“To a friend’s house. Someone I met at the Karaoke Bar last week. He thinks I’m really good and we’re gonna try out his new system he just bought. Paid $3000 for it. So I want you to listen. He’s a good singer too.”
“But Rob, I wanted to spend some time with the kids this evening. What good is that new computer doing me if I never get the time to use it?”
“What’s more important here, Pam. That computer? Or me?”
How many times, Pammee Turtletrot wondered, would she have need of enduring those words and the resulting torturous aftermath. How many times can one man sing “Hello Marylou”? But then, how many men were like her man, a middle aged self proclaimed virtuoso who fancied himself elite among men and desirable among women, of any age.
It just wasn’t fair. Condemned to suffer at the hands of Karaoke gurus, those would be swooners who made almost nightly attempts to revive a dying image of youth, vigor and appeal. Like her husband, his circle of friends too, reveled in the glare of imagined fame, each reassuring the other of their questionable talent.
This was not destined to be a good day, she knew. Her evening was planned for her by her husband. As usual. And carpooling with Curtis, a co-worker, everyday to work wasn’t exactly a world of blessings either. For just once, she’d prefer he keep quiet all the way to work. Especially this morning which was already ruined by the earlier conversation with Rob, her husband.
Please, she prayed, let there be no mention of Sunraider this morning. Her prayers were answered by snarled freeway traffic and a particularly feisty version of the same old Sunraider pitch, delivered by Curtis with amazing redundancy. All in the cramped quarters of a truck cab. The way she felt right now, sitting in dead traffic, having to ingest a thousand superlative words describing Sunraider, well, she’d buy the entire company just to shut him up a moment. But that was the substance of dreams. The reality was his 90 mile an hour mouth, spewing quinary capsules in all directions, like little green missiles, intent on piercing the armor protecting what little sanity she had left. All she needed now was Steve to greet her at work, waving a Watchtower subscription form in her face. Is there anyplace on this planet where men cannot go, she wondered.
Thank God. Steve was not in sight upon arrival to work. But Curtis clung to her like a shady used car salesman given an ultimatum by his boss, salivating a possible sale, all the way into the office. She felt like telling him to “go lay down like a good dog.”
Oh great, she thought. Steve is off today and guess who gets to take up the slack. Sharon, Curtis? No, just her. She didn’t know which was the lesser of two evils, not seeing Steve’s mischievous mug for a day, or doing his work. If only she could have it both ways. Steve out of sight and no stupid supply orders to fill, or back doors to answer, or unintelligent questions from unintelligent phone calls. Was there any justice for women? Any avenue for retribution to that inferior species known as men. Not in this world, it seemed.
Only a few days ago, her mood had been much happier. Rob was out of town and she had finally purchased that long awaited computer system she’d been dreaming about. One that would take the kids and her on new adventures of knowledge and recreation. She spared no expense, having determined what Steve had, she upped it, comfortably out of his reach for now. It had to be that way.
A 486DX2/66MHZ, 32mb RAM, 540mb IDE Hard Drive, 3.5 and 5.25 floppy disc drives, double speed Multimedia CD-ROM, 2mb video card, 17” non-interlaced SVGA color monitor, and a Hewlett-Packard Laserjet color printer. All with pre-loaded software of the highest quality. DOS 6.2, Windows 3.1, Word for Windows 6.0. Yes sir, she had it all, but so far had not been able even to turn it on, for Rob instantly considered it competition for her time, and he never lost.
But she had hope. Some day soon, he would have to leave town again on business and then she would have the time. Until then, endurance was the name of the game. But please, one man at a time.
About 10:00 that morning, she got the call.
“Hey woman, what’s with your computer? It won’t do anything.”
“What do you mean, Rob. It’s brand new. It works fine, why are you asking?”
“Well, I wanted to see if maybe you had a Karaoke program on it. You know, something that would help me practice my singing before we go over there tonight. So I just took a little look and then it asked me if I was sure I wanted to format. I said yes, thinking it might give me another choice, but it sort of locked up for a few minutes, and now it won’t do anything. What you buy, a cheap computer or something?”
Pammee’s heart was paralyzed. She held her breath as she asked, “Rob, listen carefully. Tell me exactly what the screen says right now, this moment.”
