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The Baffled Beatlemaniac Caper (2nd rev. ed.)

By Sally Carpenter

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Chapter 1: (Just Like) Starting Over
Los Angeles, 1993

“So what you’re telling me is that my career is dead.”

“I wouldn’t say your job prospects are that hopeless, Ernest. More like they’re in intensive care on life support.” Marshall yanked open the door of my side-by-side refrigerator, a monstrosity large enough to hold a frozen moose, and rummaged around. “Why don’t you ever buy what I like? A guy could starve around here.”
“You’re an agent. You’re only entitled to ten percent of my food.”

I pushed him aside long enough to nab some sandwich fixings from the fridge. Marshall resumed his foraging while I took a package of hoagie rolls from an overhead cabinet and built a monster sub using leftover tri-tip and plenty of hot mustard and horseradish. When finished, I placed the sandwich on a paper plate. So much for the culinary skills of bachelor living. In the background, classical music played low over the speaker system hidden throughout the Hollywood Hills house that I’d bought in 1975 with royalties from my first album, Sincerely Yours, Sandy. I love all types of music, but classical relaxes me the most.

“You’re out of beer,” he said.

“I dumped it down the sink.”

Marshall removed his curly-topped head from the inner depths of the fridge and cocked a black eyebrow at me.

“I quit,” I continued.

He’d heard this many times before. “Oh?”

“I mean it, Marshall. This time’s for keeps.”

He opened the cabinet where I used to store my wine and hard liquor. Empty. “Looks like you’re right. Congratulations! I’m happy to hear it. When did this happen?”

I checked my wristwatch. “I took my last drink twenty-two hours and fifteen minutes ago, but if I don’t get out of the house and do something soon, I’ll go crazy.”

I reached into the fridge for a cold bottle of O’Doul’s, popped off the cap with a metal opener fastened to the end of the island, and took a big swig. It didn’t have the same kick as beer but going through the motions made me feel better.

Marshall took a fountain pen from the inside pocket of his burgundy pinstripe jacket, made a note on a page in his leather-bound memo book, tore off the paper, and handed it to me. “That’s the day and time and phone number of one of the Alcoholics Anonymous groups that meets at my temple. The groups are open to the public. This one is host to mostly power players in the industry. You might meet some people you’ve worked with.”

“Thanks, I’ll check it out.” I stuck the note under a magnet on the front of the refrigerator so I wouldn’t lose it. “Now, about that job. . .”

Marshall held out his hands and shrugged. “What am I, a magician? Times have changed since the ‘70s, Ernest. The music industry of the ‘90s wants techno and hip-hop, not cute boy acts. The old producers are gone, and the new kids in charge don’t know Sandy Fairfax,” the stage name given to me by my former manager.

My agent returned to ransacking the refrigerator and took out a paper plate with a leftover piece of Marie Callender’s chocolate pie covered in plastic wrap and a can of PowerPunch energy drink. The rat—I was saving that pie for later. I don’t know how that young guy can pack away food the way he does and stay skinny. Must be all that golf he plays with the studio suits. Marshall opened a drawer under the center island and picked out a dessert fork.

I scratched my scraggly beard. “Yesterday I talked to my ex. Becka won’t let me see my kids again until I’m sober and working. All right, so I’m working hard on the drying out part, but Marshall, I need your help in finding work.”

“Are you sure you feel like working? You haven’t made a public appearance in five years.”

“Yes, I’m sure. C’mon, Marshall, what do you say? I’m open to any gigs you got. At this point I’ll even sing at a high school prom. I’ll do anything to get my children back.”

“Believe me, Ernest, if I had a job for you, I’d—” He snapped his fingers. “Wait a minute. Now that I think about it, something crossed my desk last week.”

“You didn’t tell me?”

“I assumed you wouldn’t be interested.”

“So let’s go outside and we’ll talk about it.”

He glanced at my sandwich. “Not until you make me one of those.”

I frowned. “You’re like a stray dog. You only come here because I feed you.”

