Chapter Four, Part II
Sheila does Nancy
Which leaves me standing here, looking up that familiar disc as Shari Blues masticates a Stevie Ray tune (this is my only complaint about Shari: she needs to occasionally sing something as if her life doesn’t depend on it).
I do not, as a rule, dislike “These Boots Were Made for Walkin’.” In fact, I like it quite a lot. With its low range and half-spoken lines, it’s a great beginner piece, and its vengeful, kiss-my-ass lyrics carry a special appeal for the bitterly divorced female market (the one that keeps karaoke bars in business). But Sheila ruined it for me, by singing it night after night, and then ruthlessly acting it out, leaving my favorite singer in its wake.
At the moment, I’m not even sure where she is. She came in early to sign up, swore me to secrecy, and went off to hide in some corner booth. I put in a mental order for Harry to arrive with the waitstaff from the local Hooters, but no such luck; he waltzed in stag, a half hour after Sheila. I’ve been too busy with microphone batteries and needy singers to send him a warning. What’s worse, it’s really busy, which means that Little Miss Bitch will have a huge audience.
The moment is here – the fifth singer on my list. I am condemned by the KJ code to shoot down one of my best friends. I hate this job.
“All right. We’ve got a little surprise for you. Would you please welcome our next singer: Nancy!”
I start the disc, per instructions, and Sheila vamps across the dance floor. I recognize the outfit immediately. It’s the very getup from Nancy Sinatra’s album cover: the ribbed black-and-gray hose, the tight gray sweater, the blood-red go-go boots and miniskirt. She whips the microphone from the stand, right on time, and punches the first line. I remember why the song is such a good match. Sheila’s voice is no prizewinner, but the girl can act – and that’s what the song is about. I can’t see Harry, but I know where he is – sitting in a booth with Shari and Caroleen – and that’s precisely where Sheila is aiming her words.
I’m trying to stay cool, but I’m also wondering, What is the fucking message here? I dumped your sorry ass, and now I’ve come back to pound my go-go boots into your testicles?
There are women, I know, who are capable of carrying their spite this far. Who are bent on destruction. But this is vulgar, and I’m pissed. I need to do something to save Harry, but nothing that makes it look like he needs saving. I’m running my hands along the gain levels (Sheila’s close enough to swallow the mic – insert your own joke here), when I spot my team of second-hand mics, lined up in an old wine box.
The horns kick into their groovy finish – sounding all the world like a surf band – and Sheila does the Pony all the way across the floor. Those who don’t know any better give a rousing applause; those who do give a polite applause. I try to lend a gracious commentary as I polish the plan in my head.
“That is Nancy! Also known as Sheila, to you Karz Bar veterans. And you know what this means. From now on, I will expect thematic attire from everyone. Dark glasses for Roy Orbison songs. A Burmese python for Alice Cooper. Miscolored eyeballs for Marilyn Manson. But seriously, I don’t know how late Sheila will be here tonight, so I wanted her to see one of our new traditions. Harry, get up here and lead us.”
Harry heads across, looking like a high wind has blown out most of his brain cells. But the music seems to kick him into focus. He gears into the first verse of “Drift Away” as I dole out mics to the Korale. I flip on all my tracks, and the singalong chorus comes off with nary a hitch.
During the second verse, however, something unexpected. People are coming to join us who don’t usually sing: talky barfly Bob, Alex and his latest Ginger Rogers, a sultry Irish redhead – and, unless I’m hallucinating, Hamster, who has never shown the least interest in singing. This motivates a second wave, folks who have no idea what’s going on but can’t resist the gravitational pull: a yachtload of Norwegians from Port Angeles, a trio of seminarring lawyers from Seattle, and some guy who was just delivering a load of Budweisers. Just guessing, I’d say we’ve got forty singers. It’s like a friggin’ “We Are the World.”
