Fic: Don't Know Why
Feb. 17th, 2006 03:09 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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asuka14. :>)
Author:maradao
Title: Don’t Know Why
Pairing: Brad & Wayne friendship
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A chance meeting leads to drinking, reminiscing, and the surprise return of a music legend. And it all starts when a guy walks into a bar….
Disclaimer: The people belong to themselves; anything related to Whose Line or the Jesse Harris song “Don’t Know Why” belongs to other people. No profits made; no libel intended -- the only thing I’m laying any claim to is the story itself, which as far as I know is fiction.
***
“Brad?”
In the middle of the crowded bar and grill, Brad heard his name and paused, the wary half-smile he used for fans and businesspeople already spreading into place. He scanned the nearby tables, looking for the caller.
“Brad! Over here, man, behind you.”
He turned around, and there in a corner seat was --
“Wayne?”
The younger man -- not so babyfaced as Brad had last seen him, but still with a body and wardrobe that would be the envy of men half his age -- sat forward in his chair, grinning. “Who else?” He gestured to the empty seat opposite. “Sit with me.”
“Sure.” Brad maneuvered his way between two people sitting way too far from their respective tables and plopped into the chair Wayne had indicated. “How about this, huh? How long has it been? How’ve you been keeping?” He snagged a pita chip from the half-empty basket in the middle of the table, dragged it through the nearby bowl of dip, and started munching before he even realized how Wayne was looking at him. “Oh, mmf -- sorry. This was your appetizer, right?”
“It was my entrée, but I’m done now.” Wayne smirked. “Mi pita es su pita -- go ahead and dig in.”
Brad didn’t need any further invitation. “Good stuff -- I actually haven’t been here at night before. Sean’a and I used to come here for lunch sometimes and -- hey, how’d you find this place?”
Wayne shrugged. “I was meeting with an agent earlier.” He named a street not too far from Sean’a and Brad’s house, and Brad nodded. “No time to eat before I left, so I asked him for the name of someplace close by with good food, decent alcohol, a classy clientele….” He polished off the last of his drink and cut Brad a wicked look. “I guess two out of three ain’t bad.”
Brad put on his affronted face. “Hey, don‘t knock the alcohol till you‘ve tried it, man.” He indicated his friend’s empty wineglass. “What was that, sangria?” Wayne nodded, and Brad didn‘t bother to suppress a snort. “Like fruit punch left out to ferment, island moonshine -- I mean, what kind of a drink is that?” Just then, a table attendant appeared at his elbow. “Oh good, now I can order you something decent.”
Wayne shook his head. “I don’t drink just to be drinking. You know that.” But between them, the waitress and Brad managed to talk him into a cranberry vodka -- “You and your dinky fruit drinks,” Brad scoffed -- while Brad himself opted for a root beer and bourbon.
“Like that’s so much more sophisticated,” Wayne pointed out, after the waitress departed for the bar.
Brad shrugged. “Who cares about sophisticated? It’s good.” Suddenly and from behind him came one of his least favorite noises: the high screeching whine of microphone feedback. Brad ducked his head between his shoulders to shield both ears and turned in his chair to see what was going on. A few tables away he could see a lighted dais set up as a performance space, complete with amplifiers and a couple of standing mikes. Behind one of the mikes was a young guy wearing a red and white uniform and a sheepish expression.
“Uh, hi there, ladies and gentlemen. Sorry to have to get your attention like that, but bear with me ’cause we’ve got a great evening in store for you. So sit back, order up, and welcome to summer kick-off at the Lonely Hearts Club Bar & Grill!”
“Summer kick-off?” Wayne sounded halfway between amusement and incredulity.
Brad frowned. “Beats me. Like I said, I don’t come here at night.” But the man with the mike was still talking, so they both turned their attention back to the stage.
“…Yeah, like I said, you’re in for a real treat, so stick around, folks, ‘cause tonight’s the night we debut a new tradition here at the Club. For the first time -- thanks to the generosity of a longtime patron who prefers to remain unnamed -- we are now in possession of our very own karaoke machine!”
He gestured offstage toward a monstrous contraption being wheeled out between the tables and the wall booths by a couple of servers. Wayne gave it a skeptical look. “Whoever it was should’ve donated that thing to a museum. It must be half as old as I am.”
Brad watched the machine as it was laboriously rolled into place in front of the dais. “Maybe it’ll break down before anybody gets a chance to sing,” he offered.
“Not now that you’ve said it, it won’t,” replied Wayne darkly, and sure enough, the first person to volunteer to get up and sing was able to make an uninterrupted fool of herself, to the tune of “Like a Virgin.”
Brad eyed the girl with a smirk as she left the stage. “If she’s a virgin in those clothes, then I’m Drew Carey in a speedo.”
Wayne grimaced. “Thanks for the image.” The drinks arrived, and he took a long and fortifying sip of his vodka. “So are you still touring with him and the guys? Chip and Jeff and the rest?”
“Nah, it’s just me and Colin right now.”
“How’s that working out?”
