Hey, Johnny

I was running late as usual, but I had promised to hang out with the guys at Johnny’s Night Club. When I arrived the bouncer, Johnny Blot, nodded and let me in. Security was always tight at Johnny’s Night Club. 

As soon as I walked through the door someone called out my name.

“Look who it is. Johnny Comelately. You’re never on time.”

It was Johnny Swansong, manager and part owner of the club. He gripped my hand.

“Good to see you Johnny boy.”

“You too Johnny.”

“A lot of your friends are here tonight. There’s Johnny Onebrow at the bar.”

Johnny Onebrow waved, martini in hand.

“Hi, Johnny. Glad you could make it.”

“Me too.”

Johnny Hygiene came out of the restroom area. 

“Johnny Comelately! Good to see ya.”

We met half way across the floor. He pumped my hand. His hand was still wet, but I didn’t mention it. 

“What have you been up to you old rascal?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “A bit of this, a bit of that. And you?”

“The same. Insurance. That and the family. Keeps me running.”

I spotted Johnny Memento at a table with Johnny Hardon.

“Hey Johnny,” I said and meant it for both of them.

Johnny Memento smiled. “Wow Johnny. Long time no see. What has it been, a year?”

“More like three months.”

“Really? Could have fooled me. Takes me back to when we were kids. Remember when Johnny Bigarm threw that touchdown pass to me in the championship?”

“Sure do. Bounced out of your hands, off my helmet and back into your arms.”

“Those were some times. Weren’t they? Seems like yesterday.”

“Been fourteen years, but I’ll never forget it.”

“And the crowd! They went wild.”

“Sure did.”

“And Betty Lu Johnnyson from the cheerleading squad kissed me, and we went out after that for the next two years.”

“Great times. What have you been up to since I last saw you?”

“Same old, same old. Still working in my uncle’s funeral parlor, sharing stories with the old stiffs.”

“Sounds good.”

I turned to the other Johnny. “How about you? How have you been doing?”

“Can’t complain,” said Johnny Hardon. “Have a hot date later tonight. Remember Yolanda from chemistry class in college?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, she just got divorced. Hasn’t aged much at all. And guess who she wants to help her get back into circulation?”

“Johnny Hardon.”

“You got it mister.”

Johnny Swansong tapped my shoulder. “Sorry to interrupt, but one of the reasons I wanted you to come by and hang out for a change was to check out a new act. I’m thinking your boss, Johnny Platinum, might check him out himself if you put in a good word.”

“Okay. I’ll have a listen.”

I was used to these types of requests. Johnny Platinum was a top record producer in the area with connections to some of the big companies. I often got a nice tip along with a request, but Johnny Swansong was an old friend. I let it pass when it turned out the envelope was a bit light.

Johnny Swansong escorted me into the big room where a five-piece band had just finished setting up.

“What are they called? There’s no sign.”

“Just listen first.”

“Hi, Mr. Swansong,” yelled a young kid from the stage. Couldn’t be more than nineteen.

“She the singer? Easy on the eye.”

“Martha? Not the singer, but in the band. Rhythm guitar and tambourine. Does some backup. Good kid. I mean really good.” He grinned. “She’s why I hired them in the first place, but now it’s about the music. Just the music.”

“Who’s the singer?”

“The skinny blond guy. Martha’s brother. You have to hear this guy’s voice. I think they’re going places.”

We sat down at a table, ordered some drinks. I saw some familiar faces in the crowd. Johnny Spine, my chiropractor, and his lady; Johnny Wholesale and his gal; Johnny Narc, and Johnny Looselips, and a bunch of others. We listened while the band ran through their set. Some covers, a few originals. Pop, light rock, a little heavy metal. But the voice of the lead singer. The voice. 

“They play okay,” I said, “But you are right about the singer. Just needs the right material. I’ll talk to my boss. “

I gave Johnny Platinum a call. Asked what he was doing. He wasn’t busy. I suggested he stopped by and catch the band. They were playing three sets that night. Johnny Platinum said he’d try to make it. 

I let Johnny Swansong know that Johnny Platinum might stop by. Johnny Swansong thanked me and slipped another envelope into my pocket. The night was getting better.

Johnny Platinum stopped by around midnight, just before the final set. Johnny Swansong was more than cordial, explained he sort of represented the band in a semi-official way. We got a good table in the second row and sat back to see what happened. The final set had more songs, more range, and better instrumentals as if the first two sets were warm ups, or adrenaline or something else had gotten them juiced up. But they still weren’t great. Except for that voice. It was all about the voice. The lead singer had a gift. Johnny Platinum agreed with Johnny Swansong. There was a chance to make money here. With the right songs, the right music, the right costumes, and, of course, the right promotion, who knew what could happen.

