by P G Loiselle
I chuckled. “Yeah, like he snatched them out of Buddy Holly’s grave. He called and told me about this article some Boston Circle reporter wrote. Didn’t put us in a good light. Pretty mean spirited.”
“I see,” said Don, as he scratched his head. “But you happy, ‘bout the concert I mean?”
“More than happy. We thought it was one of our best shows ever. Audience seemed to love it.”
“Well, ain’t that what counts?”
“Normally. Probably not in the music business though. Good press must count for something. Right?”
“So, you think those folks who seen you there, who enjoyed it like you says, won’t come round to another concert or buy those records of yours if they read what in that newspaper?”
I breathed deep through my nose and let my shoulders sink as I exhaled. “Guess they might.”
“Well, I reckon they might too.”
Right then, the four drifted in, hovering around Amy, and my attention shifted to their entrance. They saw me at the bar and unleashed some flippant shout-outs while proceeding straight to our usual table beside the antiquated jukebox full of oldies.
I turned back towards the bar and raised my glass. “Thanks, Don. You always got something smart to say.” We locked eyes for an few eternal seconds, and Don illuminated me with a smile.
“Don’t forget the grub,” someone from our table called, breaking the spell.
I shook my head, and we both laughed. “Ready? I said. “Three baskets of hot wings, one extra hot; two orders of fried calamari, hot peppers on the side; two pitchers of Bud, extra cold like always?”
“Will do, boss,” Don said and got cracking.
I ambled over to the table, took my seat, and we started right in on that music critic. Besides looking pissed off, Piano Mike and Tommy seemed downcast as if everything we’ve ever done was for nothing. Stevie, on the other hand, didn’t appear to let it get to him at all. And Dale, Teflon Man, was making his usual smartass comments about everything and anything. The wings came in a flash and Dale, face full of sauce, sucked clumps of meat and skin off the bones while we all listened to Amy vent.
“That little puke,” she said. “How could that lowly worm write an article like that? It’s all one big, effin lie. I bet that douchebag wasn’t even there, or got bribed to tear us to pieces, just so Fast.Fun! could look better than they actually were.”
“Calm down, Amy,” I said. “There must be some explanation why this Scheister character wrote this. And hey, if he wants to praise Fast.Fun!, be my guest. But slamming us for no reason? Makes no sense. Besides, we were all there, and I don’t think we only imagined how great it was. People I saw from the stage looked totally into it. They’re the ones who’ll come see us again and buy our music,” I said, regurgitating Don’s remarks.
We continued for an hour but didn’t make any progress at figuring out the real facts, whatever they were. Talking it through helped, and we all agreed not to let it cripple our undertakings as a band. Even Tommy and P.M. seemed to pick themselves up. We’d demonstrate to that Devon dude how wrong he really is, somehow. Amy already sent in for the pictures to be developed. The question is, how much are stills going to tell us anyway? I also talked to Craig about the article earlier in the day. A camera crew was filming during our performance, and he’d check with the promoter about getting video footage. With all those unknowns, we could either speculate the night away or eat, drink and bust balls and decided upon the latter. As the clock struck midnight, it occurred to us that it was only a Tuesday, and we called it a night.
While sitting together at The Corner, I could more easily dismiss this Scheister guy’s portrait of us as being a fluke, like he was sitting in an acoustic hole and couldn’t properly hear. Back in the sanctity of my own home, my mood dimmed again, thinking that it was a set up to make us look bad. But who’d do that and why? As far as I know, none of us have any known adversaries. The sad thing is, it’s hard enough fighting your way to fame to begin with, and if some unidentified force is knocking you back down, how is success even possible? Focus on the positives I keep telling myself, the positives, like how victorious I felt in the limo on the way back from Boston, or the warmth of Amy’s kiss and the imprint it left on my lips.