“Profitably,” said Brad, grinning. “I get to work off my community service hours, playing at all these podunk backwater places across the country, and Colin, he’s nearly got his Canadian merit badge for something like fifty years’ worth of making fun of Americans, so that’s all good.” He took a quaff of his caffeinated bourbon and sat back comfortably, listening to somebody slaughter an old Duran Duran song behind him. “So how’s Mandie doing? And -- Maile? Did I get that right?”
“Yeah, Maile,” Wayne nodded over his drink. “She just turned three and… well, Mandie’s the one who has to deal with her most of the time.” He pulled a face. “It’s like the terrible twos went into overtime at my house or something.”
Brad tilted his head, questioning. “I’ve always wondered just what was so terrible about the terrible twos….”
Wayne leans forward onto the table. “Let me put it this way,” he said. “About the only thing she hasn’t done yet is projectile vomit pea soup all over the place. And that’s only because we don’t feed her pea soup.”
Brad tried to chuckle sympathetically. “That bad, huh?”
“Oh yeah. You name it, she’s done it. Levitating to the top of rickety furniture, running around howling her head off, getting past locked doors and cabinets…” He ticked off each item of misbehavior on a finger, shaking his head all the while. “I swear if she ever starts scolding me like my grandma, that’s it; I’m calling in Father Whatsisname.”
“Either that or you could send her to Catholic preschool,” Brad suggested. “But seriously, man -- that’s just the way kids are, right?” He tossed back the last of his drink, wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “First she’s daddy’s little angel, then she’s the devil on training wheels. And a few years from now she’ll be into the same stuff all the other girls are into. Between ballet and cheerleading and sleepovers you’ll hardly ever see her again.”
Wayne sighed. “That’s what I’m afraid of.” He took a sip of his vodka, sat back in his chair, and winced as the Duran Duran song ended on an unexpectedly high note. “Ugh. I think my dog could hear that one all the way back at Sherman Oaks.”
“Mine too, considering he’s not nearly so far.” Brad flagged down their waitress as she passed by, and ordered himself another drink -- a beer this time. “This calls for more alcohol.”
Wayne shook his head. “None for me, thanks.” He passed his empty glass to the server, then turned back to Brad. “So you’re still living in the area with… Sean’a, wasn’t it? Are you guys married now?”
“Nope.” Brad holds up his left hand. “No rings, no kids; just the dog. Big, friendly rottweiler-type. This is what he looks like, here.” He showed Wayne a picture from his wallet -- the dog in close-up with his mouth open and all his teeth bared in a big doggy grin, and Brad’s face right next to him, mimicking the expression with his tongue hanging out. “Sean’a is always saying he takes after his daddy.”
“Poor thing,” said Wayne with a smirk. “--It’s a good picture, though,” he added hastily, catching sight of Brad lifting a glass of ice water and pulling it back to his shoulder like a pitcher winding up for the toss. “Did Sean’a take it?”
“Sure did,” Brad said, leisurely popping one of the ice cubes into his mouth before setting down the glass. “She’s been doing a lot of photography these days; even makes a little money off it sometimes.”
“Is that why she isn’t here tonight? She’s doing a shoot?”
“Yeah,” said Brad. Then he thought it over, frowned. “Well, sort of. She’s on one of those photo expedition field trips with a bunch of her friends, learning how to work in low-level lighting, things like that.” He shrugged. “She isn’t supposed to be back till late tomorrow, and I’ve got to be halfway across the country by the middle of next week -- I figured I might as well not miss my last chance to kick back in L.A. before I leave.”
“So that‘s why you‘re here.” Wayne’s voice was quiet, thoughtful.
Brad kept his eyes on the table, tracing the edge of his coaster with a finger. “Yup, that’s why I‘m here.”
Just then, the waitress dropped off Brad’s second drink along with the tab.
“I’m treating,” Brad announced, pulling his wallet back out.
“No, you’re not.”
“I insist. I’ve even got exact change here somewhere.” He dug around in the change pocket. “Just know I’ve got a quarter….”
“I’ve got a quarter,” said Wayne, looking indulgently amused.
“No, it’s okay -- ah, here we go. Tada!” He flipped the coin up sparkling with his thumb, caught it with a slap over his wrist. “Call it.”
Wayne shrugged. “Tails.”
Brad lifted his hand. “Heads,” he said with a smirk, and revealed the coin to Wayne.
“Not my lucky night.”
“I’ll say. Now, I want you to go up there to the karaoke guy, ask him to play something bluesy--”
“--Wait, wait a minute. Say what?”
“Shut up and I’ll tell you. Now, I want you to go up there, ask for something bluesy, and when the guy asks your name, you tell him ‘Wet Biscuit McGlee.’ You get my drift?”
But Wayne was already shaking his head, leaning back in his chair, looking like any second he was going to get up and leave. “Uh-uh. Nothing doing.”
“I dare you.”
“No!” Wayne laughed.
“I double-dog dare you -- now go on!”
“They aren’t going to have any blues songs….”
“Then just pick something close.” Brad tilted his head and gave him his best puppy dog look. “C’mon, Wayne, humor me a little.”
“Humor, huh? Like you need anything to laugh at…” But he was already out of his chair and on his way up to the dais.
