Outro: The Serial Novel

Chapter Seventeen, Part II

Visiting Hours

The second time around, we decide that a reprise of Xscape is unnecessary, but the subsequent shuffle lands me on Z. I perform a decent rendering of “Tush” by ZZ Top, and am halfway through loading up when I remember something I have to check with Ruby. She’s still at her table, mooning over Harry. They’ve decided to sleep in their own beds tonight, so they’re extending the evening as long as they can.

“Hi guys. That was fun, wasn’t it?”

“Shore was,” says Harry. “Next time, we go numerical!”

“Three Dog Night,” says Ruby.

“Four Non-Blondes,” says Harry.

“10,000 Maniacs,” I say. “Where’s Steve?”

“Smoke break,” says Ruby.

“Your brother’s a chimney,” I say.

“Yes,” says Ruby. “But a functioning chimney.”

I make a mental note to someday figure out what’s going on with that boy.

“So Rubbayat,” I say.

“Omar Khayam?”

“I’ve got a KJ gig for a holiday office party, and I need a soloist to do a couple of the CEO’s favorite tunes.”

“What’re you? Braunschweiger?”

“I don’t need a singer. I need a performer.”

Ruby purses her lips in a way that probably drives Harry crazy with lust. “Name the songs.”

“‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’ and ‘Christmas Song.’”

“Sold!” says Ruby, slapping the table. “And I also want to marry the CEO.”

“Hey!” says Harry. “I might have picked the same songs.”

“My ass! You woulda picked that hip-swingin’ lip curlin’ trailer trash you’re so in love with.”

“I’m sorry,” says Harry. “I didn’t hear a word after you mentioned your ass.”

“We’ll discuss my dairy-air tomorrow night, Bubba.” She crawls up his chest for a lingering kiss, then she looks back at me and her face winds down like a clock.

“Um… Channy? Could I talk to you outside? It’s a feminine matter.”

“Oh. Yeah, sure.”

Harry, being Harry, has to throw his two cents at our departure.

“Don’t tell her any of my secrets!”

I have no idea which one of us he’s addressing, but I guess that’s part of the joke. We pass Steve just outside the entrance, puffing away, and Ruby says, “Fifteen minutes, hermano mio.”

“Grassy-ass,” he mumbles.

The rain has passed, leaving the asphalt clean and slick. Ruby takes me to a seawall overlooking the harbor. Our distance from the bar makes me wonder about the radioactivity of her subject matter. She stops and turns, her breath puffing in the cold air.

“Okay. I don’t know if my surging hormones are tripping my gyno-radar, but you are transmitting this aurora borealis of sadness that is deeper than Billie Freakin’ Holiday.”

Little did I know about the hot button lurking beneath my skin, waiting to be pressed in just this fashion.

“Why are guys such dicks? Showing off their catches like they just landed a marlin off the Florida Keys… What the fuck is that?”

Ruby reaches to touch me, and I whack her hand away. I’m poison ivy, I’m cactus – no one should touch me. Then I see a line of blood where I’ve scratched her wrist.

“Oh! Shit, Ruby. My bracelet.”

“It’s okay,” she says. “It’s nothing.”

“God, I’m being an idiot. Why am I being an idiot?”

Ruby pulls out a tissue and dabs at her wrist. “I’ve got a theory,” she says.

We stop to watch a small boat chug past, a large gray-bearded man standing at the wheel.

“So,” I say. “What’s your theory?”

“I’ll tell you if you let me touch you.”

“Sure,” I say, but her caring tone is sending me deeper into my funk. I set my elbows on the seawall and prop my weary head on my hands. Ruby rubs the back of my neck. It feels good.

“A guy likes a woman; a woman likes a guy. He asks her out, but she’s too wounded to say yes. Still, she’s kinda hopin’ he’ll be there at the hospital entrance when she finally checks out. But she looks out her window one night and finds him at a restaurant across the street, having dinner with some fucking blonde best-seller.”

I find my face sinking deeper into my hands. The only way to keep from crying is to continue being a smartass.

“Put another bullet through my heart, why dontcha?”

Ruby laughs, and sings a quiet recitative into my ear. “Isn’t that why you gave me the bullets in the first place?”

Next: Welcome to the Army

Image by MJV

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Outro: The Serial Novel

Chapter Seventeen, Part One

The Alphabet Game

Ruby’s not five minutes done with her story when her brother walks into the coffeehouse – a retro-funky place in Tacoma called the Blackwater. Steve looks like a run-down house that someone has painted over in the hope of hiding all the cracks. Neat, shortcut hair, spiffy indigo-new jeans, tightly tucked button-down shirt and bright white sneakers. His features, however, are all shaky around the margins – as if, at any moment, he could be sucked into a wormhole.

