And By the Way, the Drummer is Dead

Taking off his rose-colored sunglasses, Booker Fortune exits the elevator, snapping his fingers as Traffic’s “Rock N’ Roll Stew” plays in his head. The percussive tune gives his feet a jolt, and he dances into his talent office, waving at his assistant, Hedy.

Booker’s agency manages half a dozen successful rock acts, none bigger than Topsoil. During their seven-year existence, Topsoil has released five chart-topping, multi-diamond selling albums, won a dozen Grammys, and played hundreds of sold-out concerts. The Achilles heel of the group has been its frequent personnel changes. Over forty musicians have rotated through the band. The only original members left are singer Troy Edwards and guitarist Solomon “Shady” James. Since the group went on hiatus four years ago, the two communicate through their lawyers.

“Well, someone’s in a good mood,” Hedy says, flashing a buck-toothed smile.

“Why not? We’re getting the band back together!”

Hedy’s blinding smile slowly fades. “Yeah, about that. I just got a call. The drummer is dead.”

Booker’s dance marathon ends. “Sticks Stone? He was a putz anyway. He couldn’t stay out of jail. He was too edgy, even for a drummer, and they’re generally nuts. I mean Sticks thought he was a holy priest related to Aleister Crowley. He threatened to put a curse on me! What was it, an overdose? Death by autoerotic asphyxiation?”

“He drowned.”

“Figures. He couldn’t swim. What did he do? Get a belly full of Christal champagne and take a header off a cliff?”

Picking up a cable, Hedy’s eyebrows rise as she reads the news aloud. “He took a bunch of Mentos and put them in a bottle of Coke. The reaction of the Mentos in the Coke caused the liquid to gush. He tried to drink the bottle down before it got all over the floor. He choked.”

Booker stifles the urge to laugh. “I knew Coke would get him, just not that kind. Call Nyles Nova. Tell him to fly here ASAP. Does the rest of the band know Sticks is dead?”

“Yep. Troy wants to buy the rights to Stick’s royalties. He said he’ll give his widow a lump sum of cash.”

“Why are lead singers so devious and greedy?”

“They’re all sharks in this band,” Hedy replies.

“And where are the members of Topsoil on the historic occasion of their rebirth?”

“Bebop Walu Baba, the percussionist, is in France, He married Lady Francoise Capucine and plans to stay retired.”

“Gigolo.”

“Jack Grech, the bassist, is farming in Scotland.”

“He’d rather be knee-deep in sheep dip than play for the greatest band since the Beatles?”

Hedy smirks. “I don’t think he ever forgave Troy for smashing his bass.”

“And Royce Boyle?”

“He’s touring with his own band, doing Topsoil’s greatest hits.”

“Tell him he can either rejoin the group or receive a cease-and-desist injunction. And tell him we’ll pay off his gambling debts up to $150,000.”

“Guy Painter will drive down from Saskatoon whenever the group is ready to rehearse.”

Booker’s brow crinkles.

“He was the last rhythm guitar player.”

“Oh, yeah. The guy who stood in the corner looking bewildered. I never understood why he was even in the group.”

“He’s cute,” Hedy says.

“Okay, you can keep him. What about our main combatants?”

“Troy and his lawyer and Shady and his lawyer are waiting in the conference room.”

Putting his sunglasses back on and slicking back his dark hair, Booker takes long, confident strides toward the conference room, knowing he’s going to have to referee a contentious negotiation.

Troy sits on one side of the table, wearing a stylish blazer, his blonde shoulder-length hair matching his bronzed skin. Atlee Buck, his suave-looking lawyer, wears a hand-made suit and sports two gaudy diamond rings. A disheveled Shady sits crossed-legged on a yoga mat in a lotus position on the floor. His lawyer, Folsom Horowitz, digs through his dog-eared, overstuffed briefcase, his worn, checked jacket hanging off his shoulders like an old horse blanket.

“We don’t need this reunion,” Buck says. “Troy has a very successful solo career going, not to mention the album he did with Steve Winwood and Eric Clapton.”

“This reunion can add to Topsoil’s legacy,” Horowitz says.

“Or bury it,” Buck replies. “But let’s try and settle some of our other problems before we dig a hole for Troy that he can’t get out of, shall we?”