There was another guy just in front of him who was in the laborious process of introducing himself and his song with the help of the emcee. So while he was busy, Wayne took the opportunity to talk with the woman running the karaoke machine. She handed him a stack of CDGs; Brad could see him scanning the song lists on the back of each one. As the song drew to a close early -- the guy couldn’t handle a Garth Brooks tune any better than he could handle his liquor, apparently -- Wayne made his choice and pointed out the song to the machine operator. She nodded and indicated that he should take the stage.
“Well, hey there!” said the man with the mike, heading over toward Wayne with a smile that was starting to seem forced at the edges. “And who might you be, sir?”
“Ma neem is Wet Biscuit McGlee.” Wayne mimed pouring water over a biscuit and then biting into it for the benefit of the audience. Some of the faces Brad could see were chuckling; most simply stared in puzzlement.
“And, uh, you’re about to sing--” the emcee checked quickly with the machine operator “--‘Don’t Know Why’ by Norah Jones? Is that right?”
“Och aye,” affirmed Wet Biscuit.
“O-kay then,” said the man, giving over his mike and backing away cautiously. The intro had already started. Wayne hummed along in a lazy way, slowly ambling his way to the front of the dais. Then the words came up on the monitor, and he started to sing:
“Ah weeded till ah sew the sun
Ah doona wah ah didna comb
Ah lived ye bah the how sa fun
Ah doona wah ah didna comb
Ah doona wah ah didna comb….”
Lit from all around by a ring of golden footlights, Wayne looked like a cross between an angel incarnate and The Human Torch. Brad ate the whole thing up with relish, every now and then casting glances around at faces at the tables around him, and grinning wider at their dawning amazement that at least one person in the place could actually sing.
At one point, when he reached the bridge, Wayne had his hand stretched out beseechingly, and he was crooning as high as his versatile tenor could take him while still somehow managing to sound sultry and unintelligible and Scottish, all at the same time. His eyes searched out Brad’s eyes in the audience and he threw him a brazen wink. Brad made a show out of covering his heart with one hand and faking the beginning of a swoon (all for the benefit of a gaggle of twentysomething beauties who seemed to be checking him out from over by the bar).
He was so caught up in his performance, in fact, that he didn’t even notice that Wayne had come down from the dais until he felt a hand grab him by the elbow and start dragging him bodily up to the stage. The music was still playing -- it had gone into the instrumental section of the song -- and once Wayne was back behind the mike, he took the opportunity to introduce his unwilling accomplice to the masses. Brad wasn’t really listening; he was too busy trying to adjust his eyes to the sudden glare of the footlights, so it came as a complete surprise to him when Wayne suddenly said, “Ticket a’wee, Brrrrraddie boy!” and pushed him to the front of the stage.
At a loss for anything else to do, but always an improviser to the end, Brad shrugged and launched into his best harmonica impression just a couple of bars before Wayne joined in with the last verse. Together they harmonized right up until the final repetition of the title line: “Ah doona wah ah didna comb; doona wah ah didna comb….”
The applause that followed the two men back to their seats was scattered but enthusiastic. Brad was grinning and bowing like an idiot; Wayne looking amused and ashamed by turns. Brad noticed, and gave his shoulder a quick punch before they sat back down.
“C’mon, it wasn’t that bad, man. I mean, you’ve lost some polish, but I still sound pretty good, if I do say so myself.” He started buffing his knuckles on the front of his shirt.
“You would,” Wayne chuckled, reaching across the table to punch him back. “Just give me one good reason why I shouldn’t slaughter you right now.”
“Easy,” said Brad cheerily. “If I were dead, we couldn’t make all this beautiful music together. Scottish blues, the squirrel and the golf bag--”
Wayne interrupted his reminiscing with a snort. “That was beautiful?”
“It was beyond beautiful, man. That one was classic.” Brad lifted his glass, about to say more in memory of songs past, when he heard a giggle. He looked up to find they’d both been surrounded by the gaggle of twentysomethings from the bar, as well as the waitress looking to pick up payment for the drinks.
“It’s okay, we’ll take care of it,” said the ringleader of the group, handing the waitress a credit card from her purse while smiling sidelong at Brad. “You two were on that show, right? Y’know, like with the fat guy an’ --an’ the tall guy?”
“Ooh, and the cute bald guy,” one of the others giggled.
“Yup, I was the black guy,” said Brad, pointing a thumb at himself proudly.
“An’ ah was ‘is illegi’imate Sco’ish twin,” Wayne added in his worst brogue. They both exchanged looks, smiles stretched tight to contain their laughter.
“Aw! You guys are so cute together!”
“Hey! Who said we were together?” exclaimed Brad, sitting back and feigning shock. “We’re twins, remember?”
“Homey doon’ play thot,” added Wayne, looking offended.
The women cracked up at that, and insisted on more songs and more drinks for all of them. Wayne ordered a glass of water for himself, but somehow it got confused with somebody else’s vodka, and by the time it was all sorted out he’d already had two glasses and somebody was ordering him a third. More singing ensued, followed by more drinking. One of the women asked if they could get their autographs, and Brad said sure, even though he wasn’t exactly certain what his own name was by that time, but it was okay because Wayne still remembered. So they both signed each others’ names on cocktail napkins and gave them out as keepsakes. By that time, the gaggle had to leave, but they ordered one last round of drinks for the road.