I’m cheating, of course. I know from Ruby’s frequent references that Steve has had trouble, that he’s just now working his way out of it. Even as I’m being introduced, I’m running his face through my interior rap sheet: drugs? petty larceny?

“Hi! It’s great to finally meet you. Ruby talks about you a lot.”

He unlocks a smile, rising in a wave from left to right. “I hope, um… I hope she’s been kind.”

“Oh! Always,” I say.

“I’ve never been to karaoke before. I hear it’s fun.”

“Oh it is!” says Ruby. “Especially with Channy hosting. She’s the best.”

“I will not sit here and be flattered!” I complain.

“Well fine then!” says Ruby. “Let’s go!”

“Fine!” says I.

“Fine!” says Ruby.

We stride out the door, waving to Luna at the counter. Steve trails behind, shaking his shaky head.

“Man! You two are nuts.”

It’s a rainy, brooding night, and stormclouds bear down on the Narrows, buffeting my pickup. This does not bode well for my tip jar. People only need two reasons for skipping karaoke, and on Thursday they’ve already got that Friday morning alarm clock.

I delay our start-time by a half hour, hoping to work up a quorum. To operate at a smooth pace, you need at least three singers. This gives each participant one song to take a breather and one song to pick the next song. Steve’s not going to be much help. Actually singing in front of people would likely give him a heart attack, and he’s already disappeared twice on smoke breaks. (Ruby says this is his first night out in a while, and it seems to be making him very anxious.)

Fortunately, Harry arrives, still in uniform, grabbing armfuls of Ruby as he enters. Five minutes later, we get a trio of newbies – although they’re certainly not new to karaoke. You can tell by the way they scoop up the songbooks and rifle the pages.

Turns out they’re also good. The first is John, a tall fortyish white guy who sings R & B ballads with a sirloin-steak baritone. The second is Paul, a bald black guy who’s interested in things further up, whipping out some falsetto doo-wop from the fifties. The blonde centerpiece is Kim, an attractive thirty-year-old who navigates Annie Lennox and Melissa Etheridge with a consummately pitched voice – almost as good as Ruby’s. She comes up for a little side-bar as Harry works his way through “By the Time I Get to Phoenix.”

“It’s a little deal I’ve got with my husband,” she says. “In order to avoid The Horror That is Dancing with Your Wife, he takes the kids once a week while I go for a trot with my dirty old men. Once we’ve worn out our feet, we hunt down a karaoke bar.”

“So are John and Paul gay, or just well-mannered?”

Kim bursts out laughing. “They are my caballeros. I gotta watch it, though. Sometimes they get too comfortable, and start making racy comments about the other chicks in the bar.”

“Well,” I say. “Even when they’re well-trained, they’re still dogs. So what’s with this gorgeous voice of yours?”

Kim looks away, a little knocked aside by my flattery. “Tell you a secret: I actually had a full ride to Julliard. Some scout came to my high school for a choir concert. Like I was a quarterback or something. I was pretty blown away. But they wanted me to sing opera and nothing else. I just wasn’t into it. Then I met a guy, had some babies. Old story.”

“Sounds like you made the right decision. Ruby’s been telling me about life in the performing arts, and it sounds like you’d best be really into it before you enlist.”

“I knew it!” says Kim. “I knew she was a pro. She’s amazing.”

“She’s my hero,” I say, only half-joking.

“So the Mod Squad and I were thinking, if you guys were into it, maybe we could play a little game. First singer does something by an ‘A’ artist, second singer does ‘B,’ and so on.”

“Tonight I’ll try anything. I’ll make an announcement after Harry, um, gets to Phoenix.”

Kim smiles and hands me a song slip: “Fernando” by ABBA.

In actual practice, the alphabet game turns out to be quite fun. Except that yours truly gets all the problematic letters. Q, naturally, which almost always calls for Queen – which, in the world of karaoke, means “Bohemian Rhapsody.” I’m no fool, however – I get Ruby, Kim and John to help out with the goofy opera parts, while Harry throws down some wicked toy guitar.

