The Songs Of Nicktoon Angora, Volume 2
he noise of the car engine thrummed with a bass-heavy brown noise as the author adjusted his Randolphs against the road glare. As he swerved into the passing lane to overtake the A.D. ["Almost Dead" - a species of motorist indigenous to Florida, but occasionally found throughout North America] puttering along in the '83 Lincoln, his speedometer was edging eighty, and it seemed to the author that, though he had nowhere to go, he'd never get there at this speed. He put some more pressure on the accelerator, and the Interstate speared by as he stabbed at the radio buttons...
Static.
Static.
Clint Garth Michael Billy Joe Ray Whatever. Some country station. The author used to love country, but these days the hat acts were making it all sound the same. He edged eighty-five, the Firebird cutting the air.
The song faded out, and a new one began with a dead-string twang and the deejay, voice-over, doing an air check. The farm weather report. Behind him the song intro continued with a few seconds of standard country guitar; the author recognized it as Digging Up Bones. Travis. What's his name? Not Merle, the other one... The kid, um, Randy... Yeah, that was it, Randy Travis.
The tune was the same, but the arrangement was slightly off. The deejay kissed off the aircheck with "Now, the new one we've been getting a lot of requests for. Nicktoon Angora."
Then the intro kissed off and the singer came on, and it wasn't Randy Travis.
Tryin' Stuff On
(From The Country Blues of Nicktoon Angora)
I took out your photograph from our old dresser drawer;
I set it on the table, and I talked to it 'til four.
And then I saw your nightie on the table by the phone;
So I've been sittin' alone,
Tryin' stuff on.
Then I looked through your jewelry for your clip-on hoop earrings,
Your lipstick and your makeup, your accessories and things;
Then I plundered through your closet 'til I found an extra long,
Now I've been sittin' at home
Tryin' stuff on.
(chorus:)
Tryin' stuff on (tryin' stuff on),
Tryin' stuff on (tryin' stuff on),
Your six-inch heels and your Faberge cologne;
All you left me was your memory, and the wardrobe that you own,
So I've been sittin' at home
Tryin' stuff on.
I put on your sequined ball gown and I checked the mirror there,
I looked like Cindy Crawford, but with much more body hair.
And then I thought, "Why, I'm much too cute to be sittin' here all alone,"
So now I'm at Happy Hour
With your stuff on.
This trucker made a pass at me, so I hit him with your purse,
And this police stepped between us, before things got much worse,
Then that nice policeman said, "Can I take you home?"
He didn't know it was me
With your stuff on.
(chorus:)
Tryin' stuff on (tryin' stuff on),
Tryin' stuff on (tryin' stuff on),
Your fishnet hose and your Faberge cologne;
All you left me was your memory, and the wardrobe that you own,
But I don't pay for drinks
With your stuff on.
Ninety, now, and accelerating. Scenes from the past couple years reran in the author's brain, like a tongue exploring an empty tooth socket. Losing the job right at his moment of triumph. Three hot summer months at home, watching the contractors tearing his home apart and his wife juggling the checkbook and nearing panic, until a job - any job -- opened up. Then, a year and a half later, blessedly getting laid off from that one, too. Planet Downsize.
I can still pull it out of the fire, he thought. I can go faster. I can go faster...
Ninety-five.
Ninety-six.
Next to him, a sheaf of papers lay on the passenger seat. A story, unfinished as yet; the story of his life, or perhaps the life as he wished it was. No, the author thought, that's not it, don't glorify it. It's not Les Miserables. It's fantasy, that's all; an attempt to exorcise demons by nailing them to paper.
The top page read, simply, Chapter 17.
The author had at first hoped to wrap it up by Christmas; now he was wondering if it would be finished by the time Hyakutake made its show in the northern skies. Or maybe it won't ever be finished; maybe it'll keep going, and going, and going...
The sheaf was covered with notes. Names, mostly. Ray9na, kac -- Larry was scratched out -- and, of course, ade. Bunch of others, too; newbies mostly. People he might never meet, but were going to be a part of the story. Maybe I'll get God points, he thought. Maybe I'll get out from under the Wave.
The car bumped suddenly and the author snapped both hands onto the steering wheel. He glanced into the rear-view mirror to see what it was; a form spun on the ground, receding into the distance. I wonder if it was a friend of mine, he thought. Probably. I'm not good with friends.
A hundred and five.
He jabbed again at the radio.
Peeps
(from Now and Then... The Rest of Nicktoon Angora)
You thought you found the answer in your Twinkies and Kombucha goo,
But all this proto-food you're taking in ain't filling up the holes in you.