“You drink them for us, sweetie,” said the ringleader, bending over to kiss Brad on the cheek. He watched the group giggle off through the double doors in a heady haze of perfume and alcohol fumes, and grinned over at Wayne.
“I think they liked us, man.”
“Nah, it’s just the celebrity fishbowl… thing.”
“What’s this about fishhhhh?” Brad drew out the word as long as he could, until they were both slumped over and shaking with laughter.
“You’re crazy.”
“‘N you’re drunk.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll be sober in the morning. Tomorrow you’ll still be shuckin’ batfit -- I mean…” He tried to sort out his words, but Brad was sniggering silently out the side of his mouth. “Hey, don’t you be laughing at me! Smug sonuva--”
Brad reached out and clapped a hand over Wayne’s mouth as a group of older ladies hustled by on their way out the door. One of them turned her head to glare disapprovingly at the two of them. “Language, young man,” murmured Brad in his prissy voice when she was safely out of earshot. “Your mama oughta clean out your mouth for you.”
Wayne shoved his hand away and laughed. “Oh, dude, don’t even get me started on yo mama.”
“I think you were just about to….”
“Yeah, if you hadn’t put your hand all up in my face.”
Brad laughed again, and wiped his hand on his shirt. “I think we’d better get you home to Mandie, man.”
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Wayne protested weakly.
“Prob’ly not, but it’s too late for me to think of a better one. Where’s your car?”
“Outside.”
“In the parking lot or on the curb?”
“Parking lot.”
“Okay, then they probably won’t tow it till tomorrow sometime. Me and Sean’a can get it sorted out for you before then. C’mon.” He stood up, reaching out a hand to help Wayne, and nearly got pulled over for his trouble. And then once Wayne was up, they both had to maneuver their way through the narrow spaces between people who were still sitting too far from their tables.
“What time is it?” Brad asked their waitress as they passed her.
“Nearly ten,” she said, checking her watch. “Seems like it should be later, doesn’t it?” Wayne tried to nod and nearly overbalanced. Brad stumbled, but kept them both in an upright position.
“Is he going to be okay?” the waitress asked, looking concerned. “I’ll call a cab if you want.”
“Yeah, if you would,” Brad said, and from his other side Wayne murmured, “Aye, tha’s grrrrret.”
The waitress shook her head at the two of them, not quite smiling. “I’ll go get that taken care of then.”
Wayne watched her leave. “Didja leaf tha lassie a guid tip, then?”
“You bet I did. C’mon, Wet Biscuit,” Brad chuckled, and led the way outside.
At the curb they stopped. Wayne swayed, but was able to stand on his own. Brad stepped away, stretched his back.
“Well, this was a quite a reunion, huh?”
“Mm-hm,” murmured Wayne, watching the lights of the cars go by with a fascination reserved for the young and the very intoxicated.
“Seriously, though, you ought to do some improv with us, man.”
“At the Comedy Store?” asked Wayne woozily.
“No, I mean, I was thinking…” He propped his hand on a light post, so he wouldn’t have to be concentrating on his balance and talking at the same time. “Sometime when Colin and me are back in the area, doing a show, you ought to come play along with us.”
“Sure,” Wayne laughed. “I’ll think about it.”
Brad regarded him steadily, or tried. “You’re not going to, are you?”
Wayne shrugged, chuckled. “Probably not.” For a moment they both stood there, looking down at the pavement until, “Shuckin’ fruitbats…” Wayne muttered under his breath, and both of them broke down into giggles.
Just then the cab pulled up. Brad opened the door for his friend. From her seat, the driver glanced back at them through her rearview mirror. “Where to, boys?”
“He’ll tell you,” Brad said, gesturing to Wayne as he all but fell into the backseat. The driver looked from one to the other of them, sighed, and shook her grey head. Brad beamed innocently at her before backing up, stepping away from the door. Inside, Wayne managed to ease himself back into a sitting position, laughing all the while his distinctive laugh, that old man’s hee-hee-hee that Brad hadn’t remembered missing before just that evening.
“We made beautiful music together.” Brad said again, trying to keep his voice light and sappy.
“Yeah. Yeah, we did. Love you, man.” He leaned out of the backseat of the cab and pulled Brad close in a hug. He still smelled like success, Brad thought. Like everlasting sunshine, like being young and carefree forever.
“Love you too.”
“See you around?”
“Yeah.” Over the sudden noise of the engine revving up, Brad mimed holding a phone to his ear and mouthed, “Call me?”
As the cab pulled away, he could see Wayne through the back window, making the OK sign at him. He seemed to be saying something too, but between the glare of streetlights sliding over the glass and the increasing distance between them, Brad couldn’t make out what. He watched until the taillights swung around a far corner, and then returned to his own car, intending to sleep it all off until the orange nighttime haze over the parking lot faded into a smoggy dawn, and the coffee shops opened back up for business.
