Friday, December 18, 2009

The Concert

"Should we call Bumblebees With Migraines?"

"No, Mangy Wolves are my favorite!"

"New Stiff Shoes, they're the greatest."

"What about The Bad Eggs?"

The Fourth of July was to be a celebration to top all others. They were to have a carnival, a dunking booth, several concession stands, and a singing group. The council couldn't agree on what singing group to invite. A decision was finally voted upon by some extra and impartial tie breakers, whose opinions were that all four rock groups should be called, and that the lowest priced one was to be hired without further discussion.

Bumblebees were called first, but it turned out their manager was buzzed and unavailable.

Mangy Wolves were then tried, but the curt and surely answering service said they were completely booked through August.

New Stiff Shoes had a very polite office manager who very politely told them that there was no way a group as great as they would play in such a very small town for anything near what they were offering to pay.

The Bad Eggs said they had a previous booking for that day, and that it was unlikely they'd be able to make it on time.

A real fuss and flutter arose among the council members, and some said there would be no music at all or that they would have to use recorded music instead of a live band.

One lowly man suggested that they ask some local high school talent, four kids who played in their garage, to do the honors, while also explaining (with much adjustment of his glasses) that the kids would probably not ask for money, and would be glad just to gain a little recognition.

Once agreed upon, the youths were solemnly greeted by the aforementioned bespectacled fellow who visited their hangout while they were in the act of their weekly practice. The idea was accepted with cheers, hoots, and slaps on the back, and they promised to show up early.

The holiday came, and the kids played their hearts out. Everyone paused many times to hear the prodigies share their united sound, even amidst the browsing of many other attractions. All but their parents and teachers were astonished, and the ones who knew their abilities were nearly bursting with pride at such accomplishment. A steady beat, full of pep and attitude, swept the whole town off their feet.

Then, and only then, did The Bad Eggs arrive. They had been told by their manager that a small town had offered decent pay for their services, and that since their previous engagement canceled they may as well make their way down to the area. They stood around watching the kids, and the unshaven spokesperson for the group, a certain Lee White, mentioned that the group would require a kill fee of 50%.

"You'll get no such thing," said the atypically short-winded mayor.

The music continued to tap in the feet of the listeners, and the Egg group got another bright idea. Lead guitarist Melvin Y. Oak decided they needed to add this talent into their own mix and offered to hire the kids to go with them on the road.

The kids, when a break came, were motioned over to speak with the group's manager, amid many sighs and cautioning glares from those who knew them.

"No way," said Ken. "I'm going to be a doctor. Music is for the weekends and such."

"Me neither," said Brent. "I'm already half owner in my ranch, and I've got stock to raise."

"I'm going to law school as soon as I can," added Gus. "I can't go on the road."

"Culinary arts are my practical side," chimed Oliver. "Musical arts are an additional plus, but I'm going to be a chef, thanks the same."

So The Bad Eggs, disappointed and without recourse or contract, slid off in their bus to help someone else enjoy the afternoon.


  1. Excellent read. The list-like format to detail the response of each party is used well in particular. Though it's hard to reconcile the post-Dickensian whimsy with the blog format. Two worlds that were never meant to collide!

    So is this stand-alone or part of a novel or...?

  2. Thanks for your comment. I guess the best way to describe it is to call it an overgrown poem. The idea crystallized in my mind in the same way a poem would, but it needed more explanation and could not be boxed into rhyme and meter without a loss of quality.