Farley’s Hawaii ’76 T-shirt. It left her totally cold. It was a grandpa song, super boring, painful, like music from The Love Boat. Plus, Vicar was constantly fiddling around with the many gadgets he’d set up and never looked up at the small crowd. Why, oh, why have they never rocketed to stardom? she thought wryly, then quickly rebuked herself for the cynicism. Vicar was acting like this was Carnegie Hall. Farley was sweet and adorable and completely out to lunch.
Jacquie tried to put critical thoughts out of her head — she knew Vicar loved this, even though he wasn’t nearly as good as he thought he was. What harm could come of it? Her own father had strummed a little guitar. Yet Vicar took it so damned seriously. She had known some dancers like that — still holding on to the dream late into their forties, threadbare exotic grannies.
---
The Trapper was almost empty. To buy time for Farley’s inept approximation of retuning, Vicar got on the mic. “Thanks, folks. If you have any requests, just bring ’em up — written on a twenty-dollar bill.”
He introduced Farley and then himself. There was a sudden hum of recognition from the audience. Instantly, all ten audience members were on their phones texting furiously.
By the beginning of the second set an hour later, the place was nearly full.
Vicar leaned over to Farley and quietly said, “Let’s give ’em ‘Radar Love.’”
Farley, now wearing a glow-in-the
-dark necklace and some random chick’s cat’s-eye sunglasses, had just come indoors after the break, overwhelmingly stoned. He gazed absently into the distance. “How does that one go again?”
Vicar laughed, at first thinking he was taking the piss, but soon saw the slightly ashen look on Farley’s face.
“You gotta be kidding me. A Labrador Retriever could play that bass part.” Vicar grabbed his guitar neck and started quietly playing the bass line, singing along with it. “Dum, dum, dum, dum, dum, dum, nn-dah-dah!”
Farley looked at him. “Oh, man,” he croaked.
Vicar was furious. This might be an unadvertised last-minute-fill-in show in the distant boondocks, but the place was packed, and they simply had to nail it.
“Farley, goddamn it, if you fuck this one up …” he said, glaring.
Again, Farley croaked. “Oh, man.”
Vicar frowned and started the riff. He went round and round about eight times before Farley fell in, but at least he had it when he entered. At the top of the second verse, Farley stumbled a bit and never really regained his composure. He began thrashing around on the neck, sliding like a duck landing on a frozen lake. Basso glissandos erupted like geysers in lieu of the intended part. By the big section in the middle, there was no similarity between what the two men were playing. It was a complete train wreck. Livid, Vicar ended the song as quickly as he could.
He extended his arm toward Farley and said, with deliberate intent, “Oh my, oh my, ladies and gentlemen! On bass guitar, Farley Connor Rea. Yes, Connor Rea. You heard right, folks. Cruel, cruel parents. Connor-Ree-Ya. Sympathize with the poor devil after the show.”
Farley looked at his feet, moaning, “Oh, man.”
Vicar was distracted by the sight of the audience on their feet and slowly flowing toward the stage. Bewildered, he started another song, forgetting to first tell Farley which one it was.
The instant the song became recognizable to the crowd, screams of approval took him aback. He grinned and started rocking with all his heart.
Once again, Farley totally screwed the pooch, doing an about-face and pretending to turn knobs on his amp — as if the amp were making the mistakes. For a while, he ceased playing and just nodded in time like a bobblehead doll.
Vicar was perplexed. Music, he zealously believed, carried a deep meaning, if delivered with precision. The part he had never quite apprehended was that it became invisible if delivered with precision only. Farley was completely out of it and ruining the whole show. Yet the audience loved everything, every wrong note, every blooper, every forgotten part, every stupid leap and jump. It was like the Elvis schtick, but even more intense. And so, Vicar just forged on ahead, with or without poor Farley. The room was well onside. Vicar had never felt this kind of response before. Karma was repaying him for the three weeks he’d spent learning the chords to that damn Steely Dan song!
Suddenly Vicar was Bono. Inspired, he wanked at his guitar in a ham-handed attempt to ad lib a solo, grimacing with the standard-issue rock orgasm face and thrusting his guitar theatrically like a prop penis. A string snapped and began waving around like an errant eyebrow hair, rendering his solo attempt — already at the limits of his abilities — impossible. A little too excited, he accidentally stepped on his cable and briefly unplugged himself. Nevertheless, the audience roared its approval. One tall, shapely girl with luxuriant red hair down her back, an absolute goddess, licked her lips seductively. Wow!
He was only dimly aware of Jacquie sitting at the back of the room, watching the strange turn of events with a look of disbelief.
Nineteen / Rack and Pinion
A crowd of people walked into Liquor, all grinning like they had something exciting to share. Vicar didn’t recognize any of them and certainly didn’t have a clue what all the smiling was about. The man in the lead had a full posse in tow, and one of them had a huge camera hanging around his neck. Vicar felt his creaky mental Rolodex spinning and suddenly realized the lead guy was the man who’d won the lottery the other day. He’d bought the ticket here, from Ross Poutine.
“Hi there, Vicar!” he exclaimed, a little too loudly for a personal greeting in an otherwise deserted shop.