*****
If anybody wants the un-Scotchified lyrics to Don’t Know Why, you can read them at this site. The Wet Biscuit version, on the other hand, can be found here.
asuka14. :>)Author:
maradaoTitle: Don’t Know Why
Pairing: Brad & Wayne friendship
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A chance meeting leads to drinking, reminiscing, and the surprise return of a music legend. And it all starts when a guy walks into a bar….
Disclaimer: The people belong to themselves; anything related to Whose Line or the Jesse Harris song “Don’t Know Why” belongs to other people. No profits made; no libel intended -- the only thing I’m laying any claim to is the story itself, which as far as I know is fiction.
***
“Brad?”
In the middle of the crowded bar and grill, Brad heard his name and paused, the wary half-smile he used for fans and businesspeople already spreading into place. He scanned the nearby tables, looking for the caller.
“Brad! Over here, man, behind you.”
He turned around, and there in a corner seat was --
“Wayne?”
The younger man -- not so babyfaced as Brad had last seen him, but still with a body and wardrobe that would be the envy of men half his age -- sat forward in his chair, grinning. “Who else?” He gestured to the empty seat opposite. “Sit with me.”
“Sure.” Brad maneuvered his way between two people sitting way too far from their respective tables and plopped into the chair Wayne had indicated. “How about this, huh? How long has it been? How’ve you been keeping?” He snagged a pita chip from the half-empty basket in the middle of the table, dragged it through the nearby bowl of dip, and started munching before he even realized how Wayne was looking at him. “Oh, mmf -- sorry. This was your appetizer, right?”
“It was my entrée, but I’m done now.” Wayne smirked. “Mi pita es su pita -- go ahead and dig in.”
Brad didn’t need any further invitation. “Good stuff -- I actually haven’t been here at night before. Sean’a and I used to come here for lunch sometimes and -- hey, how’d you find this place?”
Wayne shrugged. “I was meeting with an agent earlier.” He named a street not too far from Sean’a and Brad’s house, and Brad nodded. “No time to eat before I left, so I asked him for the name of someplace close by with good food, decent alcohol, a classy clientele….” He polished off the last of his drink and cut Brad a wicked look. “I guess two out of three ain’t bad.”
Brad put on his affronted face. “Hey, don‘t knock the alcohol till you‘ve tried it, man.” He indicated his friend’s empty wineglass. “What was that, sangria?” Wayne nodded, and Brad didn‘t bother to suppress a snort. “Like fruit punch left out to ferment, island moonshine -- I mean, what kind of a drink is that?” Just then, a table attendant appeared at his elbow. “Oh good, now I can order you something decent.”
Wayne shook his head. “I don’t drink just to be drinking. You know that.” But between them, the waitress and Brad managed to talk him into a cranberry vodka -- “You and your dinky fruit drinks,” Brad scoffed -- while Brad himself opted for a root beer and bourbon.
“Like that’s so much more sophisticated,” Wayne pointed out, after the waitress departed for the bar.
Brad shrugged. “Who cares about sophisticated? It’s good.” Suddenly and from behind him came one of his least favorite noises: the high screeching whine of microphone feedback. Brad ducked his head between his shoulders to shield both ears and turned in his chair to see what was going on. A few tables away he could see a lighted dais set up as a performance space, complete with amplifiers and a couple of standing mikes. Behind one of the mikes was a young guy wearing a red and white uniform and a sheepish expression.
“Uh, hi there, ladies and gentlemen. Sorry to have to get your attention like that, but bear with me ’cause we’ve got a great evening in store for you. So sit back, order up, and welcome to summer kick-off at the Lonely Hearts Club Bar & Grill!”
“Summer kick-off?” Wayne sounded halfway between amusement and incredulity.
Brad frowned. “Beats me. Like I said, I don’t come here at night.” But the man with the mike was still talking, so they both turned their attention back to the stage.
“…Yeah, like I said, you’re in for a real treat, so stick around, folks, ‘cause tonight’s the night we debut a new tradition here at the Club. For the first time -- thanks to the generosity of a longtime patron who prefers to remain unnamed -- we are now in possession of our very own karaoke machine!”
He gestured offstage toward a monstrous contraption being wheeled out between the tables and the wall booths by a couple of servers. Wayne gave it a skeptical look. “Whoever it was should’ve donated that thing to a museum. It must be half as old as I am.”
Brad watched the machine as it was laboriously rolled into place in front of the dais. “Maybe it’ll break down before anybody gets a chance to sing,” he offered.
“Not now that you’ve said it, it won’t,” replied Wayne darkly, and sure enough, the first person to volunteer to get up and sing was able to make an uninterrupted fool of herself, to the tune of “Like a Virgin.”
Brad eyed the girl with a smirk as she left the stage. “If she’s a virgin in those clothes, then I’m Drew Carey in a speedo.”
Wayne grimaced. “Thanks for the image.” The drinks arrived, and he took a long and fortifying sip of his vodka. “So are you still touring with him and the guys? Chip and Jeff and the rest?”
“Nah, it’s just me and Colin right now.”
“How’s that working out?”
