CHAPTER III: Mean To An End
One of the greatest books I've ever read is "The Count of
Monte Cristo". It is the ultimate tale of revenge. No, this
isn't the start of a bad book report. I only bring up Dumas' classic
as a reference point for my own story of getting even.
It all started when I joined a wedding band back in the early 70's.
As has been the case for most of my life, I was an aspiring rock'n'roll
drummer, but rock'n'roll wasn't cooperating. I needed to pay rent
on my new-found digs ? the bottom floor of a small duplex on Fifth
Street in my hometown of Plainfield, New Jersey. So I get this gig
drumming in a very straight four-piece wedding band. I'm talking
about the old fashioned tuxedo clad traditional four man outfit
whose foray into rock was a daring rendition of "Song Sung
Blue" by Neil Diamond. The bass player was one of those guys
who was too old to get with the swingin' 60's program and was now
working overtime to catch up with the youth culture spillover in
the 70's. He looked like a cross between Ted Baxter, the bumbling
newscaster on "The Mary Tyler Moore Show" and Jack Cassidy,
David's (Keith Partridge) actor dad. You know the type the semi-chiseled
good looks what I like to call professionally handsome" the
phony insidious smile, the blow-dried perfectly styled grayish blonde
coif ready for the TV close-ups, the vacant blue eyes devoid of
any redeeming thought process, and the pseudo hip demeanor of one
of the attendees at a Playboy mansion party. I could have tolerated
all of these superficial attributes, but this jerk had it in for
me. For some reason, he had a bug up his butt over the fact that
I played in a rock band doing my original songs. Why he would care
about this I have no idea. He simply couldn't let an opportunity
pass without belittling my quest for something greater than the
wedding band circuit. Never mind that he never heard any of my songs,
he still put me down. It's one thing to be criticized by a knowledgeable
music industry bigwig, but this shmuck could hardly keep up on bass
during "The Girl From Ipanema".
After months of this verbal abuse, I found or should I say I was
given the opportunity to strike back. At a Saturday afternoon wedding,
he mentioned during a break that he had never tried marijuana and,
being the hip liberal minded swinger that he now was, it was high
time to get down with the program and toke on a doobie, as the kids
would say. Picture a large light bulb illuminating above my head.
Never tried pot, eh? Well, you've come to the right man. I will
have on my person some freshly rolled joints for tomorrow's gig.
I like to think of myself as a nice person. If a little old lady
needs a helping hand across the street or a little old man for that
matter I'm there. I'm a golden rule kind of a guy. Try to be kind
to creatures large and small, no felony arrests, shower regularly.
But there are times, few and far between, but there are moments
when certain buttons are pushed and fuses are lit.
So old Ted the bassist wants to dabble with the now socially acceptable
reefer. OK, I will procure said groovy weed.
The lead singer of my rock group had recently come across an incredibly
potent strain of marijuana called Thai Stick. Two or three tokes
of this stuff was enough to send any experienced hippie into the
Thai-dyed zone for the rest of the day. Make no mistake this was
grade-A, user beware, don't dare try to function in any way, you're
on your own devil's weed. I purchased enough for my devious plan
and laid in wait in my lair until the Sunday wedding gig.
Now here's the scene: this wedding band is comprised of Ted on
bass; yours truly on drums, and let me add that I was sporting hair
halfway down my back and layered on top in a sort of Jewish Keith
Richards cum Johnny Thunders motif, which didn't go down well with
Ted the bassist; a guitarist who was a nice enough guy who looked
a bit like Tom Friedman, the political columnist for the New York
Times; and last and possibly least, our leader Joe, the most short-tempered
middle-aged Italian musician this side of Sicily. He played that
magnificent instrument, the Cordavox, a fancy way of saying an electric
accordion. These guys were all in their early to mid forties, which
back in the early 70's meant pretty old. It's not like today when
we Baby Boomers refuse to let go of our youth, clinging tightly
to our beloved classic rock and hair dye.
After our first set, I inform Ted that I've scored the goods and
to follow me out to the parking lot where we will partake of this
recreational substance that has swept the nation.
The two of us sat in the front seat of my Opal Cadet, strange head
fellows indeed. I instructed him on the proper procedure in the
fine art of toking. Inhale deeply into the lungs, keep it down there
as long as humanly possible, and then slowly exhale. On his first
gulp he goes into a gasping convulsive coughing fit. I calmly tell
him, that's cool, man, everything is groovy. Coughing is a good
thing. I, on the other hand, have experienced Thai Stick and know
not to even let one puff into my lungs. I simply blow into the joint,
faking the toke. Hell, I'm getting zonked enough from the contact
high. The whole interior of the Cadet is thick with smoke. Ted starts
to get the hang of it. He's suckin' it down. Bill Clinton would
be proud.
We're in uncharted territory here. First-time pot smoker with enough
Thai Stick in him for the Grateful Dead and their entire entourage.
Thai Stick has a delayed reaction of about five minutes, but when
it kicks in, it's about as close to a hallucinogen high as you're
gonna get. The phrase "ton of bricks" comes to mind as
you attempt to dig your way out back to reality.
So Ted ambles into the reception hall for our second set, unaware
of what is about to hit him. He's probably thinking, I can handle
this groovy grass trip, when boom! The Thai Stick whacks him in
the head. I watch as he slows down to the pace of an intoxicated
snail. He just makes it to the bandstand where he sits down and
begins mumbling incoherently. He's shaking his head from side to
side, in a "no no no" gesture. I get in earshot and I'm
pretty certain I hear him say "I have no business being a musician,
I'm a fraud, I don't know how to play the bass, I have to go home
right now. " He's basically having a psychotic breakdown in
front of an entire Italian wedding. It's as if he's been given some
kind of truth serum and sees himself for the ridiculous pathetic
spectacle he really is. This isn't good, this is bad and I'll tell
you why. Our band leader Joe, the Cordavox man, has the temperament
of Mussolini on a bad day. And if Ted mentions one word about pot,
let alone my involvement with this illegal drug, I'm done for. This
guy would squeeze me to death in a wild uncontrolled rage of Cordavox
bear-hugging mania. I did not think this through; this whole revenge
thing is backfiring big time.
Ted is now moaning that he doesn't have the right to live, while
slowly picking up his bass and placing it inside its case. Cordavox
Joe is eyeing him suspiciously. And I'm more terrified than I've
ever been in my life. I can't bolt ? my drums are all set up on
stage. All I can do is wait for the inevitable. I see the headline
"Wedding Band Drummer Strangled By Cordavox Wielding Mad Man".
Ted is unable to get up; all he can do is sit on the edge of the
stage and cry. The tears are streaming out of his bloodshot eyes,
right onto his tuxedo pants. I've gone too far, but there's nothing
to be done now. He's probably as scared as I am of Joe, so he doesn't
mention why he's turned into a sobbing paranoid paraplegic. He simply
says he feels sick, really sick. Joe goes over and helps him up
from one side while the guitarist hoists up the other and they semi-carry/drag
the poor bastard to the lobby where he collapses onto a couch. Ted
is slurring out something about food poisoning. Our Man on Cordavox
is, thank God, so concerned about his buddy's sudden illness that
the thought of foul play doesn't even enter his mind. There's no
way Ted's playing the rest of this wedding. I have a feeling he
may never be playing again. One thing's for certain that's the first
and last time old Ted ever experimented in the world of cannabis
resin.
My impending doom has been reprieved. The wedding band slogs through
the rest of the gig, sans bass, and I have learned a valuable lesson.
Revenge may be sweet for the likes of Tony Bennett and the Count
of Monte Cristo, but not for me.
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