Outro: The Serial Novel

Thirty

I’m in a familiar position, fighting to kick my ass out of bed. But at least the bed is moving – coasting slowly westward along the Strait of Juan de Fuca. The departure from Seattle was spectacular; I don’t know a city in the world that looks better from the water. After that, however, the long afternoon of lining up, checking baggage and presenting documents finally got to me. I managed to sleepwalk through the lifeboat drill, but after that it was back to the cabin. I turned on the TV to check out all the day excursions – kayaking in Ketchikan, whale-watching in Juneau – and immediately collapsed bedward in a blurry ball. I awake two hours later to the roar of a glacier shedding ice chunks, and peer out my window to see a land mass that’s probably Vancouver Island.

It’s seven o’clock. I’m supposed to meet Ruby at eight. I have no idea how this is supposed to occur, since my limbs have lost the ability to initiate motion. Through much grunting and lamentation, I manage to drag myself all five feet to the shower. The fluorescents reveal a basket filled with sampler-size toiletries. I pick out a shampoo, a conditioner, and a bar of ocean-scent soap that claims to contain actual sea kelp (and smells, thank God, more like the idea of ocean than the ocean itself). The shower heats up remarkably well, and soon I am swaying under the sprinkle, praying for the washing away of my anguish.

Yeah, that’s what I said: anguish. Anyone who’s been through my particular brand of hell deserves a pot of gold, a certificate of merit, a Nobel Pity Prize. I have spent so much time harking back to that weekend in Ocean Shores that it’s getting pathetic – because I haven’t done anything in the interceding month that’s even worth mentioning. I try to find pleasure in the small things – fresh bread at Susanne’s, a starfish under the Jerisich Dock. But it’s too late for small things, dammit. I’m looking for something huge. Thank God for the cruise, but even here there’s a downside. I’m all alone, not even Harry Baritone to hang with, and the singles game is as treacherous as oceanfront property on a glacier. That and the unsettling feeling of returning to my home state; no matter how temporary the stay, it feels like backtracking, and I hate backtracking.

Okay. Let’s focus. Tonight you get to see Ruby’s show. That is SO worth the effort. Now get it together, ya big baby.

Ruby was so excited about me coming that she took me to downtown Seattle and made me her own personal Barbie doll. The result is a little red dress with spaghetti straps and a neckline that reveals cleavage I didn’t know I had. She also got me a pair of red Italian pumps trimmed in black, and loaned me her prize necklace, a gold serpentine with a teardrop pendant of her namesake gemstone. I should have a bodyguard just to put the thing on. (I think she got it from Scootie, but I didn’t think I should ask.)

An hour after the process began, I stand on my bed in order to get a full-length reflection in my cabin mirror. I like what I see. If I met myself in a bar, I might even jump my own bones. And now I better go, before I lose this feeling. I grab my black Spanish wrap and head for the halls.

The ship is Uncle Al’s main girl, evidenced by the super-size faces of Louis, Ella and Miles looming on the wallpaper. Between the elevators I find a Leroy Neiman of the Manhattan Transfer at the Monterey Jazz Festival, an explosion of fluorescent paints. As I’m waiting, a trio of college-age boys passes, trying hard to conceal their sidelong glances, then bursting into exclamations as they round the corner. I’m getting hotter by the minute.

I arrive at the second deck and try to recall Ruby’s directions: right at the espresso counter, the windows filling up with an icy pink sunset. A straightaway through the slot machines (switched on the minute we enter international waters), then a right at the photo shop and proceed to the silver doors.

And what silver doors! A pair of them, each ten feet high and four feet wide. I begin to see figures, and I realize it’s a frieze of a classic Cotton Club gathering: dozens of characters blowing trumpets, tapdancing, smoking cigarettes. The top of the doors form an arch, and in the swing of the arch are light-bulb letters spelling out ASTAIRE’S.

“So ya gonna go in or what?”

I turn to find Ruby done up in a long sheath dress of gold lamé. A slit runs the length of one entire leg.

“Jean fucking Harlowe!” I say.

She feigns disappointment. “I was going for Rita Hayworth.”

“Hell, Scarlett Johannssen, Jessica Rabbit – I’ll give you any sexbomb you want.” I wrap her in a hug. “I can’t wait to see your show!”

“Well – let’s begin by entering Oz.” She swipes a card through a reader and the doors click open.

“Gracious!” I say.

Inside, it’s a Cab Calloway paradise. Little music stands for the players, baby blue with silver treble clefs. A stage in three semicircle tiers, spilling onto a dance floor of gray marble with swirling streaks of snow white. The whole spread is backed by a proscenium arch with Greek columns and gauzy white curtains, and stage left plays host to an enormous white grand piano. As I drift over to inspect, I spy a silver star on the floor and quickly cover it with my red pumps.

“Always hit a mark,” I recite.

Ruby laughs, then indulges my fantasy by delivering a stand with one of those old-fashioned squarish radio mics. I cup one side of it, try my best to channel Marlene Dietrich and gaze out at the tables, done up with silver lamps and backed by a velvet curtain along the back wall.

“Roo-bee? Why am I experiencing déjà vu?”

Ruby wanders to the piano and plays two rising chords, as if to say “Ta-dah!”

“Have you seen Shall We Dance?”

“Astaire and Rogers?”

“You remember the nightclub?”

“Omigod! So this is like an exact replica?”

“No. But have you seen Top Hat? Flying Down to Rio?”

“Um… yes?”

“Those movies too!”

I take a slow stroll and join Ruby on the piano bench.

“Honey? What the fuck are you talking about?”

She giggles with satisfaction at having screwed with my head.

“Well. When Al got the idea for this cabaret, he and the designer sat through all ten Astaire and Rogers movies, and then came up with this… Well, let’s call it an evocation.”

“How freakin’ cool! So you’re like… Ginger Rogers?”

“Let’s hope I can sing better than that.”

“Ooh. Harsh!”

“Hey, she ain’t a singer, I ain’t a dancer. All’s fair.” She points an accusing finger. “And stop using my word.”

A bartender comes out to greet us, equipped with mutton chops and a black tuxedo. His name is MacLiver, which sounds like a horribly misdirected fast-food entrée. He brings us a pair of lemon-drop martinis, and Ruby fills me in on her brief seafaring career.

“It’s nearly a religious experience sometimes. These folks grew up on this music – and they’re already close to rapture just being on this cruise. When you plug into their memories with a favorite tune, this radiance comes over them. I get regular offers to stay at people’s houses – I could string it into a national tour if I wanted. And so far, three proposals of marriage.”

“No shit!”

“Although the youngest was sixty-two. Although he was loaded.”

“Bad girl!”

“Would a good girl dress like this?”

We’re interrupted by “The Lady in Red” chiming from Ruby’s bag.

“Oh! ‘Scuse me a second. This is almost certainly a business call.”

She answers her cell, then stands and walks away as she speaks. I could swear I hear her say, “The fish are running.” She returns a minute later.

“Sorry. The downside to being Uncle Al’s pet project is the constant check-ins. It’s sorta like having a jealous Mafia boyfriend.”

“‘The fish are running?’”

“Oh yes!” she laughs. “Isn’t that a gas? It’s some kind of maritime lingo for ‘Everything’s A-OK.”

“Miss Ruby?”

It’s MacLiver (he used to be a butler, which explains the formality).

“Yes, Robert?”

“I’ll be opening up now.”

“Okay. Thanks.” She turns to me. “Part of the mystique. They like me out of sight during happy hour. Will you be able to entertain yourself?”

I smile. “The fish are running. Break a leg, sweetie.”

Ruby immediately starts busting up.

“It’s a theater expression,” I say. “Isn’t it?”

“Sorry. You reminded me of… Well, I was talking to one of the showgirls. She used to be in a ballet troupe, and what they used to say, right before they went onstage, was ‘Merde.’”

“Umm, my French is a little rusty, but doesn’t that mean ‘shit’?”

“Yeah. Isn’t that funny? And I asked her why they say that, and she said, ‘I have no idea.’ Well, I better go.”

Ruby sashays away (which in that dress is her only option). I yell, “Merde!” She yells “Merci!” and gives me a Jedi Frisbee wave.

I turn to find MacLiver hovering over me (these retired butlers have ninja stealth).

“Excuse me, Miss Channy. Once I open the door, I’ll have to charge you for the drinks.”

He waits patiently until I manage to process his meaning. “Oh!” I raise my glass. “I’ll have another of these. Thanks.”

“My pleasure.”

After delivering my lemon drop redux, MacLiver opens the great silver doors and a long train of elderly passengers scurries to the tables like ‘49ers staking out claims. I harvest a few phrases out of the chatter, and gather that the evening meal was exquisite (I’m feeling stupid and hungry for missing it). When I turn back to my drink, I find that another ninja has stolen up on me. He looks about forty, with sharp light-brown eyes behind gold-rimmed spectacles.

“Pardon me but… I’m here by myself, and I’m wondering if I could sit with you? I hate to use a whole table just for myself.”

“Oh, um… Sure. Have a seat. I’m Channy.”

He takes my hand and sits. “I’m Donald. Donald O’Connor.”

“Oh! Like…”

“Yes, yes. Singin’ in the Rain. ‘Make ‘em Laugh.’”

“I guess you get that a lot.”

“It’s okay. Be worse if I was Ronald McDonald.” He gives me a nice smile, and I catch a bit of his cologne, which is spicy but subtle. Donald O’Connor has possibilities.

“So where do you hail from?” he asks.

“Gig Harbor. It’s near…”

“Yes! That new Tacoma bridge. You know, they’re talking about installing low-level lights along the suspension cables. They would be powered completely by solar, and create an outline of the bridge at night. It’s a marvelous idea. Lord knows, Tacoma could use some civic identity.”

“I’ll say! All it’s got now is that Steve Miller song – and he probably only used it so he could rhyme ‘Arizona.’”

“Actually,” says Donald, “I think Miller lives in the Northwest, so it might have been vice-versa. You know the theme from Hawaii Five-Oh? The Ventures? They’re from Tacoma, too. How does a band from Tacoma end up writing surf tunes?”

This might seem like a normal conversation between two strangers, but after ten minutes I realize that trivia is Donald’s only mode. The more I try to steer us in another direction, the more he staples factoids to the ends of my sentences, and soon this good-looking, nice-smelling man – who sat down with even odds at bedding a desperately horny, down-on-her-luck widow – has utterly blown his chance. Fortunately, we’re interrupted by MacLiver, who is evidently pulling double duty as an emcee.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Astaire’s, the finest floating nightclub on the seven seas!” He reaches under the bar to adjust the sound. “And now, would you please welcome your chanteuse for the evening, the siren of the Inside Passage, our very own Ruby Cohen!”