But I knew Marshall well. He never talked business without a plate of food or a drink in his hand. I dutifully made another sandwich and handed it to him on a paper plate. I opened the sliding glass door that led to my backyard and went outside, carrying my sandwich and the bottle of O’Doul’s. My flip-flops slapped the tile as I crossed the poolside patio. I eased my six-foot-two-inch frame into a wrought-iron chair. Marshall followed me, with the pilfered pie, the sandwich and the PowerPunch in hand, and sat across the wrought-iron table from me. He unbuttoned his jacket, the closest he ever gets to casual. He probably sleeps in a tie. As for me, I was comfy in an old ragged T-shirt and shorts. We ate as we talked.

The mid-morning California sun glinted off the pool ripples. The birds chirped merrily in the trees and the honeysuckle growing in the bushes smelled great. In my sobriety I finally noticed details like that. But I had no time to stop and smell the roses. I needed this job that Marshall dangled in front of me.

“I took a call from a woman who wants you to speak at a Swingin’ Sixties Weekend event,” said the agent. “It’s more or less a gathering for Beatles fans.”

“They want me for a Beatles convention?” I tossed my head back to get the long blond hair out of my face. “Why?”

“Because Ringo guest starred on your TV show. The woman wants you to come and talk about working with him.”

“Oh, that. Now that you mentioned it, I remember Ringo.” I chuckled at the fond but distant memory. “Haven’t thought about him in years. We had some good times together, but I don’t know what I can say about him. We hung out a few times after he did the episode, but we’re not close.”

“Doesn’t matter. Beatle fanatics adore anyone who so much as caught a glimpse of the guys walking down the road.”

“When is it? This convention?”

“Labor Day weekend.”

“That’s the end of this week. Not much lead time.”

“I got the impression that this wingding is being slapped together at the last minute. The organizer whom I talked to sounded rather disorganized herself.”

“Keep talking. Where is this gig?”

“Evansville, Indiana. Midsize city on the Ohio River.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Sure you have. You sang there back in 1972 at Roberts Stadium.”

“Did I?”

“The woman I talked to had seen your show.” He opened the can of PowerPunch, took a sip, held the can at arm’s length, and scrunched up his face. “How can you drink this stuff? What’s in it? Gasoline?”

“I gave up booze, not caffeine. Cut me some slack.” I’d finished with the O’Doul’s, so I grabbed the PowerPunch from him and gulped some down. “This gig sounds easy enough. How much trouble can I get into at a fan convention?”

Had I known the answer to that question, I’d have run inside, locked the doors, and never left the house again.

“Now about your fee.” Marshall rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward. Nothing made him happier than talking about money. “They’re not offering much, just expenses and an insult of an honorarium. Frankly, Ernest, it’s a small shindig and the organizer said they can’t afford your usual fee.”

“I don’t care. I have to start working somewhere. In a couple of years I’ll turn forty and I don’t want to end up on a TV show like Whatever Happened to Your Favorite Washed-up Seventies Has-been?”

“Anyway, the money doesn’t matter. I turned down the offer.”

I snatched Marshall’s plate away from him.

He tried to grab it back. “Wait! I’m still eating!”

“Lunch break’s over. Get on the phone, call that girl back, and tell her I’m coming.”

“You’re kidding. Do you really want to do this convention?”

I stood, kicked back my chair and carried the plates into the kitchen, where I dumped the remains of lunch into the garbage bin. I’d dreamed of making a huge splash of a comeback like Elvis and his riveting ’68 TV special, but you can’t always get what you want. At least if I started at the bottom, I’d have nowhere to go but up.

“Yes, I really want to do it.”

He stood at the slider. “You won’t make any money on it.”

I eyed his expensive clothes. “Then you’ll just have to buy your suits at a thrift store.”

As always, Marshall got in the last word. “In that case, the first thing you must do is to call my stylist in Beverly Hills for a shave and a haircut. The fans are paying to see Sandy Fairfax, not Grizzly Adams.”
 

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