Mayday

➀ (Chapter 8)                                               Mayday                                         © 2008 by Adam Fourman

     It was Mayday and the neighborhood ladies had put together a celebration party to honor the day. After a maypole ceremony for the kids, they were organizing the food trip in a little field edging the tule grass at the upper limits of tidal mudflat adjacent to deep water to the south and east. Morning fog was melting back seaward over the steep Sausalito hills to the west. Bordering north, on the solid land, were the (boat) haulout ways, marine repair shops & 4 acre marine junkyard between us & lubberworld. There was a bit of beach where small boats could land for a tide or two to fix minor problems or get another coat of bottom paint on. Southwest, beyond the adjacent 3 acre piece of vacant land and a substantial fence, were the army corps pier and fishboat docks. At the edge of the beach, Tia Mia Dave had set up a bow-&-arrow target with a game going where you pay a dollar a shot at twenty yards, first bullseye takes the pot, and this novelty had collected a rowdy bunch. Swilling beer by the barrel, fishermen on parole from the fishdocks and a dozen or so of us idle 'old men' were letting fly while the 'old ladies' were setting up the food.

     Friends of our favorite party band were busily seting up a stage and sneaking extension cord over to the boatyard for electric music on tap. Kunga Korps arrived to begin their thumping thuds to incite wilder spirits as sun warmed everything. The gals had made a deal for a warm up band from somewhere off the waterfront and they came and started setting up amps, P.A., and drums. Guitar squawks and mike squeals began peppering the scene to further jack up the ambiance. Gamboling as only they can, kids and dogs ran around. The first pot won with bow and arrow took fifty-three shots. One lucky and very drunk fisherman just stumbled ashore, flung his dollar in the hat, and plugged that bullseye dead on, fifty-three dollars richer!; and then raised a roar of approval by throwing it all in on the beer run—plus a couple twenty dollar bills for “more gallons a whiskey, mate”--and the game began again in earnest.

     Waterfront parties are the best. Some neat surprise would always just come sailing in from out of the blue, and this day was no exception. Jesse Croc, whom we hadn't seen in a year or more—was rumored lost at sea—somehow just vaporized into our midst, and that son of a sea snake has a bona fide chef in tow with six dozen chickens and thirty pounds of ribs stacked up in their little putt-putt skiff. Hole was dug and rocks piled up. A monster grate materialized and ten bags of charcoal weren't long in being hustled up. Going to have more party than we could have imagined or planned, not being rich by a long shot. People just kept on showing up until quite a happening crowd had gathered.

     Harmonicat blew mean blues solos as the band went over to the bar-B-que before they were to start playing. Dogfights had to be broken up. Kids were beginning to have difficulties, but food smoothed most of that. The beer run returned with a dozen gallons of beer and five fifths of hard liquor. Dopers getting dopier rather absentmindedly started passing the pipe.

➁     Forty more dollars hit the bull and the boys are roaring for another chance. Dollar bills flew toward the hat and arrows were flying; wider of the target now, due to too much alcohol. Our resident dixieland trumpeter and the alcoholic flutist wailed a wacko dueling duet while we're whacking off meat by the fire. And the chef is kicking dogs left and right, yelling, “Out of the galley! Out! out! Out of the galley!”

     Some 'straights' (landlubbers) began collecting at the fringes—brandishing their drinks—clean Saturday clothes and shiny shoes reflecting embarrassed curiosity gleams impossible to conceal behind shiny faces.

     Poets began impromptu slamming themselves at the microphone. Star (the hot mama heroine of my book-writing effort and a real person) leapt on stage and shut them all up with a blatant blistering razzle-dazzle of spontaneous spew that cut to the quick sizzling heart of the whole shootin' match. Hoots and hollers grew deafening as the band started tuning up. Did her shirt-ripoff routine and started kicking up the heels of her outlandish gold lamay and silver conch boots in a dance calculated to get eruptions out of even the most bleary-eyed pothead, and those already too full of drink to sober up enough and dance along.

     “Come on, you turkeys!” She knew what she was about. “Lemme see your stuff. Get up here! I want you ALL up here with me and let's kick it all to hell and back again, boys! You too, ladies. Are you with me?” dancing offstage into and through the crowd, lifting up the shy ones and pushing them toward the stage.

     Warm up jam barely started, she took over this poor band and sang herself silly; high stepping, spouting the most volatile off-the-cuff streak of rabble rousing ruse I ever heard! Luscious damn beautiful book she erected in the next forty minutes or so. We all screamed ourselves hoarse doing the audience participation thing, sweating quarts and quarts dancing along. It grew and grew, like in the Holy Rollers' church. Just wild how she had the band so totally mesmerized, they were playing in keys they never even knew existed! It was hot. So hot. I still burn to remember such superior red peppah as wuz. Wish I'd had a tape deck going...

     About the time we were all about to die—even Star was going hoarse—there came this explosion from the nearby boatyard. and two hundred pairs of eyes instantly fixed upon the airborne water-heater tank shooting in a big arc damn near three-hundred feet through the air toward us. Pandemonium for some seconds as folks scattered from its impact point, not thirty feet from the stage. Star knew what was up and was running for her man; (Stan, another hero of my book writing effort) found in somewhat dazed condition lying wrapped around some bushes forty feet from where the converted water-heater tank was pumping steam (into steam-box where plank number umpteen was being softened for bending onto the bow of the latest boat repair project) before the pressure-relief valve froze and she blew.