A spotlight lands on the gauzy curtains, and Ruby flings them apart, vamping down the three-tiered stage with a brilliant smile. The horns and piano kick into a bouncy swing, and arrive at a big fat stop just as Ruby nears the microphone. She waits a couple beats, then hits the opening of “All of Me.” It’s a perfect welcome, a way of offering herself, parts and all, to her audience.

And Donald’s only a step behind. “Did you see that movie, All of Me? That was so brilliant, the way Steve Martin was able to divide his body into male and female sides like that.”

“Uh-huh,” I say, as flatly as possible. My aim is to discourage further commentary – and it seems to work, but I can feel his frustration across the table, the stupid prick. And now I have to silence this irritating monologue running through my own head.

Ruby perches on a stool for a medley of Rodgers and Hart: “Lover,” “Let’s Fall in Love” and “A Small Hotel.” It’s great that she gets to include lesser-known songs; I suspect this is the work of her jazzophile boss.

She waits for the applause to die down, then says, “A couple of the dancers from the stage show – and I’d really suggest you check that out, they put on some amazing performances. Anyways, Marlena and Josh used to be in a Fred Astaire tribute show, and tonight they’d like to perform a number from that production. Give ‘em a hand!”

The orchestra breaks into a romping version of “Begin the Beguine” as our dancers stride in stage-left. Josh is clad in a white tux with top hat and tails, while Marlena wears a flowing, cream-colored gown with silver-sequin angels and smiling moons. Marlena has thick, wavy blonde hair like Ginger Rogers (or an excellent wig). They hop to the high tier and rip off a couple of tight spins, then swirl up and down the steps in that springy Fred-and-Ginger fashion. They return to the main floor and break off for a side-by-side tapdance. It’s absolutely top-notch, and I’m beginning to understand the religious fervor that Ruby was talking about.

Josh and Marlena take a couple of huge steps back to the top, where they negotiate a series of breathless in-and-out spins, Marlena’s dress wrapping Josh in a circle of cloth. Josh picks her up by waist and thigh and lifts her into an arcing flight from one end of the stage to the other. As the orchestra slows, he dips her till her hair brushes the floor, sweeps her once around at that level and pulls her up hard. She jumps into his arms, the classic honeymoon-threshold posture, and the orchestra slams to an end. The place goes nuts.

“Josh and Marlena!” Ruby shouts. “Aren’t they astounding? Aren’t they ridiculously young and energetic? Don’t you just hate them?”

She sits back on her stool and waits for things to quiet down, and then she gives a nod to her pianist, a tall black man, with enormous hands. He starts into a march of single notes that begins to take on a melody. It’s “Good King Wenceslas,” heading into the same Nina Simone “Little Girl Blue” that she sang that first night at Karz. I’m afraid I might cry, not just for the memory but because this song is exactly how I feel. Ruby gives me a knowing look as she draws out the final line, then accepts a quiet applause.

“That song was for my homegirl Channy, who is seeing my show for the first time tonight. Channy, give the people a wave.”

I hold up a stiff hand, like I’m answering a roll call.

“Don’t believe the shy act. Channy runs the best damn karaoke bar in the Northwest, and she gave me a place to sing when I was pretty close to giving up music entirely. I paid her back by being a complete bitch, but she was gracious enough to be my friend anyway. She has spent a lot of time lately being Little Girl Blue, but I’m hoping we can find a way for her to inhabit a universe more like the one in this next song.”

It’s “Misty.” The piano sends down these paired raindrops, followed from beneath by the cello and violin. Ruby sings the first verse with a quiet sensitivity that my Ocean Shores version could only guess at. As it nears the instrumental break, they kick it into an easy bop, and our five white-suited waiters stream to the stage, straw boaters riding low on their foreheads. They form a line at center stage, one of them gives a four-count and they break into a softshoe, all the more charming because it’s obvious that none of them are real dancers. The guy at the center seems to have a bit more elan than the others, so it’s no surprise when they back off and let him dive into a time-step. This is about the moment that Donald decides he can’t hold it in any longer.

“There was this short film on Saturday Night Live once where they shot seven different New York lounge singers doing ‘Misty,’ and then they strung them all together so that…”

“Donald! Would you just shut the fuck up?!”

There has got to be a name for that phenomenon where you say something highly embarrassing at the precise moment that everybody else in the room clams up. Even the music has stopped. Even Donald has stopped, and he’s looking at something over my shoulder. I turn to find two hands the color of burnt wood, palms up, and a pair of generous lips around a blinding white grin.

Kai tips back his boater and says, “The fish are running. If you want this song to go on, you’re going to have to dance with me.”

I square my feet beneath me so I don’t topple over, and I rise slowly, my gaze fixed on those dark, dark eyes. Kai kisses me on the cheek and says, “Just follow me. You’ll be fine.” He wraps a hand around my waist, I put a hand on his shoulder, and we take a step. The music begins.



THE END

Outro: The Serial Novel

Twenty-Nine, Part III

I spend the night four blocks away, at Jon and Pam’s. The bed in their guest room is extraordinarily comfortable; it’s the best night of sleep I’ve had in months. I wake to the ching of pots and pans in the kitchen, and wander down the hall to find a plate of bacon, eggs and waffles waiting at the kitchen table. It almost makes me want to cry. I marvel at the power of strangers to take me in like this – a thought that is due to return a dozen times over the course of the day.

Once we’re all bathed and dressed, I follow Pam’s Toyota along a golf course to Allen and Sarah’s house, adorned with the latest accoutrements of new housing: sienna-colored stucco, ceramic roofing and variegated windows with bay, porthole and archway frames. To the right of the driveway is their apparent cash cow, a spotless mocha-colored truck cab. The interior offers every imaginable variation of wine art: a photo of cabernet grapes, a poster from a Yakima Valley wine festival, a cartoonish sommelier constructed of corks and corkscrews. The back window affords a view across Grays Harbor to the snub-nose pyramid of Mt. Rainier.

Allen and Sarah are still radiant from their Monday jackpot, although I’m beginning to suspect that their sunniness is a permanent condition. They pile into Pam’s back seat and we caravan up the coast. Twenty miles along, we pull through a town called Moclips and turn into what looks like a modest motel court.

“We’re a little early,” says Allen, “so Sarah and I were thinking of walking down to the beach.”

We all join in descending an impressively lengthy set of stairs to another limitless slate-brown beach. Pam and I are the only ones wearing casual shoes, so we leave the others on the viewing deck and take off across the sand. The findings are modest – crab shell here, half a sand dollar there – but interesting enough to spur a conversation.

“I was just thinking,” says Pam. “You never told me your story. What brought you out to the coast?”

“Hard to beat a story with a ten-thousand-dollar jackpot,” I say, knowing full well that I can. “But maybe I can shorthand it for you. Have you seen the stories about that soldier who went nuts and shot all those Iraqi civilians?”

“Oh! The trials at Ft. Lewis? Just recently?”

“Yes. Well. I’m the widow.”

Pam stops and puts a hand to her solar plexus. “God! I… really? I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right,” I say. “I’m sure it’s hard to know how to respond. But believe me, he was sane when I married him. He might even have been nice. So please don’t think of me as a victim.”

“I guess that’s what war does to people.” She reaches for a sand dollar – a full one – and hands it to me. “I can see why you wanted to get away.”

“Yes. Little did I know the lovely distractions waiting for me in Ocean Shores.”

“Gateway to the Pacific Storm Front,” says Pam, then looks back toward our companions. “Uh-oh. Allen’s pointing at his watch. Guess we’d better head back.”

I study the long ribbon of stairs winding into the spruce trees. “Do you suppose they have an escalator?”

“I… get the feeling that burning a few calories right now might be a good idea.”

After a brisk uphill climb, the host takes us through a low-ceilinged hall into a woodsy side room. The west-facing wall is all window, affording a bird’s-nest view of the forest and beach below. A large pickup speeds by on the sand.

For a few minutes, I feel a distinct pressure to be on my best behavior, but once the appetizers arrive I lose myself in the raucous chatter all around me. Our carnivorous rapture begins with Alaskan king crablegs, continues with mushrooms, foraged in local forests, then proceeds to a cloth bag next to Allen’s chair. He reaches in and pulls out a weathered-looking bottle, then hands it to the sommelier and asks, “Would you do us the honor?”

The sommelier’s eyes get big (no small trick in a five-star restaurant) and he says, “I’d be delighted.”

I turn to Pam and ask, “What’s up with that?”

“It’s a 1969 Cab from Napa. Allen got it at an auction.”

The sommelier takes laborious care in removing the cork, then slowly pours it into a decanter, making certain to leave all the sediment in the bottle. He pours a small ration into each of our glasses, and we wait as Allen goes through the ritual of swirl, smell and sip. He breathes out, letting the flavor simmer on his tongue, then delivers a one-word review.

“Damn!”

Being a neophyte, I’m not expecting much, but much is what I get. My first sip delivers a smoky, fruity wave of warmth, with just a hint of ripe Bing cherry. It is the most amazing substance that has ever touched my lips. Except for the roast venison that follows. And the pickled cabbage. And the huckleberry crisp. Our table is a madrigal of groans and sighs, verging on an epicurean orgy. Between courses, Allen regales us with trucking stories, like the retired Soviet tank they delivered to a military base in North Dakota, and fills in the details of his blackjack odyssey (“I absolutely could not lose; I must have taken twenty hands in a row”).

Much too soon, we’re waddling to the parking lot, and I‘m hugging all these near-strangers like a long-lost cousin.

“Thank you so much for letting me impose on you,” I say to Allen. “I really, really needed this.”

Allen gives me a lopsided smile. “Pam tells us you’ve been through some trauma. I just hope this takes the edge off a little.”

“Thank you for saving our butts last night,” says Jon. “I really wasn’t kidding about those blue-haired ladies and their Wilson Pickett. Maybe we’ll give you a call if Mark gets sick again.”

“Ha! I’ll work on my drumming.”

“You be careful driving back,” says Pam. “And take care of yourself, okay? Don’t think you have to wait till your next trip to the ocean to pamper yourself.”

Under Allen’s instructions, I head back into Moclips and take a landward left, on a road that claims to be headed for Kurt Cobain’s twin hometowns. I think about Pam’s phrase: Take care of yourself. It actually seems like that’s all I’ve been doing; it was nice to let someone else have the job for a while.

Halfway home, I have to pull into a rest stop. The garnish on my venison inspired a debate about a “Rosemary” song from the sixties (Simon and Garfunkel excluded) which quickly devolved into a group case of “songstipation.” As always happens, the answer arrives after I have stopped thinking about it. Our problem came from trying to mash two songs into one: “Smile a Little Smile For Me (Rosemarie)” and “Love Grows (Where my Rosemary Goes).” As the VFW guys who hand out free coffee cast curious looks in my direction, I stand at the pay phone and sing the two songs into Jon and Pam’s answering machine. Then I bundle into my truck and head for the darkening mountains, homeward bound.