“Like what’s wrong with dividing the songwriting profits fifty-fifty like we always have?” Troy asks.

Horowitz scratches at his scruffy, receding hairline. “There’s nothing wrong with the way royalties are being paid out. It’s the way the partnership works, and the way the public perceives it. The way the writing process worked was Troy gave Shady the lyrics, and he had to come up with the music. We want it the other way round.”

“Are you kidding? Who cares as long as we come up with a song?” Troy asks. “Do you want the caterers to remove the brown M&M’s from the backstage food table too?”

Horowitz adjusts his plastic-rimmed glasses. “Now that you mention it, yes. Shady hates those.  As far as instrumentals are concerned…”

“We don’t do instrumentals,” Troy notes.

“Exactly!” Horowitz replies. “Shady wants to put two on the new album.”

Troy whispers to Buck, who says, “Fine, Shady can have his two instrumentals if Troy can have two songs credited solely to him.”

Opening his eyes and turning over his palms, Shady chants, “Om,” several times.

“Is that a yes or a no?” Troy asks.

Booker intervenes. “I have a suggestion. Credit the instrumentals to both Shady and Troy. Even distribution of the royalties, remember?”

Opening his eyes Shady says, “No. I want to stretch my wings like him.”

“Then you’ll have to give Troy two solo writing credits as well, okay?” Booker says.

Closing his eyes and turning up his palms, Shady utters, “Om… You son-of-a…”

“I can see meditation is working wonders for him,” Troy comments. “I’ve got a complaint. No more mentioning bowing to the east in interviews. “

“West,” Shady says.

“Whatever. I don’t want our fans to think we’re part of a cult.”

“It’s a self-discovery support group,” Shady offers.

“Well, you can support it in silence, okay?”

Horowitz clears his throat. “We’d be remiss if we didn’t mention one niggling item…”

“I want you to stop putting subliminal messages in our songs,” Shady says to Troy.

“What messages?”

“Don’t deny it. In ‘Stand Up And Be Free ‘you put in a message saying, ‘Vote for Dewey.’”

“Thomas Dewey?” Buck wails. “What did you do, go back in time? He lost the election in the forties!”

“And in the song, ‘Love Bites,’ you said I wear dentures.”

“Well, you do,” Troy notes.

Booker waves his hands, signaling a truce. “Fine. No more messages. If you hear any more, Shady, I swear they’ll say, ‘Buy more Topsoil albums!’”

“Mr. Fortune?” the officious voice on the end of the phone asks. “This is Elias Trinidad, the night supervisor at the Garland Hotel…”

Booker listens intently. “Turn the car around, Cecil,” he says to his chauffeur.

Booker girds himself for trouble when he sees Nyles Nova’s rented Rolls Royce in the pool.

As he enters the hotel, a nude Nova passes by him, skidding across the hotel’s plush red carpet.

“I will not have our guests treat our carpet like Charmin,” Trinidad says.

“Stand up, you drunken nincompoop,” Booker says.

Rising to his feet with much difficulty, the English drummer salutes Booker, offering, “I’m not soused. Just a little buzzed. Hey, I need a new ride. I kinda lost mine.”

“Suppose we buzz back to your room?” Booker says to Nova as Trinidad covers him with a towel.

“And who are you, mate?” Nova urps as he stumbles toward the elevator.

“I’m the guy who spent thousands of dollars to separate you from that third-rate skiffle band you were in to fly you here to play on Topsoil’s comeback album.”

The door to Nova’s room is open. Ear-splitting music from Topsoil’s last album blares throughout the hallway.

Booker enters Nova’s room. The television has been thrown through the window, the table has been turned to kindling, and the room’s three chairs are stacked on top of each other, representing a fort. “SCREW THE PIGS!” is written in red lipstick on the bathroom mirror, and the toilet appears to have fallen victim to a cherry bomb.

Booker turns to Nova. “This is going to come out of your session fee.”

Nova wobbles, saluting. “Have you met Rex?”

“Is he part of your entourage?”

“Drummers ain’t got no hangers-on, mate.”

Nova staggers to the closet, opening it.

A twelve-foot Anaconda uncoils, slithering onto the rug.

“I bought Rex at a discount from some shorty on the corner. He’s friendly.”

Rex wraps himself around Nova.

“Perhaps a little too friendly. Help me, mate!” Nova gasps as Rex squeezes him.