“Well, let’s see. It’s got a little “c” with a > mark and then it says, ‘Command Interpreter Missing.’ What the hell does that mean? Did they forget to give you that or something. Want me to run by Circuit City and pick one up? I’ll be out this morning a little while anyway.”
Pammee nearly dropped the phone. How can anyone be so stupid, she thought. Typical male. About as shallow as an inch of bath water. All that software would have to be reinstalled. Where would the time come from? In between Karaoke tape changes perhaps, precious moments when his attention was diverted. Pretty bad when measures like these are resorted to, she thought.
Again the phone rang.
“Mrs. Turtletrot? This is Griff Slezy of Zanderson Ford. Uh, I can’t get a hold of your husband at the moment. He promised to come by at 10AM this morning to finalize the deal.”
“What deal, Mr. Slezy?”
“Well, uh, on the 69’ galaxy, of course.”
“Of course.” My husband told me nothing about any deal, now what’s this about?”
“Your husband bought this old olive drab, four door, 1969 Ford Galaxy we had sitting in the back lot. Told him it wasn’t worth much, just scrap you know, but he insisted on paying like it was a cream puff or something. Hell, the thing don’t even run right now, needs a torque converter, you know. And that’s just for starters. Take a small fortune to restore, if you ask me, and wouldn’t even be worth a whole lot then. 69 Galaxies never had much appeal, you know. But we ain’t the kind to refuse a fool’s money. Anyway, he was supposed to make arrangements to have it towed to you place, where he was going to restore it himself. Said you knew about it. I’m sorry if I gave away a surprise, Mrs. Turtletrot.”
“Oh, that’s quite all right Mr. Slezy, I’m used to surprises from my husband, this one doesn’t merit any special attention. Can I ask how much he gave for it?”
“Yeah, but I don’t think you’re gonna like it. Like I said, he insisted on paying top dollar. $3800. Said he could make up the money by selling a computer system he had.
That was it, she thought after hanging up. How much more can I possibly stand. How much more could any woman stand. Enough was enough, macho husband or not. She had her own life too, her own needs and whims that warranted personal attention. After tonight, after absorbing yet another amateur sing along session, she’d draw the line for him on these matters, and others. After tonight.
The place they went to that evening was indeed new. A home on the southeast side, somewhat lower middle class. A little unlike Rob. This new friend must be really good, she thought, for him to travel this far to teen idol. His usual circle of friends lived within a five mile radius.
Inside was a garage turned into a makeshift stage, complete with rudimentary spotlights and stage curtains. She couldn’t help but laugh to herself. These boys really took this Karaoke thing serious, no doubt feeding insatiable egos, Rob’s included.
Several performers were there, behind the curtain, her husband now included, awaiting there turn to dazzle an audience consisting of wives and children and other unfortunate relatives.
First up was Rob himself. Tonight he was portraying Ricky Nelson (who else?) complete with wig and similar clothing that Nelson wore in his later concerts, just before his death in 1981 in a plane crash.
Why they even had the gall to use an emcee to announce each act.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are proud this evening to present, for the first time anywhere, four astounding recreations of legends from the past. Please welcome the teeny bopper himself, Ricky Nelson.”
As ‘Hello Marylou’ began blaring in the background, Rob strode on stage, gesturing thank you’s, black curls bobbing on his otherwise bald forehead. The others clapped thunderous applause at his performance, which was less than mediocre as far as she was concerned. Sure doesn’t take much to please some people, she thought. She’d seen it all before, too many times to count, each, an exercise in endurance.
Next up was a terrible rendition of a Buddy Holly hit, “That’ll Be The Day.” One or two clapped at this pitiful performance which sounded more like Kermit the frog trying to yodel. Hopefully, no one recognized Boise Cascade’s own Larry, behind the garish makeup and thick glasses. Pammee thought he actually looked better in disguise.
Next up, Jerry Lee Lewis, singing his classic, “Great Balls of Fire”. At first Pammee didn’t know who it was portraying him, really didn’t care, but there was something oddly familiar about his voice, his movements. She knew, but couldn’t place him.
“Goodness, gracious, great balls of fire” he screamed, gyrating across the stage, very much off tempo, an old man vainly trying to prove he has it. He didn’t.
