United Talent Inc. https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=22732661

Conway Twitty impersonator Kirk Jensen worked the lounges. The Prospect Pike was his home base. He was so damned good that some said he must have bargained his soul. “The man injects his entire being into his Vegas worthy performance,” wrote a reviewer for The Beacon Peek, a free monthly. Jensen covered all of Conway’s tunes but didn’t open with the biggie “It’s Only Make Believe.” Fan chanting eased it out of him about halfway through a show to riotous applause. He was often teased and tested by some wise-ass screaming for an obscure number but no one could stump Jensen and that just added to the furor of more than one heckler. Who could place blame? Dates would sneak glances at him when they should have had their eyes closed, lips whispering into ears or planting kisses instead of humming along with Jensen. No disputing he was a handsome guy, 6-3 and slim, blond curly hair and full lips he often slowly licked at song pause as if sharpening his tongue to better phrase the next line. A dental tech leaked he’d spent a bundle capping his teeth. He used the microphone dramatically as a hammer, knife, or pointer to slash at a woman to make her feel chosen but only a dame new to a lounge fell for it. Jensen’s girlfriend Margo was ever on the lookout to ensure that Jensen went home with her. She was reputed to be a tough one, fists and feet. A reliable source reported that Jensen only hooked up with her because he thought she looked like Cher, with glistening black hair and front teeth that tilted inward. It was Jensen’s dream to sing duets with the star as she did with Sonny, “I Got You Babe” in particular but he was a realist. He thought Margo would do and she got off on the right foot, often dressing as Cher did in the movie Chastity, sleeveless mauve blouse and tight brown slacks. Margo held off auditioning and when she did Jensen found she couldn’t sing worth a shit but it was too late. He was in too deep. They were business partners as well as lovers. “Potty Trained” was a septic tank emptying service. The truck was pink as Pepto Bismol and the root of many a chuckle. Another joke was that Margo wasn’t built like a brick shithouse.

Mark Roland was a regular at the Lounge, music night or not. He fancied himself a songwriter. He wore a goatee and sometimes a beret. A front tooth was deadened grey. No publisher, singer or musician ever bothered to comment word one about his efforts. He managed to get what he considered his “top six” to Jensen via a one-armed bartender named Victor. Roland drifted from job to job for a purpose that was likely unique. He was depositing experience in a creativity bank. He believed that the best songs are born of hands-on doing and they could fit folk, rock or pop formats. Before this revelation, he’d been trying to get his lyrics by mixing up the clues in the daily newspaper crossword puzzle. His songs were for the blue and no collar workers everywhere he relentlessly preached so the bar stools next to him were usually empty. When he overheard someone describe him as “a piece of work,’ he took it as a compliment. Roland had been taking guitar lessons for two years but hadn’t gotten beyond strumming.

Margo returned the “big six.” She’d dug them out of the trash. She didn’t spill that news. Roland’s work ethic intrigued her. She’d been a job hopper for a good while. She told Roland about her short order cooking, construction gigs and exercising thoroughbreds at N.E. Country Fairs among others. He was amazed and certain he’d found a kindred spirit. She thought Roland was no dumbbell but he’d stumble on many primrose paths before the grave. She swore, right hand in the air that she saw promise in a couple. A landscaping song called “Balling Trees in Star Fields,” and one about driving forklifts titled, “Blades and Pallets.” “Balling is a wonderful word,” she said. Roland nodded shyly. She asked to hold onto them for a bit longer. He agreed. Roland would have fallen for Margo even if she hadn’t given him hope plus he was worried about her. Her nose was a tad off center and that signaled to Roland that Jensen had once Sunday punched her.

When Margo told Roland about the Cher connection, he imagined himself singing “What Now My Love” with her, alone and naked. He shared that, leaving out the skin part. “I Got You Babe” was a sappy piece he thought. She’d waltz with him occasionally and sexy talk parts of his two lucky songs.