Next: Cruisin’

Purchase “Outro” at amazon.com.

Outro: The Serial Novel

Twenty-Nine, Part II

Play Misty for Me

When I wake up, the sun is threatening the horizon. I’m curled up on a Mexican blanket; Joe sits cross-legged next to me, trying to spin the Frisbee on the tip of his finger.

“Oh! Hey, Channy. Wow, I’ve seen the herb take some bad shit out of people, but you just sorta collapsed.”

I blink against the light and prop myself on an elbow. “How long was I out?”

Joe brushes his hair out of his eyes and squints in thought. “’Bout, oh, two hours.”

“Really? Fu-u-uck.”

“Ha! You talk like a stoner.”

“Haven’t smoked much lately. I’ve gone and turned into a lightweight. So where’s Carye?”

“Went to the water to look for sand dollars. She loves those things. Looks like she’s coming back, though.”

By the time she returns, I have managed to shake the sand from my clothes and the cobwebs from my head. I give them my phone number and demand that they come for karaoke if they get anywhere near Gig Harbor.

“Y’got any Nirvana?”

“Let’s see – ‘Teen Spirit’ and ‘Come As You Are.’”

“Rockin’! I’m there.”

I hug them both, and give them the look of an adoring aunt.

I’m so lucky that you two were here.”

“When you have the Jedi Frisbee Trick,” says Carye, “luck you do not need.”

“Ha! Well, thanks anyways. I feel much better. Bye, guys.”

“Bye!” they say, in unison.

I walk toward the sun, stopping once for a final turn-and-wave. By the time I reach the parking lot, the sun has ducked under the horizon, which in Washington time means somewhere between 8:30 and 9. I’m about to get into my truck when I hear a jangle of sounds that resembles “Take Five” by the Dave Brubeck Quartet. It seems to be live. I scan the hotel behind me and find a stairway leading to a well-lit pair of glass doors. I have just found where the action is, and so, like a good Jedi princess, I go there.

The doors bring me to a high-ceilinged hall, ringed with mirrored posts and mauve upholstery. The back is a long rectangle of booths, the near square a cocktail lounge with an open fireplace, a marbletop bar and a perimeter of small tables at the beachfront windows.

The afterglow paints the barback mirrors in salmon hues, and blasting away from a corner of the dance floor is a trio of upright piano, electric bass and green drums. The players are all big, like they really ought to be playing football.

The bassist stands about six-four, wearing a do-rag better suited to a biker bar. The pianist has a clean-shaven pate, in the modern rocker style, with a bandage over one temple. He’s pounding a solo like a ham-fisted Fats Waller, then lifts up, studies his field and dances into a Mozartean flurry. How he does this all in 5/4 is far removed from the scope of my knowledge.

In the midst of my musical trance, I find a short, plump brunette walking my way, and feel a sudden need to ask a question. Any question. I lean into the fringe of her path.

“Excuse me, umm… Who are these guys?”

Who are these guys? What’re you, high?

The brunette gives me a compact smile. “I don’t think they have a name. But if you’d like an audience with the bassist, I’m on intimate terms.

I give her a puzzled look.

“Okay, he’s my husband. And he’s having a heck of a time faking his way through this one.”

“Sounds fine to me.”

“Yes, but he’s scowling. Anyways, he’s Jon, the pianist is Paul, and the drummer is Mark.”

I laugh, a little too loud. “Aren’t they supposed to have names like ‘Razz’ and ‘Speed’?”

She puts a hand on my shoulder. “I think someone’s been watching gangster movies. Hey, would you like to sit with me? I’m a lonely band widow.”

“Sure. But let me buy you a drink.”

“I will just let you do that. I’ll have a chablis.”

I’m low on decision-making abilities, so I get a chablis as well. We’re soon back at Pam’s table, yacking like sorority sisters. It’s easy to see why she struck me as approachable – she has large eyes and round, doll-like features. You’d expect a squeaky Betty Boop voice, but she speaks with a calm alto.

“So,” she says. “What’s your story?”

I can’t help laughing. “That’s a little complicated. Why don’t you tell me yours?”

“Sure! We’re from California, Silicon Valley. Jon wrote code for a high-tech firm that very rudely laid him off. He had a tough go with the job-hunting, so the guitar became a full-time pursuit: blues band, funk band, surf band. That definitely wasn’t cutting it money-wise, though, so we sold our overvalued house and moved up here. I’m a CPA, so I can work anywhere. Then he met the guys, so now he’s playing jazz. Paul’s an English teacher, which puzzles me because he ought to be playing in New York or something.”

“My thought exactly.”

“And Mark is in real estate. He’s getting over his divorce by singing Tony Bennett songs.”

“Oh! He sings from the drums?”

“He says it’s a matter of simple beats and good posture.”

“So does he sound like Tony?”

“Not tonight. Poor dear, he’s fighting some nasty bug.”

Paul concludes a lengthy exploration of “The In Crowd” and takes the group into a wrap. The twenty folks scattered around the lounge respond with warm applause. Mark attaches a sheet of paper to the shaft of his hi-hat with a binder clip.

“That’s his cheat for new songs,” says Pam. “Although I always wonder how he can read when the words are bouncing up and down like that.”

Paul nods them into a slow, bluesy intro, and then Mark comes in on “Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans?”

“Wow!” I say. “He does a wicked Louis Armstrong.”

“He’s not doing Louis Armstrong,” says Pam. “That’s what he sounds like tonight.”

“Yikes!”

“Hey!” Pam spots a couple at the door and waves them over. One’s a burly, balding man with a thick mustache (Ocean Shores apparently breeds nothing but offensive linemen), the other is a fiftyish woman with a broad, generous face and a thick head of frosted blonde hair. They seem inordinately happy, or perhaps just drunk. After a round of hugs and greetings, they join us at the table.

“Channy, this is my brother Allen and his wife Sarah. They’re winos.”

“Please,” Allen objects. “Connoisseurs.”

“Okay, Mister Hoit du Toit,” Pam says exactly like a sister. “Where have you been? The gig started two hours ago!”

Allen and Sarah look at each other and smile. Allen says, “We can’t tell you yet. Not till the appetizers get here.”

“Better be a good story,” says Pam.

“Oh it is,” says Allen.

The song ends rather abruptly, and we give the band an applause laden with question marks. The players bend toward each other, conferring, then Jon takes the mic from Mark’s boom stand. He holds it awkwardly, as if it’s about to go off.

“Um, hi. I’m Jon, your bass player.”

The relatives at my table shout, “Hi, Jon!”

“Um, yeah, hi. Our vocalist has given his all tonight, and by that I mean he’s got nothin’ left. The thing is, we promised the ladies from the dance class that we would play ‘Mustang Sally,’ and if we don’t we might not make it out of here alive. Would anyone in the audience like to sing it with us? Because you really don’t want to hear me or Paulie try it.”

And I’m on my feet, walking across the floor. I don’t know what’s come over me. Maybe it’s the pot; maybe it’s being at the western edge of an entire continent, or the Jedi Frisbee Trick – but obviously I’m the one to sing this song. I take the mic from Jon and say, “Whenever you’re ready, boys.”

The surprising thing is, this is easier than karaoke, because in karaoke there’s no give to the music. At one point, I’m pretty sure I’m way early on the chorus, but the band performs a quick shift and everything’s cool. Plus, I’ve got a baker’s dozen of seniors shaking their booties in front of me, breathing hard and utterly delighted by my rescue act. This, I think, is why Ruby loves this so much. After a bass solo from Jon, I repeat the call-and-response, and Mark marches us into a drum-break finish. Sweet.

Jon sneaks up to my shoulder and says, “That was great! Y’know anything else?”

I turn to Paul and say, “What about ‘Great Balls of Fire’?” Which is like asking a dog if he likes steak.

“Oh, I am all over that,” says Paul with a grin. “Just watch me for the start.”

He gives a three-count, plays the four-step launch and I’m off. Somewhere in the midst of all that karaoke, I have learned how to front a band. The seniors are jitterbugging as Paul draws out his solo to Herculean proportions, kicking out a leg to play a few notes with his wingtips. He nods me back into the bridge, then to a chorus repeat, then a big fat splatter of an ending. Suddenly, I’m a Vegas emcee.

“Paul! Lee! Lewis! on the piano. Liquid Jonny on the bass! Frogman Mark on the drums!”

“How do you know all our names?” asks Jon.

“I’ve been talking to your wife.”

“Ah! So what’s your name?”

“Oh,” I say, and turn back to the mic. “And I’m Channy from Gig Harbor, your emergency fill-in.”

“Hey Channy!” says Paul. “Last song. You know something jazzy and slow?”

That one’s easy.

“Misty.”

I’m always having a love affair with one song or another, and this one arrived on the lips of Ruby Cohen. It’s a lovely, joy-laced melody, like a falling leaf that keeps nearing the ground only to be swept back up by one gust of wind and another. It’s also got a shadowy undercarriage, which certainly matches my romantic life. Ruby ran me through it after a handful of karaoke nights, supremely patient, because I think she knew what a stretch I was making.

Paul gives me a lilting, rubato intro. I scan the old couples dancing before me, close my eyes and lift the mic. The words come out of me like colored breath.

Toward the end, I already know I’ve captured it. Ruby calls it “inner applause” – the outer applause that follows feels like an echo. I turn to thank the trio, then head for my table as they begin breaking down their equipment. I find Pam and kin beaming at me over a tray of oysters and a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket.

“Well didn’t I find a diamond in the rough!” says Pam.

“Thanks! I run a karaoke bar, so I guess I developed some skills.”

“I’ll say!” says Allen. He hands me a glass. “We saved the last for ya.”

I take a sip. “Damn!”

“No,” he says. “Dom!”

To perform a spit-take would be downright criminal, so I force down a fizzy swallow. “Perignon?”

“My little surprise,” he says. “We went to the Quinault Casino this afternoon, and I won ten thousand dollars at the blackjack table.”

“Holy shit!”

“He’s taking us all to the Ocean Crest tomorrow for dinner,” says Pam. “It’s a five-star restaurant.”

“Wow! What fun. Could you take me too?” I realize immediately what a presumptuous question this is, and I cover my mouth in embarrassment.

Allen, God bless him, lets out a broad laugh and says, “Sure! Why not? I think you’ve sung for your supper.”

And now, I’m glad I asked. Because really, I need all the pleasure I can get.

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Outro: The Serial Novel

Twenty-nine

The Jedi Frisbee Trick

It’s a brilliant mid-April Tuesday. Waiting at the light over Highway 16, I can see Mt. Rainier as if it’s a pop-up in a gigantic children’s book. I notice another mountain in the distance past its southern shoulder, and realize that I have never seen this mountain before. That’s how clear it is. I take a mental note to look it up when I get to the library.

