SIS #4

The Limits of Respectability
chapter four - wallace barlow

Journal entry- Day 2 We killed a moose with the truck last night. Got stuck by the road and ran out of gas all on the first night of the tour. I still can t believe it.

I went with Wally and Doc to the gas station--- another story altogether. If the rest of the tour runs this smoothly, we re doomed!

How long have we been walking?

I don t know, forty minutes maybe. Why Wally, you hungry? Where s your ham?

I left it in the truck Doc.

Look at Sparky. He s a guy with some girth.

Do you hear him whining about how hungry he is?

I remained silent. Doc should know how much my feet hurt.

I m used to eating when I m up this late.

You know Wally . .

. but Doc Barlow didn t finish his statement.

I wish I had something from Sparky s food trunk.

Wally was talking about a large trunk I dragged with me on every tour. It was filled with many non-perishable condiments and food items. It also resonated with the curses of my fellow band-mates who had to help me lug it up and down stairs at every gig.

I always came prepared. Something was forever going wrong and costing us money and damned if I was going to starve in the process.

The elevator of pain was beginning its ascent to my knees making them feel stiff and sore.

Next floor the all-important groin area, kitchenware and women s lingerie.

Maybe we could hitchhike the rest of the way?

Holy jumpin Jesus!

Wally it s quarter five in the morning. There hasn t been any traffic in hours and I doubt we re going to start seeing some anytime soon. This isn t exactly a major route we re on.

Besides, look at us Wally. Would you pick us up? We re covered in dried blood, muck and sweat, in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night, shuffling along like three long-haired zombies!

For God s sake man, grow a brain!

Well when you put it that way . .

.

We walked in silence with only the sound of our scuffling feet on the tarmac. Guided by the moonlight, the crisp quiet and growing fog, the coming morning gave the woods an eerie horror film quality.

How long have we been walking now?

Randall Avery Wallace and Reginald Bartholomew Barlow are better known here as Wally and Doc. Doc is tall and thin, wiry actually, with dark curly locks and a nose that is an anchor for his glasses above and his mustache below.

Wally is smaller with a bit of a spare tire in the mid section, a golden wavy mullet, surfer s bronzed skin, and rosy cheeks a grandmother would love to pinch. They are our resident comedic duo. Doc Barlow is the straight-man with a snappy wit, to Wally s unrealized comic genius.

Doc knows everything about everything, or if he doesn t, he at least acts like he does. I have heard him jabber on about the migrational flight patterns of endangered birds, the engineering feats of ancient Egypt, the precise length of time to toast marshmallows, the solar movements of . .

. you get the point.

Wally, would rather eat than play music.

However, it seems music is an easy paycheck for him to be able to eat. It s a vicious circle. He has saved the band from starvation on several occasions, due to the simple fact he always attracts the groupies who can cook.

With a little coaxing, they usually feed us all.

We met them in a small town when Space, Wires, Magic, and I were still in Shock Alice. They were in the competing bar across the street, performing as a duo.

They called themselves Wallace Barlow. Since the club we were playing, had an afternoon dart club, we were not forced to do a matinee and could check out those unfortunate enough to find themselves singing to high-strung nobodies in the mid afternoon.

Hey let s go check out that magic act across the street.

Who, Wallace Barlow? They re musicians like us you knob.

It was simply two performers with a Dr.

Rhythm drum machine and the pop offerings of Men at Work, Jackson Browne, and Neil Young to name a few. Doc, the older of the two, had played with the higher end acts for most of his career. His main instrument was bass but he d converted his talents to take on keyboards as well.

Wally was a guitarist with limited lead capabilities. He d been in and out of the music business all his life and accentuated his stints
with encores in the electrical trade.

***

The gas station was now in sight and we all picked up the pace as if the oasis would certainly disappear leaving us with miles of pavement to pound.

But the vision did not fade and soon we were standing in all our blood soaked splendor beneath the buzzing glow of the station lamps. A small glass cubicle stood in the midst--- a bastion between twin pumps on either side. A small, stocky, brown-skinned man with a push-broom mustache sat with his head bowed behind the barriers of transparency.

As of yet, he had not been alerted to our presence and upon closer inspection had his head buried in what looked like a calculous text book. We approached the window of the booth with conviction and Doc rapped loudly on the glass for attention. The attendant glanced up and then did a double take almost falling from his perch atop his stool.

Our blood and mud caked faces must have been quite the sight.

Doc lowered his mouth to a circular metal grid imbedded in the glass and began to speak. Excuse me my fine man.