“Profitably,” said Brad, grinning. “I get to work off my community service hours, playing at all these podunk backwater places across the country, and Colin, he’s nearly got his Canadian merit badge for something like fifty years’ worth of making fun of Americans, so that’s all good.” He took a quaff of his caffeinated bourbon and sat back comfortably, listening to somebody slaughter an old Duran Duran song behind him. “So how’s Mandie doing? And -- Maile? Did I get that right?”
“Yeah, Maile,” Wayne nodded over his drink. “She just turned three and… well, Mandie’s the one who has to deal with her most of the time.” He pulled a face. “It’s like the terrible twos went into overtime at my house or something.”
Brad tilted his head, questioning. “I’ve always wondered just what was so terrible about the terrible twos….”
Wayne leans forward onto the table. “Let me put it this way,” he said. “About the only thing she hasn’t done yet is projectile vomit pea soup all over the place. And that’s only because we don’t feed her pea soup.”
Brad tried to chuckle sympathetically. “That bad, huh?”
“Oh yeah. You name it, she’s done it. Levitating to the top of rickety furniture, running around howling her head off, getting past locked doors and cabinets…” He ticked off each item of misbehavior on a finger, shaking his head all the while. “I swear if she ever starts scolding me like my grandma, that’s it; I’m calling in Father Whatsisname.”
“Either that or you could send her to Catholic preschool,” Brad suggested. “But seriously, man -- that’s just the way kids are, right?” He tossed back the last of his drink, wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “First she’s daddy’s little angel, then she’s the devil on training wheels. And a few years from now she’ll be into the same stuff all the other girls are into. Between ballet and cheerleading and sleepovers you’ll hardly ever see her again.”
Wayne sighed. “That’s what I’m afraid of.” He took a sip of his vodka, sat back in his chair, and winced as the Duran Duran song ended on an unexpectedly high note. “Ugh. I think my dog could hear that one all the way back at Sherman Oaks.”
“Mine too, considering he’s not nearly so far.” Brad flagged down their waitress as she passed by, and ordered himself another drink -- a beer this time. “This calls for more alcohol.”
Wayne shook his head. “None for me, thanks.” He passed his empty glass to the server, then turned back to Brad. “So you’re still living in the area with… Sean’a, wasn’t it? Are you guys married now?”
“Nope.” Brad holds up his left hand. “No rings, no kids; just the dog. Big, friendly rottweiler-type. This is what he looks like, here.” He showed Wayne a picture from his wallet -- the dog in close-up with his mouth open and all his teeth bared in a big doggy grin, and Brad’s face right next to him, mimicking the expression with his tongue hanging out. “Sean’a is always saying he takes after his daddy.”
“Poor thing,” said Wayne with a smirk. “--It’s a good picture, though,” he added hastily, catching sight of Brad lifting a glass of ice water and pulling it back to his shoulder like a pitcher winding up for the toss. “Did Sean’a take it?”
“Sure did,” Brad said, leisurely popping one of the ice cubes into his mouth before setting down the glass. “She’s been doing a lot of photography these days; even makes a little money off it sometimes.”
“Is that why she isn’t here tonight? She’s doing a shoot?”
“Yeah,” said Brad. Then he thought it over, frowned. “Well, sort of. She’s on one of those photo expedition field trips with a bunch of her friends, learning how to work in low-level lighting, things like that.” He shrugged. “She isn’t supposed to be back till late tomorrow, and I’ve got to be halfway across the country by the middle of next week -- I figured I might as well not miss my last chance to kick back in L.A. before I leave.”
“So that‘s why you‘re here.” Wayne’s voice was quiet, thoughtful.
Brad kept his eyes on the table, tracing the edge of his coaster with a finger. “Yup, that’s why I‘m here.”
Just then, the waitress dropped off Brad’s second drink along with the tab.
“I’m treating,” Brad announced, pulling his wallet back out.
“No, you’re not.”
“I insist. I’ve even got exact change here somewhere.” He dug around in the change pocket. “Just know I’ve got a quarter….”
“I’ve got a quarter,” said Wayne, looking indulgently amused.
“No, it’s okay -- ah, here we go. Tada!” He flipped the coin up sparkling with his thumb, caught it with a slap over his wrist. “Call it.”
Wayne shrugged. “Tails.”
Brad lifted his hand. “Heads,” he said with a smirk, and revealed the coin to Wayne.
“Not my lucky night.”
“I’ll say. Now, I want you to go up there to the karaoke guy, ask him to play something bluesy--”
“--Wait, wait a minute. Say what?”
“Shut up and I’ll tell you. Now, I want you to go up there, ask for something bluesy, and when the guy asks your name, you tell him ‘Wet Biscuit McGlee.’ You get my drift?”
But Wayne was already shaking his head, leaning back in his chair, looking like any second he was going to get up and leave. “Uh-uh. Nothing doing.”
“I dare you.”
“No!” Wayne laughed.
“I double-dog dare you -- now go on!”
“They aren’t going to have any blues songs….”
“Then just pick something close.” Brad tilted his head and gave him his best puppy dog look. “C’mon, Wayne, humor me a little.”
“Humor, huh? Like you need anything to laugh at…” But he was already out of his chair and on his way up to the dais.