A half-hour later comes X, and there’s only one choice: some ‘80s R & B group called Xscape. I vaguely vaguely vaguely recall the song, but it’s not like not knowing what the hell I’m doing ever stopped me before, so I claw my way through, tossing out some Whitney Houston embellishments that may or may not be on-key. I’m much relieved to hand the mic to Harry for “Cinnamon Girl” by Neil Young.

Ruby’s working her way through “Lawyers, Guns and Money” by Warren Zevon (how does she know this stuff?) when I hear the door and the familiar high-pitched laugh that belongs to Kevin the Cop. And another that doesn’t.

She is a blonde, in jeans, jacket and a crisp white blouse. She has sly, dreamy eyes that remind me of Lauren Bacall. Something about her entrance has knocked the room off-kilter: troubled brothers, newbie trios, Q’s and X’s sliding around like ping-pong balls in a Bingo basket. Kevin comes up for his usual hug, and I regain my balance long enough to fill him in on the alphabet game.

“So, if my calculations are correct, you’re ‘F.’ Is your, um, friend gonna sing?”

Kevin smiles, glances at the blonde and launches into a completely unrequested explanation: “I went to a reading for this ‘how-to’ dating book. Figured I could use all the help I could get. So now I’m dating the author! Diane. She is so funny! I never knew how sexy that was.”

Kevin finally notices that I’m still waiting for my answer.

“Oh! No – she’s just here to listen. I’ll go find some effin’ song to sing. Ha!”

And then he’s off.



Next: The Hospital Entrance

Image by MJV

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

Outro: The Serial Novel

Chapter 16, Part II

Ruby

Getting the Part


Joe lived nearby, on 8th Street, a block over from St. Mark’s Place. I was early, so I strolled the cheesy gift shops, sorting through mod sunglasses and dominatrix dog collars (I got the latter for Eddy, betting that he would get some use out of it). I walked into a forest of Indian restaurants, the air laced with curry and tabla music. A dozen locals had set up an impromptu sidewalk sale, arranging appliances and clothing on straw mats and old quilts.

Finding Joe’s address, I opened a wrought-iron gate and descended to his basement apartment. But what a basement! Joe greeted me with a kiss on the cheek (which I took as a promising sign) then led me through a modest hallway of bedrooms to a cavernous living room. You could have a basketball game in there! The furniture was shoved to the walls on all sides, leaving the center to a semi-circle of folding chairs.

“Have a stiff, hard seat,” said Joe. “You want a stiff, hard drink with that?”

A thin, attractive man waltzed in (and I mean the waltzing part literally), his blond hair cut so tight to his head that it could have passed for a shower cap.

“Stiff? Hard? Who’s using all my favorite adjectives?”

“Oh!” said Joe. “Marlin, come over and meet Ruby. She’s the non-acting New Yorker I told you about.”

Marlin samba’d over and dropped a hand into mine. His eyes were swimming-pool blue, parasolled by neat platinum brows.

“Frankly, I don’t believe you exist,” he said. “Cause girlfriend, every New Yorker is an actor. It’s just that some parts are Equity, and some are not.”

“Marlin’s my partner,” said Joe. My brain was running down the list - business partner, writing partner, tennis partner – when Marlin kissed Joe on the lips. Joe replied with a half-serious chiding.

“Marlin! Ix-nay on the issing-kay at the office-ay.”

Marlin grinned in my direction. “I never know when it’s a play-space. Or a play-space. You look like a tough chick, Ruby Red. I’m guessin’ a Manhattan, straight up?”

“You’re guessin’ right, Marlin.” I tightened the bolts on my stiff, hard smile.

Seven actors showed up to read. I was one of three commoners, along with Joe’s banker uncle and Sigrid, a German friend of Marlin’s who turned out to be a high-priced call girl. (And that’s not acting?) When it came time for critiques, I drew on the trinity I learned in college: tough, clear, kind.

“It’s a frickin’ hilarious play, Joe. I really like the dark place that so many of the laughs come from – that is a sweet trick if you can pull it off. You’ve also got some amazingly good visual stuff. The thing about the artificial fangs – I’m gonna be giggling about that for months.

“However, I also think you’re missing a major opportunity. This yo-yo thing between Mimi and Kizer is far and away the most compelling relationship in the play – but you’re pulling your punches, and leaving all the conflict backstage. Imagine the juicy battles those two could have; imagine all the juicy sexual tension it would create. And imagine all the meat this would give to your play – which is a comedy, yes, but a comedy with substance. Have at it, man! Take off the gloves.”

