Odds-N-Ends

I overslept, so I was late getting ready for my dinner with Owatta Fox. We were going to hear her favorite band, which had been my favorite band years ago. I can still remember how that music used to make me smile. It’s what inspired me to become a DJ, learn how to work on audio equipment. And, I knew if I had my chance that I could make those people dance, and maybe they'd be happy for a while.

I reminisced about those days of my childhood when I first heard the music. To earn some extra money, because my parents couldn’t afford to give me an allowance, I was a paperboy in my neighborhood. It was a fun job, running around the neighborhood on my bicycle during the spring and summer. But those cold days in January and February made me shiver with every paper I’d deliver.

In those times, the newspapers were quite sensational. We paper boys had a motto, “Bad news on the doorstep.”

One day, my bicycle broke. There wasn’t any money to fix it. So, I had to walk the neighborhood to deliver newspapers. By the end of the day, I couldn’t take one more step. My feet would ache so badly, I can’t remember if I cried.

All the bad news, all the sensational headlines can make you cynical. Then one day, our neighbor was killed during a 7-11 robbery. Obviously, if it bleeds it leads, and the newspapers raced to print the most lurid accounts of the tragedy. When I read about his widowed bride, something touched me deep inside.

I suddenly shook myself from my morbid reveries. Time is wasting. I have to go. If I’m late for my date, for me this will be the day the music died.

So, I went to grab my jacket to walk out the door when I made the awful discovery. I didn’t have my jacket. The tickets were inside the jacket. I didn’t have the tickets! Oh no, where was I when I left my jacket?

It had to have been at McGillicuddy‘s deli just up the street. I got in my car, and raced up to McGillicuddy‘s.

I walked in, just in time to hear old McGillicuddy himself say to an attractive young woman, “Bye, bye Miss!” She walked past me, and out the door. McGillicuddy looked up, noticed me, and asked, “American Pie? I’ve got a fresh slice just waiting for you, Nick.” McGillicuddy called apple pie American pie. I always got a kick out of that.

“Sure. Cup of joe too. Say, have you seen my jacket? I think I left it here yesterday. Gotta have it, I’ve got concert tickets.”

“Nope. Didn’t see it on you yesterday. But, you be out to the reservoir takin’ photographs. Maybe left it out there? Gotta hot date with that Owatta, yes? Treat that girl right, you won’t find another one.”

“'Gilly, you’re so right. Have ta run, catch you tomorrow.” Hmm. I was doing a photo essay on the fishermen down at the reservoir. Maybe I did leave my jacket with one of the food trucks. More likely the hotdog truck, we’d struck up a friendship over photography.

So, I drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry. No Fishermen, no food trucks. OK, this wasn’t starting out to be a good morning. Where else did I go yesterday?

The Last Call Bar was one of my service calls yesterday. Their jukebox was broken. That had been a major job, because I changed out the records at at the same time. 300. Meant changing the title cards too. That has to of been it, I must’ve left my jacket when I was working on the jukebox.

I walked in to see two elegant women dressed in evening gowns, looking completely out of place, and them good ole boys. Loud singing and carousing filled the air as they were drinking whiskey and rye.

I smiled, thinking that the jukebox wasn’t making the owner much money right now. The group was three sheets to the wind, singin’ some depressing trail song that went something like, “this’ll be the day that I die. This’ll be the day that I die.”

A quick inquiry with the barkeeper, and I was out of luck again. They haven’t seen my jacket either.

I had better call the office to let them know I wasn’t going to be in today. As I stepped in to the phone booth to use the payphone, I realized that the loud atmosphere would put the lie to what I was going to tell the manager. So I stepped out, and went next-door to Saul’s Second Chance pawnshop.

Saul was at the counter instead of Manny, and he called out at me with his usual enthusiasm, “Hey Nick. Busy day? Say, we got that box of parts you were looking for in the back. Here to pick them up?”

I’d forgotten about the parts order. “Yeah, thanks for finding them. How much do I owe you?

“Slip me a fin and we’re square. Say, a guy from Cinequip is bringing two skunks and an eight ball in. You interested? Give you the lot for two-hundred.”

“Love to. But. Can’t do it, I’m short this month,” I replied.

“Helluva deal, they come with A95s. Tell you what, you’re a good steady customer. One fifty takes it,” Saul said in that classic pitchman voice.

“Tempting. But Owatta doesn’t like it when I bring home strays,” I said, putting on my best imitation of being henpecked.

“Nick, Nick, you know how I hate my storeroom cluttered up. You gotta take ‘em, the box will sit there forever. C note and they’re yours. Just tuck ‘em away in a back corner, she’ll never know. Hey, they all look alike, no? Fuhgeddaboudit, can’t have too many, eh?”

“Okay, okay, don’t break my heart. Can’t bear to see an old man suffer. I’ll be in the area tomorrow, I’ll swing by. Mid-afternoon, maybe two-ish.”

We shook hands, and laughed. You could hear Saul’s laugh for miles, a goodnatured laugh.

“Can I borrow your phone, Saul? Gotta call the office.”

