TALENT IS...one THING

"TALENT IS...one THING"

To make a short story long, it was Tuesday, as it usually is after Monday. My watch had stopped. I knew it was time. For over two months, I'd been sleeping in my car, bumming food from friends, and had forgotten whose picture was on a ten dollar bill. Something inside me said that maybe it was time for a change.

While visiting a friend, I happened to glance at an ad in the newspaper he'd scattered all over his floor for his untrained dog.

"Wow, it was a great party! Ev'ryone was there!" My friend raved, but the ad captivated me.

TALENT CONTEST EVERY TUES

NIGHT @ MARCO'S. BIG BUCKS

PRIZES. CALL-

Suddenly the print was washed away in a flood of urine. His dog was relieving himself directly on the ad. The cruel canine seemed to smile wickedly at me, cocking his leg. I cursed the mutt under my breath and wished a lifetime of incurable tic-infestation upon him.

"An' I thought, WOW! Ya know, there was this chic named-" My friend rambled on about some party he barely remembered.

"Listen, I gotta go." I cut him short and was quickly gone, leaving the guy mumbling numbly (maybe he wasn't even aware that I left) and his wicked mongrel sneering at me. I was going to call Marco's.

To this day, I'm unable to grasp the reasoning in the way the phone company installs phone books in phone booths. I would pay a pretty penny to personally pin a medal on the mental giant who thought of attaching the book to the phone with a non-elastic cord that is far too short to raise the book to read. And equally-deserving of such honor is the genius who devised the swivel, on which the book swings freely when not held firmly. I'm sure everyone, at one time or another, has treasured these clever devices, especially when they swing back down. I went to both. After many unsuccessful attempts, I had the number memorized.

It's a sad case of affairs when a person goes to such lengths to acquire a phone number, and then doesn't have the funds to make the call. I spent the next forty-five minutes memorizing the address, grabbed my guitar, and was on my way to stardom-uh-I mean, Marco's.

In the dim barlights, Marco's seemed a pleasant upper-middle-class bar and dinner club. I stepped up to the end of the bar. The pudgy bartender stood midway behind the bar, looked at me, and then turned his back. For several minutes, I tried in vain to attract his attention. In desperation, I knocked a glass off the bar. The crash drew stares and glares from everyone in the room. The bartender waddled over to me.

"Donchya think you've had enough?" He scowled, much like my friend's dog. Perhaps I'd made a bad first impression.

"What's the problem here?" A well-dressed middle-aged man sneered. Was sour facial expressions the norm in Marco's? I hadn't come prepared!

I started to speak, but the bartender interrupted, "This guy's tryin' t' start trouble."

"That right? We don't appreciate trouble here." The man's glare was as warm as an iceberg.

"No! I'm- uh- the talent contest!" I held up my guitar case, both for demonstration and defense.

"That right? What do you do?" His words were snipped and sharp.

Holding my guitar case higher, I stammered, "I- uh-sing and um- play guitar."

"That right? What else?"

His question threw me. "Uh- nothing else."

"'Nother st-st-stutterer, boss!" The bartender mocked me.

"I'm Carl Sneebler." The boss' lips stretched tightly across tobacco-stained teeth in what was probably his version of a smile. "Come with me."

I followed him to a small office with a large desk and one entire wall covered with a mural of naked women riding horses. I didn't ask. Mr. Sneebler sat behind the behemoth desk, almost disappearing. "Have a seat." His invitation was like an icepack on the groin; and if there'd been any other chairs in the small room,I would've complied. Where did this man expect me to sit?

Carl looked up at me, obviously irritated. "Whassamatter? Deaf too?"

I explained there were no other chairs.

"That right?" Carl Sneebler raised an eyebrow, then changed the subject. "What do ya play?"

At last he was on my turf. I could toot my own horn with the best of them. "I pride myself-"

"Look,forty-five minutes from now..." He looked at his gold wristwatch. "...Be onstage. Do two songs, state yer name, an' get th' hell off the stage. Got it? Good." He stood and started toward the door.

"Can I tune my guitar?" I lifted my case again.

"I dunno, kid. CAN you?" Carl Sneer-er-Carl Sneebler sneered a lot like my friend's dog, and left the room. I had no idea if he'd be returning.

I needed some alone time with my pride and joy. Setting the case on the floor, I opened it, and released her. As I brought my guitar into my embrace, pressing her to my body, I felt an electrifying surge of energy flow through me. I was standing on a shorted-out extension cord. Then, as I caressed her neck, I danced my fingers over a few exhilerating riffs, and dreamed of the day I would play in sold-out major arenas. Thousands of adoring fans paying a lot of money to cling to every sweet note. Why let reality stop me?