Come the repeat, Harry’s in top form, throwing a Tom Jones ripple, busting a porkchop growl at the lower end. I am mighty proud. As we near the fadeout, I snatch a conductor’s baton from my prop box and race out in front to pull us into the final chord. There’s really no audience left, so we content ourselves with hoots and backslaps as we migrate back to our places. Harry’s getting high fives all around, working the crowd like a politician. A minute later, I’m finally back at my station, throwing switches, harvesting microphones, getting back to business.
“Wow! Was that a trip, or was that a trip? I…”
I can usually talk my way through anything – but not the ghost of Nancy Sinatra, standing on my dance floor, streams of mascara tracking either cheek. She holds her arms out to her sides like a condemned woman pleading with her captors. I assume that it’s me – that she’s read the bitchslap intentions behind my little show – but then I see Harry, still on stage, frozen by the sight of her.
I’m feeling the need to break up this little melodrama, but I know what the next song is, and it’s killing me. Still, I have to do something, so I return to the mic and speak in a half-voice: “Doc? It’s your turn.”
Doc Mendelssohn comes to the mic, nudging his way past Harry, who still doesn’t know what to do. The music begins. Nancy raises her arms, beckoning Harry forward, and forward he comes. They begin to dance, cutting slow circles in the half-light as Doc sings “I Can’t Stop Lovin’ You.” Alex brings out his redhead, perhaps to siphon off some of Harry’s embarrassment, but it doesn’t matter, because a second later he and Sheila cross the floor, stop at Sheila’s table to collect her purse, and slip out the back door.
A minute later, as Doc takes his applause from a distracted audience, the Chattanooga Choo-Choo pulls in with a ginger ale and vodka. Hamster’s note reads, You know I’m not one to traffic in gossip, but I’m dying to know what just happened.
Next: Harry meets Java
Purchase the book at: http://www.amazon.com/Outro-Michael-J-Vaughn/dp/1440111405/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1231020486&sr=8-1
Sheila does Nancy
Which leaves me standing here, looking up that familiar disc as Shari Blues masticates a Stevie Ray tune (this is my only complaint about Shari: she needs to occasionally sing something as if her life doesn’t depend on it).
I do not, as a rule, dislike “These Boots Were Made for Walkin’.” In fact, I like it quite a lot. With its low range and half-spoken lines, it’s a great beginner piece, and its vengeful, kiss-my-ass lyrics carry a special appeal for the bitterly divorced female market (the one that keeps karaoke bars in business). But Sheila ruined it for me, by singing it night after night, and then ruthlessly acting it out, leaving my favorite singer in its wake.
At the moment, I’m not even sure where she is. She came in early to sign up, swore me to secrecy, and went off to hide in some corner booth. I put in a mental order for Harry to arrive with the waitstaff from the local Hooters, but no such luck; he waltzed in stag, a half hour after Sheila. I’ve been too busy with microphone batteries and needy singers to send him a warning. What’s worse, it’s really busy, which means that Little Miss Bitch will have a huge audience.
The moment is here – the fifth singer on my list. I am condemned by the KJ code to shoot down one of my best friends. I hate this job.
“All right. We’ve got a little surprise for you. Would you please welcome our next singer: Nancy!”
I start the disc, per instructions, and Sheila vamps across the dance floor. I recognize the outfit immediately. It’s the very getup from Nancy Sinatra’s album cover: the ribbed black-and-gray hose, the tight gray sweater, the blood-red go-go boots and miniskirt. She whips the microphone from the stand, right on time, and punches the first line. I remember why the song is such a good match. Sheila’s voice is no prizewinner, but the girl can act – and that’s what the song is about. I can’t see Harry, but I know where he is – sitting in a booth with Shari and Caroleen – and that’s precisely where Sheila is aiming her words.
I’m trying to stay cool, but I’m also wondering, What is the fucking message here? I dumped your sorry ass, and now I’ve come back to pound my go-go boots into your testicles?