“Sure, sure.” Saul chuckled, “So I hear you’re taking that pretty filly of yours out to the concert tonight. Playing hooky, right?”

“You got me. Never could put anything past you.” I handed him $5.00 for the parts. Then, leaning over the counter, I picked up his phone, turned it around and dialed. This was one of those older black Bakelite desk phones, and its rotary dial was stiff. The receiver purred three times then Jake’s brash Bronx voice answered.

“Jake, it’s Nick. The day’s getting away from me, don’t think I’ll make it into the office today. I’ll be in tomorrow, though.” I held the phone’s receiver away from my ear as Jake railed the usual threats of firing me. “Yeah, sorry, I know it’s not a good time, but I’ll be in tomorrow, for sure.”

Swiftly, and smoothly, I hung up. I’m sure Jake continued to scream for several more minutes before he realized that the phone had been hung up on him. Oh well, I’d rather face Jake than disappoint Owotta.

“Say, you haven’t seen my jacket, have you?” No, he hadn’t, and I didn’t expect him to, but it was worth a try.

OK, well, this was getting worse. Where else was I yesterday? Oh great, I remember now, The Full Life Church Of Divine Peace. I’ve been working on their PA system. Well, the day couldn’t get any worse, I may as well stop by and look for my jacket. Problem was that was completely across town, and time is running out.

Pulling into the parking lot, and walking into the church, I was just in time to hear Pastor Masters practicing his next sermon. “Did you write the book of love? And do you have faith in God above if the Bible tells you so?” He paused for dramatic effect. “Do you believe in rock and roll? Can music save your mortal soul?”

“Yes,” I thought to myself, “and can you teach me how to dance real slow?” It made as much sense as what he was saying. I quietly left, and went down the hall to the office. Barbara would have a better idea of what’s going on than the pastor.

Barbara was at her desk, hands dancing across the typewriter, but paying attention to a photo of a handsome man on the wall. I knew what was going on, and I hated to see Barbara in a mood like this. I cleared my throat, and said to her, “Well, I know that you’re in love with him, “Cause I saw you dancin’ in the gym. You both kicked off your shoes.” Barbara blushed, and muttered something about her just being tired and having eyestrain.

I turned on the radio to local station to break the mood. “Man, I dig those rhythm and blues,” I said to Barbara, before asking whether she had seen my jacket. No. Great. Struck out again.

Walking past the door to the sanctuary, I heard Pastor Masters continue his fire and brimstone sermon. “I was a lonely teenage broncin’ buck, With a pink carnation and a pickup truck. But I knew I was out of luck, the day the music died.”

Went out to my car, and just sat. Wasn’t just the concert, it was our 10th anniversary. Now, for ten years we’ve been on our own. Our own little house and had once been a grinding mill, just on the edge of a scenic woods. We were both so busy, we tend to let things grow for themselves. that meant tall grass, thick weeds, and moss grows fat on a rolling stone.

But, that’s not how it used to be. Started out, the typical suburbanites, living in a duplex. But we wanted better, wanted to get away from it all. And we did.

My first job was with the PBS station locally. Some of the programming was meant to be quite high brow, but frankly, some of it was just plain weird. Like King Of Games, which was supposed to be some sort of medieval, King Arthur saga to teach history to young kids. It was a really strange show.

Each episode would began with a scene when the jester sang for the king and queen, In a coat he borrowed from James Dean. How they managed to work a ‘50s pop idol into the plot I could never figure out. It wasn’t the most weird part of the show, though.

The narrator would start out his monologue with, “And a voice that came from you and me.” I think it was supposed to motivate the kids to pay attention. Somehow I doubt any of them did.

“So while the king was looking down, The jester stole his thorny crown...”

It was the last episode I worked on, I quit, that show was just killing my sanity.

The show was so bad that, in point of fact, the producer was arrested for crimes against humanity. It was the trial of the century, its proceedings lasting for months. But finally the trial came to an end. The courtroom was adjourned. No verdict was returned.

But I jarred myself back to reality. I still have not found my jacket, and the day was fleeting. I had to take a moment, rest my mind, and try to think. So, I stepped out of my car, and sat down on a bench in that park where famous musicians hung out. I was listening to the transistor radio in my pocket, and, while Lennon read a book on Marx, I read a billboard that gave me inspiration for a plan.

But just as I was about to crystallize the idea in my mind, I discovered I couldn’t think with that conflict of the sound of music in my earphone and the background noise because the quartet practiced in the park.

I got up, and went over to speak to one of the musicians while they were on a break. I asked him if they enjoyed playing in the park. “Yes, because yesterday we had to play in a tunnel and we sang dirges in the dark. It was a real bummer. Playing in the park seems like a breath of fresh air.”

This was getting me nowhere. I have to find my jacket, because the hour would soon be upon me. And the heat was not helping.

My day had become helter skelter in a summer swelter. This weather tended to bring out extreme reactions from everyone, and everything. Like the birds. The birds flew off with a fallout shelter. They wanted to use it to cool off in.

My stomach rumbling brought my attention to the fact I’ve been running all morning, and it was past time for lunch. So, I stopped in to the diner that I Saul just up the street from where I was parked.