Balling trees in star fields
Is a lusty phrase to choose
But a mind slips and yields
Shoveling spring earth loose
Lift man seeking sweet elevation
After a lunch of shots and chasers
Casual laborer sensing exploitation
Blades slam into pinewood spaces

Her voice carried him off the dance floor and delivered him to his brief stint at High-Green Landscaping where he often laid in a field of fir trees after busting his ass making a root ball to wrap in burlap, secured by penny nails. He associated the trees with the heavens more than Christmas. To him, each one was a triangular star point same as he drew them when he was a kid. Margo could sense his spirit was elsewhere. She’d blow in his ear. When she was treating him to the forklift lines he’d return at Crawford Glass where he’d driven one. He recalled nearly toppling it off the loading dock when distracted by a beautiful braless college girl working in the office for the summer. Five pieces of special order trapezoid-shaped glass fell and was smashed into diamonds. The college girl, Becky, held her face with both hands, and looked horrified before giving him a quick smile. She picked up two fitting pieces and held one to each ear. Roland put Margo’s head on Becky’s shoulders. After the set, he told her about the heavenly trees. She suggested “Constellation” for a title. He bought her a pair of star earrings. She offered “Spacey Pinewood” for the fork lift song. He bought her pine potpourri made in Maine.

A couple of nights later, while they were dancing to Al Martino's “Spanish Eyes,” Margo’s hand came deliciously close to his zipper. He imagined making love to her in star fields in Madrid. He wanted to feed the jukebox more quarters but she lured him to the bar offering to buy him his favorite drink, a Brandy Alexander. “A lady’s drink,” muttered Victor. She confessed she’d merged the two songs into one. She’d found an incense band called Lemons and Lippers that was interested in trying out the eight-line combination. Eight was their favorite digit. Eight Ball’s Ass was the group’s former name. She assured him they wouldn’t change a word, just include in some magical repetition for starters. She gave him their card, “Lepers” was crossed out and “Lippers” added by hand.

Balling trees in starry fields
Forker seeks higher elevation
A lusty phrase is his to choose
A lunch of shots and chasers
A mind slips and easily yields
Casual labor knows exploitation
Shoveling slim earthworms loose
Blades slam into pinewood spaces

Margo took Roland to meet the L & L group at the abandoned Cinch Tape Measure Factory that once manufactured 2-foot miniature models that companies used for promotions. The place smelled of punk sticks used to light fireworks. A light bulb flashed their music style in his head. The leader was a skinny girl maybe early twenties. She wore jeans, greasy and baggy, anchored by a rope belt. Alicka was barefoot. What looked like a daisy petal graced each toenail. She couldn’t have been more than 5 feet tall. Her hair was an off-center Mohawk. She was button-nosed and there was a red mark highlighting a piercing that must have been recent: a gold cross with claws on the vertical and horizontal ends. Her lips were canary yellow. Her eyebrows were missing. There was netting across her blouse. She wore no bra. Two lemons were embroidered above. When Margo introduced Roland, Alicka said, “No, Roll-In.” She tugged gently on his goatee. She strummed and banged her palm on her ukulele and sang “Roll-into my heart and soul, then deeper sink” about thirty times. She yelled more than sang Roland thought. She tweaked his cheek. When she caught him sneaking peeks at her breasts, she growled, “Lemon sized and proud.” Roland surprised himself by saying, “I wasn’t thinking of a defective auto.” She made Vroom noises. The drummer moved in back of her and pulled the blouse taut for an instant. He was bright-eyed and his lips were the color of mustard. He looked about 14 and his set could have come from a dumpster. The snare skin was ripped. He sat down and did a drum roll and tipped his Brooklyn Dodgers baseball cap. “I’m Cloutfield,” he said. He had a high forehead and widely spaced peepers. The third member wore an egg-yolky day glow vest that looked homemade, harmonicas sticking out of 6 pockets. He stood about six-five. Tattooed on the length of his left arm was AFGHANISTAN in a striking red with a smoky gray background. What Vet would allow a color tied up with cowardice? His smile was a toothy showcase. He wore horn-rimmed glasses that lacked lenses. He blew a few train whistles. Just one yellow dot lit his fleshy upper and lower lip. He wore an engineer's cap that he removed, and spun around on a finger. His brown hair was streaked with grey. “I’m Loco-motive,” he announced. His eyebrows needed mowing. Alicka pulled a Clinch from her pocket and measured Roland’s chest and then from his belt to his crotch. “Hmm, I found a wealth of punk dimensions,” she said and they broke into the “Balling Blades” song. Margo had left the title up to them. Mark Roland was on the top of their jaundiced world. A pumpkin-hued cat named Lassie rubbed a cheek against his left shin. Alicka put on a cape of the same color.