There are women, I know, who are capable of carrying their spite this far. Who are bent on destruction. But this is vulgar, and I’m pissed. I need to do something to save Harry, but nothing that makes it look like he needs saving. I’m running my hands along the gain levels (Sheila’s close enough to swallow the mic – insert your own joke here), when I spot my team of second-hand mics, lined up in an old wine box.
The horns kick into their groovy finish – sounding all the world like a surf band – and Sheila does the Pony all the way across the floor. Those who don’t know any better give a rousing applause; those who do give a polite applause. I try to lend a gracious commentary as I polish the plan in my head.
“That is Nancy! Also known as Sheila, to you Karz Bar veterans. And you know what this means. From now on, I will expect thematic attire from everyone. Dark glasses for Roy Orbison songs. A Burmese python for Alice Cooper. Miscolored eyeballs for Marilyn Manson. But seriously, I don’t know how late Sheila will be here tonight, so I wanted her to see one of our new traditions. Harry, get up here and lead us.”
Harry heads across, looking like a high wind has blown out most of his brain cells. But the music seems to kick him into focus. He gears into the first verse of “Drift Away” as I dole out mics to the Korale. I flip on all my tracks, and the singalong chorus comes off with nary a hitch.
During the second verse, however, something unexpected. People are coming to join us who don’t usually sing: talky barfly Bob, Alex and his latest Ginger Rogers, a sultry Irish redhead – and, unless I’m hallucinating, Hamster, who has never shown the least interest in singing. This motivates a second wave, folks who have no idea what’s going on but can’t resist the gravitational pull: a yachtload of Norwegians from Port Angeles, a trio of seminarring lawyers from Seattle, and some guy who was just delivering a load of Budweisers. Just guessing, I’d say we’ve got forty singers. It’s like a friggin’ “We Are the World.”
Come the repeat, Harry’s in top form, throwing a Tom Jones ripple, busting a porkchop growl at the lower end. I am mighty proud. As we near the fadeout, I snatch a conductor’s baton from my prop box and race out in front to pull us into the final chord. There’s really no audience left, so we content ourselves with hoots and backslaps as we migrate back to our places. Harry’s getting high fives all around, working the crowd like a politician. A minute later, I’m finally back at my station, throwing switches, harvesting microphones, getting back to business.
“Wow! Was that a trip, or was that a trip? I…”
I can usually talk my way through anything – but not the ghost of Nancy Sinatra, standing on my dance floor, streams of mascara tracking either cheek. She holds her arms out to her sides like a condemned woman pleading with her captors. I assume that it’s me – that she’s read the bitchslap intentions behind my little show – but then I see Harry, still on stage, frozen by the sight of her.
I’m feeling the need to break up this little melodrama, but I know what the next song is, and it’s killing me. Still, I have to do something, so I return to the mic and speak in a half-voice: “Doc? It’s your turn.”
Doc Mendelssohn comes to the mic, nudging his way past Harry, who still doesn’t know what to do. The music begins. Nancy raises her arms, beckoning Harry forward, and forward he comes. They begin to dance, cutting slow circles in the half-light as Doc sings “I Can’t Stop Lovin’ You.” Alex brings out his redhead, perhaps to siphon off some of Harry’s embarrassment, but it doesn’t matter, because a second later he and Sheila cross the floor, stop at Sheila’s table to collect her purse, and slip out the back door.
A minute later, as Doc takes his applause from a distracted audience, the Chattanooga Choo-Choo pulls in with a ginger ale and vodka. Hamster’s note reads, You know I’m not one to traffic in gossip, but I’m dying to know what just happened.
Next: Harry meets Java
Purchase the book at: http://www.amazon.com/Outro-Michael-J-Vaughn/dp/1440111405/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1231020486&sr=8-1
Hear the audio podcast at: http://www.gcast.com/user/michaeljvaughn/podcast/main?nr=1&&s=198404806
Image: The author at his March 13 book release party, Books Inc. in Mountain View, CA. Photo by Cicily Otis.
Image: The author at his March 13 book release party, Books Inc. in Mountain View, CA. Photo by Cicily Otis.
No comments:
Post a Comment