Vicar could piece together that something was afoot. He presumed the man was here to thank Poutine for selling him the big winning ticket. “Ross isn’t here,” he blurted with concern. “He won’t be back till tomorrow morning.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’ve come to see you.”
Vicar phased into the middle distance and tried to imagine why.
“It was your special blessing that gave me the luck. So here is a little thank you.” The man handed Vicar an envelope.
A thank-you card. Well, that’s nice. “Thanks!” said Vicar, genuinely touched. “What are you going to do with your winnings?”
“Oh, pay off the house. Maybe buy another one and rent it out. Travel a little. Caroline wants to go to Africa.” He smiled at his wife, who stood near him.
“Mmm, Africa, that sounds fantastic.” Vicar imagined how cool it would be to see the wildlife in person.
“We can afford to do a few other things, too.” There was a brief pause, and the man held out his hand. “I don’t think we ever officially met. I’m Barry.”
“Nice to meet you, Barry. I’m Tony.”
“Oh, yes, I know who you are.” Another pregnant pause, then Barry urged, “Open it up.” The camera came up, and Barry’s wife sidled up to him and grabbed his hand.
Vicar opened the envelope. As expected, it was a lavish thank-you card. He dutifully read it, hiding his dislike of factory poetry, but suddenly, from within its folds popped out a cheque. It was made out to Tony Vicar in the amount of fifty thousand dollars.
For a moment, Vicar gaped at it, slack jawed, and then lost his grip on it. The cheque fluttered to the floor and Vicar, momentarily stunned, couldn’t decide whether to pick it up or to say something. He did neither. He simply stood there in shock as the camera flashed again and again and the couple howled with delight.
Finally, he found his voice. “Wh-wh-what? Whyyy?” he croaked. “Why are you giving me this?”
Barry smiled brightly at his wife, cocked his right hand into a finger pistol, and said, “Bam! Right back atcha! ’Member? You blessed my ticket. You told me it was a sure winner, and it was! This was the least we could do to thank you.”
Vicar stood there, completely dumbstruck.
---
“No, you are not hearing things. I said a cheque for fifty thousand dollars. No, no, not fifteen. Fifty. Five-zero thousand. I’m not screwing with you, Jacquie. I’m holding the damn thing in my hands. What do I do?”
Vicar was flapping around the store like a headless fowl, half excited, half panicked. He kept thinking about the clutch on his Peugeot. He could afford the repair now.
Just as suddenly, he swerved and began to tell himself that this was ludicrous. He hadn’t done anything. He couldn’t accept this gift; it was insane. Then he thought about that goddamn Visa bill that had shackled him into penury for the last five years — it could be a distant memory with one mouse click. Surely there’d be enough dough left over for a guitar — maybe the ’60 Les Paul he’d been drooling over on eBay.
“Hold tight,” Jacquie said forcefully. “Don’t do anything. Just close the shop, shut off the lights, and have a glass of wine. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
---
Her laundry-folding abandoned, Jacquie practically hurled the phone across the room onto the soft couch and hopped on one foot while pulling a shoe on the other and scanning the room for her purse. She had to get there before he started buying more damned guitars. Within thirty seconds she was in her car, reversing out of the driveway like a rail-mounted missile.
---
Two days later, as Poutine manoeuvred the rumbling Chevelle into its usual stall, he saw a gang of people scuffling around the parking lot, a couple of them holding signs or placards. Election? No, there was no election coming up that h
e knew about. What were they up to? One of them was photographing his store. Instantly, his back went up. What the hell is going on here?
The photographer leaned down to the boulevard and yanked out a handful of bedraggled grass long out of season. Confused, Poutine looked again at the signs. One of them, handwritten in thick marker, said, Bless My Ticket Vicar.
Poutine got out and stood beside his car, staring angrily at them, not at all sure what to do. One member of the group, a tall, curvaceous beauty with long jet-black hair, looked back at him with challenge, raised her shirt, and stuck out her tongue. The rest of them took her lead and did the same.
“Whoa, man,” exclaimed Poutine, “that is one helluva rack.”
Twenty / Van Damage
Vicar got wind of the impending closure of the town’s ancient hotel, the Agincourt, via gossip. He daydreamed about buying that old junk heap, gutting it, and dressing it up. He remembered once having gone in there with someone — his mother? Man, she’s been gone a long time now, he mused. He recalled the terrible condition of the red carpet in the entryway. The old loggers would stomp out their smouldering butts on the rug just before going in. Cigarettes. What a beastly habit.
This was all vacationland now — a guy could be the innkeeper of cool boutique digs if he had a budget to work with. Vicar’s imagination ran wild at the thought of what he could create out of that beat-up old saloon. Back when he was a kid, everyone had simply called it the beer parlour, and even then, only itinerant loggers had ever stayed in the hotel rooms. It was the only place in town, and it had a salty reputation. He’d thought it was called the “Asian Cord,” as in a cord of wood, until he was older, never having given much thought to the writing on the sign. It was a no-star hotel where drunken bulldozer drivers peed in the sink at night rather than walk down the hall to the shared toilet.
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