Day after he was introduced to the L&L group, Roland picked up his ratty, pale blue, acne rusted VW Bug at Sheehan’s garage and put twenty bucks down on the valve job it sorely needed. Sheehan did his usual cursing, “Goddam Nazi cars!” Roland’s new job was at a refrigeration plant where Supermarkets stored hams and turkeys in preparation for holiday demand. It took about twenty minutes to realize he’d made a big mistake. He was freezing his ass off. He should have bought some long underwear. During coffee breaks he managed to write down some song lines. It was a chore to keep a steady pen. He wished they’d put him on a forklift to get some heat under his butt but a beginner pushed a broom. There might have been a longer eight hours in his life but they were beyond recall. He turned on the heat in his VW even though it was unseasonably hot and exhaust fumes accompanied the warmth. They provided a mini-buzz. The traffic was terrible. Finally home he used a heating pad to thaw. He drank tea so hot it burned his mouth. It took a couple of hours to decipher the lyrics but he did and he loved them. He managed to type them out on his ancient Smith-Corona.

Mid-August and I’m as cold
As a stiff Butterball turkey
And lately I’ve been told
I better get more perky
Think poultry avalanche
Tons of gobblers dropping
Not a ghost of a chance
News reports eye popping

Roland couldn’t sleep fantasizing about his new words and hoping Margo and the Lemons would dig them as written and maybe not jumble them like the others but that would be okay too. When daylight came he vowed no more Arctic job and slumber came. He slept the day away, rising at seven. He took a shower and wished the water was hotter. He’d complained but never a change. He opened a can of beef stew and gobbled it up. He had to pick some green spots off three slices of stale rye bread. He called two mushy bananas his dessert.

Margo spent the night at the bus station. A sailor laced her black coffee with vodka. He told her stories about Naples and Barcelona. He was stationed on an aircraft carrier. He made two weak passes. Margo slapped his face softly as a mother might a misbehaving child the first time then balled up her fist. He bowed and gave her the pint and its inch of remains when his bus arrived. She let him kiss her hand. Tequila smashed Jensen had accused Margo of cheating on him with Roland. She believed he was just looking for an excuse to dump her. She laughed so hard a rib hurt and shouted, “Little you know, Shitturd!” He assured her there was nothing in writing about their partnership; she had no monetary claim. He took a swing at her that she blocked as a prizefighter would. She kicked him in the gut using a cool karate move. He fell over a hassock and landed tangled on the couch. He was down for the count. She knew where he kept his greedy stash. She grabbed the $1,500 she’d put into the business. She split, and watched from behind a bush across the street as he threw all her belongings on the weedy lawn. His tipsy and wounded state produced slapstick! She viewed a lineup in her head trying to ID what dame would replace her.

It took Roland five minutes to start the VW. He feared battery death. It finally turned over with a couple of triumphant backfires that sounded like cherry bombs. He took it easy, playing the gas pedal at every stop to keep from stalling. Damned if he was going to chance turning on the heat. Feeling like a fool, he put a threadbare blue beach blanket he kept in the back seat over his legs as if he was in an old west stagecoach. Jensen and Margo were missing at the Prospect and two other lounges he checked. He kept the car running as he popped in and out. It didn’t fail him and who would steal it? Margo had given him the address of the small house she and Jensen rented. He didn’t remember why. It was in a rundown area of course. The shit truck was pink as a flamingo thought Roland. No doubt, it would have caused a revolt or mass evacuation in a neighborhood any better. No lights in the windows, His one headlight found a colorful littering of the lawn as if an outdoor rummage sale had been hit by sneaky gusts. Two dogs showed up. One wore a pink spiked collar. Roland thought that feature could make the gentlest of canines a flesh ripping menace. They might have been some kind of Doberman mix. He headed for Cinch where he found Margo, blanket wrapped around her, hair a mess and face shining with tears, sitting on a pallet with Alicka who was wearing a tiger-striped bikini bra and tight, honey-colored corduroys. Margo looked up and managed a smile. She stood. It was the first time Roland had seen her dressed entirely in black. Well, her sneakers were gold. Alicka bounced up and snapped her fingers in front of Roland’s face. “Your putt-putt announced your arrival sweet Roll-in. Sell it for whatever you can get. You’ll be taking a trip with us at dawn.” Roland’s jaw dropped. “Don’t worry Margo’s coming too.” Margo stood up and walked to him. She took his hands in hers. Cloutfield clicked on a boom-box. Roland and Margo lip-synced “What Now My Love.” Each member of the band made a hand to throat gag motion. Roland kissed Margo and found something metal on her tongue. He pulled away quickly. She winked at him. She told him about her tangle with Jensen and the lawn décor.