Exiting my truck in the library parking lot always gives me an olfactory thrill, until I realize that the cedar smell comes from the neighboring lot, where a dozen trees have been cut down for a new office building. Across the street, an entire forest has disappeared for the sake of some ginormous retail outlet. Such is the steady encroachment of success – and the new Narrows Bridge taking form next to the old one, promising to bring more commuters from Seattle and Tacoma. I suppose I should be excited for the greening of my tip jar, but I am beginning to mourn the old, modest Gig Harbor like a 70-year-old bench-sitting nostalgia whore.

It’s a few days before the tax deadline, so the foyer is still packed with forms. I pick up an automatic extension, because if someone’s offering free time, I’m taking.

The internet stations are lovely things, with sharp, thin monitors and keyboards that give out tasty popcorn clicks when you type on them. I also enjoy the printing policy, which operates entirely on trust. It’s ten cents a page, which you deposit in a clear plastic box. The bottom of the box is cushioned, to prevent the disruption of clacking quarters.

I find a corner cubicle, enter the number on my library card, and immediately have my answer – revealed by the news capsule on the search engine page: Soldiers Sentenced in Civilian Killings. I have learned to hate headlines; their brevity constantly misleads. This one makes it sound like Conrad and Kai carried out the killings themselves. The headline is technically correct, but it has a rotten soul.

I click the link, my heart tapdancing. Half a second into my download, I learn that Conrad got a year in prison – for the coverup, for being the commanding officer. For faking Harvey’s suicide. I scroll down until the second shoe drops: Kai, suspended sentence, regular psychiatric evaluations. Because his was a noble act. Because of his mental state after killing his best friend. Because he wasn’t the commanding officer.

In essence, Conrad has done what a good leader does – taken the brunt of it for an injured subordinate. I decide that I will track down Becky and see how she’s doing – and find out if I can visit him.



Naturally, I thought I might hear from Kai. It’s been a month since the trial. Becky hasn’t heard a thing about him; I feel guilty even asking, my ulteriors showing through like a cheap slip.

It’s May. The trees have dropped all their blossoms, are beginning to green up. Life is passing at the rate of freeway traffic, and I have arrived at Monday morning, on the shore of a four-day karaokeless ocean. I get up. Java has made no magical appearance. I manage to shower, and groom myself, and dress, just like a person who could be seen in public with other persons. I stare out my French windows at my too-familiar backyard: the Doug fir that leans in like a gambler peeking at his neighbor’s cards, the tiny hump of faraway ridgeline that rises over my fence. And ridiculous, overzealous sunshine, everywhere. Oh God oh God, it’s noon. I will remain here all day unless I can manage to kick my ass off this bed. There’s only one thing that will do the trick: drive, drive like crazy.

I traverse the Narrows, looking across at enormous sections of roadway dangling from what look like kite strings. Highway 16 doglegs to the asphalt Mississippi of I-5, heading south. But the roadside clutters up with bad memories: the Nisqually Delta keep driving the Olympia marina keep driving. I spot the ramp for 101, a binary sandwich of a number whispering promises of the Pacific Ocean, so that’s where we’re going.

An hour later, I’m cruising a long, lush valley past twin nuclear towers – coolers for a power plant that was never completed. I see a sign reading Ocean Shores. It sounds like a generic product: Toothpaste, Light Beer, Ocean Shores. So okay, I’m buying.

I wind through the harborside towns of Aberdeen and Hoquiam, then follow a road along the tidal flats – which right now contain about ten million pounds of hideous muck. Escape arrives on an evergreen ascent, which flattens out along a peninsula, and soon I’m turning left onto the main strip of Ocean Shores. An Irish pub hooks me with a sign reading Comfort Food; I wander in on road-stiff legs and order a potato chowder as thick as tapioca pudding, topped with starry flakes of parsley. The bread is dark, chewy and mysterious. I was so right to kick my ass off that bed.

Roundly fortified, I head into town, take an oceanward right and spy a municipal-looking restroom between two enormous hotels. I park there, trek a wide swath of dunes and discover a beach that runs a mile across and an eternity to right and left, composed of damp slate-brown sand. I’m a little alarmed when a car passes in front of me, a hybrid compact filled with gray-haired passengers. After a half-mile of northward walking, I come upon a college-age boy and girl, tossing a Frisbee, and give a smile as I pass. The sun is to the south, so my shadow precedes me on the sand. I hear the girl exclaim “Oh!” and then I find a small, dark oval hovering over my shadow. I raise my left arm, turn my hand so it faces behind me and close my fingers on the rim of the disc. I’m running a fingernail over its ribbed surface when the girl, an energetic lankiness of elbows and knees, rushes up.

“Holy shit! How did you do that?”

I guess I’m in a mood. I give her a perfectly serious look and say, “The secret is to let the Frisbee do what the Frisbee wants to do.”

Carye takes a second to consider my wisdom and then explodes in laughter. An hour later, we’re gathered at a driftwood fire – more for atmosphere than warmth – and I have just finished relating the Tragical History of Harvey.

“Shit!” says Joe. “Shit!” He brushes away a hank of hair that seems irresistibly drawn to his eyelashes, then takes another toke and passes it my way.

Carye says, “We came out here because Kurt Cobain grew up here.”

I’m looking for a segue – suicidal young men? – but then, we’re smoking. Segues are not required.

“Hoquiam or Aberdeen,” says Joe. “Depending on who you ask.”

“They seem to be having a debate about it,” says Carye.

“Come to the town that sucks so bad you’ll want to blow your head off,” says Joe.

Carye laughs wildly. “But not before writing some kickass rock.”

I can see why Joe and Carye are a couple. They speak in a tightly knit tandem, like relay runners passing a baton. Or perhaps it’s just the weed.

“We’re from Humboldt County,” says Carye. “In Northern California.”

Which is why this homegrown is so almighty powerful,” says Joe, with a wheezy laugh.

“It gets pretty cloudy there,” says Carye. “But we thought it would be cool to see how bad it gets in a place called the Rain Coast.”

“Absolute bullshit,” says Joe. “It’s been like Laguna Beach all week.”

“Where’s Laguna Beach?” asks Carye.

“No fuckin’ idea,” says Joe. “But it sounds sunny.”

“But your story,” says Carye. “God, Channy… What a great name that is: Channy. You are so strong to have gotten through that. You are a powerful woman.”

Carye’s admiring look – plus, probably, the weed – fills me up to bursting. As if to disprove her conclusion I start to cry, and soon find myself wrapped in a Joe and Carye sandwich.

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Outro: The Serial Novel

Twenty-Eight, Part Two

Surprising Alex

For once, my instincts are absolutely correct. The Alex who knows the buttons on my palms also knows the buttons everywhere else. I am spring-loaded with anxiety, and by the time Alex is finished with mouth, fingers and penis, I’m a five-time lottery winner, pleasurably destroyed, lying on his bed as the moon paints a skunk-stripe over the Sound. As it turns out, Alex lives in one of those pricey homes on Soundview, the ones I was passing this morning along my weather buffet. You could put a miniature golf course on his front lawn. I’m lying on my stomach, flagrantly naked; Alex runs a hand over my buttocks, as if they belong to a priceless Greek statue. I have decided that I merit just such treatment.

“I feel like I’ve discovered your secret, Alex. All those women, like a goddamn doctoral program.”

“I wouldn’t go too far with that,” he says. “It’s mostly about the dancing. But the dancing sometimes sets off triggers. Maybe a fifth of the time. What I like most is how surprised they are. It’s easy to overlook a guy like me.”

“Not when you dance.”

It’s odd when a man you’ve just had animal sex with gives you a shy look.

“Thanks. You know, the words to ‘Danny Boy’ were written in iambic pentameter. The song’s in four, but the contrast gives it this lovely meandering quality. You can’t just go hopping and skipping to it.”

I can hear the song as he speaks, and recall its meaning.

“I’m still in love with him.”

“I almost hate to ask,” says Alex, “but… who?”

“Kai.”

“Oh. That I knew. And, believe it or not, when you said ‘one-time offer,’ I took you at your word.”

My gaze drifts to a charcoal sketch on the wall, Fred Astaire in coat and tails.

“So it’s… okay?”

He runs a finger along the valley of my spine – a gesture that almost answers my question.

“It’s not just okay, Channy. It’s marvelous. For years – decades, actually – I waited for that life-long love affair, denying anything that didn’t have the potential to meet that lofty standard. What foolishness. Some time or other, it finally happened, I finally figured out where I fit into the equation. I am Mr. In-Between, the guy who dresses the wounds and sends the women on their way. But meanwhile, I get to enjoy them, and feast on their lovely bodies, and the very brevity of these affairs affords a variety matched by few men that I know. I am one hell of a lucky guy.”

I smile. “Nothing but A-pluses here, fella.”

He slaps me affectionately on a butt-cheek. “That’s what a man likes to hear. Another satisfied customer.”

We laugh the laughter of the sexually spent. A minute later, I put on my clothes, give Alex a big smooch on the mouth, and show myself to the door.

True to the day, the weather has changed. I cross the lawn in an envelope of mist, leaving dewy footprints on the grass. As I near the streetlight next to my car, I discover a thousand tiny splinters of light. It’s freezing fog, just the kind that one might find in a signpost forest.

I believe it now: Harvey’s dead.

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Outro: The Serial Novel

Twenty-Eight

Ce-le-bra-tion Time


“Don’t like the weather? Wait five minutes!”

It’s a tiresome joke, no one really thinks it’s funny, but today – St. Patrick’s Day – it has done gone literal. I begin the long crawl up Soundview in a thick fog, pass through a brief hailstorm, and a minute later am sitting at a sunny intersection as dainty crystals of snow land and melt on my windshield.

I am headed for the library, which has become my morning destination since Harvey’s story went public. I scour the blogs and websites for revelations, and though the many analyses of Harvey’s massacre certainly interest me, I am mostly after glimpses of Conrad and Kai. There is talk of coverup and courtmartial, and pundits trying to squeeze it into their side of the debate: symptom of an unworkable cause or simply the everyday price of a noble war? I am selfish – I could care less whether it lands on the black field or the white field. I want the assurance that my bad taste in men will not cost one more soldier one more day of precious life. And whether or not it’s convenient, whether or not it’s wise, it’s clear that I am in love with Kai.

