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The cowbell player of a lifetime
It is now a week since the first rehearsal. How do you dissect such a bizarre experience? When the post game highlights from a band rehearsal mainly recollect rum shots and karate a flip, that is not a good sign. In addition to fielding multiple daily phone calls from Shill, I am additionally burdened in using my “minutes” with giddy cohorts Iam and Jerry. Nobody wanted to do this, now these two guys specialize in over-enthusiasm and childlike glee. “I’m gonna put new strings on again” and “wait until I bring my dobro” is the kind of musical information that beckons my undivided attention. They quickly realized old “money bags” Shill would cough up cash for just about anything “project related.” Plasma TV’s, laptops, spin classes, and cases of rum were distributed to Shill’s “boys” at alarming frequencies.
Things hit a new low when Iam’s personal masseuse started following him around. She was an absolute “knock-out” hand picked by Iam because of her “personal charm.” I thought it might be time to tell the “strolling minstrels” to tone it down a bit. I made a few targeted phone calls. “We had one lousy rehearsal and you guys are walking around like rock stars. We don’t even have a song or show under our belt!” “Don’t give us that self-righteous shit Dom, the guy wanted us, not the other way around. Let him pay.” I am going to ride the wave until I fall off,” Jerry finished and then slowly puffed on his Cuban cigar. The next phone call was Iam “Dom are not seeing the big picture here, got to go” he abruptly hung up as he was busy getting his nails done. I called Donny, as he was the sole “voice of reason” that I could turn to. “Donny, this exorbitant spending and pampering has got to stop, Iam just hung on me as he was in the middle of a manicure.” “I got news for you Dom, his nails are done and he just hung up on me because it was time for his ‘Brazilian!’ Time for a meeting, no Shill, just us.” After I caught my breath from exhaustive laughing, I agreed.
I like grocery shopping. My wife gives me an extensive list. Later, I return home with everything I like and the other requested products are mysteriously “out of stock.” There was a cart in my way of turning the corner. It’s probably some old bag who won’t get out of my way. “Excuse me” I said. “You are not excused.” I peered around the constructed cereal box corner to affix my view. There she stood, arms folded, tapping one foot to embellish disgust, and an obvious red faced expression of being “pissed.” “What no girls in the band, I never figured you for a good old boy type Dom?” ” Nicole, didn’t you say you play the cowbell? I thought you were kidding.” “I don’t kid and will be at the meeting tomorrow,” she proclaimed. How do you know about the meeting?” I know Iam’s personal masseuse.” What is this “all my children?” ”It is now numb nuts!” She did a bumper car swivel, and sped away with her racing cart. So far online social networking has netted me a bunch of offline “screwballs.”
We had an informal meeting at Donny’s drum studio two days before our next scheduled band rehearsal. Everything was spinning out of control in an uncomfortable fashion. Matters turned strange and curiously annoying as Jerry and Iam took on a disturbing “ass-kissing” posture with Shill. In a psychotic “paying of the respects for his financial support” they both started to accessorize with custom pinky rings and extra hair gel. “What is this the Fairy Goomba band?” Joe exclaimed as he walked into the room. “You guys look like a couple of greasy ass-kissers who should cut the shit!” Joe is usually light-hearted and jokes around, but I sensed some anger in his tone this time. Donny took it from there “Joe does have a point. You guys resemble a couple of lug nuts going to perform in the “off-Broadway, back room, underground, gay-cult, production of ‘Greese 3, when the the closet door opens’.” ” Go ahead bust balls, we are just paying our respects.” Sounds like your “cashing in” your respects, nice laptop Jerry! Donny said. Where did you get the upright bass and the top hat? The good news is that you are only the cane and monocle away from being “Mr. Peanut!” ”Shut your trap and let it go, I’m warning you.”
Tension was mounting and the “greasers verses the sharks” was about to begin as we were suddenly interrupted. I somehow failed to mention our newly self-elected band member. Nicole walked in and sat down in the empty chair next to me. ”Did you get a masseuse too? Way to go Dom!” Iam snarled.” Nicole got up pointed a finger in Iam’s face and offered a direct hit “screw you scumbag, I am in this band and you better be respectful of I’ll kick you right where it hurts.” He couldn’t help but start hysterical laughter, and everyone else joined in, except me. It instantly infuriated Nicole and she could not help but to make good on her promise. A “shock and awe” swift kick in the marbles sent Iam back to the ground again. This time he lay there as if he were posing for a sonogram from the second trimester.
It was a moment sadly reminiscent of the first rehearsal. Nicole said she was sorry and sat down as the laughter died as Iam’s breathing returned. We all sat in our chairs and didn’t speak.” I gradually stood up from my chair and said “this is Nicole” she is a new member of our band, any objections?” Iam mumbled “I have two objections for you right here in my left hand.”
I continued my speech; “Look, I’m ready to walk away right now. This was a bad idea from the start and it just keeps getting worse. I will call Shill today and tell him.” I walked away from the table. “Wait a minute. There was some cooking moments to our first jam.” Joe stood up and went on. “I say we do the next rehearsal, if it disappoints, we quit. Let’s see what we’re musically made of first, on a genuine try.” There wasn’t another word, just Donny’s magical “make it all better” ritual of shots that melted us to eventual laughter and camaraderie.
We got back to some basic idea exchanging and preparation for the next rehearsal. We got up and exited after agreeing to see each other in two days for the beginning or the end. Iam was the last to limp out to his car. I looked out my rear view mirror and saw him slowly hobble through the parking lot. I felt sorry for the poor guy. The thoughts of how dysfunctional this band has been and the sight of Iam struggling to get to his car made too much sense. This mirrored picture of him was a symbolic snapshot of what he represented. He was the poster-boy for the band called “Onion Dent.” He approached his car in an exaggerated and painful gate. In one hand was his car keys. In the other hand was arguably his most valuable worldly possessions. A platinum pinkie ring and the family jewels.
Copyright © 2010 Domenick Cassise. All rights Reserved Worldwide.
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Onion Dent is a work of fiction and any similarities to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.