Roland drove Margo to retrieve her clothes. On the way, she asked if he could live with the replica of the planet Venus living in her mouth. “Might get one myself,” he said. “Get a magnetized version,” she suggested. The houses on the street were dark, all but one streetlight dead. Jensen’s Cadillac wasn’t in the driveway. The dogs dashed from under the truck barking and growling quickly up on hind legs scratching on the passenger door. “What the hell are we going to do about them?” said Roland, voice quaking. She opened the door and the dogs were all over her. In a flash she was on all-fours with them. They were named Hello and Darlin’. “Of course,” thought Roland. He cautiously exited. Margo was petting, hugging and kissing them. She removed the spiked collar. “That Son-of-a-Bitch,” she said. “I’ve thrown away a half dozen of these. She called Roland over. He slowly approached. “Look at the sky Mark, Venus.” She held the collar across his neck. “No spikes on us,” she said. “Hope never,” replied Roland. She introduced him to the dogs, showed him their sweet spots. His only pet had been a white mouse named Velveeta. He shied away from slobbery kissing. The dogs waited patiently as Margo and Roland gathered her clothing. She left all the lingerie to him, instructed how to fold. She stretched a thong on his across his face. “Hi-Yo Saliva,” she cried. He neighed.

They stuffed the VW as if doing a charitable trip to a Laundromat for a needy neighborhood. Darlin’ suddenly broke away and returned with a yellow vibrator. Margo poked Roland a few times with it all the time laughing like a maniac. He couldn’t help joining in. She slipped it into her back pocket. They succeeded in clearing the lawn. Before a tearful farewell to her pals, she lodged the spiked collar under one of the Potty tires. The dogs sat like statues as if this were not the first Margo parting experience. On the way to the VW, she took the vibrator from her pocket and threw it at the house. It was a star QB toss. A pane of glass broke. Margo yelled “Fuck Yourself, Shitty” and once more without the comma. Roland assured Margo that Jensen would certainly have the means. Margo laughed and said, “Don’t be a dildo Mark Roland.” She smirked and slipped a stick of Juicy Fruit gum in and out of her mouth before breaking it and giving half to him. He actually left some rubber taking off. Roland was relieved that she didn’t want to take the canines. He imagined them Velcro pawed to the roof .There wasn’t room enough for a Chihuahua. Clothes were on Roland’s lap from lap to halfway up the steering wheel. Margo was cradling more than that.

They spent the night together at Roland’s furnished one-room studio apartment. After unloading the VW, they peeled each other’s souls and his hands weren’t holding lemons: “What now?” needed no reply. He traced her Cher teeth with his tongue and then a finger. “Do you have orthodontist dreams?” she asked. “No, just to be your toothpaste and floss,” he said. He kissed her. She softly bit his tongue and then made gargling sounds. She wrapped her legs around him in a manner that had him wondering if wrestling were on her resume. “Are we a team, 100%?” she asked. “1000,” he responded. She used his chest for a pillow. He strummed his thumb on her hipbone whenever he awakened. In the morning she reported she dreamed of a medieval lute. They showered together. Roland recalled his short stay washing cars. He detailed her and she caught on and returned the service. They made love standing and sitting. “We’re flying,” said Roland to Margo’s delight. “We’re under Niagara Falls,” she said and asked if he’d ever been there. He had not. “You’ll see them, The Gateway Arch, Hoover Dam and more and more.” They stood on tiptoes to get closer to the showerhead. They toweled each other off as if they were top of the line Jaguars. Before going out to shop for duffel bags at an army surplus, Margo read his refrigeration lines. “We’ll see kiddo,” she said. That was not what Roland wanted to hear. After they purchased their luggage, Margo said she needed a drink. At Star Liquors she bought a fifth of vodka. Roland ran into a convenience store for orange juice. When he showed it to Margo, she said “Sissy.”

