Chapter Seven, Part III
Channy Under the Influence
If I were you, I would take the rest of this with a grain of salt, because I am looped. Faced with record numbers of singers, deprived of the assistance of toy locomotives, I have nonetheless managed to slam enough rum and cokes to souse a baseball team. I’m at the bar, trying to snap the lid on my CD case – a project I’ve been working on for some time now. Hamster appears over my shoulder, humming like a disapproving clergyman.
“I have never seen you like this.” I brace myself for the sound that follows: “Tch, tch.”
“Do my singers suck, Hammy? Does my sound system suck? Do I suck?”
He’s trying really hard not to laugh.
“What is your problem?” he says. “Everybody loves you, Channy! Your singers worship you. Your sound system is great! Why are you letting one person’s opinion drive you into a ditch?”
Now I seem to be standing, slapping my hands on the bar.
“Did you hear her? She sings like a fucking angel! She knows, Hamster! She knows I’m a big fucking phony with a… with a Salvation Army PA! God I suck so much!”
I get the feeling I’m being very loud. Hamster is laughing now, big baritone peals of laughter. The fucker.
“S’not funny! S’not funny!”
“Is too!” he squeals. “I just… I just didn’t know you had this in you, Channy.”
“Chanson,” I say. “From now on, the fucking name is fucking Chanson.”
I take a slug from my glass and get nothing but ice. Hamster takes it, and wraps a big hand around my shoulder. “All right, Chanson. Come on, let’s go.”
“Where?”
“My place. You are certainly not driving home.”
“I knew it!” I say. “You’ve been waiting for this chance ever since you hired me, you dirty old lech.”
I’m swatting him on the shoulder. He’s still laughing. God that’s annoying.
“You’re a very attractive woman, Channy – about five drinks ago. Now, come on. I locked your CDs in the office.”
I’m surprised to find myself boarding a small boat. The jiggle of my first step sends a small wave of nausea through my stomach.
“What the hell is this?”
“This,” he says, “is the best damn commute in Washington state.” He revs the engine and backs away from the dock. “This,” he yells, “is Hamster stickin’ it to the man!”
Hamster kicks it forward into the wind, looking like a goddamn cigarette ad.
“You know, Hammie?” I shout. “For a second there, you actually sounded like a black man!”
I wake to a gray light seeping through the windows. I am wearing every stitch from the night before, flat-out on a white quilt. I stumble to the blinds and peer through to see the public dock, directly across the harbor. That means we’re in the white house with the green trim – the one I’ve been lusting after for six months. I feel the need to express this thought out loud.
“Shoulda invited myself over sooner.”
Yikes. I sound like Stevie Nicks with strep throat. I also have a tongue made of shoe leather, an indescribable amount of thirst and an urgent need to pee. I catch a sliver of porcelain through the door and I head in that direction.
Cupping my hands to drink, I find in the mirror a fruit salad of colors, and turn to discover a jumble of plastic pipes soaking in the tub.
“What the hell?” I croak. I follow another door into the hall, where I find neat lines of similar pipes lining either wall, carefully framed around the door jambs. When I put my eye to a section of baby blue, I find a fuzzy, toothy face staring back, and squeal accordingly.
My boss leans into the far end of the hallway, holding a cup of coffee, wearing a red silk bathrobe like a black Hugh Hefner. It hits me all at once.
“Hamster!” I yell. “Hamster! Hamster!”
He lets out a grand and sheepish smile.
“Yes, damn you: Hamster. You want some coffee?”
Next: Heroes
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.
Channy Under the Influence
If I were you, I would take the rest of this with a grain of salt, because I am looped. Faced with record numbers of singers, deprived of the assistance of toy locomotives, I have nonetheless managed to slam enough rum and cokes to souse a baseball team. I’m at the bar, trying to snap the lid on my CD case – a project I’ve been working on for some time now. Hamster appears over my shoulder, humming like a disapproving clergyman.
“I have never seen you like this.” I brace myself for the sound that follows: “Tch, tch.”
“Do my singers suck, Hammy? Does my sound system suck? Do I suck?”
He’s trying really hard not to laugh.
“What is your problem?” he says. “Everybody loves you, Channy! Your singers worship you. Your sound system is great! Why are you letting one person’s opinion drive you into a ditch?”
Now I seem to be standing, slapping my hands on the bar.
“Did you hear her? She sings like a fucking angel! She knows, Hamster! She knows I’m a big fucking phony with a… with a Salvation Army PA! God I suck so much!”
I get the feeling I’m being very loud. Hamster is laughing now, big baritone peals of laughter. The fucker.
“S’not funny! S’not funny!”
“Is too!” he squeals. “I just… I just didn’t know you had this in you, Channy.”
“Chanson,” I say. “From now on, the fucking name is fucking Chanson.”
I take a slug from my glass and get nothing but ice. Hamster takes it, and wraps a big hand around my shoulder. “All right, Chanson. Come on, let’s go.”
“Where?”
“My place. You are certainly not driving home.”
“I knew it!” I say. “You’ve been waiting for this chance ever since you hired me, you dirty old lech.”
I’m swatting him on the shoulder. He’s still laughing. God that’s annoying.
“You’re a very attractive woman, Channy – about five drinks ago. Now, come on. I locked your CDs in the office.”
I’m surprised to find myself boarding a small boat. The jiggle of my first step sends a small wave of nausea through my stomach.
“What the hell is this?”
“This,” he says, “is the best damn commute in Washington state.” He revs the engine and backs away from the dock. “This,” he yells, “is Hamster stickin’ it to the man!”
Hamster kicks it forward into the wind, looking like a goddamn cigarette ad.
“You know, Hammie?” I shout. “For a second there, you actually sounded like a black man!”
I wake to a gray light seeping through the windows. I am wearing every stitch from the night before, flat-out on a white quilt. I stumble to the blinds and peer through to see the public dock, directly across the harbor. That means we’re in the white house with the green trim – the one I’ve been lusting after for six months. I feel the need to express this thought out loud.
“Shoulda invited myself over sooner.”
Yikes. I sound like Stevie Nicks with strep throat. I also have a tongue made of shoe leather, an indescribable amount of thirst and an urgent need to pee. I catch a sliver of porcelain through the door and I head in that direction.
Cupping my hands to drink, I find in the mirror a fruit salad of colors, and turn to discover a jumble of plastic pipes soaking in the tub.
“What the hell?” I croak. I follow another door into the hall, where I find neat lines of similar pipes lining either wall, carefully framed around the door jambs. When I put my eye to a section of baby blue, I find a fuzzy, toothy face staring back, and squeal accordingly.
My boss leans into the far end of the hallway, holding a cup of coffee, wearing a red silk bathrobe like a black Hugh Hefner. It hits me all at once.
“Hamster!” I yell. “Hamster! Hamster!”
He lets out a grand and sheepish smile.
“Yes, damn you: Hamster. You want some coffee?”
Next: Heroes
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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