Favorite Scene Friday #2

It's time for another Favorite Scene Friday!

This scene got a nod as a favorite from the reviewer from the Writers' Digest Self-Published Book Awards last fall.

Jon and Terry are having lunch in Peacock Alley in the Waldorf Astoria when they're spotted by some fans, followed by reporters. They decide to make an escape through the kitchen, then quite obviously, through the laundry room.

Again, language ahead...Enjoy!

NEW YORK, NEW YORK
June 15, 1985

Terry and I sat in the restaurant, Peacock Alley, next to tinted windows. There were people lining the sidewalk, and judging by their clothes, manner, and youth, they had to be fans. Girls were crying, guys were glum.

The word’s out all over the country by now, I thought. It would make Entertainment Tonight’s opening sequence, and MTV Music News had probably been broadcasting it every hour since seven a.m. Kids would be freaking out all over the place, worrying about the tour, and getting the information completely screwed up.

“They say Randy’s dead.”

“This girl was killed!”

“He’ll be sent to prison for life!”

“They’ll cancel their tour. Their career’s over.”

Terry quieted the voices in my head. “What the hell is this, Jon?” he was saying as I stirred my tea, watching three packs of sugar form a pile at the bottom of the glass. “This whole ordeal is bringing out things in us I’ve never seen.”

I nodded slowly. In just seven hours, every member of Tarax had undergone some sort of transformation. Randy was no longer the bitter alcoholic guitarist; he was a lost and frightened soul, weary of all the rock-n-roll hoopla. Steve’s frontman ego had become a chastised child, countered by a shocking outburst of fury from the always serene and reserved Bryon. Even the hyperactive, completely ignorant Terry was speaking intelligently. “Cloud of gloom” and a word like “ordeal” were not part of his normal vocabulary.

I didn’t know what the hell was wrong with me, speaking out of turn to police investigators, and unlike my usual diplomatic and tactful self, I was speechless and numb. Our career, all that we bled for, was hanging by a thread, and it just hadn’t hit me yet.

“Are you listening to me?”

“Huh? What?” I came back to life.

“You look stoned, man,” he said. “I know you like dope, but even when you’re high you don’t look this bad. And you’re stirring your tea with your fork.”

I stopped immediately, tossing the fork back onto the table with a clang, thinking of how the guys used to dog me out for actually knowing there was such a thing as a salad fork, a dinner fork, and a desert spoon. Randy used to blame it solely on the fact that my mother’s a Canadian.

“That’s the funniest thing I’ve seen since early this morning,” the drummer said, also remembering my knowledge of table settings.

“I’m sorry. My mind is elsewhere.”

“Obviously.”

“What were you saying anyway?” I flagged down the waiter to bring our check.

“Are we gonna be okay? I mean, we’ve all been acting so strange. How are things gonna get back to normal?”

Ah, Terry. The most sheltered only child in the history of mankind. Every blow softened, every harshness quickly covered and extinguished. The only bad thing that had ever happened to Terry was the death of a beloved pet hamster in the fifth grade. Terry’s twenty-one years were basically without tragedy or heartache. Life was always good with Terry.

“It’ll be odd at first,” I said, trying to sound like the aged advisor, the one who knew the right thing to say at the right time, which was quite the joke since I hadn’t experienced much tragedy myself. “But we’ll make out all right. I guess if Vince can get through this anyone can.”

I recalled Vince Neil’s accident last December that killed Nicholas “Razzle” Dingley of Hanoi Rocks.

“You think we should go to the funeral?” he asked, frowning.

“Randy should, maybe,” I said, then reconsidered. “But then again, that’d be a disaster if relatives got out of hand. And if the press showed up.”

“No shit.”

We were silent for a while. I stared at my plate, nothing left but a few uneaten French fries and one last bite of a chicken sandwich.

“Are you gonna eat that?” Terry asked suddenly.

I shook my head, and he had it down in one gulp. “At least I haven’t lost my appetite,” he grinned. “I still don’t see how you eat yard bird all the damn time. Cannibal little fuckers.”