There was another guy just in front of him who was in the laborious process of introducing himself and his song with the help of the emcee. So while he was busy, Wayne took the opportunity to talk with the woman running the karaoke machine. She handed him a stack of CDGs; Brad could see him scanning the song lists on the back of each one. As the song drew to a close early -- the guy couldn’t handle a Garth Brooks tune any better than he could handle his liquor, apparently -- Wayne made his choice and pointed out the song to the machine operator. She nodded and indicated that he should take the stage.
“Well, hey there!” said the man with the mike, heading over toward Wayne with a smile that was starting to seem forced at the edges. “And who might you be, sir?”
“Ma neem is Wet Biscuit McGlee.” Wayne mimed pouring water over a biscuit and then biting into it for the benefit of the audience. Some of the faces Brad could see were chuckling; most simply stared in puzzlement.
“And, uh, you’re about to sing--” the emcee checked quickly with the machine operator “--‘Don’t Know Why’ by Norah Jones? Is that right?”
“Och aye,” affirmed Wet Biscuit.
“O-kay then,” said the man, giving over his mike and backing away cautiously. The intro had already started. Wayne hummed along in a lazy way, slowly ambling his way to the front of the dais. Then the words came up on the monitor, and he started to sing:
“Ah weeded till ah sew the sun
Ah doona wah ah didna comb
Ah lived ye bah the how sa fun
Ah doona wah ah didna comb
Ah doona wah ah didna comb….”
Lit from all around by a ring of golden footlights, Wayne looked like a cross between an angel incarnate and The Human Torch. Brad ate the whole thing up with relish, every now and then casting glances around at faces at the tables around him, and grinning wider at their dawning amazement that at least one person in the place could actually sing.
At one point, when he reached the bridge, Wayne had his hand stretched out beseechingly, and he was crooning as high as his versatile tenor could take him while still somehow managing to sound sultry and unintelligible and Scottish, all at the same time. His eyes searched out Brad’s eyes in the audience and he threw him a brazen wink. Brad made a show out of covering his heart with one hand and faking the beginning of a swoon (all for the benefit of a gaggle of twentysomething beauties who seemed to be checking him out from over by the bar).
He was so caught up in his performance, in fact, that he didn’t even notice that Wayne had come down from the dais until he felt a hand grab him by the elbow and start dragging him bodily up to the stage. The music was still playing -- it had gone into the instrumental section of the song -- and once Wayne was back behind the mike, he took the opportunity to introduce his unwilling accomplice to the masses. Brad wasn’t really listening; he was too busy trying to adjust his eyes to the sudden glare of the footlights, so it came as a complete surprise to him when Wayne suddenly said, “Ticket a’wee, Brrrrraddie boy!” and pushed him to the front of the stage.
At a loss for anything else to do, but always an improviser to the end, Brad shrugged and launched into his best harmonica impression just a couple of bars before Wayne joined in with the last verse. Together they harmonized right up until the final repetition of the title line: “Ah doona wah ah didna comb; doona wah ah didna comb….”
The applause that followed the two men back to their seats was scattered but enthusiastic. Brad was grinning and bowing like an idiot; Wayne looking amused and ashamed by turns. Brad noticed, and gave his shoulder a quick punch before they sat back down.
“C’mon, it wasn’t that bad, man. I mean, you’ve lost some polish, but I still sound pretty good, if I do say so myself.” He started buffing his knuckles on the front of his shirt.
“You would,” Wayne chuckled, reaching across the table to punch him back. “Just give me one good reason why I shouldn’t slaughter you right now.”
“Easy,” said Brad cheerily. “If I were dead, we couldn’t make all this beautiful music together. Scottish blues, the squirrel and the golf bag--”
Wayne interrupted his reminiscing with a snort. “That was beautiful?”
“It was beyond beautiful, man. That one was classic.” Brad lifted his glass, about to say more in memory of songs past, when he heard a giggle. He looked up to find they’d both been surrounded by the gaggle of twentysomethings from the bar, as well as the waitress looking to pick up payment for the drinks.
“It’s okay, we’ll take care of it,” said the ringleader of the group, handing the waitress a credit card from her purse while smiling sidelong at Brad. “You two were on that show, right? Y’know, like with the fat guy an’ --an’ the tall guy?”
“Ooh, and the cute bald guy,” one of the others giggled.
“Yup, I was the black guy,” said Brad, pointing a thumb at himself proudly.
“An’ ah was ‘is illegi’imate Sco’ish twin,” Wayne added in his worst brogue. They both exchanged looks, smiles stretched tight to contain their laughter.
“Aw! You guys are so cute together!”
“Hey! Who said we were together?” exclaimed Brad, sitting back and feigning shock. “We’re twins, remember?”
“Homey doon’ play thot,” added Wayne, looking offended.
The women cracked up at that, and insisted on more songs and more drinks for all of them. Wayne ordered a glass of water for himself, but somehow it got confused with somebody else’s vodka, and by the time it was all sorted out he’d already had two glasses and somebody was ordering him a third. More singing ensued, followed by more drinking. One of the women asked if they could get their autographs, and Brad said sure, even though he wasn’t exactly certain what his own name was by that time, but it was okay because Wayne still remembered. So they both signed each others’ names on cocktail napkins and gave them out as keepsakes. By that time, the gaggle had to leave, but they ordered one last round of drinks for the road.
