-Esque
by Gordon Highland

I’d always pictured Glenn Danzig shorter. Less corporate, more of a gym gerbil. Not this lanky, caterwauling, frosted-tips douchebag with the Rohypnol smile.

So much for the flattery of imitation. But for three minutes and thirty-four seconds, he rents rage in B minor, warning our mothers of the danger in heeding his highlighted lyrics. Stage prowl confined to a four-foot radius, he’s chained by the bank-pen microphone and locked on the monitor’s eyeline while channeling that unmistakable Jim Morrison-esque (Ian Astbury-esque?) gothic croon with the portamento drop from the fifth to the tonic.

What, no wireless?

My pact with Loucifer is all that keeps my conflicted self in this booth. One night out as his wingman and he’ll produce my entry video. The regionals are next month, and if my voice is to grace this season of reality television, I’ll need his lensmanship along with all the local fan support I can collect. Even tonight, loathsome and unwashed as The Tavernacle patrons may be, their calloused, nicotine-stained fingers’ rotary-dial votes count all the same.

“Scootch it, Johndice,” an exhilarated Lou waves for me to slide over, applause smattering out as his four minutes of fame washes over the proceedings and he basks in refractory.

“You do look a little green,” comes a feminine drawl from across the table. The one whose commentary track I’d effectively tuned out for the song’s duration. This is Lou’s target audience of one – a young Reba with high mileage. Still, her freckled off-season tan and modern orthodontics set the curve here. The belle of the blueball for my adulterous frenemy with the convention-bound wife. Our pupils had barely adjusted inside the door when his fully dilated as he clocked and wrangled her for quarry.

“These fluorescents,” I point at the fixture in bile-tainted pallor. “And it’s John.”

Reba furrows in confusion. “But jaundice is–”

“Just a term of mendearment,” Lou dismisses.

I clarify. “Something we guys resort to–”

“When their names call to mind urinals instead of quality vocals,” he troasts me with his sloshing pint of domestic pale.

“Eat at Lou’s” are my actual words, their homonym my glaring intent.
Ten minutes later, booty procured, Lou bids me luck with a wink and departs palm-on-ass to “see her dog-rescue sanctuary.”

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The Tavernacle’s succession of twangers, torchers, and headbangers have sullied the stage with various degrees of ineptitude, and before you can say conspiracy, my eleven-o’clock shadow has long since masked any sign of jaundice. But I’m invisible, uninvited. Even the cleft-palated septuagenarian whom the locals dub “Crazy Connor” has warbled his way through two consonant-free Irish waltzes, all stomping and flailing.

A trio of sorority sisters on the slum dance their way through a version of “Baby Got Back” in the style of Sir Mix-a-Lot. In the style of, so as not to confuse the knighted one’s recording with that of, say, Barry Manilow. Their only vocal intent is a few random unison squeals, content to invite anaconda catcalls instead.

The witching hour passed, now it can only be personal.

While there’s a direct correlation between wait time and liquor sales, it’s a faulty business model. Six pints of tea taunt my distended bladder, but the moment I duck into the loo, the inevitable unanswered call for John Kohler would be little more than a bad pun and a smirking victory for my nemesis.

The only things worse than advocate judges are KJs with star aspirations of their own.

Wednesday nights at Buzzer Beaters, I am legend. Home-court advantage, perhaps. I’ve perfected every nuance of my three-song repertoire weekly on the tenure track. Whispers abound that I’m the next Josh Groban. I have excellent posture, diaphragm control, a respected coach, and until now, clean lungs.

Tonight I’ve drawn a weak hand from a vindictive dealer: Kerry O’Keefe. Our emcee of the clever stage name commandeers the mic at least four times per hour, most recently for “Sweet Caroline,” in an atonal alto that makes me long for the soothing tones of root canal. This act is his own little traveling salvation show. The wheelchair, integral.

When I at long last approach the console to ask about my place in his sacred queue, Kerry simply taps a stack of handwritten requests of implied precedence, noggin bobbing to the headphone shouldered against one ear to prevent cranial leakage.

No eye contact. No lightning strike. No mention of the eight-foot faceplant he took off the stage balcony at Limelight, my culprit mic cable, the resulting paralysis, or the lawsuit that closed our favorite karaoke bar. No hard feelings even if he wanted.

My bottomless iced tea persists, while the seven-pound song grimoire remains unclaimed from the offertory corner of my table, its golf pencil in need of a butter-knife whittle, paper scraps protruding like a bible flagged for future atonements.