Booker reaches for his phone. “Lucky for you ever since Artie Liversay brought a bear into his hotel room, I’ve had animal control on speed dial.”

Producer Martin Miller slams his open hand down on the control board, bruising it. Booker enters the booth as Topsoil runs through another take of “Together Forever.”

“Thirty takes, and they haven’t gotten past the second verse in any of them,” Miller complains, twisting his distinguished grey hair into a knot. “Was it your idea to get them back together?”

“Don’t worry. You’re going to be well compensated to produce them.”

“Produce what? These clowns need a ringmaster, not a producer. The keyboard player keeps nodding off, the percussionist keeps leaving to put God knows what in his system, the bass player can’t play his instrument, the rhythm guitar player just stares off into space, and Troy’s lyrics are gibberish. As for Shady, he can’t stay focused, or in tune, and he’s written scatological music even Yoko Ono would reject.”

As Troy starts to sing, Shady turns his back on the rest of the group. He scratches and plucks at his guitar strings, trying to tune his guitar. The guitar feeds back and the band stops playing.

“Take thirty-one coming up,” the distinguished Martin snarls.

“I was hoping we could record the album as a band, but it’s obvious these guys haven’t figured out how to play together yet,” Booker says. “So, let’s do it the way we did their last album when they weren’t speaking to each other. Let’s record everyone separately.  Sorry, Martin, you’ll have to stitch it together. Say, who’s that playing drums? He looks like one of those missing kids on the milk cartons.”

“He’s one of our interns.”

“He looks like he’s barely out of high school.”

“He’s not. He’s seventeen. Where’s Nyles Nova?”

“He arrived a couple of days ago. He was nearly crushed by his pet anaconda. Then he mistook the carpet freshener the maid was using for his stash, so when he snorted half the can, he had a heart attack. He was sitting up in his hospital bed, laughing about it, the last time I saw him. Then he had a second heart attack.”

“So, the drummer’s dead?”

“Flying back in the cargo hold to merry England. I hired Graham ‘Goldy’ Gorham.”

Miller slams his hand against his forehead. “Goldy? That blonde-haired giant is a full-blown schizophrenic!”

“And the best drummer in the business. Troy loves him and Shady is deathly afraid of him. It’s the perfect solution.”

“You will pat him down before he enters the studio, won’t you?”

“Thank goodness we’re about to land,” Angel Storm says. The skittish, russet-haired flight attendant grabs her fellow flight attendant, Pamela Pucci, for support. “I know he paid for a first-class ticket, but this guy’s got no class.”

The flight attendants watch Goldy Gorham down his eleventh vodka tonic.

“Didn’t he drum with Jackson Browne?” Pamela asks.

“And Delaney and Bonnie, Joe Cocker, The Beach Boys, Frank Zappa, and a hundred other dead rock stars. Yet somehow, he’s still alive.”

“Lucky us,” Pamela replies.

“I know he’s a rock star, but he should know how to behave on a plane,” Angel says, steaming. “If he ‘accidentally’ tries to give me a physical during turbulence one more time, he’ll have to switch to playing triangle because he’ll only have one hand left.”

“You have to cut him off.”

“Me? Who’s the senior member?”

Pamela bites her lower lip. “Okay, we’ll do it together.”

Angel and Pamela are all smiles as they approach Goldy.

Pamela clears her throat. “Mr. Gorham… I really loved your work on Nilsson’s ‘Jump Into the Fire’, but we have a policy about over-serving our passengers.”

“And you’re way over-served,” Angel adds.

Picking up his tray containing his drink, a dish of chocolate pudding, and assorted nuts, the broad-shouldered drummer lets out a war hoop, hurling the tray at the paralyzed flight attendants. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulls out a .45, shooting holes in the roof.

Covered in pudding and vodka, Angel and Pamela retreat, with Angel yelling, “CODE RED! BESERK PASSENGER!”

Booker has a plan of action ready when Goldy’s flight touches down.

Spotting Goldy, Cecil comments, “He’s in historically bad shape.”

An unconscious Goldy is wheeled toward them, his tall form tied to a hand truck.

The two police officers sent to arrest Goldy review the charges. “Abuse of crockery… Discharging an illegal firearm… And assault of first-class accommodations, including shredding a seat with his teeth,” Officer Joe Stringer says to his partner, Paul Peeler.

