Muscle Shoals

Sitting there, he kept time by tapping on the steering wheel as they drove down the street. "Shit, man. This song isit!"

I couldn't believe that I had to sit in the car with this idiot. Todd Shack's "Monster's Blues" had been on the Billboard Top 200 for 172 weeks in a row. The song was garbage, and anyone with taste would know that. I smiled a tight smile for this addled jackass and nodded. He had a car and I needed the ride.

"Ahh, c'mon, Joe. Even you have to admit it kicks ass. Seriously, who doesn't like his stuff? Yeah, it's not that swing music you're always working on, but dude, c'mon!"

I couldn't appear completely divorced from reality, as it wouldn't suit my image. Unfortunately, I also couldn't explain things properly to this idiot. His plebeian tastes were so mundane that he couldn't even imagine the transcendent beauty of a properly crafted song. "Sure. If you like that style, he's definitely got it down."

You couldn't help hearing the song. It was everywhere. And every time I heard it, I thought of her. Mandi fucking Browne. Todd Shack's part of her clique. Local boy done good. Made me want to puke.

Muscle Shoals was a music town. I didn't care what anyone said, that's what it was. A town. It was too small to be called a city, irregardless of what the City Council and people like Mandi thought. It was a small, provincial little town that should have been renamed Bumfuck, Alabama. No refinement. No appreciation for talent and skill.

Mandi fucking Browne thought she ran the place. She didn't, irregardless of what her redneck sycophants thought. She organized a few free concerts every year just off of Woodward Avenue. It was insane. The City Council just did whatever the hell she wanted them to do. There was some amazing bias going on and it was like nobody but me could see it.

Who played at these concerts? Her friends. Jonny Knight and the Hardays, Darren Tiberious Iverson, The Mustangs, that pretentious Bob, who can't be bothered with a last name, The Moon Girls and all the others. Yeah, crazy! She got to choose who played. What the fuck was that about?

Now she's branching out and working with rappers. Seriously? Rappers? Son, if it sounds like Kwahmal One, talk to Vanna and buy a vowel. This QHML 1 aint working.

Some people heard me lay out my argument, remarkably cogent as it was, and suggested that I organize my own concert. Supposedly the City Council would be fine with it, but dammit, I'm an artist! I didn't have time for that crap.

The idiot pulled up in front of the dollar store and let me out.

I plastered a smile on my face. "Thanks, John. I'll be out in a few."

Walking into the store, I added up the total in my wallet and the coins I found in the apartment. $22.87. I could buy twenty-one items. Wait, I thought. Twenty-one? What's the tax add up to? Screw it. I'd put something back if I had to. More notebooks for my lyrics, some pens, a few bags of chips, some spam and baked beans. In and out, no problem.

I paid, walked outside and the car was gone. What the fuck? I looked around. Nothing. I waited five minutes. He didn't come back. What a dick, but people were like that. Fickle. I thought he was a friend. I guessed that John Publique was like everyone else. They liked me for a week or a day or whatever and then they're gone. Prick.

There was a cute girl standing in front of Dominoes. I straightened my shoulders and slicked down my hair. Business in the front, party in the back. The mullet lives, baby. I walked over, bags in hand. I could tell she digged me. She had that cute, studiously ignoring me thing happening. The demure southern belle look.

"Hey, honey. You see a tan Toyota four-door? It was in front of the dollar store."

She leaned away a bit, and playing shy, wouldn't really look my way. "No."

"Okay, okay. It's all good." I had been thinking about negging her. All the beautiful girls can't resist that. Saw it on TV. A mild insult couched in empty praise. Makes them want to know why you don't want 'em. Drives 'em crazy. "So, you into swing music? I'll be down at the Loving Whistle on Friday. You should come down, people love my stuff. Great dancing. I'll be on until about 1:00."

"Ahhh, no. We're going to the concert."

"No, honey, don't... Listen, just come on by. All the losers will be at the concert. You don't want to hang out with them. I promise, you'll love my stuff. Don't even worry about the concert. Check out the Free Beacon on Monday. All my critiques will be listed under Letters to the Editor."

