The Paradise Gig

by Laurence Shames

  PRAISE FOR LAURENCE SHAMES’ NOVELS

  “Characters flashier than a Key West sunset and dialogue tastier than a conch stew.”

  – New York Times Book Review

  “As enjoyable as a day at the beach.”

  —USA Today

  “Funny, suspenseful, romantic, and wise.”

  —Detroit Free Press

  “Smart and consistently entertaining.”

  —Chicago Tribune Book Review

  “Delicious dark humor and healthy cynicism.”

  —San Francisco Chronicle

  “Hilarious and always on the mark.”

  —Washington Times

  THE

  PARADISE

  GIG

  LAURENCE SHAMES

  Copyright © 2020 Laurence Shames

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 979-8627676265

  Dear Sir or Madam,

  Will you read my book?

  It took me years to write,

  Won’t you take a look?

  John Lennon and Paul McCartney

  DEDICATION

  To Marilyn, in perfect harmony

  To Germaine, the musical one in the family

  Prologue

  W ell, the whole thing started with a woman standing on her head.

  She was doing this yoga-style, on Smathers Beach in Key West, Florida, just a few short weeks ago. It was a beautifully ordinary day, sunny with a salty breeze. She was minding her own business, upside down, when two men suddenly approached her towel. They might have pushed her over but it’s hard to say for sure. Anyway, she came down off her head, left the beach with them, and wasn’t seen for several days. After that, a bunch of crazy stuff happened, and seemed to happen very fast.

  That’s one way of looking at it.

  But you could also say that the story really started way back in 1964, long before I was even born, and that things had been sort of simmering very slowly ever since.

  Nineteen sixty-four, so I’ve been told, was when The Beatles visited Key West, an unplanned detour to avoid a hurricane farther north. They stayed in a motel right across the street from Smathers Beach and right next door to the Paradiso condo, where my Master was already living at the time and where him and me still live to this day—me being Nacho, his loyal chihuahua and companion. Anyway, Master chatted with The Beatles while they splashed around in the pool on that historic day. Nothing too surprising there. Master chats with everybody. Always has and always will.

  Anyway, that night the band took out their instruments and started playing in the motel bar. It wasn’t a concert. It wasn’t scheduled. There weren’t any tickets. It just happened. Word got out and people started showing up. Most came to listen and drink. Some came to jam. Yeah, to jam with The Beatles. Pretty cool, right? Anyway, the music went on till 4 am, when the cops finally came by to shut it down.

  Among locals, the event soon became quite famous. People called it The Paradise Gig, and, if you want to be thorough about it, you’d have to say that the whole recent business with the woman getting knocked down from her headstand, and all the crazy stuff that followed, really starts with that, from half a century before.

  So it’s a complicated story. There’s a lot of angles to it. There’s history, there’s crime, there’s love, there’s music. There’s The Beatles angle, but also the private little comedies and dramas of regular folks you’ve never heard of. The story depends a lot on memory, and since everybody’s memory is different, there are things that different people can’t agree on and sometimes even contradict each other as to crucial facts. Also, the story goes back and forth in time; it’s about being young and being old; so it’s only natural that there’s stuff about how much the world has changed, but also stuff about how much it hasn’t.

  Anyway, like I say, it’s complicated, way too complicated for me to tell all by myself. So different voices sort of come and go as the tale unfolds. You’ll see what I mean. But there’s two things I can promise right up front. First, when it comes to my parts, I tell them exactly like they happened, with no exaggeration. Second, even though it’s a roomy kind of story that maybe wanders just a little bit along the way, it ties up pretty neatly in the end. In fact, it ties up like a song. Maybe even like a Beatles song.

  PART ONE

  1

  S

  o, the thing about the beach is that it’s always the same and never the same.

