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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