by P G Loiselle
On my way to Mike’s, after a crappy night’s sleep, I turned down a few extra side streets to make sure I wasn’t being followed. At nine-thirty on the dot, I rolled into his driveway, provisions in hand and beeped for him to come out. He must have been at the door waiting and within fifteen seconds, was already in the passenger seat, coffee secured, muffin bag on his lap.
“Morning, Mike.”
“Morning, Luke,” he said and didn’t utter another word for the next twenty minutes. He seemed to be taking in the passing summer landscape while sipping his coffee, pinky erect, and nibbling on muffin crumbs out of the bag. Despite my burning curiosity about what he wanted to discuss, I let him be. Besides, the 94HJY Morning Drive was playing on the radio, and I was getting a kick out of the two DJ’s, Carolyn Fox and Rudy Cheeks, who made jokes and goofed on everybody and everything. Once Mike finished his breakfast, I could hold off no longer.
“You wanted to talk to me about something?”
His eyes left the roadside, and he gawked at me with a blank stare. “Oh that,” he said and cleared his throat several times, drawing up excess phlegm from his windpipe and swallowing it down. “Yeah, I did, didn’t I. Doesn’t need to be now. It can wait until later.”
“Guess it could. But why not now? We have the time.” My legs started to wiggle, and I forced a yawn to ease my anticipation.
“If you want to,” he said and fell silent.
After another minute inched by, I couldn’t bear it. “For crying out loud. Start talking. Will you?”
“Yeah, so I was thinking about what you say about Four-n-Moore being a band and all, and not only you and Stevie. Last time at the Showroom, we put together that jam thing during the band intros, and you liked it. Well, I wrote a song, a whole song. It’s not quite finished. I’d like to record it during our next session with Jake.”
“That’s it? Not about Amy?”
“What about her?
My head swiveled towards him. “Her being in the warehouse and all this crap going on?”
He scrunched his nose. “She needs us, Luke. That’s your speech. Besides, it’s nice having her there. Sometimes we chat…like about what happened to her father, and her mother dying of cancer. She listens too and totally understands me. Probably the only one who does.”
“That’s great, Mike,” I said, and my chest loosened as I exhaled a dark mass of pent up stress. It felt as if one layer of the problems bringing me down dissolved into nothingness. “Whew. A new song then? Why don’t we give it a listen? If it makes the cut, we can think about recording it.”
“What do you mean think about recording it? If it makes the cut, why not record it? We record your songs that make the cut.”
I forced an uncomfortable smile. “That’s what I meant. We can record it.”
“One more thing.” His mien grew fierce as he braced himself with his hands on the glove compartment. “I want to sing. Not only background either, the main vocals.”
“You want to be front man? It ain’t easy being the one everyone’s looking at. I know how teed off you get when you screw up; if you’re the focal point, a major mess up can be tough…even for me.”
“Don’t try to talk me out of it, Luke. I want to sing, period. It’s my song and I’m going to sing.”
“Slow down, Mike. I’m only saying.”
I pictured him with the microphone and realized what a selfish, egotistical son of a bitch I was being. Why not let him sing? Look at Peter Criss from Kiss with “Beth” or the musical treasures from George Harrison. They got their songs in despite the respective songwriting power duos leading their bands.
“You know. I never heard you sing before. But, if you’re willing to do it on stage, I’m sure you can. Honestly, and I mean this from the bottom of my heart, I’d love it if you’d take over as front man once in a while. This band’s about the five of us, and we all need to step back sometimes to let the others shine. So, let’s hear it. Make it shine.”
“Hear it?”
“Give it a shot. We’re in the car. Nobody else is listening.” I grabbed onto his left shoulder and rattled him. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”
Mike looked at me, petrified.
“What’s it called?”
“Music Man.”
“Interesting,” I said, mentally yawning.
“Here it goes. Promise not to laugh.”
“Why would I laugh?” I said, unable to hold back a grin. “Ok, ok. Yes, I promise.”
“Music Man”
Born along the highway, Route 59
Fled across the waters through space and time
I’ve been, broken by the beat / I’ve been, high upon my seat
I’ve been wondering what to do and say / To make you mine
Fingers on the keys looking for a rhyme
Playing just to tease but I’ll blow your mind
You never, wanted it to end / Until, we’re all too spent
To keep it altogether and part / Until the next set
Chorus:
Come and see the show I’m a music man / Don’t always get it right, but I do what I can
Sometimes sailing along these empty streets / Sometimes frying in a pan, living in a can
But often times just waiting for the chance / To start it up again
Drifting towards the abbey where I know I’ll get my fix
Putting up this masquerade to show you all my tricks
I’ve been, down and out, up and about / I’ve been lonely,
I’ve been high
I’ve been waiting for my time to play / That great gig in the sky
[Repeat Chorus]
Starting to remember the things I should forget
Starting to find comfort through this shadow of regret
But along this empty highway / Like a vast and endless sea
I’m starting to find out / That I’ve got to start / Got to start with me
[Repeat Chorus]
He started out shaky and reserved, but soon a whole new Piano Mike came to light. By the time it was over, I was singing along and waggling my head with a smile like Stevie Wonder.