  I mean, think about it. How different can it be from day to day? Whaddya got to work with? You got sand. You got water. That’s pretty much what you got. True, there’s also sky. Sometimes it’s sunny, sometimes it’s cloudy, and I will grant that when a Key West sky is cloudy there can be clouds of many different shapes and colors, and it’s pretty amazing sometimes. So okay, there’s some variety, but I’m sticking by my basic point, which is that from day to day the beach is more the same than different.

  On a side note, it’s kind of the same deal with my meals. Some days I’m given kibble underneath a dollop of what they call wet food. “Wet food” is a truly unappetizing description, but I think that’s what they call it. Anyway, other days it’s swapped aroundwet food on the bottom and kibble on the top, which preserves a little crunch at least. Sometimes the wet food tastes like chicken, other times beef or liver or maybe lung, which makes little popping noises when you eat it. But where I’m going with this is that, again, there’s just a few components, and day to day it’s more the same than different.

  Understand, this is not a complaint, it’s just the truth, and I’m okay with it. I don’t crave novelty for the sake of novelty. My tastes are really pretty simple. I don’t need the wet food with the avocado essence or the miso glaze or whatever other bullshit they’re throwing in these days so they can charge a nickel more per can and make dog owners feel like real sports. Just bring me the usual and I’m content. Same meal every day? Fine. Same beach? Terrific. Consistent and in fact unvarying daily schedule for my walks? Dandy. In fact, how anybody gets through life without a pretty set routine is a mystery to me. Chaos and confusion would be looming every second. Every little thing would have to be a fresh decision. I’m exhausted just thinking about it.

  But anyway, I was talking about the beach. Sand and water. Water and sand. Same stuff every day, every season, every year. Even what goes on there is ninety-nine-plus percent routine. People rub sunblock on themselves or on each other, or they use that spray stuff that mostly flies off into space. Women do that maneuver where they undo their bikini tops but only when they’re lying on their stomach. Guys throw footballs and try to show off, except there’s always one guy who just can’t throw and just can’t catch and who becomes sort of a mascot. And of course there’s always some yahoo blasting violent music full of snarling brutal words that no one except himself and a few knucklehead friends wants to hear.

  Like I say, it’s always pretty much the same. So here’s my question: Why does it feel different every time? And not just different, but exciting, full of possibility, suspenseful even, like at any moment something totally crazy could happen, something that’s never, ever happened before on all the days that up to that very moment were pretty much exactly the same as this one?

  Is it just that I’m a dog, and dogs are easily enthused? Or does it feel that way because every once in a while something totally crazy does happen. Like for instance on this particular day when Master and me are sitting in our usual spot on Smathers Beach, right across the street from where we live, and we see the woman standing on her head and then all hell breaks loose.

  But before I launch into that, maybe I should tell you just a little bit about me and Master, who we are, I mean. Of myself, there isn’t much to say. As I’ve mentioned, I’m a chihuahua, and no
t the fancy kind with papers. I started life in a shelter, which is where I was given my name. Frankly, I think it’s a pretty dumb name, but if you’re a puppy in a pound and there’s a kid making minimum wage and giving out names to fifty dogs a day, you just have to accept that not all the names are going to be winners. Plus, come to think of it, even some very famous dogs have had pretty silly names. Lassie—how saccharine is that, and what’s with the pseudo-Scottish thing? Rin Tin Tin—what the fuck does that mean? Anyway, what does it matter what people call you? You’re still who you are. As to vital statistics, I tip the scales at a compact four pounds several ounces and stand about eight inches off the ground. Closer to twelve if you count my ears, but I think it stinks of insecurity when anyone tries to make himself sound bigger or more important than he really is, so I don’t go in for that bullshit. I’m a pint-size mutt and I make no excuses or apologies.

