7

Looking out the condensation-smeared hotel window, at the glistening asphalt, he sighed and slumped against the window frame. The sky was turning a deep, dark shade of electric blue and a few rapid flurries of snow were beginning to fall. They were small flakes, he noted, which meant that there could be some decent accumulation if the snow continued in earnest overnight.

Three more shows and the tour would be over for now. Of course, one was tomorrow, Friday, and the final two were for the following week. A long strand of his curly hair fell across his face as he gazed out the window. Absently, he tucked it back behind his ear. He turned back to the long, sparse dresser top. He looked into the mirror, looking back at himself as hospitably as did the antiseptic room.

“I’m getting too old for this,” he told his reflection.

He pulled the soprano sax out of its well-worn case. He checked the reed, and then began to play a wistful rendition of the main melody of Vivaldi’s Winter from The Four Seasons. The notes reverberated soulfully around the clean, comfortable room at the reasonable price.

After so many years and so many tours, he mused, it was funny to try to get that old feeling back by touring the old-fashioned way… driving to the gigs and staying in cheaper motels. He was kind of glad his manager had suggested it… and even gladder the tour was winding down. Certainly, album sales weren’t brisk, but not bad. He was also getting renewed sales as fans were replacing old albums and concert videos on the latest media.

He’d hedged his bets and bought copies of his concerts on both HD-DVD and Blu-Ray, but he did think Blu-Ray was cooler. What’s in a name? Maybe it’s a subtle Star Trek homage… a vague reference to phaser beams. At any rate, he stopped thinking like that, worried he’d steal thunder from the next installment of Shecky Merman’s jailhouse musings (immediately following).

The mid 2000s were an odd mix of things remembered and a few meager attempts at blending all the sounds of the 20th century into different sonic parfaits. Mr. P simply carried on the same smooth blend of incidental atmosphere he’d already perfected in the 1980s. He smiled at this odd thought.

The unsubtle trill of his agent’s cell phone ringtone jolted him back to the present. He was expecting a call from his manager; possibly the wife, maybe the kids… but not his agent. “Mort?”

“William.” His agent always called him William. He didn’t mind, terribly. He’d become accustomed to it. The first couple of times, it brought him back to the old school days on the golf team, with the uncomfortable clothes and the odd collection of golf-team and marching-band geeks mildly clapping.

“What’s going on, Mort? Hadn’t expected to hear from you.”

“I got a call from this Merman Media. Said they’d be interested in putting together a tv movie based on your life. Sort of like one of those ‘rockumentaries.’ They said they’re trying to pitch a series of this stuff to VH-1, that kind of thing. Thought it might be good, you know, keep the old name out there, huh?” Mort belied his handling of all those old Borscht-Belt comics in the 1970s sometimes.

“Umm, yeah, sure, definitely interested, Mort. Talk with Bernie, huh?” Bernie, his manager, would flip. Mort was once again skipping Bernie’s protocol. He was supposed to run things by Bernie before ‘bothering’ Billy. Mort and Bernie could have been tailors in New York, the way they hollered and carried on… but, when they were done… if your suit fit as well as Billy’s career? Well, you forgave a little.

“You bet. Hey, break a leg, huh, kid? Happy Chanukah.”

“Yeah, you too, Mort. Say hi to the family for me.”

The silvery strains of his soprano sax were just a little more joyful then.

~ — ~

8

I suppose I’d best get back to speaking to you as if I was a political prisoner. Since I am, that’s probably justified.

It’s difficult to write seriously when listening to new music. Some fun alt.country is on… a tongue-firmly-in-cheek send-up of country, from where I sit and think. Got to wonder if a lot of these alt.country folks really like country or are moving their punk/rock there because rock seems to have died? Rock’s not dead… but definitely seems a lot has become arrhythmic, blank-verse, really sung prose, with overly complicated riffs that leave you flat. It’s all in the packaging. Put a cowboy hat on and you’re country. Put studded wrist bands on and you’re metal. Put a panda mask on and you’re pretty out there.

Flick of the wrist and you’re gone.

Anyway, let’s get on with the story. Sometimes, when I have a captive audience like you, I get flustered from trying to decide where to start. It’s obviously gone on for far too many installments already. But without ambling, pre-ambling, and maybe some post-ambling, you may have difficulties comprehending what has caused this unfortunate situation.

Well, yes, unfortunate for me, of course—but it’s not fortunate for mainstream society, as the popular media would suggest, either.
Let’s go back a little further in time. Remember that most of the vignettes about the stars presented here are not modern times, but the time leading up to the Great Cultural Awakening that is still several years away. Since I’m as close to a narrator as you’re likely to get, I owe you a bit of clarity regarding the time structure of this tale.

It’s as fluid as time itself.

The primordial ooze stirs slowly, as the clock winds backwards. Cheap, shimmering video effects pixilate the image, then appear to melt into an inky blackness. Fade in to the past.

Picture it: an outdoor break area in a windswept industrial park in New Jersey. An odd, ragtag band of printing professionals (read: peons) is collected in various stages of cigarette smoking, coffee quaffing, and general kvetching about the high quality of pay and workload. In those days, you discussed problems over cigarettes and coffee. Then they became the problems. (The wit and wisdom of Mad Magazine, plagiarism fans. What, you want I should have an original line here? Consider the types of minds you’re dealing with.)

The brassy Irish girl in the navy smock flicked her menthol into the ashcan. “You think we need to be stuck here? Let’s get a band together. I can sing.” She glanced sidelong at the group and burst into her “theme” song:

You’ll be swell! You’ll be great!
Gonna have the whole world on the plate!
Starting here, starting now,
Honey, e—v’ry—thing’s co—ming up ro–ses…!