“Whoa, Mike, I didn’t know you had it in you. So much feeling and a great contrast to my style. Really laid back, you know: bluesy, funky, jazzy.”
“Good to hear you approve,” he said, taking a giant step back from the raw tone he displayed moments before.
“Like I said P.M., we’re a whole group. You don’t need my approval. If we want to grow, we need to expand on all our talents and not only mine and Stevie’s. Besides, the song was cool beans, man. Honest Injun.”
“Thanks, Luke.”
“Now, I want to talk to you about something,” I said.
“To me?” He said it like he thought he was in trouble.
“Like this car? It’s almost a classic.”
“The Nova? Sure I do.”
“Well, I’m thinking of selling it and downgrading. Could use the extra cash. Pay off some bills.”
“You love this car, Luke. You must really need the money.”
“In the end, it’s just a car.”
“How much are you looking for?”
“Two grand. It’s probably worth more. Paint job’s immaculate. It’s got the spoiler on the back, and a refurbed tranny.” As before, Mike went silent. If he wasn’t interested, I was sure that Dale could set me up. “Rock and Roll Band” from Boston came on the radio, filling the acoustic void, and boosting my mood a notch. After the song ended, he spoke.
“I already have the Acura, but a classic might be a good investment. It’s just that, you know how cars are. If they sit too long, they rust and probably feel neglected.”
“A car feels neglected?”
“Yeah, maybe even lonely. I tell you what. I’ll buy the car, as an investment, of course, if you hold onto it and drive it
around. That way, it’ll stay running and not feel neglected. Occasionally, we can switch.”
“Really? You’d do that for me?”
“Not for you. For me...as an investment. And I’ll give you an option to buy it back for twenty-two hundred. I have to make my profit somehow.”
“Mike, you’re the best.” I went to pat him on the shoulder; he batted me away like I tried to mug him. We both laughed, and I cranked up the radio even louder as we glided down the highway towards our destination.
From then on, it was if an iceberg had melted to reveal a friendship I never knew existed. We bullshitted the rest of the way up there in between the good songs, and it was as if Mike was a different person. Or maybe I was the new person. It was one of those times of lightness I’d been yearning for. For that moment, Stone and Carney didn’t exist, and I felt a sense of normalcy. Soon we’d be at the video place, however, and I thought reality might give me another big slap in the face to show me how messed up things really are.
We arrived at an outdated, wood shingled house in a seedy part of town. There were no signs, and I had to do a doubletake at the address to make sure it was correct. I rang the only doorbell available and waited. A roly-poly nerd in his thirties with a massive double chin, wearing a short-sleeved button-up white shirt, opened the door
“You must be Luke,” the video guy said. “And you are?”
“Mike, the piano player,” he said as if needing to justify his being there.
“Heavens to Betsy. I recognize you from the video. I’m Tim. Come on in and make yourselves comfy-cozy. Want a coffee or something?” he asked signaling to where the coffee machine was located.
Both of us looked at the sludge bubbling up in the pot and gave a non-equivocal no-thank-you nod.
“Alrighty then. I set everything up in Studio One over here. So, why don’t we get you situated, and you can give it a looksy.”
It was set to go, and Tim only had to press the play button. Studio One had an extra-large screen and two mega speakers with a sub-woofer. Tim stepped out and left Mike and I to view the clip on our own. We were both sitting on edge, waiting for it to begin and were astonished as we listened to “Alive”, the first song we played. The sound was packed with power, loud and bassy yet not boomy. It wasn’t muddy either but pristine and clear, like a modern studio recording, revealing every nuance that the listener chose to focus in on. What struck a bigger note with me wasn’t even the sound but rather the performance.
“Alive’s wicked good. What do you think, Mike?”
“It’s great if you ask me. And look at that crowd. They look so excited, and most of them have no idea who we are.”
“Maybe we got the first song right and sucked with the other ones,” I said.
We continued with the video, and each song got progressively better. At halfway point, Tim came back in.
“Great stuff, fellas,” he said. “I was there filming, and it was even better live. You were by far the best band in the lineup, and we decided to put your segment last so that the band coming after you doesn’t feel like a downer.”
“Fast.Fun!,” I said.
“Whoever they are,” Tim said, “that New Wave, Pretty in Pink stuff is not my music.”
“We were worried that we played bad,” I said. “The rest of the band will be so happy. Some guy, Devon Scheister, wrote a horrible review about us in the Boston Circle.”
“I read that too,” Tim said. “I frankly didn’t understand it. Probably a freelancer that someone paid to write the article. I bet nobody from the Circle was even there. They took the article and were glad to have fill for their entertainment section. Or maybe those rascals even got paid to print it. Sad to say, it’s always about the money. And if you want to know who’s behind something, follow the money. But hey,” he said, changing the subject, “while I’ve got you two fellas here, can I have your autographs?”