The positives Luke, focus on the positives…
Thursday, July 2, 1987
Craig, from the Showroom, called this morning with news of a check for the Boston show. Those cheats at Crown. They deducted most of it for the roadies and rock star limo ride. Instead of the $1,500 we were expecting, there was only a net amount of $263.57. Ronnie’s secretary said nothing about us paying for transport. Craig chalked it up as a greenhorn mistake and would handle the full negotiations for us next time if we wanted. The other information he shared was that they are indeed making a film of the Faneuil Hall concert, but the production company won’t send us a clip. They don’t want any bootlegs showing up on the black market. The good news, however, is that they’ll let us come up to Boston to check out the raw footage. It might be a couple weeks before they can give us an appointment, though, and I hope I can hold on until then. Those quotes from the article keep whirling around my head and that jerk Scheister has got some nerve writing that foul material, especially since he doesn’t even know us as a band. Or does he?
As a small concession, tomorrow’s Friday, and I cancelled practice to go clubbing with Stevie and Dale. Some good clean fun can help put life into perspective. I’m guessing we’ll start off catching some live music. After that we’ll probably stroll the Providence streets and gawk at all the freaky people before finding some dive bar to drink at until last call for alcohol. To cap it off, a stop at Haven Brothers food truck for some late-night fare should help soften the blow in the morning. Speaking of morning, it’s well past midnight, and the alarm will be beeping me awake all too soon. I need to rest for what may end up being a rowdy night in the big city.
Sunday, July 5, 1987
I have to say, it was an excellent weekend after an unexpectedly awful week. Providence often feels small and too familiar, but the people, they at least know how to let loose and swing. The characters roaming the town are upfront and colorful, and sometimes you feel like you’ve played a role in six different films in the span of four hours.
On Friday night, it was me and the guys, and what a blast it was. A heavy metal band that Stevie dug was set to bang heads at The Living Room, so that’s where we kindled the party, thrashing around in the mosh pit. At about midnight, Dale pressed us to go outside for reasons then still unbeknownst to me. We hopped into a waiting cab and sped off to some mysterious destination.
The three of us sat in the back and pretended to play our instruments while I let my vocals rip in a drunken display of horrible singing. It didn’t take more than two seconds before the cabbie told me nicely to ‘shut my frickin’ trap’. We all cracked up, and the driver laughed along, not wanting to totally spoil our fun. It was a short five-minute drive until he pulled to the side. I had no idea where I was until I stumbled out of the car and saw the blinking sign, ‘Foxy Lady’. This was Dale’s doing, and although I usually shied away from strip bars, I was strangely open to it in the state I was in. The very next thought that popped into my head was Carney, considering that the Foxy was rumored to be his main hangout. If that browbeater was there, we would have needed to split asap. There’s no way I could stay in the same establishment as him, especially a strip joint.
“Dale, you dirty dog,” I said with my mouth spread ear-to-ear. “So, this is your plan to give me a lift.” Dale grinned as if to say, ‘you haven’t seen nothing yet’. “Only problem is my idiot boss, Carney,” I said to them. “Rumor has it, he’s here all the time. Must be how he gets a woman’s attention, by paying them. Let’s check it out first.”
They had no idea what Carney looked like, but after a thorough description, including the bandaged ear and the combover, th
ey promised to be on the lookout.
As we approached the entrance, Dale high fived the bouncers, and we were in. I didn’t ask about his connections and didn’t want to know. Before getting down to business, we did a thorough search. The coast seemed to be clear, and that also gave us the opportunity to take in the sights. The Foxy Lady is the best gentlemen’s club I know. The girls are classy, and there are all sorts of funky activities going on for the bold and unabashed. After starting out with a typical table dance and watching Dale tuck some bucks, he made an announcement.
“Listen up my fellow members. While you were getting hot and bothered by the pretty pole danglers, I relayed a message to my personal contacts to organize us a Jello-wrestling match as the main attraction. Luke, my main man and tag team partner, you and I will be taking on two gorgeous babes. And Stevie, don’t worry.
I didn’t forget you. Someone needs to manage us, Captain Lou Albano style.”