After the show Johnny Swansong brought the band over to meet Johnny Platinum. Johnny Platinum extended his hand to the singer. The other Johnnys at the table stuck out their hands as well. There was a lot of shaking and pumping before getting down to business.

“You’ve got a set of tonsils there,” said Johnny Platinum. “What’s your name?”

“Bobby Healey. Together we’re Bobby and the Floaters.”

Johnny Platinum laughed, “What kind of name is that for a band? That’s gotta change. Look, you sound good, not great, but you need proper guidance. I might have Johnny Comelately here throw together a contract for you to review for an album and a small tour, if you’re interested. Not a lot of money to start. A percentage. Maybe an advance. But who knows what can happen in a year of two with luck and hard work. But you have to be willing to make compromises.”

Bobby looked at his sister who nodded.

“We’re interested,” said Bobby. “What kind of compromises.”

“First thing, the name. What kind of name is Bobby and the Floaters? Come on. You gotta change the name.”

“You don’t like The Floaters?”

“I can work with that,’ said Johnny Platinum. “Though you could make it easier for me by opting for a different band name or different band altogether. If you want to keep the band as it is, we might be able to do a deal, but they’ll need to get a lot better. It would be easier to swap players, but I’m willing to give it a try. But Bobby and the Floaters… that Bobby part has to go.”

“What do you suggest?” asked Bobby. “Just go with The Floaters?”

“You can do that or you could change Bobby to another name.”

“Like what?”

“How about Johnny? It’s warm, friendly, people can relate to it. I can go with Johnny and the Floaters. That’s bankable. Sounds marquee. Sounds much better than just The Floaters, and a hell of a lot better than Bobby and the Floaters. Though, like I said, the band might need to be reconstructed. Down the line. I’m willing to give them a shot, but they have to earn it. You on the other hand, you’re in. You can sing. I can work with you. If we can reach an agreement about the name thing.”

“But my name’s Bobby.”

“About that.” Johnny Platinum scratched his chin. “Healey is not a good name for a singer either. It don’t quite go with a great name like Johnny.”

“You think I should change it?”

“For professional purposes only. No offense to your family, you know.”

“What kind of name do you have in mind?”

“How does Johnny Scales sound? You got your Johnny, which everybody loves, and then Scales, a name that means something cause you can hit the high notes and the low notes. That’s the kind of name that audiences and investors eat up in Johnnytown.”

“The world’s bigger than Johnnytown,” the kid mumbled.

“It sure is,” said Johnny Platinum. “But you gotta start somewhere, and you’re in Johnnytown. If you want to win in Johnnytown, you need to be Johnny Scales or Johnny something else. But not Healey. It will sell some tickets, but not enough. You have to give the people what they want, and in Johnnytown they want a Johnny, but not a Johnny Healey. Healey doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t say anything about you. You need to either go with the flow or wind up a schmo.”

“I’ll think about it Mr. Platinum. I’ll definitely think about it.”

“You can call me Johnny. But don’t think about it too long. After tomorrow I may have changed my mind. There are a lot of bands out there.”

Martha whispered to her brother, “Just do it. Johnny’s your middle name anyway. That part should be easy for you, and you’re real name will still be Bobby Healey.”

Bobby sighed.

“Okay. You can call me Johnny Scales.”

“Good,” said Johnny Platinum. “We’re all simpatico. Let’s have a drink to celebrate.” He invited the band to sit at the table. Johnny Swansong signaled the waitresses to accommodate them. When all had a glass of something alcoholic in their hands, Johnny Platinum raised his in a toast.

“To the next big thing in Johnnytown. Johnny and the Floaters.”

He drained his glass, then added, “and after Johnnytown, who knows? The sky’s the limit… with a change or two.”

I had to agree. 

God Doesn’t Believe In Me

God doesn’t believe in me. It’s a real problem. I’ve met Him like three times, and each time He just covers His face with His Hands and starts singing “la la la” really loudly whenever I try talking. 

I’m told by mutual friends that soon as I leave the room, God always starts ranting about how there’s no actual proof that Marshall Greenbaum actually exists. He’ll go on about how I’m just a myth invented a long time ago by people who felt like the need to convince themselves that there was yet another twenty-nine year old hipster in Brooklyn. He’ll poke holes in my existence, like wondering how it is that I pay rent on my nice Williamsburg apartment when my only source of income is a barista job, or why it is that I supposedly graduated from Sarah Lawrence yet still repeatedly refer to Yonkers as upstate New York. 