He was obviously recalling his days working in chicken houses with his grandfather in Oklahoma. Would you call that a tragedy? “I like chicken. You’ve got mayonnaise on your chin.”

He wiped it away then licked it off his fingers. Along with his appetite, he hadn’t lost his lack of table manners either. “You sound really strange, Jon. Tell me you’re not losing your mind, too.”

Riiiight…. “I didn’t think I’d ever have to go through this again. But it’s different this time, because we’re so much more nationwide now. I mean, look at all those people out there now.” I pointed out the window. “People I don’t know are worried about us. We’ve disappointed a lot of folks, man.” I stopped for a minute, getting my thoughts in order. “I don’t understand it, Terry. Show business can be scary.”

There was another silence before he sighed with relief. “Oh good, you’re back to normal.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re talking like you usually do,” he said. “All philosophical and shit. Nobody else is talking like they should.”

“Barry is.”

“That’s debatable.”

Debatable? He can’t even spell “debatable.” I didn’t point out his new expanded vocabulary; I was too shocked by it. I was about to say something else when I saw two guys and a dark-haired girl standing at the host’s station. They pointed at us excitedly and started heading our way.

“Don’t look now, but I think we have been identified.”

Terry glanced over his shoulder. “Shit. What do we do?”

“Leave.” Where were Billy and Ray?

“How?”

I grabbed a passing waiter as he came by. “Uh, sir, could you show us a different way out of here? We’d like to keep away from the public for today.”

“You can go out through the kitchen,” he said. “Right this way.”

And not a moment too soon. Following the three kids were about six reporters. We ran through the kitchen as the host stopped them and tried to shove them out of the restaurant.

“The kids must’ve been bait,” Terry said as we stood amidst stoves and sinks and pots and pans. A head chef looked down his long nose at us, rattling on in French. I recognized a few select phrases, like the ones Madame Parker didn’t teach us in high school, but those I learned from my uncle Gilbert, and a foreign exchange student named Gabrielle, who also introduced me to the finer points of...well, I’ll talk about that later.

Terry nudged my arm. “What’d he say?”

“Something like, ‘My car’s in the factory’.”

“What?”

“That’s what it sounded like.” I couldn’t tell him I’d heard “assholes” about five times.

The chef turned his back to us, so Terry tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, mon-sur, how do we rock-aires get out of la keetch-un?”

I rolled my eyes.

The chef was not so amused. He cursed again in his native language.

“Never mind,” I said, recognizing the f-word. “We’ll find it ourselves.”

We pushed through the noisy kitchen and found the service entrance. We opened it, finding ourselves in an alley.

“Aw, shit,” groaned Terry. “Not another one of these!”

We didn’t much like alleys after Chicago.

“Now what do we do?” I mumbled to myself.

“Go back inside.” Terry opened the door.

“I’ve got it!” I snapped my fingers.

“Oh, no. You’re thinking of something really dumb, Jon. I can already tell.”

“C’mon.” I grabbed his arm and we went back inside.

I peeked out the kitchen doors into the dining room. The press guys were gone.

“Hey, baby, how’s it goin?” Terry gawked at a waitress carrying a tray of desserts. He reached out to pinch her ass and she whacked him in the face with a napkin. “Ow! Bitch.”

I waved to the host.

“Yes, Mr. Warren?” He came to us immediately.

“I need a favor.”

“I knew this was a really dumb idea, Jon.”

“Shh. Put your head back down.”

“They only do this shit in movies, Warren,” he grumbled. “I don’t fucking believe this.”

I adjusted my tie. I was dressed as a laundry boy, my hair slicked back into a ponytail with cooking oil; a look I must say doesn’t really suit me. My white starched shirt was cutting into my jugular, and the black pants were too small and pulled at the crotch. They didn’t have shoes, so I had on Terry’s black Chuck Taylors, which were two sizes too big. Terry was in the laundry cart, holding my clothes, buried under towels and linens. We stepped out of the elevator on the tenth floor, and to my surprise, the hallway was deserted.

“Wow, there’s nobody here,” I said.

“Good, then get me outta here.” Terry began to emerge out of the basket.

I shoved him back down. “No, you never know if they’re going to jump out and get you.”