I was right, of course. Joe revisited the whole Mim-Kizer thing and came up with three new scenes (including one in which Mimi illustrates Kizer’s screwed-up behavior using stick figures on a coffeehouse chalkboard). I worried, in fact, that I might have gone too far – that my director skills were bleeding through my carefully painted façade.

I got my answer a month later, two weeks before Christmas, when Joe asked us all back to try out his rewrite. One of his readers – Jackie, biggest flake, smallest talent (a popular combination) – called at the last minute with some fib about a sick roommate.

“Ruby?” said Joe. “Could you read Grady? It’s not a big part – you don’t have to be good at all. I just really need to get a full picture of this rewrite before I get obliterated by the holidays.”

“Sure,” I said. And felt completely unsure.

Grady was the manager of a coffeehouse – twice my size, with a shitkicker pickup and a seven-year-old son. I tried to read her as stiffly as possible. I was afraid that my little flubs might prove too transparent. Regardless, I couldn’t help enjoying the play, which had achieved a perfect blend of tension, release and laughter. I felt a certain stepmotherly pride.

Afterward, Marlin rolled out a buffet table of honeybaked ham, sweet potatoes, bread pudding and egg nog. After quite a few drinks and the departure of most of our readers, I met up with Joe at the punch bowl. I had just at that moment decided to begin greeting him with international variations of his name.

“Jose Verde! Jean-Paul Chartreuse! Yusef Spearmintsky!”

He responded by refilling our glasses and raising a toast.

“To you, Ruby,” he said. “You lying little bitch.”

He said it with a smile, so I guessed I wasn’t in too much trouble.

“Hmmm. Zee jig eez up?”

“The second you opened your mouth tonight. You’re not such a good actor that you can hide the fact that you’re a good actor. It was a noble attempt at mediocrity, but you kept getting carried away by the action and turning into Grady – a pretty neat trick, considering. So why all the espionage?”

I gave him my special squint – the one that’s meant to project extreme distaste. “I didn’t want to be another in the buffalo herd of desperate wannabes. I saw enough of that in LA.”

That last part slipped out. Joe’s eyes grew wider. “LA? ‘Daughter of Movie Mogul Goes Undercover to Conquer Broadway’?”

I cringed. “Casting director.”

Joe held the back of his hand to his forehead, very Scarlet O’Hara.

“You are a certifiable grab bag, Ruby. If that’s your real name.”

“Yes it is,” I said, laughing. “I’m sorry. But your play, Joe. It’s fucking beautiful. It’s exactly the kind of thing I came here for.”

“Well good,” said Joe.

There was a secret context to those two words, but before I could ask, Joe fled the room. He returned with two metallic skewers and a candle.

“Good why?” I asked.

“Good because… I wouldn’t want you to get bored if we have an extended run.”

“I… what?”

“We open on Valentine’s Day. And I want you to play Melissa. Do you know why?”

“No?” I think I was starting to cry.

“Because Melissa is also a lying, deceptive little bitch. But wait! Don’t say yes. We have a certain way of doing this. It’s kind of gay, but so am I. Take this.”

He handed me one of the skewers, which was covered with a substance that looked like tile grout. Joe lit the candle, then directed the tips of the skewers into the flame until they began to shoot out sparks. Then he raised his right hand.

“Do you, Ruby Cohen, vow to play the part of Melissa, in sickness and in health, through good reviews and hatchet-jobs, till closing night do you part?”

I raised my right hand and gazed into Joe’s Apollonian features through a film of tears and a shower of golden meteorites.

“I do.”


Next: The Very Nervous Steve

Image by MJV.

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Outro: The Serial Novel

Sixteen

Ruby

Time for New York

It’s amazing how quickly you can find yourself adopted. But then, I did have a strategy. Before I even finished unpacking. I began hunting down obscure little theater groups, with the object of finagling my way into receptions and cast parties. Which was easy, because I knew the key. There is nothing more life-draining than investing large portions of yourself into a production, only to be faced with some turd at the reception who says, “You know, I’m an actor, too!” And to be forced to be nice to them, because either 1) they’re friends with someone in the company, or 2) they actually paid money to see you.

The road to popularity, then, was to engage theater folk without once mentioning your status as a fellow traveler. Also, of course, I was one hot little chick. Garnering invitations from men was a cinch – even gay men, who seemed to invest me with a sort of Judy Garland vibe.