"What the fuck, mister? Can you just leave me alone? You're like, older than my grandpa. What the fuck's up with you and the concert? Obsessed much?"

"I. Am. Not. Obsessed! All these people running around, oh, Mandi's the best, oh thank you Mandi. It's sickening."

She slowly backed into the door of the pizzeria. This wasn't my first rodeo. I knew her yelling would have started soon, so I began the long walk home. I hoped she didn't have one of those whistles. Damn, those things were annoying.

Seriously, I wasn't obsessed. Yeah, Mandi was smoking hot, but that hadn't nothing to do with nothing. Some people are like, "Hey, why the heck are you following her around, and shouldn't you have that thing looked at?" and I'm like, "None of your business, man. It's called a carbuncle. And it's a small town. I'm not following nobody."

But yeah, she was really hot.

I knew that if she just listened to some of my work or read my detailed breakdowns of composition, lyrics and arrangements, she'd really like me. I mean, really, really like me. I'd been thinking that I should approach her in town one day. Maybe at a restaurant. We could have sat down and talked, gotten to know one another. I'd wear my Axe body spray and my good shirt, if it was clean. It would've been perfect.

But that's another problem. How the hell would have I approached her when she's always surrounded by sycophants? Mandi was a sorta talented musician. She needed guidance, but she had some talent. But people kept talking about how great her arrangements for other musicians were. They all hung around her, listening to everything she said. Ugghh. Nauseating.

Those jerks would be asking for my input if they knew what talent was.

So, I'm two blocks from home and who the hell pulled over three houses up? Her damn husband. He was the strength and conditioning coach at Alabama State. He dropped students off at home after football practice if they didn't have a car. Oh, what a great guy! Bullshit. He probably sucked at his job and was brownnosing. Look at me, boss! Let me keep my job, 'cause I'm a nice guy.

He was an oaf and probably didn't know a damn thing about music. Not like me. I could've talked to Mandi about things that matter. We belonged together, and she'dve understood that when the time was right. I kept walking home, ignoring the ignoramal. Ignoramus? Ignoramus. Let him watch how the superior man displays decorum.

About a block from my apartment the damn bag broke. Cans rolled everywhere and those little brats across the street laughed. Muttering under my breath, I picked up the cans and made a sort of basket out of the remnants of the bag. I got home and slipped into my studio to relax and let go of the stress. That's right, I had my own studio. Okay, it's a converted bedroom with blankets for soundproofing and a jury-rigged soundboard, but it usually wasn't laughed at. That was where the magic happened. I would sit and write and work on new songs. Masterpieces, really.

The room locked on the outside and I'd gotten some cool shackles I bought at a BnB store. They were covered in felt, so Mandi wouldn't get chafed. Wait, BnB is Bed and Breakfast. BDSM? Whatever. We'd just sit and talk, and she'd listen to my music. We'd clear this whole thing up.

The next day was Thursday. Every Thursday I wash my hair, needed or not. Gotta keep the ladies happy. Friday I would be at the Loving Whistle. Saturday, I'd make my move. Life was good.

Thursday, I wrote and practiced and wrote some more. Sometimes I'd stop, close my eyes and shiver. Man, was I good. Lack of appropriate recognition doesn't reduce pure genius. At dinner time I made two tuna sandwiches and had half a bag of chips. That weekend was going to be pivotal, so why not treat myself? I sat while staring at Mandi's chair. Yeah, that's right. I got Mandi her own chair. Someone had it out front by the curb and I grabbed it right up. Half a can of bug and hornet spray, and it was good as new.

We would have been so good together.

I couldn't get a ride on Friday, so I walked to the Loving Whistle. It was a disappointing turn-out, but I've come to realize that it's not quantity, but quality. My fans were the crème de la crop. That's some French for ya'. Discerning, insightful and intelligent beat driveling and easily pleased any day. I was Joe, the King of Swing and they knew it. I looked up at the clock and saw it was approaching 1:00 AM.

"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Please stay for the zydeco stylings of Jim Bob."

I chatted with the fans after the show, was comped a few drinks, and headed out.

