Scary Modsters... and Creepy Freaks: A Rock and Roll Fantasy (The Rock And Roll Fantasy Collection)

by Diane Rinella

  Inside my dark bedroom my fingers fumble through the nightstand's drawer and pull out the TV remote. How did that manage to infiltrate the sacred chamber reserved for my plastic dream men? It's flung aside, and the TV pops on as the remote thunks onto the floor. An infomercial for the CD compilation Love's Greatest Rockers blares. While sliding on my belly I stretch to retrieve the remote and nearly fall off of the bed. All the while I chant, "Got it. Got it," as the song snippets change.

  I tap the remote's buttons but get zero response. My grumpy state brought on by a lack of sleep makes me whimper. "Why me?"

  With the back plate off, I spin the batteries and hope that the trick that rarely works will play out in my favor. My chant of "Got it. Got it," continues as the songs in the infomercial fly past. When Peter Lane appears on my screen to sing one of Love Machine's biggest hits, my desire to change the channel skids to a halt. My heart flutters during the powerful love song that has always had a special effect on it. It is one that I can only liken to gliding your finger over the smooth surface of a diamond in revelry of the tender meaning the gem holds.

  The song snippet ends, and the now-functioning remote brings me to the same infomercial on another channel with a ten-second delay. Peter returns to my screen, and again a sense of longing draws me into the music. Behind my closed lids he flashes me a smile. I breathe in deeply as if trying to capture a whiff of him before he can escape my mind. The song snippet ends, and his image is replaced with that of the signed album that now sits among my treasures. I grab it and head downstairs.

  Despite the temperature of the cozy family room tonight it feels cold and impersonal. In hopes of pumping in some life I turn on the satellite radio. A random pop station sends an unce, unce, unce bopping through the air. Peter's image stares at me with an accusatory, "Have you lost your bloody mind?" type glare.

  "Hey, it never hurts to try something new, right?"

  Peter's glare intensifies.

  "You are totally right. I'll switch to The Underground Garage. They play good new music."

  Peter's glare now protests.

  "Really. They play great stuff." My hand pops up in salute like that of a Girl Scout. "Fangirl's honor."

  Did he just shake his head in disbelief?

  "Fine. I suppose you would enjoy some R&B." His eyes follow me as I reach for some Ike and Tina on vinyl. The reflection I see in the onyx gems is not my own but that of my father. Much like Peter Lane, Dad loved Ike and Tina.

  Tina's voice like over-creamed coffee tells me about how she thinks I want to hear something nice and easy. Ike starts in with the bass-line vocals of Proud Mary that vibrate down into the depths of my spirit. As Tina eases me into the song, I close off the world and allow myself to get lost in a moment of floating peace that will soon change into an explosion of nuclear power. "You were right, Peter. This is the only way to go."

  The horns burst in, and my long brown locks flail while my hips wildly shake. My private world is enlivened, yet the inability to escape the sensation I have company has me glancing over my shoulder with nearly every step. Finally my hands meet the air in surrender to the obvious fact that my marbles are long lost. Sure. I'll succumb to insanity and piss off the soul of some poor guy by bugging him through a Ouija board. God, just how bored am I?

  Ike & Tina continue to serenade as I hold court in the same position as the night before. Images of Peter fill my mind; candid photos of him holding a ball nearly too high for his dog to jump, mischievous grins as he poses, videos where the striking of a power chord brings him into a bold stance with his arm raised above his guitar, almost as if in salute to it. All of these aid in my quest as I fear Jacqueline will walk in on the display and have me committed. Nothing happens.

  Tina begins another song while more images invade my mind. They put a smile on my face and warm my heart. Still there's no word from Peter.

  The album nears its end, and the overwhelming sadness from the night before slithers into the room and hangs in the air like smoke from a dying fire. Emotions lock in my lungs and smother both my oxygen and my desire to breathe. Slowly the planchette begins to vibrate as if it has a nearly indiscernible pulse. Need help, the board tells.

