Chapter Eleven

We weren't the only ones who saw that sorry spectacle. It turned out someone else was there, sneaking and sniffing around as he had been ever since he'd read the news about Mario Flambeau in the local free weekly. Laura's ex-boyfriend, Theodore Godfrey, had written a column for that rag in the hopes of a) cashing in and b) sucking up to Laura who'd been avoiding him ever since he'd fired her from his band. Laura was always a better musician than he was - she also plays bass, by the way, and very nicely - but Godfrey had to have total control and one time Laura had made the innocent suggestion that maybe they could play a different tune once in awhile, and Godfrey had blown his cool, kicked her out of the band and broken up with her, not for the first time. When he found out she was nurturing the long-lost soul of the great guitar player, he'd come poking around and gathered enough information to write that magazine article.

It was the article which had caught the attention of Mr. Roy Everson, a once prominent agent and promoter for Pigeon Weather Records. In his heyday. Everson had managed several significant local bands, and had produced popular outdoor concerts at Sea Dragon stadium and the Waterfront Festival. Since that heyday, more than a decade ago, he had fallen on leaner times. It hadn't helped that he'd aged but his style and tastes had not kept up. He had become a figure of ridicule to some extent, still pretending to be hip and young though clearly balding, paunchy and foolish. He sucked up to everyone in the music business, but doors were always closing in his face, and he was desperate for another bug score.

He'd known my dad, of course. Everyone in town who was into music knew my dad in one way or another. It's a fairly small set of people, you know, and when you count up the venues and the coffee shops, the record stores and music shops, the musicians and the roadies and the groupies, the total scene numbers in the hundreds, thereabouts. We see most everyone of them come through the store at one time or another. The bands want to put up their posters and promote their albums. The regional distributors want to play nice with the locals and like to throw parties where everyone goes. One hand washes another, as my mom always says, so you get to know people and they get to know you.

Roy came around pretty regular, and loved to talk shop with my dad, who of course loves to talk shop with the world. That is how he came snooping around the next day, started up casual chit chat with dad, and worked his way round to Mario Flambeau. When my dad found out he was there he commiserated with Roy about the state of the desolate man. Roy feigned some concern but really that wasn't the point. He had the idea that all Flambeau needed was some "positive musical therapy". This was his term. I had to drag it out of my dad later, according to whom it went something like this:

"I'll bet you if old Mario had real musicians around him, he'd perk right on up and get back to being himself", reasoned Roy.

"I don't think so", my dad shook his head. He didn't like to disagree, but he'd seen for himself. The guy was a complete basket case.

"It'd be worth a try, don't you think?", Roy persisted. "I wonder where we could get people like that, people who can play, and who'd like to help. Good people, you know what I mean."

My dad wasn't easily convinced, but Roy kept at him, nosing around to see if my dad would turn up some names. You see, Roy had a plan to make a big score. He figured if he could get Mario up on the stage, wow, what a hero he'd be. Even better if Mario did make some progress somehow, but just the sight of it, the show, the talk of the town, even national talk. He'd be the one again, he'd be the man. Roy Everson might have lost it but he found it again, exactly like Mario Flambeau. He was practically seeing the movie in his head, selling the television miniseries rights, authoring books, going on tour, appearing on all of the talk shows.

Naturally, my dad finally broke. He had to say 'yes' in the end, or he wouldn't be dad, and I'm sure you can guess who he named. That's right. Me. By this time my dad was convinced that my mom would approve, that I'd go along, that it was for the best after all.

My dad. What a nice guy. A wonderful guy. I mean it, I do, but sometimes, I don't know.