Suddenly, he turned, and vaulted from the stage toward Pammee, like a life size doll extended by a gigantic invisible, scissor arm, stopping in midair, his decrepit old face just inches from hers. “Lose your dog, missie? Maybe the wolves got him, ha ha! hee hee!” Then, just as quickly, snapped back to the stage like a human rubber band.
Pammee blinked hard. It couldn’t have happened. But it did. Orville, the insane northerly neighbor who had more than a few odd quirks and a strange way that disturbed her. What on earth was he doing here? Did anybody else see what just happened? She looked around. All eyes were riveted to the stage. She must have imagined it. Then she knew. This was Karaoke from hell. Made up of oddball men who tormented her in one way or another.
Orville finally finished his number and exited the stage. She could hardly wait to see who the fourth and final performer was, and wondered how it could ever top what she just saw.
Again the Emcee made the introduction.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, direct from Property Management, where he still reigns as the masculinity king among adoring women, please welcome the king of rock and roll, as he sings a special love ballad to our special guest this evening, Pammee Turtletrot. The one, the only ELVIS WHITE!”
Pandemonium. All the girls were giggling in high pitched shrills as he sauntered onto the stage in full sequined jumpsuit. His graying pompadour hair glistened in the light, sideburns, long and wide, his paunch hiding any hint of his T.C.B belt buckle. With collar turned up and chest exposed, Elvis White reveled in the limelight, the focus of all womens’ dreams. Tonight he would bless Pammee with a unique thrill.
“Thank you very much. Thank you. Pammee, this one’s for you darlin’. I changed some of the words just for you. I would ask though, remain seated until I’m done, then you can show your gratitude, OK sweetness?
Pammee tasted vomit. The burning kind that crawls back up your gullet, frying your taste buds with stomach acid.
“Are you lonesome tonight, do you miss me tonight, are you sorry we work far apart—Does your memory stray to that inventory day, when I carried you with these two strong arms—Do the chairs in your office seem empty and bare, do you gaze at my old desk and picture me there? Is your heart filled with pain, shall I transfer again, tell me dear, are you lonesome tonight?
"I wonder if...you’re lonesome tonight. You know, someone said the world’s a supply room and each must play a clerk. Fate had you in love with me you little flirt-then came act two. You seem to change, you acted strange, and why, I guess I know. Honey, you begged me not to go, and I had good cause to leave you. I know you’d rather go on cuddling me, but there are others waiting besides you. Now the warehouse is bare, and we’re standing there with my glory all around, but if you don’t let me breathe, I’ll have to spank you sound
Is your heart filled with Jim, shall I transfer again, tell me dear, are you lonesome tonight.....”
What Pammee tasted now made the vomit taste like sweet chocolate. That grinning, flab infested, pathetic loon was not a man at all. A piece of dirt. Worse. The epitome of female horror, all wrapped up in that gut hanging ego maniac she long ago dismissed as human.
She could feel the bile rising again as she watched him step back, triumphant, lip curled in cheap imitation of the real king, all the while motioning for her to keep back, as if she were going to rush the stage. She was really sick, deathly sick. He stood there, head raised as waves of adulation swept over him like warm fingers of hot women.
Pammee screamed in three different octaves. And that little secret did the trick. Not just any woman can scream in three octaves, let alone two. When she opened her eyes again, four different performers were on stage. Four handsome, virile men who respected women. Just exactly what she’d thinking the moment she screamed.
Just to make sure, she imagined four female singers and then let loose that patented scream. Poof!. There they were!
She imagined Rob, the kindest, gentlest, most unselfish husband on earth. She imagined Jim White a scaly toad. She imagined Orville as never existing.
She opened her eyes. Rob was coming over with a concerned look on his face, stepping gingerly over a croaking toad on the floor by the stage. Orville was no where to be found.
“Hon, let’s get out of this place, what do you say? I’m sick of this Karaoke stuff. How would you like a banana split on me? Then maybe we can run by and get that software program you wanted so much. Oh, by the way, have I told you lately how much I love you?”
Life wasn’t so bad after all, Pammee decided. You just had to let your feelings be known in the right tone of voice. Three octaves, that is.
A humorous look at the world and life through my eyes.
Follow the author and his wife, as they travel the world …. several times over.
Laugh at their funny stories, self-inflicted crazy events, strange observations, wacky zoo facts and snippets