I’ve been to the Foxy a half-dozen times, strictly for bachelor parties, and was always an onlooker when it came to Jello-wrestling, even when heckled and prodded by my buddies. Although the idea seemed intriguing, hopping into the ring with two pumped up babes to get slammed around in a pile of red Jello has got to be one of the most senseless creations of the twentieth century. So, I never felt compelled to take part in it myself, at least not until Dale’s announcement.
“Ok, Dale. It’s me and you,” I said, as if we were about to run onto the battlefield. “But before we step into that ring together, we need to get properly sedated.”
I was afraid, shaking inside, and to let go of my inhibitions, I proceeded to buy round after round of Tequila slammers. After five shots each, it was our turn on the matt and that’s when things started to get sketchy. Of course, when you wrestle a girl, you’re gentle and restrained, especially since the bouncers will pounce on you if you get too aggressive or frisky. The ladies, though, have no qualms about slamming you until you’re black and blue. From what I remember, we had a lot of laughs, but they beat the crap out of us. Considering how foolish we must have looked, I only hoped that nobody I knew saw me.
Our romp at the Foxy raged on until about 3:00 a.m. and for a fleeting moment, we thought about heading over to Betty’s Breakfast for a late night, three-egg, bacon, cheese and mushroom omelet. But after all that alcohol, I was on the verge of puking and instead, decided the best thing to do was to taxi it home. I slept in until early afternoon and was one sore dude when I crawled out of bed, with bruises on top of my bruises. I used the weekend to lick my wounds and am still hurting. At least I’m cheering up again, and I promise myself not to let anyone or anything bring me down. My eyes are on the prize, and I know what I need to do to get it. Don’t stop or let anyone else stop us.
Monday, July 6, 1987
I’d never heard anyone snigger as fake as Carney this morning. He sauntered over to my desk singing “New York, New York” like a bluebird and wore a huge smirk on his usually caustic puss. What in the world did he want, I thought?
“Lovely weekend, Moore? Was it not?” His face burned with delight. I looked up at him, not answering. “Every man loves a pretty girl, don’t they?” I still didn’t say a thing but had an inkling what he was alluding to. “Yes, Donna, she has a fine figure, very fine figure indeed. And strong as an ox. Wouldn’t you agree?”
At that point, it was clear what he was talking about, and I began to steam inside. That mother-father was there, at the Foxy, and hid in the shadows waiting for his shot. Damn it.
“You’re looking rather hot under the collar. Did I say something to your dislike, Moore?” By the obnoxious sneer on his face, he appeared to have relished every bit of my disdain for him. “Anyway, Donna sends her love and wants you to have this.” He threw a Polaroid at my feet, made a one-eighty and pranced down the hallway with a queer swing in his rump. Again, he burst into, ‘Start spreading the news’…as the outro.
I retrieved the picture from the ground, and it was me: covered in Jello, lying in the ring with what must have been Donna on top of me, while my face was lodged between her double D’s. Although embarrassing, after getting over the absurdness of situation, some interesting questions came to mind. Why does he care, and what does he plan to do with the picture?
Hard 'n' Heavy
Friday Afternoon, July 10, 1987
I’ve been thinking about it, long and hard, and can only conclude that Rhode Island’s a messed-up place. My fifth-grade teacher, Mrs. Sullivan, told the story of its beginnings like this. The smallest state in the Union was founded by the castaway of the castaways, Roger Williams, who was booted from his home in Salem, Mass. because he didn’t jive with the holy rollers in power. With his own territory obtained from Indian allies, Roger was free to create his settlement as he saw fit. He opened the gates and welcomed a cornucopia of other freedom seekers, religious outcasts and other zealots whose values didn’t fit in with the early Massholes and Connecticut upper crusty. When everyone else was getting stinking rich from hawking slaves, he didn’t want anything to do with that for his Rogue Island. When he finally passed on, it all went to the dogs. The slave trade flourished in Newport, the natives were kicked out of choice locations, and it was a boomtown for privileged folk and the morally deprived. As the years drifted by, Sam Slater got the Industrial Revolution ball rolling in Pawtucket, the Italian Mafia took over Federal Hill in the heart of Providence, the dense square mile city of Central Falls saw 1984 as a banner year for smuggling cocaine, and I don’t even want to know how many greedy Rhode Island political types have dirtied their hands in the cookie jar. Ever since the death of its founder, this place is all about business, much of it being downright dirty.