Two weeks after my arrival, I journeyed to this little hole-in-the wall behind a coffeehouse in the East Village, where they were doing a little-remembered surrealist play from the forties. The plot wound around itself like a suicidal passion vine, but the show was intriguing nonetheless, firing along on rapid patter and brilliant illogic, simultaneously seen and unseen, as if you were watching it under a strobelight. In the end, I couldn’t tell you what had just occurred, but I relished having my head screwed with, and my face was warm with laughter.

The director and lead actor was Joe Green, a strapping young man who was playing (depending on which version of the story you were buying into) either an insurance detective or an out-of-work mailman. His features were extremely Italian: Roman ringlets of black hair, thick eyebrows, dark brown eyes and a generous nose with a boxer’s break. For all I knew, he could be a wiseguy. But he spoke like a director, bits of Bronx breaking through like fossilized ribs at an archaeological dig.

I cornered him at the reception, which was pretty easy to do. Lacking surplus space, they held it onstage, and Joe had enthroned himself on the central fixture, a turn-of-the-century barber’s chair. As we spoke, I commendeered a straight-razor (which turned out to be plastic) and pretended to give him a shave.

“I suppose I should tell you about the name.”

“Yeah? What about the name?”

“It’s Anglicized.”

“From what? Salvatore Frangiatelli?”

“Giuseppe Verdi.”

I stopped to even up his sideburns. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that name already taken?”

“Yeah. And my parents aren’t even opera fans. What the hell were they thinkin’? When I entered the thee-uh-tuh, I saw my chance. Stage name: Joe Green.”

“Chin up, please. But how’d you get from one to the other?”

Facing ceilingward, he cocked an eyebrow. “You’re a smart girl – figure it out. I didn’t say ‘changed.’ I said ‘Anglicized.’”

Pretty cocky for a guy with a blade at his throat, I thought. I geared up the brainbox and came up with Giuseppe. Joseph. Joe. Verdi. Verdant. Green.

“Holy shit!”

“There you go. Imagine yourself going through life as, I don’t know – ‘Barbra Streisand.’”

“Okay. I get the picture.”

“Because you’re a singer, right?”

Uh-oh. “Nope.”

“Actor?”

“Nuh-uh.”

He laughed.

“Hey!” I said. “You lookin’ to get yourself sliced?”

“Sorry. It’s just so rare to talk to someone who doesn’t have a theater agenda. And an actual personality. So what is it that you do?”

“Florist shop.”

(Actually, I was delivering for a florist shop – pretty reckless, considering I had just hit town, and was constantly getting lost. But the owners were my cousins, and I was – Oh God – competent.)

“God! I love florist shops. That wall of fragrance that just smacks you when you walk in the door. So… if I’m getting this right, when it comes to the stage, you are an absolute layperson.”

“You got it.”

“So tell me about the play tonight. Nothing you’ve read or heard. Tell me what you think.”

I ran the razor along my teeth. “Knock-knock.”

Joe blinked. “Oh, um… Who’s there?”

“Surrealist.”

“Surrealist who?”

“Broccoli.”

That got him. He laughed, and I noticed what a great mouth he had. His lips were thick, like they’d been bruised in a fight. Poor baby, can I kiss it?

“So. What’s your point?”

“Surrealism,” I said, “is always just that close to being a joke. One… vegetable… away. So it’s all left to architecture, and delivery. Give it a solid structure, find some good actors to play it – it can be fucking brilliant. Lose either one – it melts like cheese in a microwave.”

Joe rubbed his freshly shorn (cleft) chin.

“What about tonight?”

I used the razor to tap him on the head. “I’m still here, ain’t I? Chatting with the director? If you really need me to spell it out, I loved it, and the best thing about it was you.”

He hid his face behind his hands – purely an act, because he was fully aware of how good he was. When he peeked out, I could see that his irises had tiny copper-brown chips that flashed when he moved.

“I need you.”

Gulp. “Pardon?”

“I’m workshopping a play. And I have had it shoveling the bullshit from the theater-folk with their aesthetic agendas and secret jealousies. I need a fresh set of eyes. What are you doing Friday night?”

I unleashed my most devilish smile. “I’m going to a play reading.”

Next: Playing for the Other Team

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 Fifteen

Don’t Fall in Love with a Gamer

Channy


I knew I couldn’t go long without a job, so I tooled around Sumner in my truck, which seemed to be grateful to be off the Alcan and back on civilized blacktop. It took a dozen applications and three interviews, but I managed to land a spot as a stock girl at a grocery store called the Red Apple. I have to admit, the work was pretty brutal, especially when it came to the canned goods.