“They’re just the press, not the Boogey Men,” he said, his voice muffled.

Suddenly a man came around a far corner, carrying a camera, a press badge attached to his shirt pocket. I ducked my head. I thought he was gone when I heard him say, “Hey, do you know where Tarax is staying?”

I ducked my head down, hoping my dark looks and Southern Arizona background could help me. “Señor?”

“What?” Terry’s nose appeared under a pillowcase. He whispered loudly. “Are you high? You’re not a fucking Mexican!”

“No, I’m Puerto Rican!” I whispered back.

“The rock group Tarax,” the photographer spoke again. “They’re playing at the Gardens this weekend. Their lead guitarist had a car wreck. Supposedly killed some girl.”

“¿Cómo? No hablo inglés.”

“Aw, shit.” Terry recovered his head.

“Tarax, the rock band?” The man spoke louder. It’s funny how if you don’t speak English, you’re automatically deaf, too. “You know, rock and…Oh never mind.” He got into the elevator and was gone.

“Told you they jump out at you,” I said, pushing the cart again.

“Okay, whatever,” complained the drummer. “Just get us back to the room before I suffocate.”

“I guess you didn’t get any fresh air after all,” I joked.

“Fuck you!”

I knocked on our door, curious as to where our security had gone. Steve answered, his blue eyes peeking over the chain. He looked somewhat confused.

“Can I help you?”

Before I could speak, the laundry cart said, “Steve, it’s us. Let us in.”

“Huh?”

“It’s me…Jon.”

“How can I be sure?”

What? Was he high? I didn’t look that much unlike myself. Maybe he was just being an ass.

Terry’s head came up from out of the towels. “Open the damn door!”

Steve, stunned, unchained the door. Terry leaped out of the laundry cart, flinging linens onto the floor. “It smells like shit down in there!”

I took the rubber band out of my hair, feeling oil on my fingers.

“What the hell is this?” Barry came out of the rather large bathroom.

“We got spotted by the press in the restaurant,” Terry said. “Señor Genius here got us this wonderful disguise.” He threw my clothes and boots at me as I began to take off the stiff shirt. I hadn’t worn a shirt this starched since I quit the Boy Scouts.

“It worked, didn’t it?” I headed for the nearest shower.

Terry’s lip curled. “I guess.”

“How are things in here?” I asked, stepping into the bathroom. I groaned, watching rivulets of vegetable oil dribble down my neck. I looked like a reject from some Fonzie auditions.

“Still pretty quiet,” said Steve. “We got a call from Chuck.”

Chuck Greeley, our booking agent in LA. I turned on the shower, shoving my head under the running water. “What’d he say?”

Steve handed me this tankard of conditioning shampoo, a bottle we took with us everywhere, because with us, it’s always about “the Hair.” “He said to keep cool. He’d get word to the promoters.”

“That’s it?” I began to scrub my head vigorously, hearing Terry relate our escapade to Barry, complete with an imitation of my Latino accent.

“Well…” Steve was much calmer now, almost too calm. “Since the hearing isn’t until, oh, what’d he say? October?”

“Yeah.”

“We’ll pull through.” He sat down on the toilet while I showered, feeling grease pour over me. “How’re things downstairs?”

“It’s a fucking madhouse,” Terry said. “That’s why we came up in the laundry bag.” He pulled back the shower curtain and snapped a towel onto my bare ass. “No thanks to Jonny here.”

I rinsed, shut off the water, and shook my head like a wet dog, spraying water all over the bathroom. “Did you have a better idea?”

He frowned. “No. Well, you coulda been in the cart smelling all that stinky shit!”

Steve grabbed the towel in Terry’s hand and flicked him with it.

“Ow!” Terry had no tolerance for pain, and whimpers like a little girl from the slightest nudge. He caught Steve in a headlock.

“Let me go! Watch the hair! Watch the haaaaaaaaairrrrrrrr!” His screams trailed off as Terry dragged him into the living room. Steve reached out to grab me, but I leaped back and fell back into the bathtub, with was filled with water, soap, and cooking oil. The more I tried to get up, the more I slipped. “Shit! Hey, could somebody help me?”