We are but three simple wandering musicians who have run out of petrol and simply require a gas can and fuel to get us going again.

Three wandering musicians? What is this the Renaissance?

The attendant gawked open mouthed, said nothing, and hugged his calculous text tightly, submitting the pages to many a dog-ear.

Doc let out a little laugh, I understand that our disconcerting appearance must come as a shock to you, my mathematically gifted chap? But, I can assure you, the situation is as I have already stated, and we simply need your assistance in resolving this matter.

Yeah just come out of your cubicle and we ll bludgeon you like we did the poor moose.

Do you sell chocolate bars?

Wally, let s not forget why we re here.

We need fuel, not sustenance.

The attendant now glanced around nervously, hoping for someone to come to his rescue, or at least even the odds. Still he did not reply.

I assure you my proficient fellow that we are real and not a figment of your imagination if that s what you re thinking. Although it has been proven that ninety-five percent of such visions usually occur in the hours proceeding dawn, especially after a lengthy review of numerical equations. However, as I stated previously we are no such phantasm, merely flesh and blood.

Doc tapped his chest reassuringly.

Doc you probably shouldn t say blood in our current condition, I said.

Maybe he thinks we re here to rob him?

Right Wally. We just crawled out of a dung heap in the underbrush, now give us all your money. Doc gave him a playful slap upside the head.

The calculous book slid to the floor landing with a dull thud, and the attendant started to reach for the cash register as if Doc s last words were an imminent threat.

Doc returned his attention to the attendant, Do you speak English?

Of course he does Doc, I pushed Wally aside and pressed my face to the glass.

Listen guy. The attendant gazed at me in fright, his hands still frozen by the cash drawer. I was reminded of those last moments before we hit our antler clad nemesis, mostly from our perspective.

We re not here to rob you. We re tired, sore, bloody and some of us..

. I looked at Wally. .

..are hungry.

We just finished digging a shallow grave and we need a little gas to burn the desecrated body of our victim before we burry it. Now! Do you have a gas can or not?

Within minutes we were walking briskly back to the truck with our gasoline.

We are no such phantasm, Christ, Doc!

Sparky couldn t you have got him to throw in something to eat?

Wally!

***

Shock Alice was on its last legs. The tensions between Rooster and Space had been growing to a stifling crescendo like clinging vines choking the life out of a delicate garden.

It was a rip in the fabric unable to be repaired and the thunder heads in their relationship would soon open into a downpour. To make matters worse, we had gone through a runway s worth of female singers. I seemed to have a talent for making them quit.

Chasing them out, some might consider as mental cruelty or misogynist behavior, but as you have witnessed, I was an equal opportunity prankster from the good old boy s club of rock n roll.

The latest girl had left when Rooster and I had convinced her that we had sold our souls to the devil for a career in the music business. We even went as far as to chant gibberish beyond the closed door of our room when she was nearby and draw pentagrams in red toothpaste on our bodies.

As much as we confirmed The Prince of Darkness was a decent fellow who could play a wicked game of cribbage, she had quit in a blubbering frightened mess.

Our newest acquisition, the fourth in the last six months, had already fallen out of favor. She insisted on having an advance to buy shoes for stage.

Our little siren of song was given one hundred dollars and proceeded to spend the entire C note on a pair of high-heeled, leather pumps. Pumps, she inexplicably kicked off two songs into our set because they hurt her feet. Pumps, we began kicking around the stage in our disgust since we d all be hard pressed to make any money for ourselves at the end of the week.

I had added incentive as her feet were horrific. Her heels were crusty and hard, with dead white skin, and looked like they could grate cheese. I remember not being able to eat dairy products for the longest time.

We hadn t been too meticulous in the audition process. We needed someone quick, and decided to take the first girl who could sing the material. In retrospect it was a big mistake.

Our new ugly footed vixen was quick to get on everybody s nerves. Even Space s self centeredness took a backseat to hers and it became evident, she too would have to go. Our best efforts to make her quit, didn t seem to affect her at all.

Foul deeds and trickery were brushed off as part of the initiation process as one would disable an annoying bug with a fly-swatter. This one wasn t going to leave quietly. Then Space came up with the idea to just disband Shock Alice to get rid of her.

Little did I know that he also had ulterior motives, and our guitarist Rooster in his cross-hairs. That s where Wallace and Barlow come in.

Space somehow convinced Doc and Wally, the best thing for all concerned would be to join forces and develop a new project to get us into the more lucrative A circuit of bars.