Wednesday, July 22, 1987
My place was a big, whopping heap. My belongings, smashed and tattered, were dispersed in all directions. Every closet, drawer, cupboard and chest was emptied and the contents thrown onto the pile of devastation. Splintered glass, porcelain and assorted synthetic materials covered the rugs and blanketed the linoleum floors. Furniture in shambles, chipped bits of wood mixed with foam pillow droppings were interspersed with screws, nuts and other metal confetti. Clothing, rendered unwearable, hung high on cut up lampshades. Electronic spaghetti, composed of wiring, diodes, transistors and other miscellaneous Asian produced widgets spewed from cracked plastic casings. Everything was tampered with and transformed into rubbish. The destruction to our practice space looked like a small mess compared to this new intrusion.
My book collection, with its grand shelf and all, was felled like old timber. Book remnants were scattered throughout every room. Pages upon pages, torn and mutilated, decked the ground and comingled with other debris. MY BOOKS. MY JOURNAL. My journal was hidden on the shelf concealed within a cookbook jacket. I panicked. I ran in circles, looking through every page of every book I could find, and with each glance, the moments of reading each story snuck into my memory but didn’t delay the search. Down on all fours, hands and knees scathed by the coating of flotsam and jetsam, I searched low and high, in and out and over and under for what seemed like hours. I combed every inch and every nook in every space of each room. Still, my journal was nowhere to be found. They must have discovered it and now know everything. I was terrified. If they hadn’t done so already, I figured they were on their way to haul in Amy while I was combing through the sorry fragments of my ransacked home. How could I have been so stupid to put it in such an obvious spot?
I had to go to Stevie and figure out our next move. It was fourth down with only seconds left in the game and ninety-nine yards to go. The only thing to do was put up a Hail Mary pass and wish for a miracle. Before going to Stevie’s, I needed to calm my nerves and ease the uncontrollable shakes that set in during my search. A shot of whisky or quick beer would do. Since I had no hard stuff in the house, I hoped that they at least left me a cold Bud.
I staggered over to the bruised refrigerator, opened the dented door and besides the few beer cans remaining, there were a slew of books, ten or so, thrown inside. I picked them up, one by one, and to my utmost relief, there was the jacket I was so desperate to see, Cooking made Cool, a house warming present that Stevie and Mr. Jameson gave me when I first moved into my home. I sifted through the pages of the journal, and there wasn’t one stitch of damage. It was another miracle left to chance, and I surely must be running out of them by now or was even in minus. The book went straight down the front of my pants. I popped the metal top of the beer can and downed the cold brew in one gulp, not caring about the ice cream headache that followed.
After getting over the shock, I was seething with rage. Without giving a rat’s ass about the consequences, I stormed outside onto my lawn and yelled every cuss word I knew, all directed at Mr. S. They were there listening, those cads, out front, in their black mob cars. When I was almost done with my volcanic screams, their interior cab lights went on. I could see Rodney on the passenger side, mouth wide open, a figurative buck-toothed cartoon wolf slobbering drool from his chompers, guffawing. Then an all too familiar big head popped out from behind Rodney’s melon. It was the smarter half of the mob squad, Babyface, the baby boss, grinning his stupid grin as if he had won. If he only knew. Their doors swung open, they exited the vehicle and were about to start off towards me when a crowd of neighbors, fifteen to twenty of them, appeared on the sidewalk in front of my house, one-by-one. First came Mr. Cobble, an elderly neighbor from across the street, then the Goodfellows from the right. Next to arrive were the Coffin brothers who were constructing a porch in the front yard diagonal from me, and so on. They paraded up my driveway, with Babyface and Rodnob in their sights, along the unruly hedge to the Goodfellows, and dispersed onto my lawn and around the garage, for
ming a united front. The two bandits didn’t veer far from their transport.
Mr. Cobble approached and gingerly placed his rice paper-skinned hands on my upper arms. “Luke, you alright?” he asked with a feeble voice.
“Not really, but I will be once I’m rid of these clowns.” My eyes were glued on my nemeses.
One of my more whacky neighbors, Ray-Ray with the harelip, ran onto the lawn with a baseball bat and shouted at the two figures. “Come on, suckers. Come closer and I’ll waste you both.” He was wild, and his speech was almost non-comprehensible. With a low crouch, weaving back and forth, he started pounding down on my grass with his aluminum thirty-three incher like a homerun hitter.
The others from the neighborhood patrol formed a dense pack behind him, and the group advanced towards the bad guys. Rodney and Babyface must have been armed and reached for the insides of their suit jackets. Instead of pulling their weapons, Babyface pulled out his keys, they got back into the car, and zoomed away before being ripped to shreds by the angry crowd.
My neighbors encircled me on the grass as if I were an injured child. I glowered, in awe of their pugnacity, and thanked each of my saviors. While expressing my gratitude, I almost broke down.
“That’s what neighbors are for,” someone said.
“If those mother suckers come back, I’ll waste em,” Ray-Ray said, muttering through his nose.
Each of them came up to me and offered help, which I refused. I told them it was a personal issue and would work itself out. Exactly as they came to me, one-by-one, they all went back to their tranquil abodes as if nothing happened. I didn’t tell them about the contents of my house and didn’t want to even think about it myself.