Today I strike gold: a video of Kai, Conrad and their lawyers getting out of a car. They’re heading for some impressive building surrounded by evergreen ridges. Around here that could be anywhere, but I’m guessing the military courthouse at Ft. Lewis. Their expressions are neutral – I’m sure they’ve been coached on this – but Kai spots someone in the crowd and lets out the smallest of smiles. I track the video back and forth, looking for the moment with the most teeth, and send it off to the printer. This is a treasure worth a week of surfing, an image of the Kai I knew, the Kai I want back. I slide him into a plastic sleeve, and I’m off to Susanne’s for Dutch crunch bread.


By the time I get my bread it’s sunny. I sit outside despite the cold, if only to harvest some UVs. I realize that I’m also looking for a sign – and I am not generally a sign-seeker. But what if I actually get one? What then? A murder of crows flies overhead – Kai and Conrad get the chair? A bald eagle buzzes the bakery and snatches my Dutch crunch – freedom for both?

The bird I end up with is a teenage chickie with a blonde plume, pulling up in a silver monstrosity of SUV. She parachutes down and is headed for the bakery door when she spots something and stops. A wiry skaterdude with a helmet of black hair is pushing up the sidewalk (no small feat – he’s on quite a hill). He spots Blondie and does that wondrous thing that teenagers do – leaps from his board to race toward his female target and lift her into a hug worthy of an amusement park ride, the both of them exclaiming superlatives. After a third spin, he sets her back on terra firma, looks downhill and discovers that his board has rolled two blocks, taken a left into a driveway and is now headed for the marina.

He does precisely the right thing: gives a surprised smile, exclaims “Dude!” and stays exactly where he is, laughing his head off. Because the board is going to do what the board is going to do, and that is simply the cost of true love.


Word of our celebration has traveled the capillaries of Puget Sound’s karaoke culture and brought back some interesting visitors. Floy and John Craig step into Karz for perhaps the first time in their lives. Sheila has come, and I am relieved to see that she has brought some tall dark man-candy so she can leave Harry the hell alone. It’s not unusual that Alex has come, except that he has come without a dance partner, which is downright unheard-of. We’ve even got a fellow professional – Erica, a KJ from California, and her husband Paul.

Ruby interrupts my prep-work to take me to her booth, where I meet the half-mythological Albert Camarelli, wearing a wild silk shirt of African siennas and reds, and Michael, the guy who sang Sinatra on the cruise. David’s there, too, and I can’t resist leaning over to whisper “Hi, Super.” He gives me a wink and says, “Shh! You want to get me thrown out?”

After a few more small touches (tightening a troublesome speaker stand), the time seems right, so I perch behind my soundboard and begin the ceremony.

“All right, all right. Settle down, people! As you all probably know, a couple of our irregulars went on a cruise recently and made public spectacles of themselves, and we’re here to assuage their superhuman egos so they’ll just get over it and leave us the hell alone.”

My decision to do this as a roast was not without some trepidation, so I’m relieved when my opening gets a laugh (much helped by Shari, who is the best laugher on the West Coast).

“Thanks to our lovely host, Hamster – who got his name from the rodents that he uses to power these goddamn annoying model trains – we have hooked the big screen up to a DVD player, so that we may all witness for ourselves the crime that was perpetrated on 1500 innocent passengers last month. Hammy!”

Hamster hits a button and we’re in at Ruby’s intro. I should have a pretty good idea of what we’re about to see, but it’s all much more glamorous than I expected: the lights, the skill of the dancers (the bodies of the dancers!), even the camerawork, which includes a double-image fade from a stage shot to a closeup. As for Ruby, she’s so good that it makes me uncomfortable. It’s hard to picture someone you know laying it all out on a stage like that. That’s for rock stars, actors, ballerinas – people who are only half-real to begin with.

With Harry, it’s different. No quantum leap, just sorta what you would expect if you took this guy we all knew, gave him a cool white jumpsuit and stuck him on a big stage. I’m probably more impressed by the girls in the Capri pants, a six-pack of pure Day-Glo cutesy sex doing the pony behind him.

We keep the DVD rolling through Michael’s “My Way” and the variety-show finale, and I’m back to my MC duties.

“Fortunately for us, Harry and Ruby didn’t do their usual job of alienating everybody they meet” – Man! I hope I’m not overdoing this – “and they invited their Sinatra, Michael, to come down from Seattle. Michael?”

Michael looks like he wants to say something, so I hold off on the music.

“This was really a pleasure, I can’t tell you,” he says. “Getting to play my hero, meeting such talented and friendly people. The funny thing is, I really hate ‘My Way.’ It’s butchered on a regular basis by middle-aged men the world over, and it’s so antithetical to the swinging, playful style that typifies so much of Frank’s music. That said, here’s a song that I much prefer.”

It’s “Witchcraft,” and I can quickly hear what Ruby was talking about. Michael’s voice has a distinct Sinatra timbre that you simply have to be born with; the beverage equivalent would be a Guinness ale -–a creamy, stout glass of black-brown baritone. He’s also got the loosey-goosey sense of pitch and phrasing, making casually late entrances and scooping up to the notes on the chorus.

“I’m sure you’ve heard this before,” I tell him, “but you really do sound like him. It’s eerie.” Breath. “Speaking of eerie, our next singer is Harry.” I wait a beat for the laugh (I think I’m getting the hang of this!). “Harry used to be a tow-truck driver, but lately he’s been spotted in electronics stores, shooting out entire aisles of TV sets, and hitting up pharmacies for what he likes to call ‘leftovers.' You’ve seen the Thin Elvis, the Fat Elvis. I give you the Paunchy Elvis – Gig Harbor’s own Harry Schmidt!”

I switch on “It’s Now or Never” and Harry runs onstage, in a mockup of that skin-tight black leather bodysuit from Elvis’s comeback TV special. I mean to say, it’s like he’s wearing a coat of black paint. He’s also got big silver motorcycle sunglasses with portholes coming down the sides and a wig of jet-black hair with long sideburns.

After a quick “Thankyou,” he’s into the song. It takes me till midway through the first verse to realize that something’s amiss. Either the Elvis mumble is sloppier than usual or Harry’s singing in Italian! Lest there be any doubt, he finishes by mumbling “Grotsy, Millygrotsy,” then performs a karate kick before returning to his table.

“Damn you, Harry!” I say. “Here I am, trying to be insulting, and you go and do something impressive. In case you’re wondering, ‘It’s Now or Never’ is based on the traditional Neapolitan song ‘O Sole Mio,’ and Harry just sang it in the original Italian.”

Harry waits for just the right moment to answer with a classic Presleyan “Uh-uh-huh,” which wins a well-deserved laugh.

I lose my place, and Shari begins the traditional chant of “Dead air! Dead air!” The room joins in, and I have to wave them all down.

“Back, you animals! Hyaw! Geez – the pressure! Forgive the hesitation, but I realize that I’m going to have to give up the roast entirely because I’m about to get all sentimental on your ass.”

The room quiets down, and everybody’s sneaking peeks at Ruby. She’s dolled up in her Irish green dress, the one she wore for her dining-hall applause, and that first memorable appearance at Karz.

“Even in the beginning, when we didn’t think terribly much of her attitude,” (laugh beat, one… two…) “we knew that Ruby had extraordinary talent, talent that could not be contained by our humble bar. After a few months in her company, I can tell you that she’s also an extraordinary friend. There were times when I simply could not have made it without her. Now…”

I have to stop for a breath. I feel the emotion rising in my voice, and I am determined to get this out straight.

“Huh-hem! Now, after suffering the slings and arrows of outrageous Broadway, our little girl will spend her evenings under the Northern Lights, trolling the Great American Songbook for thousands of lucky passengers. Would you please strike together your appendages for our own… Ruby! Cohen!”

Our modest assembly erupts like a squad of Japanese tourists as Ruby takes the stage and gives me a hug. She whispers “Ready?” and I give her a squeeze of affirmation. I’m sure she would have preferred to surprise me, but I am the KJ, so I at least have to know the song.

She takes the mic as if she’s accepting a bouquet of roses.

“It’s all true,” she says. “I will soon be continuing my pursuit of the great musical beasts of America: the great horned Porter, the duck-billed Gershwin, the white-tailed Ellington. But before I embark on that glorious safari, I’d like to pay tribute to my roots, and the talented young lady who got me here. Alex!”

Alex dashes out in a black tango outfit, Zorro minus the accessories, and, much to the amazement of all, unzips Ruby’s dress. She steps out to reveal cherry red vinyl pants and bra, then completes the ensemble by reaching behind my speaker for a jacket of the same material.

As she zips it up, I hit play, and I recall this same outfit from Britney’s second music video. The song, however, is “Toxic,” which rises from a snaky vamp that I just adore.

Ruby sings from a largely static position – a pose here, a pelvic dip there – but once they hit the instrumental she and Alex perform one of those whirling interweaves where you lose track of which limbs are whose. Ruby breaks out and kicks a leg up over Alex’s shoulder, he slides her trailing foot across the floor like a paintbrush, then spins her away so she can repeat the chorus. Alex disappears for a few measures, then slides across on his knees, assuming a position like a human table as Ruby places a cherry-red boot atop his back. As she hits the final note, she pushes down and Alex sprawls out on the floor.

He remains in this position as the place simply goes haywire, then rolls onto his side and flashes a big grin. I know an impending dance party when I see one, so I slap on “Play That Funky Music” and watch as my patrons fill the floor.


Late in the evening, Erica from California comes up to sing “The Rose,” and invites me and Shari to sing harmonies. I use a low harmony that I learned from Kevin the Cop (who has been strangely absent of late), and Shari take the upper, launching herself into a gospel descant before the quiet finish. I’m exchanging singerly hugs with both of them when Al comes up to ask if he can say something.

“Of course, Al. You’re my hero.”

Al turns to address the room. You can tell he’s done this many times before.

“Hi. My name’s Albert Camarelli, but starting next week you can refer to me as Ruby’s Boss.”

This brings automatic applause, which Al damn well knew it would before he said it.

“If you’ll forgive the pun, I want to thank you for ‘harboring’ such a wonderful talent and sending her my way. It’s my understanding that our Elvis met Ruby on these very grounds – and it was Harry, of course, who took her on that fateful cruise. As a reward, we’ve invited him to join Ruby on one free cruise per year. As long as he behaves himself, that is. As it turns out, however, our Ruby drives a hard bargain, so I would like to offer an additional free cruise – one time only, mind you – to your charming talent director, Channy.”

My reaction is pure and lovely shock. I find myself kissing Al on the cheek and meeting Ruby for a helicopter hug, both of us screaming unintelligible syllables of delight. I make my way slowly back to the mic.

“I’m so embarrassed! Thank you so much, Al. That is incredibly sweet of you. Now, to save us all from utter chaos, let’s get Ruby up here to sing.”

Ruby drifts our way like a large disembodied smile and takes the mic.