  Regarding my master, on the other hand, I have no problem bragging a little. I think he’s the best guy in the world. I’m biased, of course. I mean, the guy feeds me, houses me, buys me nice clothes. (And yeah, we’ll get to that). What kind of miserable cur could fail to be grateful? That said, I still think Master is special, maybe even a breed unto himself. You know what I admire most about him? I admire that he’s such a natural alpha that he never has to act like one. He doesn’t yell, he doesn’t strut. His voice is soft and low-pitched, sort of a quiet rumble. He never bullies, but other bullies seem to sort of shrink and melt when he’s around. His name is Bert—Bert the Shirt d’Ambrosia to be exactand he’s really, really old. I’d put him at fourteen, maybe even fifteen in dog years, and let’s face it, that’s really getting up there. Which is of huge and even terrifying concern to me, but why linger on what can’t be helped?

  Anyway, he’s still got a full head of hair, though it’s pretty much all white with a yellowish tinge where it curls up at the edges. He’s a very snazzy dresser, and I gather this is a matter of fundamental self-respect with him. Even at the beach, his outfits always match. I’m talking cabana sets in turquoise terry-cloth, sometimes with a subdued plaid, but maybe not subdued enough—that kind of thing. I do have to say that there are certain ways in which his age really shows, hard as he tries not to let it. Certain things he just does really slowly. Like when he unfolds the aluminum chair with the yellow webbing that he sits on at the beach. It takes him a while to figure out which way to pull the legs to get it to open, like the chair is a puzzle he has to re-solve every time. Then he’s got to settle it onto the sand just so. This takes some rocking and some repositioning. Then he has to double-check that the hinge is locked. Then he has to test the armrests a couple of times to make sure they’re solid. And all this, you understand, is before he actually gets around to lowering himself to sit, which then becomes a multi-step super-slo-mo project in itself. Frankly, it’s a little exasperating at times, but I try to cut him all the slack he needs. I mean, first of all, what’s the hurry, really? Second of all, imagine if he rushed it and the chair gave way and he fell on his ass. For a young guy, okay, maybe it’s an embarrassing slapstick moment; for an old guy, maybe it’s a broken hip, an ambulance ride, pneumonia from the hospital, curtains. So what the hell, let him spend an extra twenty minutes opening the stupid chair every single goddamn day, not to mention another twenty climbing out of it and getting it folded again.

  But okay, back to the plus side. Master is by far the friendliest guy on the beach. He’s so friendly and curious about everyone that I sometimes almost think he might be part dog. He just wants to get a sniff of everyone, so to speak. I’m not saying he literally goes around on hands and knees and sticks his nose in people’s butts, though I can tell you as a side note that simple straightforward butt-sniffing happens to be an incredibly efficient and reliable way to gather information about how another creature’s social life has been going, their mood, anger level, the quality and wholesomeness of their diet, the general state of their health, and so forth. Butts don’t lie.

  Anyway, Master’s version of this is just to smile at people, say hello, offer random observations or advice that hasn’t necessarily been asked for, then follow up with a couple of personal but usually not gauche questions. Well, okay, sometimes his questions tend, I guess, a little to the gauche. Be that as it may, I get a kick out of seeing how other people respond to Master. Pretty much everyone seems to like him, but every now and then there’s someone who seems a bit confused or suspicious or thrown off balance by his relentless friendliness, like they’ve suddenly found themselves deep into a conversation they didn’t even know had started.

  Anyway, Master’s undaunted sociability notwithstanding, it was actually me who instigated the acquaintanceship with the woman who was standing on her head.

  Here’s the scene. It’s late afternoon. Me and Master are just getting back to the beach after our usual break for lunch and Master’s nap. He’s midway through the twenty-minute bit setting up the chair again. During this time, I am off the leash. I mean the leash is on, but he’s not holding it because he’s messing with the chair. So it’s just dangling behind me like a second tail. The sun is out. It’s hot. The surf is hissing through the shiny mix of shells and pebbles at the shoreline. In short, everything’s exactly like it always is…until, maybe thirty feet away, a woman lying face-down on a pale blue mat on top of a bright pink towel does this pretty impressive yoga move.