As I walked in, the television on the corner was blaring one of those PBS cold war documentaries. You know the kind, hosted by Walter Cronkite, with interviews of people who were there cut in between old film footage. Apparently, the episode was about the incident when Gary Powers was shot down flying is U-2 spy plane over the Soviet Union. “Eight miles high and falling fast, It landed foul on the grass.” Then a subtitled interview with some Russian army officer. Manatt the table nearest the television, got up and switched the channels.

Football game. I was too far away to see who was playing. It must’ve been a college football game. Or maybe Army Versus Navy. The players tried for a forward pass With the jester on the sidelines in a cast. This was followed by a commercial for Camel cigarettes, the AMC Pacer, and that one with all the people singing that they’d like to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony— and have a Coke.

Now the half-time air was sweet perfume While sergeants played a marching tune. Definitely Army versus Navy game. Everyone in the diner was rooting for Navy because when they scored a touchdown, We all got up to dance.

You think this would have been quite the celebration, but Oh, but we never got the chance ‘Cause the players tried to take the field for the next play, but couldn’t. It was the then of the American Federation of Musicians decided to strike. The marching band refused to yield to the employers contract and stood out across the gridiron. So that ended the game for the day.

Do you recall what was revealed afterward? I could not. But Oh, and there we were all in one place. One man complained about the interruption being a symptom of the musicians being from A generation lost in space.
With no time left to start again the game was canceled.

I finished my cheeseburger, french fries, and Dr Pepper, went up to the counter, paid my bill, and left, thoroughly dispirited.

Just three more hours and I would have to face the music, so to speak. Then remembered that when I was at The Full Life Church Of Divine Peace I had forgotten to pick up my check for the work I had done there earlier. Jake would have my head on a pole if I didn’t collect the money. So, back across town I drove again. The old Chevy was racking up a lot of miles today,

Unbelievably, Pastor Masters was still recording his sermon. Something about being able to defeat the Devil through cunning and righteous indignation, delivered in the style of the good Pastor’s penchant for mixing metaphors into a practically psychedelic experience. I always felt his sermons probably made more sense if you were high.

He was leaning over the microphone dramatically. I wasn’t sure if the cameraman was transfixed, stoned, or a mannequin. I had arrived in time to hear the fiery finale: “O brothers and sisters, take inspiration from those classic stories of our youth! So come on , Jack be nimble, Jack be quick!
Jack Flash sat on a candlestick!
‘Cause fire is the devil’s only friend! Say Amen if you hear me!”

Oh my, I thought to myself, and as I watched him on the stage I wondered if, and how, he could top that. He did. Throwing his arms in the air, stepping back from the microphone, he boomed forth: “My hands were clenched in fists of rage at the works of the Devil! No angel born in Hell Could break that Satan's spell, And as the flames climbed high into the night To light the sacrificial rite I saw Satan laughing with delight....”

I think the cameraman almost fell over, and I laughed in response. Before anyone could look my way, I dashed into the hall and sprinted down to the office. Barbara was still there, and, anticipating the reason for my presence she silently handed me an envelope. It felt like a scene from The Godfather.

I smiled, thanked her, then leisurely walk back to my car. It wouldn’t start. I cranked it, and cranked it, and finally it coughed into life. I started back down the road, and turned to go pick up Owatta. Might as well get it over with, she probably won’t stay mad at me for more than a week.

Then I saw that little truck stop, and decided I put a pause there and gather myself. Looking in, I set them on at the bar, and ordered an omelette. I needed something to settle my stomach, I realized, and nothing beats a good Denver omelette. And a Dr Pepper.

“Rough day?,” asked the burly fellow sitting next to me, resplendent in his trucking sartorial splendor of a plaid shirt, well worn dungarees, and a Kenworth baseball cap. “You have no idea,” was my witty rejoinder. Given my mood it was about as witty as I could manage.

He proceeded to tell me his story, “I met a girl who sang the blues, And I asked her for some happy news. But she just smiled and turned away. So, I went down to the sacred store Where I’d heard the music years before. But the man there said the music wouldn’t play. it just wasn’t my day. When I got home after dropping my load, the whole neighborhood was in an uproar. And in the streets the children screamed. The lovers cried, and the poets dreamed.

But not a word was spoken. The church bells all were broken. And the three men I admire most: The Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost; They caught the last train for the coast.”

I muttered something about I was sorry to hear that, but things will get better. I don’t think I was much comfort.

Finishing the last bite, I got back into my car, and drove home, silently, dreading the rain of rejection I would most certainly receive.

Owatta saw me pull up, and with her usual breezy cheeriness, walked down the driveway toward me, her hands behind her back. She was wearing that wonderful yellow and blue sundress that she looks so beautiful in. Oh boy, this was going to make things so much harder.

I leaned over, and rolled down the passenger-side window, just as she walked up to the car. In one fluid motion, she brought her hands from behind her back, saying, ”Here’s your jacket, you left it here last night. Oh, and here’s the tickets, you take them. I’d rather not carry a purse tonight.”