From underneath the pillow I pull out my wristwatch and the small penlight while cracking open an eyelid. Using the one fingernail that my teeth haven’t chewed off this week, I wedge it underneath the malfunctioning switch as an unsteady beam of light brightens the watch’s glass surface.
Well, I have been up since six o’clock just laying underneath the covers with a million little dream ideas floating around in my mind. Witches, intergalactic espionage, or the secretary running for her life from the vengeful lover/mob boss, it does not matter to me which one that I pick. I will enjoy the current series for the next month or two until moving on to the next one.
Today, I wrap up the fantasy as I pull myself from the bed and flick on the lamp. My tired eyes stare at the brown dresser across the room; the large, detachable mirror slightly slanted because of the uneven floor and missing fasteners. Because of the pitched angle, the mirror reflects my huge oddly-shaped forehead as if I’ve grown three brains overnight. My arms do a strange, almost eerie, wiggle reminding me of ocean tides although I’m holding the limbs still. My fun house mirror almost makes me crack a smile on my normally stoic face, almost, as I gaze at the other objects on the dresser:
- A small misting bowl used to humidify the room to help with my asthma.
- The broken flashlight I have not had the gumption to toss out yet despite the cobwebs hanging from it and the two spiders playing Texas Hold ’Em.
- My Chinese fans leaning against the bottom of the mirror to brighten up the dark piece of furniture.
- My Sunday crossword puzzles, incomplete until I can figure out who was the onetime New York Philharmonic leader and what is the first name of the actress Moorehead.
- And my blue binder, rubber bands strapped around to hold on papers I need for research in my next project and a yellow notepad showing my ink swirls of words to the almost complete first chapter.
I start to drool. This binder looks like a smorgasbord in my mind. It is food for my hungry imagination and a place to jot down a few of my dream ideas when they get to the point of overflowing out my ears. At that wonderful scene, I have just consumed my morning coffee, my bacon and eggs, and the large English muffin topped with the biggest chunk of fat-making butter as those little nooks and crannies become swimming pools. This sight will sate me for the next several hours until my grumbling stomach reminds me that I need solid sustenance to survive.
I wonder what buttered notepaper would taste like? Seriously debating this question, I walk over and pick up the binder. Hands flip through a few of the pages as my lips smack at a particular section. I remember that one of my blog readers had asked if I would be posting any more tidbits from my new writing project. I also remember he had guessed correctly at what my past pet had been back in Thursday’s post and I had deliriously written a comment that said since he had the correct answer he could ask a favor from me. In fear of having my bank account drained, I’ll post another section from this almost complete first chapter as his reward.
"Are you people ready to rock?" the microphone announcer said to the excited crowd. "I said, are you ready to ROOOOCK? Yeah! Then bang your heads together for BLUE TRIAGE!"
The man took a step back, waving his fist, as Travis and his band appeared from around the partition to stand on stage. The stage? Hell, it was on of those movable wooden dance floors that workers had pieced together. It sat at the rear of the building where his backup guitarist, Otto, had claimed that the pool tables would have stood; he grew up in this town and would buy his Marlboros from the bartender when he was thirteen.
Bar. Tavern. It was a freakin’ rustic dive that their manager had booked for their gig. He had said the room could hold a thousand. On the maximum capacity sign over the door, the number was more like a hundred and fifty. About seventy-five people had shown up for the concert. The fans hollered and catcalled behind the barrier consisting of short metal poles and attachable ropes. The barrier reminded Travis of standing in a bank line waiting to cash his check.
And speaking of checks, if he wanted to get any tonight then he had better pluck a few chords.
"HEY, YAH! You wanna hear us play . . . uh." Travis glanced at his arm. Across his skin, he had scrawled the town’s name with a black marker. "KYSDALE! Well, let’s ef-in’ PLAY!"
The amps blasted out the first song, "Making Love to the She-demon," as Travis winced when the drummer missed his beginning cue. A newbie with the band, the man still crinkled in his package of inexperience. Yet three weeks in, and with their fourth gig done, this S.O.B. should have been prepared for his mark. They started every concert with the same song. It always electrified the crowd as the people swayed and bumped chests and banged strangers’ backs to the beat. The newbie should know the routine by now.
Perhaps it was time to find their sixth new guy. Yet Travis hated working through the auditions. He would discuss it at their rehearsal meeting next week.
Travis’s fingers caressed the strings, losing himself in the music and forgetting the missed cue. Completely locked into his special place, his voice thundered into the microphone. Not even into the third stanza, a balled piece of paper smacked him on the forehead.
Angry, Travis glared up as his fingers ran on autopilot. He searched for the person he was going to tear a new a-hole into when two girls in the front row waved.
"We love you, Trawler," they said in unison and grabbed the bottom edge of skimpy halter tops. The girls pulled the fabric up to their grinning mouths.
It seemed as if someone had forgot to remind the two ladies to put on bras before leaving the house. Yet Travis, "the Trawler," Crawford was not the type of person to point out their obvious mistakes. He was a backseat spectator. He preferred to enjoy the girls’ wiggling show.
In fact, he enjoyed it so much that his fingers switched off autopilot and laid motionless on the strings. Bass brother Ricky saw it coming a mile away and started an impromptu solo while waiting for their lead man to recover.
And Trawler did recover. He walked off the so-called stage, grabbed both girls around their anorexic waists, and lugged the little shriekers over to the mic stand. After giving the command to Sit-Stay as the girls dropped to knees and locked adoring eyes on him, Travis continued with the rest of his set without a glitch. He returned to his happy place with two thoughts running through his mind, both concerning the ladies nesting at his feet.
Let them be twins. Let them be legal. Let them be twins. Let them be legal . . .