  My eyes close as I try to get a hold on the emotions of love and fear of loss that begin assaulting me. The sensation starts in my chest and builds down into my gut and up into my brain. It brings the temperature of my hands from cool to a warm simmer. Suddenly a pressure hits them, pushing them onto the planchette and sending them skating across the board. My eyes pop open to catch a glow emitting from a second set of hands that appear to be merging with mine. My heart sprints into my throat.

  "Ack!"

  With my hasty shriek the presence disappears.

  "Dear freaking God! What the hell was that?"

  The scare puts me in a rush to stash the board in the closet and run upstairs to cower under the covers.

  My body tosses onto its left side, and my hips become twisted all funny. I roll onto my right, but my neck is contorted, and I'm cold. My hands fluff the pillow, and then pull the sheet over my head. A little tension releases as the silly notion of hiding lessens my discomfort.

  Peter's image hangs in my head along with memories of the planchette requesting help. The air under the covers thickens, so I yank down the sheet.

  Determined to be comfortable I curl to my other side and repeatedly take in and release deep, slow breaths. Finally, my muscles feel as if they are melting into the bed. A peaceful image of Peter unwinding in a lounge chair paints its way into my mind. It's such a lovely sight of comfort and joy, yet I become edgy and fear the image will fade.

  Insomnia is a cruel beast. It makes my mind do weird things.

  Out of frustration I grab my sketchbook and begin to draw.

  All Sold Out

  November 1966

  I hated parties where you were supposed to be on good behavior at all times—trying to impress everyone, never knowing if who you were talking to could be the one to help you escape the clutches of the pop machine and gain recognition for the brilliance pulsing inside you. I would much rather have avoided the mess and have arrived after the pompous suits left. Or better yet, be at home alone with my lovely Jane who stood across the room with a group of "girlfriends." She didn't belong with those girlfriend-for-the-next-few-nights easy lays. It was hard to find true friends in an industry where men go through women like toilet paper, but God love her, she tried.

  For months Stoddard had been up my bum to ditch her. "Why would you want to get attached to one girl while so many others throw themselves at your feet? We need you to stay clear headed so you can put your best foot forward on the road and in the studio."

  What he really meant was, "Don't let a woman distract you from being a slave to me. I need you busting your arse and bringing in money."

  Screw him. If there was one thing I would defy that guy with it was my love for Jane. No matter what bollocks the world threw at me, no matter how many problems Stoddard caused, Jane comforted me each night and greeted me with joy in the morning. If I didn't love performing so much, I'd have left that circus.

  Townsend was talking my bloody ear off and bragging about how each member of The Who had been instructed to write at least two songs for their soon-to-be-released album, A Quick One. This meant they actually got to write every track, unlike how half of my songs got shelved. Jane grew weary of her surroundings, practically hugging herself in insecurity. She nudged toward a group of suits that were laughing and then nodded toward the other side of the room.

  "Sorry, mate," I nearly said aloud, "but I'm all too happy to ditch you. Have Moonie call me for the real party later."

  "Peter," Jane whispered. "I just overheard those men. Why are you being sold? Didn't you just finish a new album?"

  "We're what? Who said that?" Was this what I'd been hoping for? I was tired of working for B.S. and having our brilliant songs manipulated into something completely unrecognizable.

  Jane
subtly nodded to the corner where B.S. laughed it up with some guy I'd never seen before. "Mr. Stoddard was rather clear about it to that other gentleman. You didn't know anything about this?"

  Dare I become hopeful? Then again, who in the bloody hell would he sell us to? "Not a clue." If Stoddard wanted out, I'd gladly help him make the deal. I also knew who I wanted him to make it with. I practically dragged Jane across the room to meet an old chum. Stuffing his head full of tarts at the buffet was producer and manager Vincent Marsden and his wife, Sandra. Vince recognized talent and gave artists their space. Not only would I slaughter donkeys to work for Vince, Sandra would make a perfect friend for Jane.

  I asked the ladies to gather us something from the bar before dragging Vince into the corner and speaking with a reserved voice. "Apparently Stoddard's selling us. Do you know anything about this?"