The two veteran officers try to stifle their laughter.

“Gentlemen, you’re laughing at a rock god,” Booker says.

“Then God really does have a sense of humor,” Peeler replies.

“It’s difficult, sometimes frustrating to be as creative as Goldy is,” Booker counters. “You’ve heard the song, ‘Patti,’ haven’t you?”

“A classic,” Stringer replies. “I love that second half of the song with the piano.”

“Well, that’s the man who wrote the coda, played piano, and the drums. Would you put a man who’s capable of creating such beauty in jail?”

“He’s still going to have to answer to these charges,” Stringer says, “but I guess we can release him into your custody.”

“Thank you, officer. By the way, Goldy’s here to play drums for Topsoil.”

“I heard they were gettin’ back together,” Peeler says.

“Yeah, we’re big fans,” Stringer adds. “I play guitar in a band myself, and we play a lot of Topsoil’s songs.”

“He’s bein’ modest,” Peeler adds. “He’s an ace guitarist. Before he was a cop, he toured with Justin Hayward of the Moody Blues.”

“Give me your contact information and I’ll make sure to put aside front-row tickets for you guys for opening night at the Garden.”

Cecil shakes his head with admiration as the officers walk off. “Goldy may not make it to opening night.”

“It doesn't matter, Cecil. No matter who’s in the band I have to honor my promise.”

“No wonder you’re such a success, Booker. You’ve got something no other agent has got.”

“What’s that?” Booker asks.

“A conscience.”

Booker’s phone rings. He sighs heavily when he hangs up.

“Another crisis, Cecil. Shady has been abducted by a cult.”

“I owe you one, Cecil.”

“Just one?” the bulky chauffeur laughs, cracking his knuckles.

“Just look fierce. They’re hippies, you shouldn’t have to hit them,” Booker says, walking to the main Quonset hut. Rapping on the steel door, Booker is pleasantly surprised to be greeted by a group of young women dressed in white gossamer robes.

“Peace, brother,” a redhead with a jeweled, wire crown says. “I’m Queen Zasu.”

“We’ve come for our guitarist.”

“King Shady?”

The rest of the gossamer disciples bow, muttering Shady’s name.

“King Shady is our holy ramda now.”

“Your what?”

“Our most holy one,” Queen Zasu replies. “He is going to implant his sacred seed in all of us.”

“All five of you?” Cecil asks. “He’ll never leave, Booker.”

Booker stares down Queen Zasu, who places her hands on her hips, as if ready for a battle.

“Everyone, even the queen of a cult, has a price. What’s yours?”

‘We’re partial to B.M.W.’s.”

“For eighty-six thousand dollars apiece, I’ll start taking guitar lessons. Try again.”

“A donation will suffice. Say, three hundred thousand.”

Booker paces back and forth, the polished wooden floor backstage creaking with equal panic. The crowd murmurs in anticipation, aware that Topsoil is already twenty minutes late in starting.

“You’re sure?” he asks Troy.

“If you look up coma in the dictionary, you’ll see a picture of Shady. He took a lot of blue pills. I thought they were Viagra. Turns out they weren’t. He talked about seeing Jerry Garcia, then went into a trance. I thought he might be meditating until he turned blue. EMS just hauled him away. We could have his tech take over on guitar but he’s already going to have to replace Fraser.”

“Where is our tone-deaf bass player?”

“He caught a bad case of stage fright,” Troy replies. “He decided Jack Daniels and prescription meds were the cure. They weren’t. Shady is going to be in the hospital bed next to him.”

“And the rest of the band?”

“Goldy’s the only one who’s sober.”

“Miracles can happen.”

Booker walks toward the curtain. Poking his head out of the side of the curtain, he surveys the audience.

“I’ve got an idea. Bring the band out. I’ll make a brief announcement, and you can show the world Topsoil still has it.”

Troy gives Booker a suspicious look.

“Have I ever let you down, Troy?”

“Don’t start now.”

The band takes their positions to thunderous applause. Booker strides out from behind the curtain, grabbing Troy’s microphone.

“Good evening. You’re in for a treat tonight. As Topsoil begins its historic reunion tour, its newest member will make his debut here at the Garden. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Topsoil’s new guitarist, Officer Joe Stringer!”