Given my cashiering experience, however, I knew I wouldn’t be stocking for long. Within a month, I was moved up to checkout, and life was good. I always liked cashiering. The multi-tasking always keeps things interesting: weigh the produce, take the coupons, swipe the ATM cards (“Cash back with that?”) all the while maintaining a conversation with the customer – remembering their names, their habits. Carol Mastere, schoolteacher, buys an unbelievable variety of hair care products. John Varna, guitarist for a wedding band, likes those fruity malt liquor drinks. I took great satisfaction in the idea that part of my job was to engage people.

Harvey was also hard at work – setting up his game room. But I really had no grounds to complain. Whether from his own savings or a generous sendoff from his family, he had cash aplenty, and was nice enough to pay the deposit and first month’s rent. He found a used console and TV, hooked up the sound to a stereo from Goodwill, and was off on his adventures. Some days, I would leave for work with Harvey plugged in, jiggling the control stick as he leaned forward on an office chair, and return eight hours later to find him still there. I had no evidence that his butt had ever left the seat.

Perhaps I am naïve in the ways of gaming, but all of his favorites seemed to be ultra-violent. The gore-lust of the post-adolescent male is well-known, but it didn’t match up with the mellow young man from the Signpost Forest.

His particular favorite was Katacomb, in which the protagonist prowls an endless network of subterranean chambers – very bleak and industrial – trying to off an army of mutants and cyborgs before they off him. When he shot these critters, they exploded in a detailed quick-flash inventory of everything that had once been on their insides. Harvey’s nickname for Katacomb was Kill the Fucks.

His second favorite was Squadron Zero, a situational game in which the protagonist leads his men through constantly shifting World War II scenarios (you could choose from European, North African or Pacific theaters). The game demanded constant split-second decisions about the men and their movements. Wrong choices met with immediate and graphic punishment: hand grenades, strafing runs and mortars that separated men from their limbs with splashy relish. The part that freaked me out the most were the sniper attacks. Private Rodriguez would be resting on a log, calmly discussing a poker game or his girlfriend’s latest letter when a bullet would penetrate his temple and his eyes would go cold, like someone had turned a switch. Once all his men died, the captain received a vivid image of his own demise, his vision blurring out as a wash of blood drifted over the screen.

The game’s language was peppered with what you might call the military liturgy: words like freedom, glory, duty, honor. I was always skeptical of such words. WWII seems like one of the few times they weren’t being used largely to gain power or line someone’s pockets. To Harvey, though, it was a pivotal element of the game. He began his sessions by raising a tiny American flag along the TV antenna – with the help of a small rope-and-pulley attachment – while humming the “Star-Spangled Banner.” Then he cranked himself up on two cups of strong black coffee, served lukewarm so he could down them like shots of tequila. After that, he fired up the stereo and played “All Along the Watchtower” – the Hendrix version. He said there was something about the “crackle” of it, the chaotic intensity, that reminded him of a battlefield. As if he’d ever been on a battlefield.

Weirdness, yes. Lots of weirdness. But I was duly compensated. For a boy, he was very neat. He began to take an interest in cooking. Whenever I arrived home, he immediately put his game on pause so he could give me a proper greeting. And the sex was outstanding. It was like I had jumped from the bunny slopes to the black diamonds in a single afternoon.

One night, I got home late, about eleven. I was exhausted – it was just before Labor Day, and everybody was stocking up. Harvey, however, was amped, and incorrigible. He kept teasing all my hot spots until my libido rose from the dead. The intercourse was bruisingly physical, and although I hurt a little afterward, it was a friendly pain – like I was soaking in a tub of my own hormones. I reached over and walked my fingers up his sternum.

“Not that I’m complaining, but what the hell got into you tonight?”

He flashed a boyish smile. “I got to level 24 on Squadron Zero. I’ve never been there before. God! It’s so intense! You’re constantly a finger-snap away from everything going straight to hell. You have to decide on the action and execute the action at almost the same moment, or you’re dead. What a buzz!”

I had no idea what to say. My great physical pleasure inspired by a video game? I was torn between slapping him silly or telling him to by all means, go play some more! I was sitting on the edge of my bed, puzzling this out, when Harvey knelt behind me and started a neckrub. At this, he was an absolute artist. No one else ever applied enough leverage. He could reach all these places far beneath the skin. But there was the pattern again: absolute weirdness followed by immediate compensation.

“I have other news,” he said. “I got a job.”

I decided not to look at him; I was afraid I would look too relieved. “Really? Where?”