I always thought He was a bit of a self-important asshole, so I didn’t mind too much at first. But a few days ago my doctor spotted an inoperable tumor the size of a golf ball sitting on my cerebral cortex, and for the first time in my life I actually felt glad that I ran in the same social circles as God. I’m lucky that God never misses one of Kayla’s parties. 

He’s over in the corner of the party, talking to some cute gothy girl with blue streaks in her hair. He’s leaning in close to her as He talks so that He can be heard over the Tame Impala song blasting on the speakers, but I think it’s just an excuse to see if she minds Him invading her personal space. She doesn’t. 

The girl bends over when she realizes that the laces of one of her Dr. Marten boots have come undone. God doesn’t bother hiding that He’s staring down at the cleavage poking out of her black crop top as she ties the lace, and He doesn’t even notice the edge of His long white beard plop into his beer-filled solo cup as He does so. God is kind of a dog. 

There’s a pause in their conversation as the goth girl ties and God oggles, so I figure now is a good time to approach Him. If He goes home with her, then I’m done for the night. I weave my way through the party, giving polite nods to friends I pass, and approach God and the girl. She finishes tying her shoe as I reach them. 

“So, as I was saying, I really don’t like this era of Tame Impala very much,” drones God as the girl rises back up. “Lonerism and Innerspeaker were both masterpieces of modern psychedelia, but they really sold out with Currents. And don’t even get Me started on The Slow…”

“Hi God,” I interrupt as I approach them. 

God turns to look at me, and His eyes grow wide. Then He covers His eyes with His hands, allowing His solo cup to drop onto the floor and spill Goose Island IPA all over Kayla’s carpet.

“God, I have a favor to ask,” I begin. “The other day my doctor…”

“La, la, la” sings God monochromatically. 

“My doctor said,” I continue, raising my voice to now compete with both God’s signing and Kevin Parker’s. “That there’s a tumor growing…”

“La, la, la, la!” sings God with increased intensity. “La, la, la, la, la!” 

His singing has begun taking on the melody of “Eleanor Rigby”, and I wonder if He has noticed. 

“What the fuck is happening?” asks the goth girl. 

“La, la, la!” sings God. 

I step forward and grab God’s wrists, clutching them by the edges of His white robe. I tug His hands off His eyes, forcing God to look me in the face. 

“La, la, la, la!” sings God, His voice growing shrill but still carrying the tune of “Eleanor Rigby”, albeit now in a higher octave. 

“Just shut up and listen to me,” I yell at God. “There’s a tumor growing on my brain, and You’re the only one who can save my life!”

God abruptly stops singing. For the first time ever, He stares right at me with His big dark eyes and really takes me in. 

“I can’t save you, Marshall,” says God in a calm, steady voice. “Because you’re not real. So there’s nothing to save, you see?”

“But I am real,” I insist to God. “Look at me, I’m right here.” 

“I’m just going to let you guys figure this one out,” interjects the goth girl as she inches away from us. 

“Cassie, wait,” God calls after her. “Let Me get your number!” 

Cassie continues walking away from us until she is swallowed up by the party around us, dissolving into the crowd. God turns back to me and glares. 

“Way to ruin that for Me, dude,” grumbles God. “We were totally going to boink.” 

“Sorry,” I mutter. 

I’d usually feel bad about cockblocking some dude, but I had bigger concerns at the moment than whether or not God got His rocks off. 

“I haven’t gotten a piece of goth ass that nice since Mary Shelley,” He carped. “And then nearly two-hundred years later it looks like I’m finally going to get to revisit the peak of My sexual existence, and it only takes Marshall Greenbaum two minutes to completely blow it for Me.” 

A thought blooms in my brain. 

“If I’m not real, then how could I have ruined that for you?” I argue.

“People who aren’t real ruin things all the time,” shrugs God. “Holden Caulfield is fictional, and he’s the reason John Lennon is dead. And, come to think of it, John Lennon is the reason Sharon Tate is dead. I wonder if that’s connected somehow.” 

“Okay, you’ve got me there,” I admit. “But You can’t have a conversation with Holden Caulfield, except by reading some scribbles made by a man who died over a decade ago. You’re talking to me right in the flesh. How do You explain that?” 

“You’re talking to Me right now in the flesh, and there’s plenty of people who don’t believe in Me,” says God. “I’ve met Richard Dawkins like three times, and each time he just covers his face with his hands and starts singing ‘la la la’ really loudly whenever I try talking. It’s a real problem.” 

I stare at God, dumbfounded.

“Do you really not see the irony in that?”

“How do you mean?” asks God, cocking a bushy white eyebrow. 

