Sitting there, he kept time by tapping on the steering wheel as they drove down the street. "Shit, man. This song is
it
!"
I couldn't believe that I had to sit in the car with this idiot. Todd Shack's "Monster's Blues" had been on the Billboard Top 200 for 172 weeks in a row. The song was garbage, and anyone with taste would know that. I smiled a tight smile for this addled jackass and nodded. He had a car and I needed the ride.
"Ahh, c'mon, Joe. Even you have to admit it kicks ass. Seriously, who doesn't like his stuff? Yeah, it's not that swing music you're always working on, but dude, c'mon!"
I couldn't appear completely divorced from reality, as it wouldn't suit my image. Unfortunately, I also couldn't explain things properly to this idiot. His plebeian tastes were so mundane that he couldn't even imagine the transcendent beauty of a properly crafted song. "Sure. If you like that style, he's definitely got it down."
You couldn't help hearing the song. It was everywhere. And every time I heard it, I thought of her. Mandi fucking Browne. Todd Shack's part of her clique. Local boy done good. Made me want to puke.
Muscle Shoals was a music town. I didn't care what anyone said, that's what it was. A town. It was too small to be called a city, irregardless of what the City Council and people like Mandi thought. It was a small, provincial little town that should have been renamed Bumfuck, Alabama. No refinement. No appreciation for talent and skill.
Mandi fucking Browne thought she ran the place. She didn't, irregardless of what her redneck sycophants thought. She organized a few free concerts every year just off of Woodward Avenue. It was insane. The City Council just did whatever the hell she wanted them to do. There was some amazing bias going on and it was like nobody but me could see it.
Who played at these concerts? Her friends. Jonny Knight and the Hardays, Darren Tiberious Iverson, The Mustangs, that pretentious Bob, who can't be bothered with a last name, The Moon Girls and all the others. Yeah, crazy! She got to choose who played. What the fuck was that about?
Now she's branching out and working with rappers. Seriously? Rappers? Son, if it sounds like Kwahmal One, talk to Vanna and buy a vowel. This QHML 1 aint working.
Some people heard me lay out my argument, remarkably cogent as it was, and suggested that I organize my own concert. Supposedly the City Council would be fine with it, but dammit, I'm an artist! I didn't have time for that crap.
The idiot pulled up in front of the dollar store and let me out.
I plastered a smile on my face. "Thanks, John. I'll be out in a few."
Walking into the store, I added up the total in my wallet and the coins I found in the apartment. $22.87. I could buy twenty-one items. Wait, I thought. Twenty-one? What's the tax add up to? Screw it. I'd put something back if I had to. More notebooks for my lyrics, some pens, a few bags of chips, some spam and baked beans. In and out, no problem.
I paid, walked outside and the car was gone. What the fuck? I looked around. Nothing. I waited five minutes. He didn't come back. What a dick, but people were like that. Fickle. I thought he was a friend. I guessed that John Publique was like everyone else. They liked me for a week or a day or whatever and then they're gone. Prick.
There was a cute girl standing in front of Dominoes. I straightened my shoulders and slicked down my hair. Business in the front, party in the back. The mullet lives, baby. I walked over, bags in hand. I could tell she digged me. She had that cute, studiously ignoring me thing happening. The demure southern belle look.
"Hey, honey. You see a tan Toyota four-door? It was in front of the dollar store."
She leaned away a bit, and playing shy, wouldn't really look my way. "No."
"Okay, okay. It's all good." I had been thinking about negging her. All the beautiful girls can't resist that. Saw it on TV. A mild insult couched in empty praise. Makes them want to know why you don't want 'em. Drives 'em crazy. "So, you into swing music? I'll be down at the Loving Whistle on Friday. You should come down, people love my stuff. Great dancing. I'll be on until about 1:00."
"Ahhh, no. We're going to the concert."
"No, honey, don't... Listen, just come on by. All the losers will be at the concert. You don't want to hang out with them. I promise, you'll love my stuff. Don't even worry about the concert. Check out the Free Beacon on Monday. All my critiques will be listed under Letters to the Editor."
"What the fuck, mister? Can you just leave me alone? You're like, older than my grandpa. What the fuck's up with you and the concert? Obsessed much?"
"I. Am. Not. Obsessed! All these people running around, oh, Mandi's the best, oh thank you Mandi. It's sickening."
She slowly backed into the door of the pizzeria. This wasn't my first rodeo. I knew her yelling would have started soon, so I began the long walk home. I hoped she didn't have one of those whistles. Damn, those things were annoying.
Seriously, I wasn't obsessed. Yeah, Mandi was smoking hot, but that hadn't nothing to do with nothing. Some people are like, "Hey, why the heck are you following her around, and shouldn't you have that thing looked at?" and I'm like, "None of your business, man. It's called a carbuncle. And it's a small town. I'm not following nobody."
But yeah, she was really hot.
I knew that if she just listened to some of my work or read my detailed breakdowns of composition, lyrics and arrangements, she'd really like me. I mean, really, really like me. I'd been thinking that I should approach her in town one day. Maybe at a restaurant. We could have sat down and talked, gotten to know one another. I'd wear my Axe body spray and my good shirt, if it was clean. It would've been perfect.
But that's another problem. How the hell would have I approached her when she's always surrounded by sycophants? Mandi was a sorta talented musician. She needed guidance, but she had some talent. But people kept talking about how great her arrangements for other musicians were. They all hung around her, listening to everything she said. Ugghh. Nauseating.
Those jerks would be asking for my input if they knew what talent was.
So, I'm two blocks from home and who the hell pulled over three houses up? Her damn husband. He was the strength and conditioning coach at Alabama State. He dropped students off at home after football practice if they didn't have a car. Oh, what a great guy! Bullshit. He probably sucked at his job and was brownnosing. Look at me, boss! Let me keep my job, 'cause I'm a nice guy.
He was an oaf and probably didn't know a damn thing about music. Not like me. I could've talked to Mandi about things that matter. We belonged together, and she'dve understood that when the time was right. I kept walking home, ignoring the ignoramal. Ignoramus? Ignoramus. Let him watch how the superior man displays decorum.
About a block from my apartment the damn bag broke. Cans rolled everywhere and those little brats across the street laughed. Muttering under my breath, I picked up the cans and made a sort of basket out of the remnants of the bag. I got home and slipped into my studio to relax and let go of the stress. That's right, I had my own studio. Okay, it's a converted bedroom with blankets for soundproofing and a jury-rigged soundboard, but it usually wasn't laughed at. That was where the magic happened. I would sit and write and work on new songs. Masterpieces, really.
The room locked on the outside and I'd gotten some cool shackles I bought at a BnB store. They were covered in felt, so Mandi wouldn't get chafed. Wait, BnB is Bed and Breakfast. BDSM? Whatever. We'd just sit and talk, and she'd listen to my music. We'd clear this whole thing up.
The next day was Thursday. Every Thursday I wash my hair, needed or not. Gotta keep the ladies happy. Friday I would be at the Loving Whistle. Saturday, I'd make my move. Life was good.