Margo was very fastidious about packing here clothes. She had a hell of a time deciding what items would be dropped in a Goodwill Box. Swigs of the booze made it easier. All the high heels except a pair of red skyscrapers were history. She’d survive with flats and a pair of zippered ankle boots. Roland wished she’d ditch the gold sneakers but she put them in a plastic bag as if they were special. She kept eight of the t-shirts with college names on them. Yale and Notre Dame were among them and three pairs of jeans. Roland sipped his screwdriver enjoying her picking method. She filled two of the duffels. What took the longest to situate were her two sets of Cher Chastity outfits. She hugged each one and rubbed her cheek against them like a cat would do a leg. Roland thought of Lassie marking him. She kept 3 turtlenecks, a jean jacket and a hooded sweatshirt with a Celtic cross on its back. His clothing consisted of work clothes he’d failed to return to jobs he’d quit, two jackets green and blue. His last name was sewn over the shirt pockets instead of just his first. He wouldn’t abandon his favorite Levi’s that he’d had for ten years. He’d lost his virginity with them down around his knees. His one dress shirt had never left its plastic bag. It was a blue Oxford weave button down. His sole necktie was black with musical notes on it. Adding his underwear, socks three berets and a couple of bandanas he filled just ¾ of his bag. His only shoes were his steeled-toed Wal-Mart brand. All that was left to lug was the guitar and a backpack full of song notebooks, photos of his mother, stepfather, actress Audrey Hepburn and toiletries; a small transistor radio, a wind-up alarm clock and a book for beginning guitarists by Burl Ives. He almost forgot his baseball cards, all of the 1954 Red Sox. They were reproductions. He started to lift his typewriter but she stopped him. “You won’t need that,” she said. “You’re in for an upgrade that will make your head spin.” Roland’s eyes welled up. Was he doing the right thing? A Twitty line dawned on him, “You rule my very soul.” Margo got a laugh when he put on his baseball cap, an upside-down question mark where a team or company logo usually lands. “Looks like a meat hook those turkeys and hams were once familiar with,” she joked. They dropped off their luggage at the Cinch. The heavy door was unlocked but the Lemons weren’t there which gave them cause to worry. Margo had faith.

He sold the VW to a shade tree mechanic intent on building an electric powered Bug fleet. That made the loss of apartment security easier to take. They walked to nearby Joy Young’s, shared a pu pu platter and nursed it until nearly dark, then took a cab back to the factory. Roland’s fingers were crossed tightly like a man foolish enough to take a Super Glue dare. Margo kept a jumpy hand on his restless thigh. Roland breathed a sigh of relief when he spotted a light in the partly opened door. Margo kissed his fingers free. The cab driver told them to be careful. “This ain’t Beverly Hills.” Margo wanted to help with the luggage but Roland insisted on lugging it all. “My stud pack horse,” she teased. “More a mule,” he said. The Lemons and Lippers were sitting on pallets in a corner. A dinged, dimpled and dented black Chevy van greeted them. Had it been parked outside a pellet gun rally? A yellow “Knup” was lettered on one side of the vehicle. It was upside down on the other. The pot aroma was strong enough to provide a contact high for every fan at a sold-out Ramones concert Margo thought and then she recalled fans of that group went for speed and cheap beer. “Welcome ‘What Nows’,” shouted Alicka from a pallet in the corner. “Hey, Roll-in, what the hell’s your name doing on your jacket? Are you here to fix the A/C? “ “I’m at your service,” Roland answered. He saluted. “You certainly will be,” she said, picking up his left hand and kissing it. She was wearing a black kimono decorated with sunflowers. Her lips were a shade of yellow that brought goldenrod to mind. Loco was sitting on the floor, eyes closed, back of hands-on knees in a yoga pose. He was dressed in black, four rows of military ribbons pinned to his chest. His shoes were either spit-shined or patent leather. They sparkled. Cloutfield wore a gray blazer, bowtie, corn yellow shirt, and a chauffeur’s cap. He strapped the duffels to the van roof. Margo instructed Roland to open the side slider door. She flipped her hair into a ponytail something Roland had never seen her do. The crew marched around the van like soldiers before entering. Lassie was in step with them, mouse in mouth. Cloutfield was the driver of course. Roland closed the slider and got in the passenger door. There was no seat. The dome light was dim. Roland crawled into the back, and sat next to Margo. She wouldn’t take his hand. She kept her eyes on Loco who’d returned to his yoga pose. Alicka lit a punk stick and was spelling something in the air with it. “This will be the wildest and most inspirational night of your life, Roll-in,” she guaranteed.

