by Gerry House
“What me?” he asked. I explained the term and he threw his head back and laughed. “Wow, I love that. I know exactly what it means.” I bet he did. When someone fills up the space that’s exactly the height, depth, and width of Neil Diamond, people notice you. When you sound exactly like Neil Diamond when you speak, it’s Gherm City.
I still have a framed piece of paper that reads, “Gerry, thanks for letting me ‘GHERM’ you.” —Neil Diamond.
Available Names Left
I HAVE CHECKED with both the Country Music Association and the International Naming Rights Society for their lists of names not already taken for singers and bands. As you know, it’s all in the name. Would Keith Urban or Tim McGraw be as big as they are without those cool names? Of course not. Even though several of these great names may have been claimed by the time you read this, here is the list of country names still available at press time:
Amish Gun
Whistlin’ Bill Anderson
Hoots McGillicuddy
Skank Williams Jr.
Lionel Twain
Fussy and the Britches
Billy Joe Bob Buddy Barnes
Chocolate Tractor
The Weasel Squeezers
Dinky Friedman
Bart Grooks
BeezelBubba
The Concrete Plowboys
Cornelius P. VanderPlaatz
Ramblin’ Roy Puckett
The Stump Squatters
The Hickersons
Righty Frizzell
Lupe Leibowitz
Jimmy Earl Dickerson
Whole Hawg
Uncle Ned Peevis
Patty and the Perverts
Tick Melcher
Trailer Swift
Scootin’ Bill Harbaugh
Nuns Without Habits
Barbara Mandrill
Flagpole Johnson
Dingus
Grandma Jones
Bumpkin Corleone
Zacchaeus Rodriguez
Fancy Shack
Beano and the SBDs
Merlene Fassbinder
Angel Bambi
Otis and the Jailers
Pluckin’ Pete Peterson
Crotch Moxley
Doofus Rufus
The Foggy Minded
The Downtown Rednecks
Mountain Boys
Cuss Cusstofferson
Sasquatch Morgan
Willie Ectomy
Suzy Bogus
Delores Funk
Kix Brooks
Mongo Lambert
Buddy and Julie
HE EXTENDED HIS ARMS to push his shirt cuffs out a bit. Shooting your cuffs, it was called. It was a custom-made shirt, after all. The high collar and silk-print tie with the handmade suit gave him a sort of Elvis/Riverboat Gambler/TV Preacher look. Expensive Italian shoes completed his getup.
He glanced in the rearview mirror to make sure his “piece” was on straight. It wasn’t just any piece. It was a $3,000 natural-hair glory lid that was so magnificent and so meticulously crafted, nobody knew he was follicle-y challenged. The trick he’d discovered years ago, when he was young, was to go “toup” early. Just like Grandpa Jones went “old” early. If there’s no one alive who has seen you without a full head of hair, then there’s no one who can even wonder if your wig-hat isn’t the real deal.
He’d fooled them all . . . all except for anybody who spent ten seconds looking at his pompadour. For every one of his years in the music business, from average songwriter to average producer to big-time music publisher, he’d walked the wig-hat walk. And he never appeared in public unless he was dressed in full-blown success regalia. He loved to flash that gleaming porcelain smile. Yes, it was just a tad too white. Urinal White was what he’d asked for, and that’s what he got. It was blazing and blinding, just the way he liked it.
Buddy liked to wink a lot when he made conversation. It made people feel like he was really engaged and concerned. He was also a “point and clicker.” He’d finish off a one-liner with his index fingers pointed like pistols after a thumb click. He piloted a Corvette convertible colored a tasteful and very royal blue. He’d considered canary yellow, but thought that might seem cheap or showy.
It was a stormy night, so he put the top up (mostly so he wouldn’t lose his). This chick singer was going to be downright impressed.
She was a singer, but not just a singer, according to her Texas bio. She had a voice like an angel. Someone had once suggested an angel “like Tommy Lasorda?” She didn’t get the joke. Her press shot was sexy and gauzy—a “come hither” half-smile peering out from underneath a cowboy hat. Her blouse was opened only enough so that her church wouldn’t disown her, and she was squeezed into a pair of Wranglers. She had laughed after the press shoot and had told her girlfriend that when she took the jeans off it was like opening a can of biscuits.
Nashville had been forced to wait awhile for her arrival because of a couple of marriages and financial problems that were not her fault. Now, she was finally in town. She was ready for Music City. She was footloose, and also with a free-enough fancy. This little town was not gonna know what hit it. All the bad times were behind her now. She smiled, knowing she was about to hook up with one of the movers and shakers on Music Row to discuss her career. She was on her way. She hummed “Ain’t No Stoppin’ Us Now.” She pranced out of the hotel door onto the sidewalk.
Oops, a little chunky, he thought. Not a problem, though. He could send her to his trainer. He was parked half a block away in the ’Vette.
Obvious dye job. That color blonde doesn’t exist in nature. For a second, he drifted away and remembered being a teenager and Linda Gratowski. Ahh! Those were such wonderful, carefree days.