     “I—guess I'm okay,” mumbles glassy-eyed boatwright, “jus' lemme lay here awhile.”

➂     Cradling his concussed cranium in her lap, his eyes flutter as she kisses them shut. Came to again and assured us he wasn't dead yet, “Not by a long shot. Just gimme some whiskey,” and said he wanted to hear the band some more.

     Well: They tried to relocate whatever groove they thought they had planned for that gig, but were definitely anticlimactic after all this. The crowd thinned back into the brush, laughter and loud talk reverberating round and round. A few still danced but the fire had cooled. Inklings of the magic that bang up finish had unleashed were yet to come. We all needed time to recollect ourselves, bolt more beer and toke up. The band shrunk into a background of MUSAKlike non-consequence for the rest of their set. Still to come: Our favorite band of grunge pirates, and my turn to play with them this time. Loved playing with the band, all good boatbum friends. Boat business all too often stole me away from my first love, but today was special and I was keyed more than up.

     Crunch had been setting his drums up when the tank exploded and his ears were tingling. After thumping first one side and then the other of his jangled head, he mumbled something about 'medicine' and slithered off. Nasty—our fearless leader, Guitar Jo—was lying with Stan and Star, getting alternate rubdowns from sweetheart. Stan was going to be all right; got walking and talking again, but lost a lot of hearing for months after. We breathed easier and relaxed as our goofy-but-great waterfront grunge rocker band began to coalesce stageward. The bow and arrow game had sprung up again. Some bikers came rumbling in to liven things up.

     Finally got to playing, and the third song in, guitar Jeff said (told me later that) his strings kept turning into spaghetti and his fingers to rubber bands. Nasty got this glazed look on his face and, rocking back and forth in a wide fore-and-aft motion, never stopped playing until we pried his fingers loose from the strings and neck of his guitar a couple hours later.

     Crunchman's drums, he told me later, had become peanut butter pillows; his cymbals: giant buddah gongs, and his sticks: a mix of lead and rubber feathers. My fingers were all thumbs, and my piano became a combo electric penny whistle, wind chimes, foghorn, and an angry dying elephant on steroids. Miraculously, Fast Eddy had somehow eluded the dose, and good thing too, 'cause he's tough enough on bass as it is. The rock in our avalanche: Steady Eddy broke some of the fall.

     Played rubber ducky for an hour and a half, when Star roused us with an inspired rendition of Ike and Tina Turner's The Way You Love Me Sometimes. Bless her soul, she knew we were gone; lost in a surreal world of god-only-knows WHAT cocktail of mood-altering crap had been snuck into us. We might have played fingers to bloody stubs if she hadn't led us back from the depths to some semblance of navigable shallows.

     Although drowning in such depths—musically--is a total blasst, it can be hazardous to one's health. I've seen piano players played beyond bloody fingers; bass players play right through

➃  popped blisters and raw damn near to the bone; and drummers destroy a thousand dollar set of drums and then try to commit Hara-kiri on everyone trying to stop the self-destruct.

     We took a breather. I went to the water and forced my fool rubber duckied self to fall in. The fifty degree water helped a little. I couldn't stop laughing. In fact, it seemed like all couple hundred of us couldn't stop the giggles, except the stupid dogs, who just howled when they weren't barking, growling, or fighting. Kids had taken over the stage. One was beating on Joey's drums and two were singing incoherently while trying to muscle each other's lips away from the magic microphone. Another was murdering my piano while I was stripping and wringing out my clothes, along with my brain.

     Toward dusk, guess who came with their 'We've had a complaint' craptrap. Probably okay, because we weren't in much of any coherent shape to continue, anyway; though we did try to do another set, but the cops came back and pulled our plugs for good, and that was that. We wallowed around by the fire until way after dark, gnawing on bones, sipping beer, and playing acoustic. Star and Maggie (our normal usual main out front singer) sang sweet lullaby love songs in massage for fried brains.

     Fire still going around midnight—guitars in cases—poetry slamming is re-happening when who should come stumbling through the brush but Mister Brine; in the flesh. Himself. Elusive creature of Pan, his eminent goat-li-ness, with a monster garbage bag of freshly-yanked marihoochies twisting our rubber arms to help him strip the buds. Duhh . . .

     The slam intensified. Around the circle of a dozen fire-hardened souls the poems flew, each greater than the last. Mesmerized for the third time in twelve hours, we soared. Inspired by the best daze of many lifetimes, the whizzing words were weaving webs welded by sparks of brilliance growled by the groping group. We were tight. Will always be tight. A love so rare cemented itself in the flicker of wagging fire lit tongues flaming away on that free and friendly beach.

     Dear sweet mama Star never stopped loving us all; tickling and tweaking wobbly fancies until the drugs wore off. Blessed lover, life giver, Sister, dear heart: I will always love you and your memory. Nursemaid superior eased fractured brains back from scrambled that day and night; twice, at least. Who else but Star the strong, the rock, the magnet, neutralizer, tranquilizer, equalizer, and twinkle-toed trickster tweaking insanity sane while laughing the light heart all the wayeeee—like sneaky magic glowing silky diamond strands of positive ions flashing through the flux like unconstrained mercury flowing through a vacuum incandescent light of love cementing all of everything like true blue glue!

             (exerpted from my Guilty Pleasures book, originally copyrighted in 2000 under the title Stars Last—no apostrophe after Star)