  Vince's eyes enlivened. "Selling you? You guys are one of the hottest bands going. What's he thinking?"

  I cleared my throat. "He and I have not exactly been seeing eye-to-eye lately."

  "Peter, he screws over everyone. You must have really gotten under his collar. Then again, with the way that man enjoys hearing himself talk, he may just be mouthing off. If you are truly for sale, I'll make him an offer he can't refuse."

  I must have been glowing at the man with the incredible reputation for taking care of his artists. "If you get us away from that thief, you can have double your normal commission and the band will still come out ahead."

  Vince shook my hand with the firmness of securing an engine in place. "You got a deal." As he headed off toward Stoddard his poker face disguised what I knew. Marsden was a bulldog ready for a sneak attack. The men disappeared to play let's make a deal.

  Sandra and Jane returned with the drinks. The girls looked rather cute together. It seemed they could become the best of friends. Now I could really give Jane everything. Being signed by Vincent Marsden could turn all I touched to gold.

  Time crawled along, and the ticking of my watch grew in my ears. My thumb tapped wildly against the side of my glass. My eyes constantly peered to the corner where Vince and Stoddard once stood. Like a kiddie planning his purchase before entering a sweets shop I was already thinking about what to record first.

  A group of birds behind me chattered on about how The Small Faces had just entered the room. Screw them. With Vincent Marsden at the helm I could take down that jokester Marriott in a heartbeat.

  Finally Vince returned. His hair was disheveled and his complexion rather ghostly. With barely a glance in my direction, he grabbed Sandra and shuttled her out while muttering, "Your contract is not worth getting hung upside down by my ankles off of a balcony. Sorry, Peter, I've a family to protect."

  My gut churned. I faked a laugh as if Vince had just told me a joke while he dragged Sandra out the door. I put my arm around Jane and kissed her cheek. "I love you, darling."

  "Peter?" Jane had that concerned look in her eyes ladies get when they know there is something you should share with them. She was no fool.

  "Oh, look. The Stones have arrived. Let's go have a chat with Brian and Anita." I needed out of there, but there was no way I could leave directly after Vince and not have it look like we went out to talk. Something told me I was clueless as to the magnitude of what Stoddard had up his sleeve.

  The following day a note arrived via special messenger, welcoming Love Machine to the managerial talents of Chadwick Gordon.

  I Can't Control Myself

  Damn! How I love the growl of Reg Presley's voice! It just always makes me feel so sexy, as if no man in the world could resist my curves.

  The Troggs blast as my grinding hips sway me through my bedroom. It's the Rosalyn alternative to nervous pacing. Jacqueline's not allowed to see me this way. We made a pact not to get worked up over a guy until after the third date. She never upholds her end either, but we try not to be obvious about it. That totally counts, right?

  For the second time—okay, really the third—I peek in the mirror to verify my eyeliner hasn't smudged and my hair is still in a perfect Veronica Lake hairstyle that has nearly two-thirds of it swooped to the side with a huge wave over one eye. Yeah, I'm far too mental over Niles.

  As The Troggs fade out, Tom Petty resumes his role as disk jockey. He nudges me back into curiosity over Peter Lane in the form of a song by Love Machine. Peter's soul-inspired guitar mastery and his driving vocals send me dancing around the room and pathetically wailing like a cat in heat. Despite the fact trying to contact him freaked me out big time the other day, I plop onto the bed and surf on the man who keeps making musical guest appearances in my personal reality show.

  Yeah, I'm totally mental, and not just over Niles. I can't stay away from this guy, nor do I really want to. Peter doesn't just make me all fangirly; he's also got a firm grip on my curiosity.

  Wikipedia tells me Peter's father worked in a steel mill while his mother was a waitress in a local pub. Peter's twin brother, Steven, died of bronchial pneumonia at the age of seven. Throughout his life, Peter claimed that Steven's ghost would occasionally visit. The entire experience had a deep impact on Peter and gave him a "live for today" attitude.