He’d been naturally drawn to Linda Gratowski because of her magnificent hair—a beehive that pointed toward God all the time. Her God Compass, she’d called it. Linda never mentioned his comb-over, and he adored her for that. That and Linda Grawtowski had gazongas for days. When you’re seventeen, you notice things like that and think about them about every five seconds. He was hoping she’d let him play “motorboat” again after they made an appearance at the high school dance. He’d also brought a bottle of Maker’s Mark, which he hoped to empty into her and speed the “motorboat” process along. As they prepared to go inside the school gym, Linda drained the pint of Loretto, Kentucky’s finest bourbon. Her eyes rolled around and she belched, “I’m ready to party now.”
Fire up the Evinrude, he thought. They had not been dancing for more than five minutes when Linda staggered like an old boxer and slurred, “I think you better take me home.” He held her up and escorted/dragged her to his car. Great, he thought. Just my luck that she can’t hold her liquor. As he navigated the winding back road to her house, she leaned her head out the window and unleashed the gates of hell. His friends always called it “selling Buicks in Europe.” EEERRUROPE EEEEEUROPE BUUUUUUUICK. It was horrifying.
She was hurling all along the side of his recently waxed Corvair, and it distracted him. He jerked the wheel and veered off the road for a second. It was then that he heard her scream and saw her head fly off. Oh, NO! She’s going to need her head. He must have swerved too near a mailbox or something. Oh my God!” he repeated over and over. He had to take Linda Gratowski home to her father, Big Mike Gratowski, without his daughter’s head! This was not gonna be good. He was only seventeen, but he knew parents frowned on little things like that. No head. No Linda. No motorboating.
Then he saw what had really happened. Her head was still on. It was still there! Relief washed over him like warm water. But her magnificent God Compass had blown into the night. She had been wearing a wig!
In the dim moonlight, she turned and screamed again. Her hands went toward her obviously connected head—what looked like a pair of pantyhose stretched over tiny ringlets of mousy brown hair. He thought, She looks like a Brussels sprout.
“Go back! Go back!” she pointed and pleaded. He slowed down. “It’s back there in
the ditch!” She wailed, “That hair was brand new!” Then she sold another Buick.
They never found her beehive and never spoke to each other again.
Buddy got out of his car, leaned on the top of the door, and wolf-whistled.
Oops, a little old, she thought. Not a problem, though. She could send him to a doc she’d once dated. Couple of nips and a tuck, and BAM! Instant youth. And get a load of that thing on his head. Oh, well. She smiled and skipped toward him.
“You look FABulous!” they both said at the same time.
Buddy made the first move before they went “to the studio” (he owned a small studio where he took potential “clients”). “Why don’t we stop up to my place and have a drink?”
Wow, he doesn’t waste much time, does he? she thought with some resentment.
“Great! I’d love to see it,” she purred with all the enthusiasm she could fake.
It was a small building on Music Row with eight apartments inside. It used to be a “boutique hotel.” They had “boutiqued” themselves out of business, so they switched to condo/apartments. There was a small pool shaped like a banjo and a creaky elevator to take you to the second floor. His place was half of “the penthouse” (if the second floor of anything qualifies as a penthouse).
Buddy had worked hard on this love den. He’d designed it himself and had successfully demonstrated how the music business works to many talented singers from all over the world. He couldn’t wait to show her his latest addition. It was his proudest creation.
They hurried from the car through the dark entryway. The skies were getting kinda scary-looking. There was a rumble in the distance. He unlocked the door, reached in, and turned a small white knob. The lights rose to a faint glow, and a disco ball began to turn on the ceiling. Tiny pieces of white began to twinkle around the room. He turned another knob, and his album of self-made Sinatra instrumentals began to play faintly in the background. She stepped into the splendor, and he headed to the bar.
“Name your poison,” he shouted over his shoulder. “The bar is fully stocked, and the bartender is on duty.” It was at this point she considered for roughly five seconds, How bad do I want a record deal?
“Vodka martini. Double, straight up,” she answered him and herself at the same time.
“Comin’ atcha, sweetheart.”
Two of these and she’ll be ready for my coup de grace. A little relaxin’ juice, and then I show her the magic. They were now starting the continuous dance of the biz. Somebody in power takes somebody under his disco ball. Sometimes it’s innocent. Every once in an azure moon, it actually works. Most of the time, it just keeps people busy.
People get off the bus in Nashville every day with dreams and some kind of talent. It’s not the same town it was twenty years ago. There were vanity record labels in every other ramshackle old house along 16th and 17th Avenues. It was almost unspoken but understood that you could get a record deal. Sometimes you just had to pay for it.
It was sad how many people mortgaged the trailer or sold the farm to finance a dream. They’d sing in some shag-carpeted studio into an old microphone. The dreamers poured their hearts into the bad song while bored and jaded studio players plunked out the same notes they’d played the day before. It was ugly. It took advantage.
It has slowly faded out of sight, finally. Nowadays, the business is more sophisticated. Talent gurus “work” with people to make their dreams come to life. Most of the con artists have been forced out of town. The real people are the only ones left along Music Row.
“Tell me truly, Julie, do you love me?” Buddy warbled in his hoarse tenor. He still had it—the voice that made women weak. Julie, noticing it was the first time he’d said her name, giggled and clapped once.