It would take us away from the dives, away from the matinees and shit money. Most importantly, it would take us away from our annoying female singer. I was in total agreement with this plan, because when we lost a singer I d have to cover the material til a replacement could be found.

Some guy singing Cyndi Lauper songs in a low register tenor just didn t cut it from an audience point of view.

I still remember the night vividly. We were partying with Doc and Wally in their hotel room, after the final night s performance for our respective bands.

Our singer was out with a few of the local boys whooping it up, and Wires and Magic were busy loading the truck. Wally had been hanging all week with a girl he d met and appeared to be having some problems with her. He was searching furiously through the room, overturning chairs, looking under mattresses, and riffling through drawers, while Doc, the girl and I stood watching him.

What were you doing up here in the room while we were on stage?

Just waiting for you Wally.

What elks were you doing?

( Wally always said elks instead of else.)

Nutin. (Apparently the girl always said nutin instead of nothing.

)

Well, I can t find my frickin wallet and I wonder if you might know why?

I didn t see no wallet.

While Wally argued with the girl, Space drew Rooster aside, Listen Rooster.

This is the last gig. Shock Alice is disbanding. We are moving in a new direction that unfortunately you are not going to be apart of.

We all wish you the best.

What? You re blowing me off?

This wasn t about getting rid of our singer at all, was it? Shit! Is that ever pathetic.

Have the balls Space to say it to my face at least. You don t have to candy-coat it or spoon-feed me. It s obvious.

We don t get along and you ve been waiting for an opportunity such as this to blame someone else. Just admit it. I might be able to salvage some respect for you.

Wally passed between the two, grumbling to himself, on his way to check the bathroom. As he rifled through the medicine cabinet and knocked over toiletries, Space began to smile and continued. No need to make a scene Rooster.

It is just as I said. We are moving in a new direction that you will not be part of. You want to put another spin on it fine.

It doesn t change the outcome.

Wally reemerged from the lavatory spiting venom and pushed by them again.

Make a scene?

Rooster said. Ha I just don t believe this. The audacity A word of advice Space.

If you value your place in this regime, don t let your ego get too big for it. The greatest dictators, and I do mean dick, always fall hardest.

Where s my wallet you road-chub?

! Wally demanded.

I didn t take your wallet!

Yes you did!

I made you dinner with the little candied yams you wanted. Why would I do such a thing?

Get the hell outa here! I don t want to see your face again!

Doc objected, Wally!

The girl began to weep uncontrollably and ran from the room with her face in her hands. Wally slammed the door behind her. Good riddance!

He turned to us. His normally tanned complexion was a deep maroon. The blade of his voice cut the silence.

Frickin road-chub stole my wallet!

Wally, your wallet s right there under your bed you fool.

Wally s demeanor abruptly changed to happy and calm, Really.

Excellent! Thanks Doc. The beams of light had pierced his dark skies and he scooted to the bed.

Wally dropped to all fours and retrieved a small black billfold. He opened it and thumbed the ten and the two ones he found there.

Your whole life savings, Wally?

Every penny counts out here. You know that, Doc.

You screamed at her over twelve bucks?

It s not like I m going to see her again after this gig anyways.

Doc and I were in shock..

I, at what had just transpired between Space and Rooster and Doc because Wally had twelve bucks. Space had not only sandbagged Rooster, he had blown me out of the water too. Rooster and I had become close.

After his unfortunate brush with the French language, I earned his trust by including him in on my little pranks. I had even let him borrow mustard from my food trunk. (If that s not friendship, then I don t know what is?

)

Although this devious turn of events had surprised me, deep inside I could not leave in protest. My lack of solidarity for my brother in arms was selfish of me, I know, but I d worked too hard to quit now. I vowed that Rooster and I would be reunited one day.

***

The sun was coming up when we returned to the rest of our partisans huddled together and shivering under a pile of blankets. We handed the gas can to Wires.
Shit it s cold in here.

Well it s not like we could keep the motor running Virtuoso.

Wally paid no heed to the comments and searched for his package of ham. It was frozen.

He whapped it against the side of the truck. Oh great! How am I supposed to eat this?

What elks can go wrong? He quickly climbed into a bunk and removed his boots much to everyone s protests as the fowl stench of his feet filled the air.

Wally for heaven s sake cover your feet!

Oh right Sparky s foot fetish thing. Quickly he pulled them from sight as Wires returned with the empty can. The engine roared to life and our driver shifted into first.

We were on our way again, leaving behind tracks of rubber, and a hairy mass of dead flesh to the growing glow of dawn.

I m hungry.

Wally!