  As a teenager, Peter hijacked the school's PA system and played the air raid siren along with a recording of haunting sounds associated with UFOs. Meanwhile his friend and future band mate, Johnny Paxton, released helium-filled weather balloons from the football field.

  God that would be awesome!

  The driving, blue-eyed soul sound of Peter's voice fades out, and Ricky Nelson singing "Fools Rush In" takes over. Fewer than two bars in I've had enough. I'd much rather watch Peter serenade me on YouTube. His powerful, yet oh-so-gentle voice fills my ears with a seductive purr. My hips wiggle deeper into the softness of the bed while my body and mind get lost in peace. As I join him in song, the passion of Peter's words makes me desperate for his touch. Longing comes forth from the depths of my soul and compels me to touch Peter's face. My hand extends forward, caressing the screen while my heart aches for an intense love again. Though the screen is cool and flat I feel connected to the man's presence. It's not as if I am actually touching him but more like he is responding to my call.

  Jacqueline's rap on my door to announce Niles just pulled up jars me back to reality. Excitement radiates off of me as I head back to the mirror for a quick examination of my hair that I so foolishly could have messed up while dancing. A good-looking guy who holds my doors open, dresses well, and shares my insane tastes has actually entered my life. The possibilities have me cautiously optimistic and as excited as when The Rascals reunited for the first time in forty years!

  The awesomeness of my outfit and my desire to see Niles both have me eager to answer the door. It may not be a dress of the silent era, but my curvy, satin and lace number was made in the nineteen forties. It, along with my period appropriate makeup, looks damn sexy—if I do say so myself.

  My heart revs at the sight of Niles. For once I feel the sane one as he stands before me in a well-tailored suit and a bowler.

  Yes, a bowler!

  A bouquet of brightly colored blooms conceals his face. His eyes pop up from above the flowers, and his gaze comically scans back and forth. He hands me the bouquet and reveals a Charlie Chaplin mustache.

  Okay, seriously, a mustache?

  He looks utterly ridiculous but also absolutely heart stealing!

  This woman has a smile that is pure gold, but her eyes turning into jawbreakers reveal the mustache is too much. Niles, when it comes to pushing the limit you have a lead foot.

  However, the joy on her face is encouraging. Maybe I have found someone like me.

  Scratch that. No one is ever like me, and the reasons why are too depressing to ponder. Now pull off the mustache and tell Rosalyn how lovely she looks.

  Niles yanks off the mustache. A zip goes through my midsection as he winces. That was a lot of effort just to make me happy. "Rosalyn, you look absolutely amazing. Are you ready?"


  Yeah, I'm ready. For what I'm not sure, but I can't wait to find out.

  Kernel by kernel, Niles tosses popcorn into the air and arcs it into his mouth. His aim is only partially terrible. Half of what he tosses bounces off of his lap and spills onto the floor. His awkwardness is endearing, and for once I kind of wish he was a little less gentlemanly. Seriously, his lips are dreamily kissable.

  A kernel bounces off of his cheek, and I catch it in my mouth. He laughs. "That was impressive." My shrug implies it was no big deal, but then a wink confesses my luck.

  I pull a bag of M&M's out of my purse and offer him some. His forehead scrunches as he eyes them like they are diseased. "What? You said you like M&M's."

  Niles resumes popping kernels into his mouth. "I love them. Thing is, I can't eat them in movie theaters."

  "Why? Does the flickering film turn them to deadly poison?"

  "Consider it one of my numerous, adorable quirks. So, you haven't told me much about you. What's your family like?"

  Oy. Of all of the getting-to-know-you questions in the world why did he pick that one? No matter how old you are when you lose your parents it leaves you feeling as if you are a helpless orphan. For me it presents a false memory of being an infant, curled in a corner, abandoned and crying. The mental image always makes my throat lock and—

  "Ooh, sorry. That expression tells me I asked a difficult question."

  "Very." I divert my eyes from his sight and swallow deep in the back of my throat.

  The sweetest expression of an innocent child looks at me in concern. Now I really can't face him. "Trust issues too?"

  "Boy, you never ask anything easy, do you?"