“That’s the killer. It’s right across the street – the little center with the pawn shop? On the far side, there’s a store that sells video games. And now, I sell video games.”

Like an alcoholic working in a bar, I thought, but I bolted my smile firmly in place. “That’s wonderful!”

“I’m also joining the Army National Guard.”

And there I was, puzzled again. “I’m not sure I…”

“My dad used to do it. It’s a great deal. One weekend a month, and a two-week training camp once a year. The benefits are great – maybe even some money for college. And it’s based at Ft. Lewis, which is, like, twenty miles from here. And as far as the danger, you’re only called to duty for floods, riots – the occasional alien invasion. Meanwhile, I get to play with some pretty wicked toys.”

“Jesus!” I said. “When you get going, you really get going. Just be careful with those toys. I intend to get a lot more use out of you.”

“I’m sure they’ll keep me in line,” he said. His neckrub stalled out. “Would you mind if I, um… killed some fucks before bedtime? I’m still pretty wired.”

I turned around and gave him a kiss. “Yes, honey. Go kill some fucks.”

I rolled over and drifted right to sleep, thinking that this was not the kind of pillow talk that most girls took to dreamland.


Next: Surrealism in the East Village

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 Fourteen, Part II

Toy Time


I’m just about ready to start when Ruby brings up a large cardboard box.

“Is it time for Girl Scout cookies already?”

“Time for fun,” she says. “Ya got yer maracas, a cowbell, claves, two extraordinarily chintzy tambourines, and le piece de resistance…”

She extracts a plastic toy guitar, the color of spoiled tangerines. It appears to have strings – tuning pegs, even – but I can’t imagine that it produces actual music.

“I’m not sure I get it.”

“It’s an air guitar!” she says. “Only… without the air. Imagine all the fun our grownup little boys will have with this.”

Ruby waits for a reaction, but it doesn’t seem to be coming.

“What is the matter with you, Channy? Showtime! Time to bury your real feelings and pretend you’re happy!”

I take the guitar and run a hand over the strings. “Sorry, Ruby. I don’t know what it is. Perhaps I have released too many ghosts.”

She pats me on the knee. “That’s all right. Soon we’ll have music.”

I adjust one of the pegs and hand it back to her.

“Your G-string was loose.”

She smiles. “Straight lines will get you nowhere.”



The toys are an enormous hit. But first I’m careful to set some ground rules. No joining in on percussion unless you’re invited. I am ever-cognizant of singers’ rights, and I’ve seen what a tambourine can do in the wrong hands.

In a case of utter ethnic stereotype, it turns out that Kevin the Cop and his Puerto Rican hands have the best rhythm. He plays the tam as I sing Melissa Etheridge’s “I Want to Come Over” – spare and tasty in the verses, loud and broad in the chorus. It really does add a lively acoustic edge to the prefab sound.

Our supreme guitarist is Harry Baritone – who, as it turns out, used to be in a garage band, so really, that’s cheating. Ruby keeps ordering up Led Zeppelin songs just to keep him occupied. When she does “Back in Black” by AC/DC, he’s on the floor, on his knees, literally bending over backwards.

“You’ll notice,” I say, “that although we singers make little mistakes all the time, Harry never misses a note on guitar.”

Our finale is Harry singing (and pseudo-playing) “Smooth” by Santana, which naturally brings out the entire percussion section: Kevin on cowbell, Shari and Caroleen on tams, me on maracas and Alex on claves. We’ve got a whole damn band, really, and our noisy finish earns a rousing applause from the Petersons, elderly captain and captain’s wife of the Scuttlebutt.

Ruby gives me a wink and a smile as she and Harry make for the exit (no doubt about it, those two are having crazy, nasty sex tonight). Hamster brings me a cup of coffee, and I begin the process of sorting song slips into envelopes (a new “archiving” service I have begun for my singers). I’m just about done when I feel a large presence behind me, and turn to find Shari, wearing a friendly but anxious expression.

“Hi,” I say.

She kneels next to me, bringing our eyes level, and dives right in.

“The thing is, I thought I was your confidante. Maybe it sounds weird, but shit… it was important to me. And now you’re always with Ruby – and it’s a little hard to figure out how that happened. So now, this evening, you’re out there smoking cigars with her on the pier. I guess I’m feeling all, out of the loop. I’m sorry…”

She stands and turns away, embarrassed by her feelings. I’m utterly at a loss – maybe because I had no idea how much it meant to her; maybe because now I’m feeling really stupid.