And that brings me to Carney. He’s all about business, which, by looking at his ear, clearly includes dabbling in the shadows. Even worse, he acts like he’s on some incessant quest to be someone in Rhode Island and make his way into the annals of the state’s history. He’s not Italian but Irish, and they have their connections too, with loan sharks for instance. People like him are always looking to take a slice of someone else’s pie. But what could I have that would be of value to him? And what could he achieve with a picture of me at a titty bar? To keep up the constant threats so I’d do his dirty work? Or wait for the chance that I hit it big time and try to squeeze me for cash? It would only give me headlines and stars need to keep themselves in the news, especially if it has to do with sex, drugs and rock n’ roll. So, I’m wondering what kind of other dark side deal could possibly be used to exploit me, a nobody, by using a harmless but slightly humiliating R-rated picture?
Speaking of the dark side, there was some oddball underworld character looming around Carney’s office this morning. I recognized the guy’s face from somewhere but couldn’t quite place it. It looked like the two of them were having a heated argument and Carney was all nerved up. He kept storming in and out of his office, pacing up and down the halls, sweating profusely and smoking like a fiend. At some point, he ended up in front of my cubicle.
“Moore, we need to talk, straight away.”
I was wondering what he’d try to pin on me, although I didn’t even care anymore. I strolled behind him, taking ample time to peruse every wall ornament, as he rushed back to his room. Just before we were about to enter his office, this oblong, balding old fellow with goofy sunglasses, a thick gold choker and rings on each finger emerged and absconded from the building, looking as if it was already too late and he’d been exposed. We traded a succession of jerky doubletakes, each frame held long enough for it to burn into my mind’s eye before continuing to the next one. He looked at Carney, Carney looked at him; I looked at him, he looked at me; Carney and I looked at each other, and once we were on the inside the office, Carney slammed the door shut.
“Sit.” The sweat dripped from his forehead onto his botched excuse of a tie. “How much money do we have in the account?”
“The checking accoun
t?” I glared at him, scared of what might be coming next. “China Delights paid up, so it must be about 950 thousand.”
“Not enough. When do we get more?”
“Enough? For what?”
“When do we get more, I said?”
“We’re expecting sixty-five grand today, but lots of bills are due. We’re way behind and already received some threats from lawyers.”
“I don’t care what we’re getting. We need 999 thousand dollars. We have an important business deal for this company and need to cut checks. Ten of them. Ninety-nine grand each.”
I was still gaping at him, now open jawed because he was so crazed. I’ve seen him go nuts before but never like that. His face progressed from pinkish to tomato red, and the veins on his forehead and neck bulged like a continuous network of pulsing green worms settled beneath his first layer of skin.
“But, Mr. Carney, that’s only 990K.” I didn’t even mention the money needed to pay salaries, taxes, etc.
“Listen you, you little punk. You just make it work. 999 thousand. Ten checks. Cut them now.”
“Fine,” I said, giving up. “To who?” He gawked back at me and seemed to draw a blank as to who should get this money. “The payee, Mr. Carney?”
“Um, uh…HJ Enterprises,” he said, coughing out the answer.
“HJ Enterprises? Never heard of them.”
“You just do what I said, and shut up about it. You’re my accountant; if I hear you talked to anyone about this, you’ll be fired on the spot and never get a job around here again, especially with that pornographic picture of you at the Foxy Lady that I’ll circulate. By the time everyone comes collecting, the banks, the sharks, you’ll be worth less than zero. You hear me? On top of that, I’ll sue your sorry ass for divulging confidential company information. I don’t want anyone getting the wrong impression.”