My guitar was ready and so was I. Maybe my efforts to break free from advanced poverty had finally paid off. Like any other young wannabe, I chased the illusion of "THE BIG BREAK" that would turn my life around and my dreams would all be fulfilled.

But, for now, I sat at a table with the corner broken off in a shape not unlike a human head. I clutched my guitar to my chest. Soon, the houselights were adjusted from dim to the "batcave" setting and the band haggardly took their places onstage.

"Tonight's talent contest night." The guitarist yawned loudly in the microphone. "We've got about twenty contestants, so let's get to it!"

Twenty contestants! I looked around the room, beginning to see the true shape of the dark cloud looming before me. There couldn't be more than twenty people in the room. The only audience I'd be playing for were in fact the other contestants. I'm certain that profanity blurted from my mouth as I got up to leave.

"That young man is our first victim." The guitarist pointed in my direction. I looked around, but unfortunately, I was the only one standing. It was my turn.

The audience's greeting was only a smidgeon short of bloodthirsty. I plugged in my guitar and a quick strum revealed that she had betrayed me! She had strayed so far out of tune that I decided not to play.

I turned to the guitarist who seemed to be the leader of the four-piece combo, and tried to pull myself together. "Okay, how about Johnny B. Goode in 'G'?"

He rolled his eyes, sighed, and said to his band: "Number four special in garlic, guys. You know, THE USUAL." The drummer groaned loudly.

I took the microphone in hand, and was instantly transported to that other dimension, where I'm a musical energy being. It's an unbelievable and indescribable insanity that overwhelms me when I'm onstage. Or maybe I was dropped repeatedly on my head as a child. "Thank you very much." I pretended the audience had at least greeted me with polite noise. In spite of the band's apathy and the bad atmosphere, I gave a stunning stellar performance for two songs.

Then suddenly... it was over. It went so fast it left me dizzy. Perhaps the bass player had body odor. I stood motionless, awaiting applause. I didn't know what to do! I had never performed to such absolute ultimate silence.

"Get the hell off the stage!" One of the cadavers in the dark yelled.

I unplugged my guitar and steered swiftly toward the door, calculating how many steps off-course my case rested.

Carl Sneebler met me at the door, accompanied by a ton-and-a-half of man called (or named?) "Ox". Together, they offered me an irresistable invitation to stay a while longer.

For the next few thousand hours (okay, maybe I'm exaggerating!), I was a captive audience, subjected to the gravest offenses of the Geneva Convention. The contest progressed through nine more versions of "number four special in garlic". Actually, one guy said it was the only song he knew, so he did it twice, making it ten renditions. A blind magician did all of his tricks wrong. And the epitome of entertainment: a standup comedian in a wheelchair was so drunk, he dropped the microphone and spent about forever in agonizing contortions trying to pick it up. The crowd thought he was hilarious, and I wondered if that was actually supposed to be his act. Genius!

Meanwhile, Ox and Mr. Sneebler flanked me at the broken table. Ox guzzled pitchers of some yellow fluid, and Carl chewed gum I'm certain he'd gotten from the underside of the table, sneeering just exactly like my friend's dog had done.

When the final act had finished gumming his toothless bird calls, Carl Sneebler stood and approached the stage. He was a menacing figure, seizing the mike and shouting: "Allright, everybody shut the hell up! It's my turn now!" He pulled from his pants (I swear from inside his zipper!)a long chain attached to his belt on one end and keys on the other,and twirled them. The drummer was struck in the face by the twirling keys and fell off his stool. Then, Carl Sneebler seemed to transform into a nightmarish lounge singer persona. He snapped his fingers and rasped, "Okay cats, let's rock the joint!"

My stomach soured and I couldn't resist recoiling in horror as Carl swung into the most bizzare rendition of "Tiptoe Through The Tulips" I'd ever heard. "No! No! I can't take it! Make it stop!" I shook my head and covered my ears.

"Hey man, don't spaz out on me! I was jus' playin' your guitar, man!"

I shook myself awake. Had I been dreaming? My friend was jabbering about "not hurtin' nuthin'."

Suddenly I was aware that I was soaked. I looked down and there on my lap was Carl- I mean- the dog, sneering up at me. He seemed quite satisfied that he had pissed all over my shirt and jeans. I was drenched and wreaking!

My first impulse was anger; but not being an impulsive person, I reached out to pet the beast. He promptly chomped a large chunk from my sleeve. I simply said:

"Nice doggie. Wanna go someplace with me?"