“Wow, I’ve never heard that before,” she lied. Of course, she’d heard it a million times. She’d even bought the old Bobby Sherman album it was on so she could hear how the damn song actually went.
Julie decided to do a little business. “How much does getting a record made cost? I’m not exactly floating in money these days.”
Bud was in. “Oh, darlin’, you don’t have to give that a second thought. You have talent and you have beauty and you have me. You just think about what kind of sports car you’re gonna buy and which designer dresses you like, and leave the business side to me. I’ve heard you sing, and this is gonna be easy.”
Yeah, right, Julie thought. If easy is what you want, easy is what you’re going to get. I’ve done the mattress mambo with worse than you.
She smiled and cooed at him, “Oh, Buddy, I just don’t know what I could do to ever repay you for all you’re gonna do for me.”
Bud was def in. A flash of lightning outside almost blended in with the disco shards of white. Now it was time for him to unveil the magic. He said, “Can I show you something? It doesn’t mean anything. I don’t want you to take it the wrong way, but it’s just so much fun to see.” The sky rumbled quite a bit louder outside.
He didn’t wait for her to protest. He walked to the middle of the room and clapped his hands as loudly as he could. She was slightly startled. Then she heard a slight movement in the wall. It was moving! Something was coming out of the wall! It started to protrude more and more . . . the wood end of something grew into the room. It was a bed. A bed just came out of the wall, just like that! To her, it was an odd combination of creepy and amazing.
Bud started to close the deal. “It’s hooked up to a Clapper. You know, ‘Clap on, clap off. The Clapper.’”
“Yes,” she muttered. “I know the Clapper.” She drained the second martini on the bar. She attempted a little joke. “Maybe at times like this, the word ‘Clapper’ isn’t a good one to bring up to a lady.”
Buddy laughed and bent over slightly. “I never heard that one. You’re right. I’ll come up with a better phrase. Now, if you’d like, I can clap again and send the bed away.” He laughed at the word “clap” being used again.
Julie stood frozen for a second. This is it, her mind raced. This is what it all comes down to—a guy in a wig and a bed that works with a Clapper. Is this how show business works?
Buddy was pouring another martini when she made her decision. Julie walked toward him and grabbed his tie. She led him toward the bed like a pony.
“Maybe you can show me how some other things in this room work.” She kicked off one of her high heels and kissed him on the mouth. His Aqua Velva made her slightly dizzy for a second.
They slid out of their clothes. They fell into the bed. “Strangers In The Night” played quietly. The dim lights played over their slightly chubby bodies. There was thunder and lightning both inside and outside “the penthouse.” Bud was almost in. Suddenly, a flash outside was followed by an enormous clap of thunder. Oh, no. Not clap? Yes, clap. Julie noticed the movement first. Buddy leaned in and pressed to the sheets. He smothered her with a kiss. Before the lovers could untangle, the bed was almost into the wall. Julie laughed nervously and felt something above her head with her hand. It was more wood.
“Has this happened before?” she asked. She noticed how muffled the sound was. “It feels like we’re in a coffin.”
Buddy rolled off her and whispered, “It is a coffin.” Then he let out his best Bela Lugosi scary laugh.
“Not funny, Buddy.” It was black as midnight. She said, “Do you hear that?”
“I don’t hear a thing. What?”
“Nothing. I don’t hear a thing, either. No music, nothing. I think the power’s off.”
Bud cocked his ear in the dark and agreed. “I don’t hear anything, either. And no, this has never happened before. I just had it installed a week ago. This is the first time I’ve done this.”
Julie felt better and more pure than she had a right to. At least she wasn’t 138th on the list of Clapper Flappers who’d been here before.
She spoke into the total blackness. “How do you open it from the inside?”
Buddy stared at the same darkness and didn’
t respond. He started to feel a little closed in.
All hints of romance went out of her voice. “Don’t tell me you don’t have an emergency switch or something. Who knows we’re here?”
Buddy spoke carefully. “Nobody knows we’re here. I had no idea we’d wind up in here. I’m as shocked as you are.”
“Don’t hand me that.” She was getting panicky. “You hauled me up here to get a little action before we got down to business.”
He put her straight. “Well, you sure got down to business easy enough.”
“Who knows about this place?”
“My business manager, couple of songwriters, and you.” Buddy sounded a tad nervous.
“We’re stuck in a wall in an apartment in a building that nobody visits or checks or anything?”
“When the power comes back on, it’ll surely pop us back out,” he said with absolutely no conviction.
“Jesus, Buddy. What were you thinking? We could be stuck in here for days. What if nobody thinks to look in the wall for us? Oh, my God! I’m gonna die because of a Clapper. Get me the hell out of this box. I’m gonna FREAK OUT!”
Julie started to flail around in the crypt and cry a little. She began banging on the walls and shouting for help. Bud was now definitely in, but not the “in” he’d hoped for. They both flat-out freaked and started screaming and banging. The original banging was no longer an option. Julie started grabbing for a knob or a handle or anything she could pull. She was frightened out of her pants. She was also out of her pants.