Hostess Snowballs ain't what you need,
When you're hungry and it's time to feed,
You want a kind of food that can serve as it's own packing, too...
(You know that) Peeps, they make 'em in yellow and blue,
Although the pink ones are pretty darn tossable, too,
You better buy them now real fast, girl,
When Easter is past...
You can't find Peeps.
A mountain edged between him and the radio transmitter as the song faded, uncompleted. He left the static on.
Ahead of him in the west a bright sky was visible beneath a long wide ribbon of blood-red cloud that snaked across the proscenium arch, looking jarringly like the space storm in that last Star Trek movie. The author smirked in recognition; it was, he knew, the Sucky Wave.
The Sucky Wave sweeps around the world in random patterns, and as it passes over you, everything sucks. Your job, your sleep, your life... Nothing you can do will help, nothing will become brighter, until the Wave sweeps past you. Your job until then is simply to maintain.
It was this Sucky Wave that had blotted the sun from the author's life the past few weeks, and what he was struggling to speed past.
Years ago, society tried to understand what it was that afflicted thousands of people to whom nothing seemed to go right. Cartoonists often depicted it as a black cloud hovering over its unfortunate victim; yet this did nothing to explain how bad luck seemed to afflict entire related groups of people. In the seventies, the proto-new-age mystics dreamt up biorhythms; this allowed for the pleasant - unfounded - belief that these "bad times" could be predicted, measured, and therefore controlled.
But the Sucky Wave is uncontrolled, and for now it covered not only the author, but many of his friends. Well, it may be uncontrolled, he thought, but it sure as hell can be outrun.
One ten.
He thought it might be fun to try out something he used to do in college, on his beer runs to Penn State. Making sure the car was pointing straight on an empty stretch of road, he closed his eyes, and tried to count to ten without opening them. Heart really starts pumping around seven.
...eight... nine...
TEN!
He snapped his eyes open, and he was safe for another stretch of life.
One-twenty, and the RPMs were edging the red zone. The last station was still lost in static, and the author once again punched at the Blaupunkt.
A few seconds of some Bruce Cougar Mellensteen cried through the noise; the static fluttered as the radio locked onto another, closer station.
(Theme Song from) The 30th Anniversary Tour
I thought rock was only played by younger kids,
Maybe twenty-one, or twenty-three;
But that was in the sixties (da-doo-da doo-da),
And we're touring still (da-doo-da doo-da);
But instead of coke, it's Minoxidil;
Then they saw my face,
Now I'm an old geezer;
Out of place,
Back here on a stage
Without a nap (oooooooo-aaaaaahhhhh)
Bunch of old geezers,
Hope we can please, de-
spite our age...
BOOM!!!!!!!!
The explosion rocked the car at a hundred thirty as the engine blew. As the pistons froze, the gathered momentum ripped the engine from the block, sending the crankcase cover and a few odds and ends punching through the Firebird hood and over the car; the author could see them fall to earth in the rear-view, reuniting with the sheared-off transmission that eighty-sixed at the same time.
The car continued to accelerate. Less weight, he guessed. Good.
One-thirty-five.
No point in keeping my foot on the accelerator, he thought. Not connected to anything anymore. He stretched his legs and wondered if the steering wheel had become an appendix, too. He let go for a few seconds; the car remained on course. He put his hands down. No change. Not surprised, really. The car had a direction in mind, and he was only along for the ride.
Somebody's stopped payment on my reality check, he thought.
For grins, he checked to see if the windows still worked. As he touched the passenger window button the cab of the car screeched with wind, and sheet by sheet the unfinished story screamed out the open window like a magician's card deck.
The story must have weighed more than he thought; the speed jumped to a hundred fifty, and the author was pinned back to his seat for a moment, pulling about two, three G's. He fought against the g-forces to close the window again.
Ahead, the sun continued to set. It was taking nearly two and a half minutes to move its own diameter of a half-degree; the author was speeding west fast enough to counter a significant portion of the earth's rotation at this latitude. Yet the Sucky Wave's position appeared unchanged.
It's only a matter of time, the author thought, until Deathy Mouse - the Sucky Wave's material incarnation, its avatar - takes up riding shotgun next to me.
He reached around to the floor in the back and pushed the children's books out of the way to unearth his laptop. The back seat was full of them; the author had always had a fondness for Dr. Suess, especially his lesser-known works:
|
The Cat in the Blender |
After a struggle he found his laptop. He popped it open, and after a few clicks, whirs and beeps, thumbed on MS Word. The author took a single deep breath, held it, then slowly blew it out between pursed lips. He began to type.
"Chapter Eighteen..."
Text © 1996 Rhinoplasty Records and Nick Esposito. Used with permission.