“I think by now you realize that we’ve spent most of an Irish holiday celebrating a Mexican cruise. And with a name like Ruby O’Cohen, I feel it’s up to me to set this matter right, so I would now like to sing the song that will be utterly massacred tonight by Celts and non-Celts the world ‘round.

She pauses, like she’s trying to piece something together.

“I also think that there is an unacknowledged… presence in the room tonight. If you’ve read the papers lately, you know that Channy has been having a rough time of it, and although she is not as apt as I am to blurt out her feelings, I know for a fact that she needs you people and your angelic voices as much as you might need her. And I want to thank you, on her behalf.”

She looks my way, and I recover myself long enough to press the play button. In comes a fiddle, an Irish flute, and already I know that this music will perforate my heart. Perhaps we forget this amidst all the green beer and hullabaloo, but “Danny Boy” is a song sung to a child who is leaving for foreign lands, and the singer knows that he will never see him again.

I’m shrinking into the shadows behind my soundboard, ready for the melody to swallow me alive, when I feel a hand on mine. It’s Alex, and he’s pulling me onto the dance floor. His hands are divine instruments, as if there are beautiful movements inscribed on my palms, and all he has to do is touch this button, and that, and I am sweeping across the floor like Cyd Charisse. Toward the finish, as our Irish ancestor names his mourning like a shepherd calling his flock, we join hands, loop them around each other’s necks and walk slowly in a circle, gazing at each other like dancers at an Irish wake. I’d never realized how beautiful his eyes were.

An hour later, I’m all packed up, conducting a post-party review with Shari, who’s radiating excitement.

“Channy, I swear this is one of the best nights of my life. I am surrounded by extraordinary people, and… it’s helped me make a decision. I saw an ad in the paper for a band that needs a female blues singer, and I’m gonna try out!”

“Omigod, Shari! I can so totally see you in a blues band. You’ll be like a really tall, Viking Janis Joplin.”

“Ha! Big Sister and the Holding Company. Well, anyways, thanks for the hundred and fifty-third time already, and I’ll let you know what happens. Bye! Enjoy that cruise!”

“Definitely!”

Ruby and Alex come strolling across the lot like a two-person laugh train.

“One beat off on that little stompdown, honey, and pop goes the vertebra.”

“Now, now. I was gentle.”

“You two!” I cut in. “Absolutely scandalous. Sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

Alex gives me an embarrassed grin. “I’ve been looking for a way to stretch my boundaries.”

“That leg-shoulder thing scared the hell out of me,” says Ruby. “I wasn’t sure vinyl could stretch like that.”

Harry rumbles up in his tow truck. “Hey, woman! Are we gonne get outta here by daybreak?”

“Whoops!” says Ruby. “We’re kayaking the Vaughn Inlet tomorrow. Thanks, Channy. It was a swell homecoming.”

She stands on Harry’s running board, blows us a kiss and vaults to the seat. Alex and I watch the taillights ascending Pioneer like twin red stars.

“Well,” he says. “I’d better…”

I grab his arm. I’m not sure why. “Alex, could I… could you stay just a minute?”

“Sure,” he says. “Anything.”

If he had said anything but anything, I might have lost my nerve. I rub my hand toward his elbow, looking for buttons.

“I think you know that… I’m a pretty fucked-up individual right now, and this is probably a one-time offer, but… could you please take me to your place?”


Next: Surprising Alex

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

Outro: The Serial Novel

Chapter 27

The Quest for Britney

Ruby


Everything on the ship had an artistic theme, and the karaoke took place in the Starry Night Lounge, before an enormous wallpaper re-creation of its title work. As you might have guessed, Harry and I went there every night. He had the chance to sic his well-drilled repertoire on a whole new crowd of swooning females, and I had the chance to explore an impressive selection of standards and showtunes. I developed an immediate following among the seniors, who enjoyed swinging and fox-trotting to my songs.

At the end of our first evening, our Australian hostess Lani asked me if I was going to try out for the Legends concert. For the next four evenings, passengers would come to the Starry Night and sing a song by a legendary performer. If the audience decided you were the best at that song, you would appear as that performer in a Vegas-style show before 1,500 of your fellow passengers.

I actually thought of opting out. The contest was obviously aimed at amateurs, and it wouldn’t be entirely fair for me to participate. That thought lasted about half a second. If my ship was gonna have a show, I was gonna be in it.

One problem: none of the female roles were from jazz or Broadway. I halfway thought of cross-dressing as Sinatra, but I chickened out. So began my journey through the popular music of the late 20th century.

The first night was Aretha, and the song was “Respect.” I assumed it was about the singing, and I thought I pretty much nailed it. But then, out comes this perky young Filipina, and she’s got choreography, for God’s sake. So much choreography, in fact, that she’s dropping notes right and left. No one seems to notice, and I’m out.

The next night is Madonna, “Like A Virgin.” I grew up on that song – hell, I think I lost my virginity to that song. But I’ve learned my lesson, so I throw in a couple of sexy moves when I can. However. The next contestant is this sexy Italian kindergarten teacher from Long Island, and she throws in the kind of moves that no kindergarten teacher should ever know. At one point, she pulls out a classic Madonna maneuver, lying with her back on the stage while she’s singing. So! Am I going to get the part? No way.

My third chance is Gloria Estefan, “The Rhythm is Gonna Get You.” I can totally pull off Gloria – I grew up in Florida, after all – and I prep myself with some salsa and rhumba moves before adjourning to the Starry Night. But then…

The rowdiest pack on the ship is this alumni group from Indiana University. They’re easy to spot, because they all wear red, all the time – massing down the fiesta deck, crowding the blackjack tables, doing the frug in the Warhol Club. In the swimming pools, they wear red bathing suits. Nice people, but loud, and the constant red-ness gives off an unsettling Nazi vibe.

I sing a couple of tropical warmups – “Jamaican Farewell,” “Girl from Ipanema” – but at nine, when the contest begins, there’s a rumbling like someone just lifted the gate at Pamplona. The wide front doors swing open and in rolls the Red Sea, filling every available nook. As you might expect, they’re here for a cause: a 50-year-old with dried-out smoker’s skin and frizzy hair with traces of several different red dye jobs. She actually seems quite nice, and she throws in some decent Cuban dance moves, but her voice is a creaky, smoked-out mess. Doesn’t matter. When the Red Sea explodes, she’s a winner.

I can’t be the good loser this time. I wait till the next singer takes the mic, then give Harry’s hand a squeeze and we make for the back exit. We’re halfway through the Internet café when a door opens, and out pops our KJ.

“Lani! How’d you…?”

“Every ship’s got its secret passageways,” she says. “Look. That sort of shit” – she nods back toward the club – “is a truly unfortunate part of my job. It happens at least once a cruise. But I want you to know, I know exactly how good you are, and I know this stuff is all beneath your talent, but I can’t stand the thought of you not being in that show, and I really want you to come back tomorrow night.”

“I’m… thanks, Lani. But I don’t even know the song.”

She hands me a rectangular object wrapped in wires. It’s an IPod. “You will, if you listen to that. We usually only give these to the winners, so they can practice for the show. But screw the rules! We’re in international waters, right?”

“Oh Lani, I…”

“Oh Lani nothing! Do your homework, young lady. Whoops! Song’s over. Bye.”

She’s back through the door and I’m left floating in flattery. We retreat to the arcade, where Harry and I work out our frustrations on a combination jukebox/electronic drum set (mostly Led Zeppelin) then on to the Matisse Jazz Lounge for martinis. When we get back to our cabin, I find a mysterious package on my bed. It’s a DVD of the Legends concert from a previous cruise. Somebody really wants me to get this part.

Which is Britney Spears – “Hit Me Baby One More Time.” I never liked it much, but the next morning, when I strapped on the IPod and tried it out, I was surprised to find out how well it suited me. Britney has this deep, low pocket that she slides into, and it seemed to wrap around my voice like a form-fitting dress. After it scratched a few grooves into my synapses, I tried out the DVD and studied the moves of the ship’s dancers. (I ignored their Britney, who was Aunt-Zelda-sings-at-your-wedding awful.) If I could work a little of the choreography into my audition, it would give me a nice edge. I pushed our bed to the cabin wall and put myself through some paces. It was pretty sexy stuff; I caught Harry peeking from the bathroom as he shaved.

The costume was a cinch. I picked out a short pleated skirt (intended for some imaginary night of dancing), shiny black shoes that might pass for patent leather, and white knee-high stockings. Then I stole Harry’s white dress shirt and tied it above my bare midriff. Voila! The classic parochial slut, and we were off to the bar.

Little do I know, I have become a cause celebre. The regulars are pretty cheesed off about the Red Sea incident, and impressed that I am now risking four-time loserdom. A group of Japanese tourists has migrated to the front row for the sole purpose of cheering me on. I am the 1980 U.S. hockey team, the 1969 Jets. When I begin with Peggy Lee’s “Fever” (designed to work up my “sexy”), the crowd lets out a practice uproar.

Come audition time, I’m up first, and I guess I’m better than I expected. I have wisely inserted my dance moves into the generous spaces between the vocal lines, so I can concentrate on one task at a time. Rolling into the ending, I strike a pose at each of four beats, raking a hand along my skirt and over my hair as I arch my back. The place goes nuts.

But then, out comes my competition, and I have every right to be nervous. If you didn’t tell me otherwise, I’d say it is Britney, this 19-year-old chicklet with legs up to Canada, an utterly fantastic ass, nice rack, big Hollywood lips and a head of hair that rains down in thick ribbons of blondeness. She’s a fucking shampoo commercial. The music begins, she vamps to the front of the stage and out comes this voice like an LP played with a concrete needle.

Game over, right? Don’t bet on it. Because Britney II has an entourage of fratboys, and it’s almost as if she’s offered a night of carnal pleasures to whoever yells the loudest. On the first vote, in fact, the ovations are too close to call. But this only serves to piss off my fans even more. A short, bespectacled man jumps in front of his Japanese peers to cheerlead, and when Lani’s hand pops open over my head I am blown backward by the loudest, scariest sound I’ve heard since a Navy air show on Whidbey Island. I am deafened, I am adored, and even a pack of horny fratboys cannot match it. Lani brings the mic to her mouth, declares “I think it’s Ruby!” and my fans burst forth in a fugue of coyote yips. My life-long dream of playing Britney Spears has come to pass.

By now you’re probably wondering about my talented boyfriend. Unlike me, Harry was no slut for every passing star. He wanted only to be the King. Even though the part of Elvis was the final male audition, making this an all-or-nothing attempt, he would consider no other. As it turned out, his loyalty was richly rewarded – because nobody else tried out. Harry was summarily crowned, and asked to sing “Hound Dog” as proof of his prowess. He was excellent, of course, but I gave him a whack on the butt nonetheless, for the gross inequity of our respective situations.