“God, Shari. I’m sorry; you’re absolutely right. I guess it doesn’t make much sense – but I’m getting some really shitty stuff out of my system right now, and it’s just easier to tell Ruby. You’re too close; you’re too… nice.”

She turns back, her eyes growing damp. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

“I know I’m allowed to tell you anything. And I will, I’m sure. But… I guess this is like psychotherapy on the cheap, and before I go telling anyone besides Ruby, I need to figure it out for myself. Hey, let me buy you a drink. Then we’ll go to the pier and smoke a couple more.”

She laughs, just a little. “What kind of fool am I? I just talked myself into a ragweed cigar.”

“Hey, Ham!” I yell. “Set up my pal Shari with a vodka gimlet.”

“Yes, ma’am!” he says.



So here I am, back at the pier. Is this really catharsis, or am I just chasing pneumonia? It’s much colder than before, but at least it’s not snowing. I light up Shari, then me, and study my little tobacco soldiers, down to a quartet.

“God! I’m such a Needy Nancy,” says Shari. “It’s all so… high school.”

“High school never ends,” I say. Being a guru is easy – you just find a few good phrases and keep repeating them. “Anyway, Shari, I’m glad you told me. Because tonight I have some very special business to attend to, and I can’t do it alone.”

I reach into my bag and pull out Kai’s metallic care package.

“Oh God,” says Shari. “It’s Pandora’s cashbox.”

“Yes,” I say. “But it’s also one object away from empty, so – just keep me from jumping in the water, okay?”

I take a deep breath and push the metal tab, then reach into the lower compartment and extract a jeweler’s box, covered in dark blue velvet. I click it open, revealing something shiny and military. I’m scared, so I hand it to Shari, who dangles it in front of her face so she can study it in the far-off light from the waterfront.

“My God, honey. It’s a purple heart.”

I take another breath and look for the words embossed on the inside of the box: Kai Sharwa. I toss my cigar into the water. It lands with a hiss.


Next: Loving a Gamer


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 Fourteen, Part I

Smokin’ Ruby


Ruby takes a deep drag and lets it out on a “Phew!”

“That is one nasty smoke, girlfriend!”

I fondle my last box, reviewing the six soldiers lined up inside. “They’ve been through a lot.”

“Where are they from?”

“Iraq.” I give a glance around the pier. Halfway down, there’s a mid-sized yacht – an old one, lots of lovely wooden trim. The Scuttlebutt, Port Angeles. One of the mast lines is draped in white Christmas lights – which is either way too early for the holidays or simply a year-round decoration.

“I can’t tell you more than that,” I say. “It’s part of the story. I usually perform this little ritual after karaoke, but I assume you’ll be heading out with your boyfriend.”

Ruby performs a smoke-take. “Phew! ‘Boyfriend’? God, that is so high school.”

“High school never ends, Ruby.”

“You’re tellin’ me. Check out the theater scene sometime. Well, my goodness!”

She’s reacting to the snow, which is falling in wet, wet flakes that seem to melt inches from the ground. It’s a bracing sight. Through the thickening flurry I see the flashing crosswalk on Harborview, which provides a poor man’s catwalk for a tall model with a mane of white hair. But it’s really blonde, and it’s really Shari. She arrives at the near sidewalk, pauses to look our way, then turns toward Karz.

“How come you never hooked up with one of your singers, Channy? I mean, I understand the grieving process, but sex can be a powerful healing force. How about Kevin the Cop? He’s got a thing for you, honey. I can tell by the way he wrestled me into those handcuffs. He was avenging his lady’s honor. Hell, I might let him slap those cuffs on me again sometime.”

I try my best to take a meaningful, Bogart-style pull on my cigar. (Ruby’s so naturally theatrical, she makes you want to play along.)

“Karz has one hell of a gossip distribution network. That would be one whole mess of trouble. Nah. I need a non-singer.”

“No!” says Ruby (she’s one impulse away from holding up a vampire cross). “Singers are the only people with souls. Maybe you just need a singer from somewhere else.”

“Maybe.” I take my Swisher Sweet to the last bit of tobacco (where it’s anything but sweet) and toss the wooden tip into the water.

“Is that part of the ritual?” asks Ruby.

“Is now.”

She finishes hers and tosses it in. “I’m picturing a salmon with one of those tips in his mouth, tellin’ all his friends, ‘Try it, man – it’ll make you look cool.”

It’s funny, but I’m not laughing.



Next: Toy 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 by MJV.