When I got to the parking lot I heard this real heavy engine sound. You know, a loud vroom, vroom! No, that's not working. That actually sounds sort of dumb. It was just a loud engine, making loud engine sounds. It was one of those Mustangs. The type you see at car shows. The car stopped right in front of me and out stepped this stone-cold fox.

People say that phrases like that make me seem old, but I'm bringing them back. I'm a wordsmith. Anyway, she was young, hot and blonde. She was wearing a pencil skirt that hugged her curves. Walking towards me, she had a folder clutched in her hand. Maybe her lyrics? Or, better yet, some of my lyrics to autograph? A fan!

Stopping her gum snapping long enough to speak, she looked me up in down in a tantalizingly disinterested fashion. "You Joe?"

I laid on the charm. "Yes. Yes, young lady, I am." I obsequiously yanked on my shirt bottom, exposing more hair chest. Alpha all the way. Obsequious means surreptitious, right? Doesn't matter. She wanted me.

"Order of protection. You've been served."

What? Who the... Son of a bitch! The husband. Well, at least he knows enough to be afraid of a rival. Mandi and I will straighten this all out. But for right now, I've got this fox.

"So, where do we go from here, honey? Wanna get something to eat? I've got a coupon for Denny's."

She popped her gum again and seemed to gag at my invitation. "Uhhhh, I go home. I'm guessing that you go back under your bridge and wait with the other trolls to attack kids in fairy tales."

"Kids? Hey, I'm not some pedagogue! How dare you? But, you know, Denny's is still an option. You hungry?"

"See ya, Grandpa." And she walked back to the car. She did have a great ass, though. Callipygian. I read that in a story one time.

It took me twice as long to walk home as it should have. I had to take the path down by the brooks. It wasn't bad. I liked them. The waterways supported the whole town. The damn crowds from the concert were filling the streets and soaked up everyone's attention. That's all they talked about while ignoring true genius. That's okay, it gave me time to plan.

I had it all timed out. Her husband didn't return from Saturday practice until 5:00 PM. Following her home a few times in the fall told me that. Shut up, it wasn't stalking! I'd get to their house around 2:00. I had some chloroform and a rag. That should work, right? And then, she'd, I don't know, sort of get loopy? And I could lead her back to my apartment? That's gotta work. I got this.

They left the back door open! What idiots. I had the chloroform in a really nice mason jar. One of my best. Twisting off the lid, I soaked the rag and stepped inside. Like a panther, I moved like the night. Wait. Okay, either the panther or the night. I moved like something good. Pantherish. Okay, a panther. Forget the night.

I heard noises from what seemed to be a kitchen and made my way forward, rag in my right hand. Passing by a calendar hung on the wall, I recognized the spring imagery for April. A beautiful month, April. New flowers, warmer days, baseball. Baseball? Football season was over. Fuck, who was the husband dropping off? Was he even at a practice?

It felt like my beautiful mullet was caught in a vice as my head yanked back. The giant oaf's ham-like fist loomed over me.

Her dulcet voice halted his impending beating. I knew she loved me. Why did she have a cast iron pan? "I've got this, honey!"

I knew it! She was going to clobber the oaf.

Wait, I thought... Don't... No!

Blackness.

*******************

You know, it's not that bad. I've got plenty of time to write and my new audience seems to love my music. I'm really, really popular in prison and they seem to dig my mullet. It works great as a handle.

*******************

POST CREDITS SCENE

Mandi Browne remained a loyal and loving wife. She opened a chain of dojos teaching Skillet Fu. She named the schools "Cast Iron Self Defense" and made a fortune.

Jason Browne developed OCD after endlessly washing the hand that touched the mullet.

John "Bluto" Blutarsky married Mandy Pepperidge and became Senator Blutarsky.

Joe sabotaged his own parole hearing three times. He'd finally found his fan base and couldn't abandon them.

The Bebop House of Jazz opened with high hopes but was closed and out of business within six months.

Todd Shack continued to release hit after hit, engendering rabid jealousy in the owners of The Bebop House of Jazz.

*******************

With thanks to GirlintheMoon for her editing and advice. The content is mine and mine only. No writers were harmed in the writing of this story. No story recommendations this time. Sorry.