“That’s exactly what You do to me!” I exclaim. 

“No it isn’t,” says God dismissively as He shakes His head. 

God’s eyes widen. 

“Oh My Me,” whispers God. “You’re right, I do do that.”

“Yes, exactly,” I say. “See, I am real! Now, please cure my cancer.” 

“What if Richard Dawkins is right,” murmurs God as He vacantly stares off into the distance. “What if I’m not real?” 

The color has drained from God’s face and He trembles as He speaks. 

“What if I’m not real,” He repeats. 

“Hey God, I think You’re drawing literally the opposite conclusion from what I was going for,” I say. “I’m trying to prove that I am real, not that You’re not. You see what I mean?” 

“I’m not real at all, am I?” says God. “I’m just a figment of humanity’s imagination.”

“Of course You’re real,” I argue. “I’m talking to You right now. Just like You’re talking to me. We’re both real, see?”

God leans against the wall and collapses His face into Hands. He murmurs something to Himself, but whatever it is muffled by His palms. But I can more or less guess the gist of what He’s saying. 

“Come on, God. You’re messing with me,” I say. “There’s no way that You’re concept of self is so fragile. You’re God, for fuck’s sake.” 

God collapses onto the floor and hugs His robed knees close to His chest.

“I’m not real!” screams God. “I’m not real, I’m not real, I’m not real!” 

As God repeats those words, He begins to fade away. 

“I’m not real!” declares God one last time. 

Then He winks away into nothing at all. 

“Did I just kill God?” I say aloud to no one in particular. 

Around me, the universe begins to shake.

Kelp

The summer I collected kelp was the longest summer of my life (unless you consulted a calendar). I was living in a flop house and working at a clam shack by the vast, vast, vast (salty) Atlantic in South Kingstown, Rhode Island and on my day off I would walk along the shore, collecting kelp in a Hefty bag. The beaches were a goldmine, as long as you coveted kelp. I had lines of jump-rope hanging across my room and I draped the strips of kelp over the ropes. I heard somewhere you could make kelp lasagna but I never tried that. I did not eat the kelp. I just needed it around. I was a seeker.

I left the windows open and along with the kelp, I began to collect flies. You should’ve seen them— hundreds of little black bacteria bugs sucking on all those drying, stinking strands of kelp. The smell reminded me of my Aunt Edie without the minty snap of Wrigley’s spearmint. It was like having a tide pool right there beside my bed. It informed my dreams like sea shanties from doomed sailors. I got the message. Soft and clear. The flies never got annoying, I honestly loved the little buggers, but eventually my neighbors began to complain about them and the rotten sea-smell wafting into the hall. They worried about corpses, like I was a serial killer or somesuch thing. My tenuous tenancy at the house grew controversial. I kept to my kelp. The buzzing of the flies spoke to me in the middle of the night like radio waves tripping off my fillings (tooth decay is the bane of my existence). The language of the flies was transmitted in a long staccato drone. Zzzzt…zzzzt…zzzzt… The buzzes amounted to endless Zen questions, “………….?”

“……………?”

“……….?”

The answers came in abrupt, declarative buzzes:

“……..!”

The flies led to cryptically silent maggots, of course, and they squirmed even more fundamental questions. There they were, scattered on the floor like wriggling rice, uttering the unutterable, ineffable truths that rightly belonged to the cosmic dance of the planets.

The orbits of the flies were spiral galaxies and I watched them like moving maps of the vast, vast, vast universe.

I was also smoking a fair amount of dope at the time.

I continued to collect and drape seaweed until September when I abruptly stopped.

I had my answers. I moved on.

I left the kelp for the next guy.

*

From: Everything Dissolves

A CHURCH SERVICE FOR ONE

I would like to go to a church and pray on my knees in an empty sanctuary.

Then I would get up and sing along with “The First time Ever I Saw Your Face” by Roberta Flack on my phone as the worship service.

I would light a cigarette in there as my incense then I would preach a sermon about how I should give up smoking.

I would say something to God like I miss you and look at the stained glass that looks like it is made of blood and think about all the prayers uttered in this building and what they all might have meant to the Lord.

I would hock up all of my phlegm in a gold offering plate and leave a couple bucks in another.

Snoozing in the pew with my cat I would adjust my blanket so that I was completely covered and count lost sheep being found by their shepherd.

I would not be afraid of being profane in this holy sanctuary.

God knows how bad it’s been and I’m here to flush out the toxins.

I would take communion with a bun from a Whopper and a Coke, baptize my forehead with the sweat on my Burger King cup and I would cross myself as I exited and breathe an easier breath than when I came in.