The sardonic one, who resembled me without the salted-and-peppered beard said, “Yo, Ethel. Howzabout we do a lounge act?” From humble beginnings, the greatest can spring. Or you might also wind up with a cheesy family variety act like us: The Mermans! Our favorite review was the one where they described us as “the most entertaining family since the Corleones.”

Our roll call (from one of our concert posters):
• Ethel Merman: muumuu magic!
• Shecky Merman: (yours truly) 3 chords and a hundred wisecracks!
• Maui Merman: Surf maniac with dreadlocks!*
(*: it was actually a black-dyed floor mop head he used as a wig.)
• Jarhead Merman: Semper Fried! Hide your sheep!
• Fester Merman: Where’s my firepole?!
• Junebug Merman: Every band needs an oboe player!
• Ricky Merman: 3 other chords and master of disguise!
• Bran-Muffin Joe: the spoil-sport boss guy.

Joe never actually appeared with us. However, without him, we would never have gotten anywhere. His constant worry over production led to an appearance of needing a bran muffin or an enema. That inspired us in the first place, so he was made an honorary member.

As happens with so many acts, personnel conflicts and personal growth shut down The Mermans. The strain of trying to be funny every night got to all of us, eventually. Jarhead was funny, but definitely loved picking fights with us. He, Maui, and Fester all got thrown in the tank in Pennsauken, NJ for a brawl they started in a pub. It had begun as a game of “keep-away” with Maui’s mop wig, with Maui losing his good humor over it and shoving Jarhead’s face into a fishtank.

Ricky wound up as a standup comic and emcee at the casinos in Jersey. Jarhead joined back up with the Marines to help clean up some messy situations in the Middle East. Ethel hit the lottery and she and her real-life family moved to Arizona. Junebug got an offer from the Pittsburgh Symphony that was far too good to pass up. If a call comes in for an oboe player, you take it, no questions asked. Fester went back to his limousine business and had a stretch limo built, based on a Toyota Camry.

Maui and I started up Merman Media as a part-time venture. We were doing documentaries, concert videos, and that sort of stuff. Most of it, we funded ourselves, pro bono, to share with local public television and public-access cable channels. It was fun, but still required day jobs. Maui finally got his mortician’s license. He’d been dying to have it for years.

So that left me with Merman Media… a few dollars… and some dreams.

~ — ~

9

George turned back to the workbench, still muttering. He was certain to acquire a fistful of Lottery tickets at the Quick-E-Mart at lunch. He grunted and drained the last lukewarm dregs of his coin-brewed coffee—E7, extra strong, extra sweet, extra lightener—and pitched the flaccid cardboard cup in the trashcan.

He set to work and reinstalled the injectors for the rest of the morning. Big Al, the plant electrician, stopped by his workstation. “Oh, hey, Al, what’s up?” asked George.

“Not much. My assistant, you know, Freddie? He called in, running late, and I just need a hand with holding the ladder while I run a line to the new processor station. I asked Eddie if I could ‘borrow’ you for a bit.” He glanced around, as many factory folks did, to watch for management, or even supervisors. He lowered his voice a bit and said, “I might even be able to bring you over to the maintenance side if you play your cards right.” He winked and picked up his ladder. “Stop over by the processor station in a couple of minutes, George!”

George smiled. Here was some good news, finally. He wiped his hands down, used some orange cleaner, and washed them. He tossed the rag over his shoulder. It landed haphazardly on the palette of engine blocks he’d just completed.

The processor station was relatively new. It was where the newest computer control systems were constructed and then merged with the engine compartments and dashboards of the trucks. If you stayed on the line, this was the most impressive spot you could be in. They usually brought the geeks over here… you know, the guys who liked playing with computers. The ones who could speak to the engineers and decipher that funky math-speak they used. George was hoping to get into Maintenance, anyway, so he really had less desire to stay on the line now. Even if they didn’t appreciate you any more than in Assembly, at least you got to move around the plant all day.

Big Al had gotten the ladder situated. “OK, George, when I go up, just hold the ladder steady. I’m going to connect that 3-phase line to the processor-programming benches. The circuit’s off, so it shouldn’t be any problem.” He ascended to the top of the ladder with his screwdriver at the ready.

Just at that point, Freddie made it in to work. He had that glazed, hunted look of someone who has overslept and run in to work rapidly to avoid an uncomfortable situation like being written up or yelled at. He looked at the open breaker panel near the door, questioningly.

He didn’t notice Al up on the ladder at first. Then he saw him there. He yelled, “Hey Al, you want this circuit back on, it’s to the processor station?!”

From across the floor, Al turned to look at him and say no. He still had his screwdriver up in the junction box. He started to say something, when from near that area, Eddie shouted, “Hey, Freddie!”

But Freddie heard, “OK, Ready!”

When he threw the switch, it was pretty spectacular. The circuit arced, sending a furious shower of sparks all over the processor station. Al wobbled and pitched back on the now unsteady ladder. Sparks hit George in the face, burning him, and he instinctively tried to hide his face in his sleeve.

The ladder tumbled. It hit George on the head as it fell. Al crashed onto a workbench back first.

The live wire fell on a rack where assembled CPU systems were put to wait for installation. There were only 2 sitting there. One of the two arced when the hot, bared leads touched it. It was charred and smoldering. An odd glimmer of blue lightning danced across the other.

Pandemonium had broken loose. Freddie switched the power off when he realized his mistake. Workers ran here and there, shouting. They called the ambulance squad for Big Al.

It was later discovered that his back was broken and he’d be laid up for close to 2 years.

~ — ~

TO BE CONTINUED…

Previously…