Chapter Six, Part III
Alphabet Suicide
Punishment number two is low attendance. My only regulars are Harry, Shari and Caroleen, although they’re sitting with a couple, Mark and Sandra, who turn out to be good singers. Harry tells me they’re dedicated karaokephiles, friends from Boise. Mark is partial to sixties rock: Doors, Who, Kinks. Sandra is entrenched in the sub-category of feminist disco: “I Will Survive,” “She Works Hard for the Money,” “Gloria.”
We’re speeding into round three, each of us pulling heavy duty, when I hear these words: “Wanna try some suicide?”
It’s Harry. His meaning escapes me.
“Well, since it’s kinda slow,” he continues, “we thought it would be fun to… You do know suicide, right?”
I’ve got nothing. Harry seems to read my silence as disapproval. He’s fidgeting.
“Everybody puts a song into the hat, and you take one out, and you have to sing whatever you get.”
“Oh,” I say. “Yeah. Sure.”
“Cool! You’ll play too, right?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
Mark’s got a baseball cap, so we dump in the song slips and go by the order we’ve already established. Which means I’m first. I draw “Only the Lonely,” one of my favorite songs and (thanks to Roy’s supernatural pipes) directly in my range. Not very challenging, but amusement is right on my heels, as Harry pulls out “I Feel Like a Woman,” by Shania Twain.
“Caroleen!” he complains. “This has your fingerprints all over it.”
Caroleen confesses her guilt by giggling, but Harry hams it up nonetheless, playing the a capella hook as gayly as possible. Then it’s Caroleen’s turn: “It’s Now or Never,” which comes out more spoken than sung. I help her out by loaning her my Elvis sideburn sunglasses. Sandra pulls out her own song, so she has to put it back. She gets “My Sharona” instead, another guy song in a girl range, and does pretty well, especially with the jungle screams.
Mark seems real hesitant, and I think it’s because he’s done the math. The only slips remaining are his and Sandra’s, so feminist disco it is: “What a Feelin’,” from the movie Flashdance. He gets a little lost picking an octave – trying and failing with a Mickey Mouse falsetto – but for a Boise boy he certainly shakes that booty. Sandra gets up at the instrumental break and threatens him with a glass of water, but the dangers of electrocution hold her back.
“Sha-ree,” I say, tauntingly. “Only one slip leh-eft.”
Shari takes a look at the slip and smiles. “No sweat.”
She hands it to me. “All Along the Watchtower.” My hand tightens up. Mark is leaning over the soundboard, holding a CD.
“I didn’t see it in your book, but I had one in my personal stash. Track seven.”
I take it, praying for Dylan, but the silver surface is etched with a ‘fro and a buccaneer headband. Hendrix. I manage to center it on the changer, and bring up the track, but then I’m stuck. Shari looks up from the lyric screen, puzzled. The pearl-white bumper charges me like a rhino.
I step to the stage, take Shari’s mic and pretend to inspect the battery as I speak sotto voce.
“Feminine difficulties. Need a bathroom break. Could you wait ten seconds, and then press play?”
“Sure, hon. I gotcha.”
I hand her the mic and hurry off, afraid to look up lest I meet someone’s eyes. When I get to the restroom, I head for a stall and start flushing. Jimi’s guitar finds a seam in the rushing water, crackling through like a roadside bomb. So I flush with one hand, clap the other over my left ear, and press my right ear to the side of the tank. The car was a Thunderbird.
Next: Attack of the Elizabethans
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 Image by MJV
Alphabet Suicide
Punishment number two is low attendance. My only regulars are Harry, Shari and Caroleen, although they’re sitting with a couple, Mark and Sandra, who turn out to be good singers. Harry tells me they’re dedicated karaokephiles, friends from Boise. Mark is partial to sixties rock: Doors, Who, Kinks. Sandra is entrenched in the sub-category of feminist disco: “I Will Survive,” “She Works Hard for the Money,” “Gloria.”
We’re speeding into round three, each of us pulling heavy duty, when I hear these words: “Wanna try some suicide?”
It’s Harry. His meaning escapes me.
“Well, since it’s kinda slow,” he continues, “we thought it would be fun to… You do know suicide, right?”
I’ve got nothing. Harry seems to read my silence as disapproval. He’s fidgeting.
“Everybody puts a song into the hat, and you take one out, and you have to sing whatever you get.”
“Oh,” I say. “Yeah. Sure.”
“Cool! You’ll play too, right?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
Mark’s got a baseball cap, so we dump in the song slips and go by the order we’ve already established. Which means I’m first. I draw “Only the Lonely,” one of my favorite songs and (thanks to Roy’s supernatural pipes) directly in my range. Not very challenging, but amusement is right on my heels, as Harry pulls out “I Feel Like a Woman,” by Shania Twain.
“Caroleen!” he complains. “This has your fingerprints all over it.”
Caroleen confesses her guilt by giggling, but Harry hams it up nonetheless, playing the a capella hook as gayly as possible. Then it’s Caroleen’s turn: “It’s Now or Never,” which comes out more spoken than sung. I help her out by loaning her my Elvis sideburn sunglasses. Sandra pulls out her own song, so she has to put it back. She gets “My Sharona” instead, another guy song in a girl range, and does pretty well, especially with the jungle screams.
Mark seems real hesitant, and I think it’s because he’s done the math. The only slips remaining are his and Sandra’s, so feminist disco it is: “What a Feelin’,” from the movie Flashdance. He gets a little lost picking an octave – trying and failing with a Mickey Mouse falsetto – but for a Boise boy he certainly shakes that booty. Sandra gets up at the instrumental break and threatens him with a glass of water, but the dangers of electrocution hold her back.
“Sha-ree,” I say, tauntingly. “Only one slip leh-eft.”
Shari takes a look at the slip and smiles. “No sweat.”
She hands it to me. “All Along the Watchtower.” My hand tightens up. Mark is leaning over the soundboard, holding a CD.
“I didn’t see it in your book, but I had one in my personal stash. Track seven.”
I take it, praying for Dylan, but the silver surface is etched with a ‘fro and a buccaneer headband. Hendrix. I manage to center it on the changer, and bring up the track, but then I’m stuck. Shari looks up from the lyric screen, puzzled. The pearl-white bumper charges me like a rhino.
I step to the stage, take Shari’s mic and pretend to inspect the battery as I speak sotto voce.
“Feminine difficulties. Need a bathroom break. Could you wait ten seconds, and then press play?”
“Sure, hon. I gotcha.”
I hand her the mic and hurry off, afraid to look up lest I meet someone’s eyes. When I get to the restroom, I head for a stall and start flushing. Jimi’s guitar finds a seam in the rushing water, crackling through like a roadside bomb. So I flush with one hand, clap the other over my left ear, and press my right ear to the side of the tank. The car was a Thunderbird.
Next: Attack of the Elizabethans
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 Image by MJV
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