We spent the next day kayaking – and perhaps that’s another reason I got so attached to it. We paddled within the glow of victory, and I could barely hear the sounds of frigate birds, motorboats or waves on rocks with “Hit Me Baby One More Time” playing interminably through my head (without, I might add, the assistance of an IPod). That afternoon, I discovered what a small, magnified community is a cruise ship, and how quickly word of my travails had spread. My biggest fans were the seniors, who relished the fact that someone who sang their songs could beat a teenybopper at her own generation’s music. Strangers would shout to me in the corridors – “Hey Britney!” “Karaoke girl!” “Go get ‘em, Ruby!” – and whenever we came upon my Japanese posse, they weren’t happy until I hugged each and every one of them. That night’s dinner was a formal-dress affair, and when I entered the hall in my jade-green sequin gown, they applauded me. It felt like some wacky Fred Astaire musical, and I ate it up like crème brulee.

You might expect Harry to be taken aback by all of this, perhaps even a little jealous – he was Elvis, after all. But Harry was precisely the opposite, confident enough in his own talent to understand that my four-part battle had become something extraordinary. He had a permanent goofy grin plastered to his mug, and he never tired of telling everybody that he was sleeping with Britney Spears. I think he was also proud that everybody else was finding out about his talented girlfriend, and excited that he would finally get to see me in my element. It didn’t hurt when the Japanese contingent would bow down in mock worship and chant “Ellll-vis! Ellllvis!”

The show was actually pretty easy. They had done it cruise after cruise for God knows how long, and had it carefully programmed for shaky amateurs. After donning our costumes (available in three different sizes), we adjourned to the “green room,” which was really just a small landing next to this metallic, Navy-looking stairwell. Harry’s Elvis costume – the white Vegas jumpsuit – seemed to turn him into the class cutup, and he went around punching holes in the tension. He turned to Melanie, in her early-Madonna see-through dress, and said, “I hate to mention this, honey, but we can see your underwear!” I also remember our lead showgirl, Holly – she of the perfect six-foot body – using the stairway rails to stretch in ways that would send the rest of us to the hospital.

Playing the youngest of the icons, I had to wait an interminable amount of time before my escort, a lovely gay dancer named Geoffrey, came to whisk me away. We braced ourselves beside the entrance, elbows coupled, listening for the cue in Britney’s intro (I believe it was the word “vixen”), and then he gives me a tug and leads me to a star at center stage. My job is to sing the song without straying from that star, lest I trip up one of the schoolgirls in my “posse,” but of course I’m after brownie points. Britney II and her fratboys have every right to be suspicious about the way the same moves I used in my audition are matching up with those of the dancers. The audience just knows, instinctively, that something about my performance is “tighter” than the others. I jolt into that same four-pose ending and freeze with my troupe, taking a loofah shower in the sound of 3,000 hands. It is indescribably sweet.

Geoffrey comes to fetch me back, and we stand in the wings as Harry does his stuff. He definitely has the best production values in the show: the classic 2001: Space Odyssey intro, followed by a verse of “Hound Dog,” followed by “Jailhouse Rock” with a half-dozen twirling babes in Ray-bans and Capri pants. He throws in a couple of leg-waggles and sings his usual excellence, eliding one forgotten phrase with what he calls the Elvis Mumble.

Holly Perfectbody comes to lead him off, and then comes a surprisingly touching elegy: a spotlight on an empty stool as we listen to clips of Sinatra talking about his life. Michael, a journalist from Seattle, comes out in a tux and short-brimmed fedora to sing “My Way” in a voice eerily similar to the original. As the orchestra wells up, the rest of the legends return, and our escorts walk us through a simple choreography. We take our final bows (more loofah, pass the shampoo) and run up the aisle to a nearby lounge for photos. I was tugged away by Harry, who continued talking like Elvis as he kissed away a major portion of my makeup.

“Hey Priscilla, wanna celebrate?”

“And what do you call what you just did?”

“That’s just preliminaries, bebe.”

“Well first we’d better return these getups.”

He ran a hand under the hem of my plaid skirt. “Sure they wouldn’t let you keep this just a little longer?”

I had no choice but to squeak like a Mouseketeer. “Mr. Presley! You bad, bad man. I’m gonna tell Colonel Parker on you.”

“I’m pretty sure he’d be on my side. Meet me in the Mattress Lounge?”

“That’s Matisse, you pedophile.”

“Pee-doh… Whassat?”

“Jerry Lee Lewis.”

“Oh! Uh-uh-huh.”

Harry held my shoulders, keeping me still with those blue eyes, and spoke like Harry again.

“Seriously, Ruby. You were incredible up there. I never dreamed you were that good.”

I kissed him thoroughly and sent him off to the men’s dressing room with a slap to the hindquarters. He gave me a pistolshot with his fingers, said, “Thankyou. Thankyouvermuch,” and joined James Brown in a march backstage.

Between chit-chatting with Aretha and Gloria (silently forgiving them for beating me), receiving my compliments from Geoffrey (“I had you picked out as a pro from square one”) and swapping back into my civilian clothes, I was the last one out of the dressing room. When I came back out on stage, the theater was profoundly empty. I have a superstition that goes, Any time you see a mark, hit it, so I ambled up to the star and buried its east and west points under my pumps. A burst of short-term memory washes over me, but it flutters away like a riverbank of of butterflies and I arrive at a wall of sadness, as if my veins have all gone indigo. A surge of gravity yanks me seaward, but I fight it, pressing down on that star and turning my legs into treetrunks, letting the tears do what they may.

“Everything OK?”

You could forgive me for thinking it’s God – a gruff, booming baritone emanating from stage left. I twist from my star to discover a large man in a double-breasted navy suit. He seems to be in his mid-fifties, balding, with a thick salt-and-pepper beard, but he exudes a virile energy – executive bouncer, high-class Mafioso.

“Stage blues,” he says. “You’ve hit an emotional peak, and now the moment’s gone. It’s all downhill from here – but at least it’s a tall hill.”

I perform a few eye rubs to clean the slate.

“No offense, but who the hell are you?”

He lets out a guffaw on a single note, like the ones produced by opera singers during party scenes. “Haw! I’m Albert Camarelli, and I’m quite a fan. You are a marvelous singer.”

“Thank you, Mr. Camarelli.”

“Please. You can call me Al.”

“Al.” I take a second to scan the empty seats, trying to put a name to my symptoms. “But you’re wrong, Al. I’m familiar with stage blues. I’m a… professional. And I’m wondering why I had to work so fucking hard to get this stupid, shitty little part.”

“There are no small parts, just…”

“Oh save it, Al!” And here I am, crying again. Al comes over and places a hand on my shoulder.

“I’m sorry. Shouldn’t throw cliches at a pro. Would you like to take a walk with me on deck? Just for a few minutes?”

This seems a little forward, but Al’s aura emanates benevolence.

“You should know,” I say, “I’m already taken.”

He smiles. “Everybody knows that. You and Elvis are the golden couple. He’s pretty good, too. Nowhere near as good as you.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Honey, there’s jazz and then there’s the easy stuff. You’re a jazz singer.”

I turn and do a little squeegee job on my face.

“You’ve heard me sing jazz?”

“All week.”

“And I’m a jazz singer?”

“Most definitely.”

“Okay, Al. Let’s go for a walk.”

I take a last, doleful look at my star before following Al up the aisle. The elevator opens on the forward pool area, populated by a few late-night drinkers and a chain-smoking teen in a Ramones T-shirt.

“Britney! You are hot, honey.”

“Thanks,” I say.

We walk a few feet more and Al says, “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

I flash him a secret grin. “A teenage boy just called me ‘hot,’ Al. What do you think?”

“Haw! Mind if I puff a stogie? It’s a Cuban, so it’s now or never.”

“Nah. Go ahead.”

Al turns away from the breeze, cups his hand and lights up. I wander toward the railing, eyeing the low strip of Baja California, a handful of lights popping from the darkness. Al joins me, proffering his prize.

“Care for a puff?”

“Sure.” I twirl the tip in my mouth and take a drag. The smoke carries a rich coffee edge, plus something unexpectedly sweet, like a good port.

“That is lovely,” I say.

“You’ve done this before.”

“I’ve got a friend who smokes Swisher Sweets.”

“Egad! On purpose?” He takes it back, tips the ash into a designated container (installed after balcony passengers found themselves being attacked by flurries of gray snow), then works the end into an orange glow.

“So! Ruby. Would you play some word association with me?”

“Sure, doc.”

“Gershwin.”

“But Not For Me.”

“Straighten Up and Fly Right.”

“Nat King Cole. The trio years.”

“Vocalese.”

“Take a famous instrumental solo and apply lyrics to it. Created by Lambert, Hendricks and the incomparable Ross.”

“Lush Life.”

“Ooh! Billy Eckstine. Smokey stuff.”

Al stops and turns because he thinks he’s got a meaty one.

“Mack the Knife.”

“Merry little tune about a serial killer. Kurt Weill, for The Threepenny Opera with Bertolt Brecht. They told him the show needed a prologue to explain the main character; on the way home, he heard a trolley playing that familiar three-note motif: doo doo doo doo. Famously recorded by Louis, Ella, Frank and of course Bobby D. Weill also wrote Moon of Alabama, recorded by the Doors, and September Song.”

“Um, uh…” Al is running out of steam. “A Small Hotel?”

“Rodgers and Hart. Al? Are we playing Jeopardy?”

He comes to some kind of decision and snaps his fingers. “No. You’re it, Ruby.”

“So we’re playing tag? Yaknow, I’ve really got to meet Elvis in the Matisse…”

“No!” We’ve arrived at the aft swimming pool. He waves me into a chair. “Just two more minutes, I swear.”

I take a seat as Al heads for the bar. He takes out a key and opens a cabinet, then returns with two glasses and a bottle of champagne.

“Al! You’re gonna get in trouble.”

He gives me a wink. “It’s all right. I’ve got connections.” He pops the cork, fills us up and raises a toast. “May you never have to sing Britney Spears ever again.”

“You devil! You have come up with something I cannot refuse to drink to.”

Al sits down and arranges his legs until he’s comfortable, then he leans forward and laces his fingers.

“I’ve been watching you all week, Ruby. It takes a real connoisseur to know how good you are, and I knew it after three seconds. I spent the rest of the week making sure that I wasn’t hallucinating. You have this ability with a song, to mold it, craft it like a fine sculptor – and God forbid, have a little fun with it. What you don’t have is this godawful need to flatten out the tone and sap out all the warmth.”

“Like Diana Krall?” I ask.

He laughs. “As in, makes my skin Krall. No. You have this marvelous old-fashioned sensibility that never, ever should have gone out of style. Actual vibrato, actual phrasing – call it torch singing, or vocal acting. The seniors appreciate it, because they grew up with it, but only two people on this fucking ship understand precisely what makes it work, and they’re both sitting at this table.”