“You drink them for us, sweetie,” said the ringleader, bending over to kiss Brad on the cheek. He watched the group giggle off through the double doors in a heady haze of perfume and alcohol fumes, and grinned over at Wayne.
“I think they liked us, man.”
“Nah, it’s just the celebrity fishbowl… thing.”
“What’s this about fishhhhh?” Brad drew out the word as long as he could, until they were both slumped over and shaking with laughter.
“You’re crazy.”
“‘N you’re drunk.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll be sober in the morning. Tomorrow you’ll still be shuckin’ batfit -- I mean…” He tried to sort out his words, but Brad was sniggering silently out the side of his mouth. “Hey, don’t you be laughing at me! Smug sonuva--”
Brad reached out and clapped a hand over Wayne’s mouth as a group of older ladies hustled by on their way out the door. One of them turned her head to glare disapprovingly at the two of them. “Language, young man,” murmured Brad in his prissy voice when she was safely out of earshot. “Your mama oughta clean out your mouth for you.”
Wayne shoved his hand away and laughed. “Oh, dude, don’t even get me started on yo mama.”
“I think you were just about to….”
“Yeah, if you hadn’t put your hand all up in my face.”
Brad laughed again, and wiped his hand on his shirt. “I think we’d better get you home to Mandie, man.”
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Wayne protested weakly.
“Prob’ly not, but it’s too late for me to think of a better one. Where’s your car?”
“Outside.”
“In the parking lot or on the curb?”
“Parking lot.”
“Okay, then they probably won’t tow it till tomorrow sometime. Me and Sean’a can get it sorted out for you before then. C’mon.” He stood up, reaching out a hand to help Wayne, and nearly got pulled over for his trouble. And then once Wayne was up, they both had to maneuver their way through the narrow spaces between people who were still sitting too far from their tables.
“What time is it?” Brad asked their waitress as they passed her.
“Nearly ten,” she said, checking her watch. “Seems like it should be later, doesn’t it?” Wayne tried to nod and nearly overbalanced. Brad stumbled, but kept them both in an upright position.
“Is he going to be okay?” the waitress asked, looking concerned. “I’ll call a cab if you want.”
“Yeah, if you would,” Brad said, and from his other side Wayne murmured, “Aye, tha’s grrrrret.”
The waitress shook her head at the two of them, not quite smiling. “I’ll go get that taken care of then.”
Wayne watched her leave. “Didja leaf tha lassie a guid tip, then?”
“You bet I did. C’mon, Wet Biscuit,” Brad chuckled, and led the way outside.
At the curb they stopped. Wayne swayed, but was able to stand on his own. Brad stepped away, stretched his back.
“Well, this was a quite a reunion, huh?”
“Mm-hm,” murmured Wayne, watching the lights of the cars go by with a fascination reserved for the young and the very intoxicated.
“Seriously, though, you ought to do some improv with us, man.”
“At the Comedy Store?” asked Wayne woozily.
“No, I mean, I was thinking…” He propped his hand on a light post, so he wouldn’t have to be concentrating on his balance and talking at the same time. “Sometime when Colin and me are back in the area, doing a show, you ought to come play along with us.”
“Sure,” Wayne laughed. “I’ll think about it.”
Brad regarded him steadily, or tried. “You’re not going to, are you?”
Wayne shrugged, chuckled. “Probably not.” For a moment they both stood there, looking down at the pavement until, “Shuckin’ fruitbats…” Wayne muttered under his breath, and both of them broke down into giggles.
Just then the cab pulled up. Brad opened the door for his friend. From her seat, the driver glanced back at them through her rearview mirror. “Where to, boys?”
“He’ll tell you,” Brad said, gesturing to Wayne as he all but fell into the backseat. The driver looked from one to the other of them, sighed, and shook her grey head. Brad beamed innocently at her before backing up, stepping away from the door. Inside, Wayne managed to ease himself back into a sitting position, laughing all the while his distinctive laugh, that old man’s hee-hee-hee that Brad hadn’t remembered missing before just that evening.
“We made beautiful music together.” Brad said again, trying to keep his voice light and sappy.
“Yeah. Yeah, we did. Love you, man.” He leaned out of the backseat of the cab and pulled Brad close in a hug. He still smelled like success, Brad thought. Like everlasting sunshine, like being young and carefree forever.
“Love you too.”
“See you around?”
“Yeah.” Over the sudden noise of the engine revving up, Brad mimed holding a phone to his ear and mouthed, “Call me?”
As the cab pulled away, he could see Wayne through the back window, making the OK sign at him. He seemed to be saying something too, but between the glare of streetlights sliding over the glass and the increasing distance between them, Brad couldn’t make out what. He watched until the taillights swung around a far corner, and then returned to his own car, intending to sleep it all off until the orange nighttime haze over the parking lot faded into a smoggy dawn, and the coffee shops opened back up for business.
*****
If anybody wants the un-Scotchified lyrics to Don’t Know Why, you can read them at this site. The Wet Biscuit version, on the other hand, can be found here.
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