Wherever they were headed it took about twenty minutes to get there. It felt to Roland that they were going around in circles. When the van stopped, Margo duck-walked to a handle she hit to open a square panel. Roland wondered if the van had once been an ice cream truck. Alicka unzipped a canvas case and gently removed a rifle that didn’t remind him of his childhood BB gun. It looked like it could down a tank. Roland figured the extension was a silencer. Loco stuck the barrel into the night and eyed the scope. There were ten or twelve pops. Loco saluted. Alicka ordered Roland to look out the window. Margo gripped her hand on the back of his neck for three or four minutes; forehead against metal. He thought of a mischievous child forcing a big hunk of Play-Doh through a door’s mailbox slot. Alicka lived up to her name and tongued his ear. Cloutfield held a strong searchlight on the truck. Its armor wasn’t strong enough. Shit gravy seeped out the bullet holes. Roland had a coughing fit when released. Loco handed the weapon to Margo who passed it to Alicka. He dropped into his yoga pose and cried. Roland figured he’d had an Afghan War flashback. Cloutfield drove away slowly but soon hit the gas. They were tossed about like poorly packed hams and turkeys. Margo was hugging Loco.

An hour or so later they stopped. “Exit stage ridiculous,” shouted Alicka. Loco was over his distress. He played “The Star-Spangled Banner” alternating two harmonicas. Cloutfield carried Alicka’s ukulele and a bongo from his poverty-stricken set. Alicka yelled, “Cesspool” and they played and sang the most outrageous version of Twitty’s “It’s Only Make Believe” ever imagined, scattered with profanity. Margo sang too and Jensen was right about her croaky monotone but it had matching company. When they finished a coyote was howling and geese were honking. More fakery kicked in. Margo fetched two yard-long stiff rolls from the van. Roland and Loco helped her pull away some cellophane strips covering a sticky substance. The side of the van now read “Sanctuary Gospel Singers” over a yellow cross.” The same drill for the other side but that one named them the “Ever Praising Gospel Trio.” The next musical selection was Roland’s frigid song but insanely backward to the tune of “Amazing Grace.”

dna eye snot
dloc sa m’I dna tsuguA-
dim yekrut llabrettub ffits a sa
dlot neeb ev’I yletal dna
ykrep erom teg retteb I
ehcnalava yrtluop kniht
gnippord srelbbog fo snot
ecnahc a fo tsohg a ton
gnippop eye stroper swen

It was a miracle that Roland could identify it as his own work. He shouted out, “Mid-August, and I’m as stiff.” Cloutfield pronounced him dyslectic. Back in the van and on the highway both Margo and Alicka sat down in front of Roland. “You had a good look at that punctured shit buggy, right Roland?” said Margo. He answered “fantastic” view,” sarcastically wondering what she was driving at. Alicka chimed in. “You're going to write the best song ever about that historic event, aren’t you?” Roland swallowed hard then with a cracking voice said, “I don’t think I can. It’s got to be something I worked at. I’ve told you my method. I’d have to have pulled the trigger. It would have to be my job.” Alicka looked sharply at Loco, beckoned with a head jerk. “Say what?” he shouted. Margo added her two cents. “You’re going to work it out Marky, believe it.” Margo had never addressed him that way. “Ditto,” added Cloutfield. “You can work it out” sang the band like an Un-Fab 3. Loco placed the silencer against Roland’s temple. Lassie showed her teeth. Roland closed his eyes and saw flashing black and white squares and he thought of his song writing crossword days. Three answers flashed, “SOS,” “Mayday” and “Alas.” He mumbled the last one so goddamned mournfully.