  What she does, is that she spreads her elbows into a wide triangle and puts her hands around the back of her head. Then she slides her feet forward so that she jackknifes at the waist and gets her butt into the air. Then, without a grunt or a kick or any obvious effort as far as I can tell, she lifts her legs into a graceful arc and stands there upside down.

  I see this and I am riveted. It isn’t just the novelty or grace of it that gets me. It’s way more than that, and if you were eight inches tall I think you’d understand at once. That headstand was, for me, a vision of equality, the first time in my whole life when a human being’s eyes were really lined up with my own. Her nose was at the exact same level as my nose. I could have rubbed my ear against her ear. Equality! Now, don’t get me wrong, I appreciate it when people reach down to pet me. I don’t think the reaching down is generally meant to be patronizing or condescending, but still, however it’s intended, it’s a constant reminder that they’re tall and powerful and I’m little and puny. With this woman standing on her head, everything was different. Suddenly there was no higher and lower. No big and little. No strong and weak. It was just two sets of equal eyeballs at the same level on a beach.

  So of course I had to dash over for a closer look. And of course I know I’m not supposed to do stuff like that. But sometimes you just have to.

  So I spring away before Master can stomp on the leash to stop me. I’m running hard and, as I get closer, I faintly notice that it’s actually kind of surreal to look at someone’s eyeballs upside down because the bottom lids are shaped very different from the top lids, which makes the eyes look slightly weird and a little bit spooky and disturbing. This only increases my fascination, so I barrel ahead and start doing tight and manic laps around the woman standing on her head, and in my understandable excitement I fail to notice that I’m kicking sand in her hair and up her nose.

  Which of course means that Master has to come running over—well, not exactly running, but shuffling faster than usual— to collect me and apologize profusely. “Nacho, ya crazy mutt,” he calls out, “get over heah this second and stop botherin’ the nice lady.”

  He’s not yelling but his tone makes me realize in a heartbeat that I’ve been a slave to my enthusiasm and have thereby screwed up. I stop circling, slam on the brakes, and go into a skid. The skid kicks up more sand than the circling did.

  “Oh, no worries,” says the woman, which is really very sporting of her, especially since I can see tiny kicked-up sand grains glittering on her lips and eyebrows and at the corners of her mouth. She’s still standing on her head, you understand. She sw
ivels her eyeballs and looks straight at me. Since her eyes are upside down to me, my eyes and Master’s eyes must look upside down to her, so we’re all looking at each other cockeyed. “In fact,” she goes on, “it’s probably my fault.”

  “Your fault?” says Master, as he slowly bends to grab my leash. “How the heck is it your fault? You’re mindin’ your own business, doin’ your whaddyacallit, yogi, and the mutt goes mental? It’s the mutt’s fault. Which means it’s my fault. I’m sorry. I shoulda looped the leash around my chair leg like I always do. What I do is, when I’m settin’ up the chair—”

  “I stressed him out,” she softly interrupts. “Dogs are very observant, very sensitive.”

  “This dog ain’t.”

  The claim is manifestly false but what can I do except shoot Master a slightly wounded look?

  “If something’s out of place,” the woman goes on, “if something’s unfamiliar, it upsets them. Either they run and hide or they investigate.”

  “This dog don’t run and hide. No way,” says Master, which helps to re-inflate my self-esteem a bit. “This dog’s got more balls than brains, figuratively speakin’ and pardon my French.”

  At that, the woman looks at me again, shoots me a little upside-down smile, and goes into that quasi-baby talk that is cute in small doses but can get really annoying and insulting if someone overdoes it. “Yes, you’re a brave little fellow, aren’t you?”

  I’m thinking, “Baby, you don’t know the half of it.” Stupid, I know, but it’s a guy thing, what can I say?

  “Well anyway” says Master, “sorry about the mutt and the sand. But it’s nice to make your acquaintance. My name’s Bert.”