I smile and take another sip of Al’s very good champagne. “You know, Al? As long as you’re not some highly articulate stalker, I could get to like you.”

“Haw! That’s good, because you might be seeing a lot of me.”

“Um… Okay. Why?”

“I’m the vice president of this cruise line, Ruby. I’m also the entertainment director. We get a lot of older passengers on our Alaskan cruises – people who still know and love the great songs. For that and my own purely selfish reasons, I’ve decided to set up an old-fashioned jazz club, just like the ones you would see in one of those old Astaire movies, and fit it out with a small orchestra and a singer. And I want you to be the singer.”


That’s about the time I lose it. I slam the table with both hands and yell “No!” spilling half my coffee and alarming the couple at the next table.

“Yes!” says Ruby. “I start next month.”

“That is incredible! That is… Oh! Oh Ruby!” I circle the table to give her a hug, and then I grab a handful of napkins to sop up my coffee. It’s amazing how quickly my thoughts revert to my own selfish needs.

“But… Does this mean you’re leaving?”

“Not at all. The cruises are out of Seattle. A week on/week off kind of thing.”

I feel a little dizzy, awash with joy. It’s true – empathy is a workable drug. But I’ve got one more doubt.

“Is this… Is this enough for you?”

Ruby tents her fingers. “I believe the quote was, I will no longer chase a dream that doesn’t chase me. Well honey, this particular dream stalked me for a week and then toasted me with champagne and Cuban cigars! And I think by now I’ve got a handle on my basic needs. I need to stand in front of people and sing to them. If it’s on a cruise ship instead of somewhere on Times Square, then so be it!”

We both relax into our chairs, chewing our perfect bread. Ruby lets out little aspirations of wonder left over from the Mexican Pacific. Then she snaps to and raps her knuckles on the table.

“Oh, Channy. Me me me! I completely forgot – did you hear anything about Kai?”

Don’t think I’m not tempted. I have huge, carnivorous things crawling inside of me, and if I don’t expose them to the light of day they will eat me alive. But I am not about to rain on such a spectacular parade.

“Nope,” I say. “Haven’t heard a thing.”


Next: Celebration Time

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: the author as Frank Sinatra on a 2006 Carnival Cruise.

Outro: The Serial Novel

Twenty-Seven

The Return of Roo-bee

I’m back on the chessboard, but now the black and white squares are grassy fields on a hillside. One field grows white grass, the other grows black. They are neatly separated by a barbed wire fence. I am astride a white horse on the black field, bouncing along like the token cowgirl in a John Wayne movie (I’m picturing Ava Gardner). My steed is a mountain of smooth muscle, beautifully rideable. I spur him to a gallop and steer us toward a hedge, relishing the hiccup of gravity as we clear the crest.

On the far side, we come upon the fence, composed of pure silver. Across from us, at the center of the white field, stands a black horse. At first sight of us he charges, lips flaring. He’s about to hit the fence when a shot rings out. His legs buckle and he falls, sliding to a stop directly in front of us. This frightens the white horse, who bucks wildly, tossing me to the ground. When I gather my bearings, I am lying on my side, face to face with the black horse. As I watch, his red eyes fade away and the rest of him melts, turning the white field to black.

And then somebody barks. And I wake up next to a dead hand. It’s mine. I fell asleep in an odd position, and my left arm has gone completely numb. I use my still-living right hand to nudge it out of my way, then peer across the room to see the numbers 5:54. and a fuzzy pyramid of pooch.

“Java! How the fuck are you doing this?”

I am secretly happy to see him; in the face of such an obvious dream (where were the evil mimes? the radioactive pickles?), I am hungry for mystery. Java trots to my side, slips his snout under my hand, and I give him a thorough scalp massage. He is my favorite plush toy, and he knows it.

Then I notice the trail of muddy footprints he’s left on my white carpeting. At first I’m angry, but then I realize he’s just given up his secret. I creak to my feet and follow his tracks into the kitchen; they end at the sink. The cabinet door is unlatched. When I pull it open, I discover that my pipes now come with a backyard view. Evidently, John installed a hatch providing easier access to the plumbing, but neglected to close it when he fixed my garbage disposal last week. As if to demonstrate, Java ducks under the pipes and bounds into the yard, then turns to give me one of his Lassie-barks.

“Yeah-yeah. Very impressive.”

I reach for the rope tied to the hatch and pull it shut. But now I’m a little sad, because I have once again wiped my life clean of enigmas – I, who used to have so many. I also realize that I am not getting back to sleep, so I head for the shower.


My seven a.m. landscape is cold and foggy – no surprise there – so I grab a big black jacket that I haven’t used for a while. As I slide into my truck, I feel a lump in my breast pocket and reach in to discover a lone Swisher Sweet. This should probably be a disconcerting event, but it’s not. Lately, I’ve had this black-pit feeling of being Harvey’s accomplice – I did, after all, marry the murdering son-of-a-bitch – and the chance to perform an act of penance is quite welcome. And penance it will be – this thing looks like a core sample from the Mojave Desert.

I actually consider the long drive to Port Townsend, but ritual is hard to break, so I follow my ruts to Gig Harbor. I park at the Jerisich Dock, start my cigar with the fleur-de-lis lighter and trudge waterward, puffing like a freight train. The taste is truly awful, and I wonder if this is how great Catholic martyrs are born.

A strip of candy red extends from the end of the pier like a windsock, and some crazyperson is sitting in the middle of it. Faint Morse code blips into my brain: This would be a kayak. Kye-ack. As I draw closer, the crazyperson removes his knit cap to reveal a mop of hair that matches the boat. Some loony kayaking rocker teen with dyed hair. He spots me and calls out in a high voice.

“Christ! Are you smoking that thing on purpose?”

And I’m running, scanning the water for black horses and evil mimes, my sneakers slapping the planks. I’ve been waiting so long to speak these syllables that they come out in sing-song.

“Roo-bee!”

I skid to a halt. Ruby is laughing her head off.

“Well don’t kill yourself!”

I’m helpless. I can’t get to her without sending us both into the drink. All I can do is repeat my recitative.

“RoobeeRoobeeRoobee!”

She claps her hands together. “And your name is Channy!”

I’m all dicombobulated, so I stuff the cigar in my mouth and take a huge drag that sends me into a fit of coughing.

“Heh! What the… hemm! What the hell are you doing in that thing?”

“Why, I’m kayaking, honey. It’s a noun and a verb.”

“But you’re in Mexico!”

“You’re right. I’m in Mexico.” She gives me a wide smile. “Someone’s lost track of her mental calendar.”

“Entirely possible. Would you get your big luscious ass out of there so I can molest you?”

“Best offer I’ve had in six hours. I’ll meet you at that little landing next to the ramp.”

“Gotcha.” I walk the length of the pier as Ruby paddles beside me. She’s much better at this than I would have guessed, pivoting the paddle from one side to the other with nary a hitch. She rolls onto the landing, pulls up the kayak, and then I charge, yanking her to her feet for a huge hug. I can feel the icy water from her wetsuit as it penetrates by blue jeans. I’m also crying.

“Jesus, Channy. Are you all right?”

“I just missed you, you crazy bitch.”

She lets out a theater laugh – Beatrice in Much Ado About Nothing. “You’re getting so codependent. What’ll I do with you?”

I rediscover the cigar in my hand (nice thing about Swishers, they’d stay lit through Hurricane Katrina) and I take a final drag, pulling the spark all the way down to the tip and hurling it into the water. Amen.

“You’ll let me buy you some fresh-baked bread at Susanne’s.”

“Ay, lass. Now you’re talkin’.”

Ruby deposits her wetsuit in the trunk of her car, ties her kayak to the roof rack, and ducks into the bakery restroom to swap her shorts for a dry pair of jeans. I, meanwhile, obtain a loaf of Dutch crunch, warm from the oven, and a serrated knife. Ruby spreads a wad of butter on her first slice and watches with greedy eyes as it melts into the surface.

“This is pure genius,” she says.

I take a bite and adopt a rapturous expression. “I’m a carbohydrate Einstein. So. Mexico? Mexico?”

Ruby grins like a kid in front of a birthday cake.

“I have such a story for you! But first: appetizers. We went kayaking in Mazatlan, at this little island across from the big hotels. When we reached the tip of the island, we hit open ocean, and these long swells came in to lift us and then gently set us back down. As we were paddling back, this Mexican supermodel came strolling along the beach topless, with the most perfect set of gazongas I have ever set eyes on. Poor Harry was having a stroke trying not to look. I told him, ‘Honey, I’m going to stare at her, so go ahead already!’ As you may have guessed, I got totally hooked on the kayaking. We got in pretty late last night, but I was so jacked up I woke up at five, stole Harry’s kayak, and you know the rest.”

“And may I say, you look amazingly at home with that paddle.”

She laughs. “Perhaps in a previous life I was an Aleut.”

“I went to school with an Aleut.”

Ruby takes a huge bite of bread; it takes her a while to chew it down.

“Excuse my piggishness. Apparently I’ve worked up an appetite. So! Puerto Vallarta. We caught a bus to a ranchero, where we embarked on a rather advanced hike over these hills – sort of the beginnings of the Sierra Madre. The humidity was stunning; I felt like a human sponge being wrung out. We ended up at this little riverside park, where they had tile tubs fed by natural springs and an enormous iguana who stared at us from the crotch of a tree like a surly green security guard. We forded the river and discovered thousands of pastel butterflies, solid squares of pink, yellow, blue and white sunning themselves on the far bank. Our guide walked right into them, and they rose in a cloud, like backwards confetti.

“By the time we got to Cabo, we were a little worn out, so we took a boat into the waterfront for some low-impact shopping. We were immediately set upon by peddlers, so we sought refuge in this pirate bar, where this loco waiter brought us our drinks balanced on his head. He was good!”

“How was the food on the ship?”

“Oh!” she says. “Oh! I can’t even start. When I got to the final bite of our final meal, I held it up to Harry and said, ‘From now on, everything I eat will taste like shit.’ Tell you what, though. I saved copies of every single menu. Why don’t I bring them, next time we get together, and I’ll give you a detailed narration of each meal.”

With this, she takes another bite of bread, sips at her coffee and leans back in her chair. Her expression is one of utter contentment, like a woman who has fallen profoundly into love. But she seems in no hurry to explain.

“What?” I demand. “What?”

She closes her eyes, then opens them slowly. “I don’t know what I like best: the event itself, or the chance to tell you about it.”

“Yeah yeah. I’m flattered, I’m touched, yada yada. Now out with it!”

She smiles yet again, and indulges in one last pause before taking the plunge.


Next: In Pursuit of Britney Spears

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