“I get it,” said Lips, also enjoying the moment far more than anything he’d experienced in recent days. “Now, call information.”
Boots picked up the phone, talked to the operator, and dialed the radio station. “I need to talk to Freddie Dunster right now, it’s an emergency,” he said into the receiver.
“I don’t care if he’s on the air,” he said after a few seconds of listening. “You tell him it’s Boots Klondike on the phone, and I guarantee you he’ll want to talk to me.” Several more seconds. “Yeah, I’ll wait.”
“Give him hell, Klondike,” Lips said as Boots waited for the dj to come onto the phone. “Show him what you’re still made of.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Boots said. “What? No, I wasn’t talking to you,” he said into the receiver. “Yes, I am talking to you now. Where’s Dunster?”
Boots then heard a loud hissing sound, followed by several bumping noises, and then a familiar voice saying, “Alright, whoever this really is, you are now live on the radio. Listeners, the person I am about to talk to just called the station claiming to be Boots Klondike, who we know was killed in a car crash last night. Caller, what kind of sick person are you?”
“The same kind I’ve always been,” said Boots. “Listen, Dunster, before you embarrass yourself any further, I was not killed in a car crash last night, this call is not coming from the Afterlife, and I am going to sue you for libel if you continue to say that I’m dead.”
The DJ, who had met Boots on several occasions, was pretty sure that he was talking to the genuine article, and visions of unemployment lines began dancing in his head. “Caller, if you actually are who you say you are, why is it being reported that you are dead?”
“I was in an accident last night, and I am in the hospital with some injuries, but I was only dead for a short period of time,” said Boots. “I am in the process of making a full recovery, and when I do I’m going to come over there and kick your ass.”
“Now, Boots,” said Dunster, who by this time was sure he had the rocker on the phone, and began backpedaling. “I was just doing my job. We were told that you were dead, and considered it our public duty to report the news.”
“Who told you?, asked Boots.
“I’m not at liberty to reveal my source,” said the DJ.
“Integrity doesn’t suit you,” said Boots. “And if you don’t tell me you may not be at liberty at all.”
“He said he was a medical associate at the hospital,” said Dunster.
“Well, whether or not he is,” said Boots, picturing Dr. Roberts’ loitering Geek Chorus, “he is misinformed.”
“And we’re thrilled to hear it,” said Dunster, anxious to get back on track. “And to celebrate, we’re going to declare today Boots Klondike Day here at the station.”
“Just stop saying I’m dead; that’s enough for me,” said Boots.
“You got it,” said the DJ. “But wait a minute, did you or did you not just say you actually were dead for a short period of time?”
“That’s what my doctor tells me.”
“But that is an extraordinary statement, Boots. You actually left this world and came back. Do you remember anything about that experience, and if so, could you share it with our listeners?,” asked Dunster whose visions were now replaced by large ratings points and newspaper headlines.
“Sure,” said Boots, who as he spoke began remembering, for the first time, the strange vision he’d experienced. “I remember whistling, and then all of a sudden I found myself in a dark place, in a long line of strange people, facing a very bright light that was slowly moving forward. I wasn’t afraid, but instead expecting something mysterious and wonderful. As the light came closer, I could see that it actually was carried by a figure in a strange form of garb. This figure talked to each of the people in front of me, who then disappeared. As the line got shorter, I could see that the light was actually a big flashlight the figure was carrying, and I began to make out the outlines of what looked like a large theater.
As the figure approached me, I saw that he was wearing a small flat cap and matching jacket. He shined the light in my face, and said, quite loudly, ‘Heaven or Hell?’ I was unsure how to respond, and the figure said to me, ‘c’mon, what did you pay for?’ I realized suddenly what was happening, and pushed my way out of the line, screaming, `I don’t have a ticket for this show.’ I ran towards the Exit sign, and found myself in the lobby. Two large placards stood by the door. The first, labeled Heaven, was showing a continuous Orson Welles festival. The second, marked Hell, had a large picture of Lassie on it and said, `All day, every day.’ I began running faster, and the next thing I knew I was back in my hospital bed, staring at the ugly artwork on the walls.”
“That’s an incredible story,” said the DJ.
“Yeah, it is kinda incredible at that, isn’t it,” said Boots, handing the receiver to Lips, who had been listening in over his friend’s shoulder. “Pretty incredible.”
# # #
As luck, or fate, or mischance would have it, Lips was not the only member of the Boots entourage to have been listening to the radio at 3 a.m., and therefore to have heard the melancholy but mistaken news that the central character in their life’s play had been cued too early for his final bow.
Tom “The Captain” Driver, periodically loved, recurrently hated, rarely ignored, manager of, advisor to, and provider for Boots Klondike and The Euphonious Echoes since before their sound had bounced back to anyone, was in his usual spot at that hour of the night, which was not, as might be expected from looking at the broader statistics, in bed asleep.
Instead, were anyone to come looking for him -- a lingering fear of his that in fact contributed to the very state of wakefulness in which he perpetually found himself to be -- they would find him sitting at the desk in his study, actually a large closet cleared of clothing, consisting of a large desk and nothing else -- alternately staring at the wall several inches from his face and typing furiously on the manual Woodstock which he had found when he had cleared out the closet in the first place.
While the Captain had, through his efforts on behalf of the Echoes, literally managed to secure himself a comfortable living, he continued to aspire to a career the output of which would enable him and him alone to shine, and his ambitions leaned in a literary direction, owing largely to a book report he’d written on Tom Sawyer in the sixth grade, on which the teacher’s only comment had been “Weed the garden of your prose,” which remark the Captain had taken solely as encouragement (but had it been intended that way, he found himself wondering in moments of doubt, which were increasingly filling up his calendar) and therefore had been attempting to cultivate a classic ever since.
The fact that his talents, such as they were, lay in the direction of nurturing and guiding rock and roll musicians, not words, did not dissuade him from his lofty ambition, although he was conflicted regarding his dedication to his dream and his devotion to his duties, which centered around Boots and the band, to whom he was connected not only in a professional but also a spiritual way, as a minister is connected to his flock (publish or parish, the Captain occasionally thought).
Reflected glory was all well and good (and not a bad name for a rock band, he told himself whenever his thoughts turned to his creative endeavors, which was more often than not these days), but, all too aware of the careers of his compatriots and mentors, specifically the managers of Elvis and The Beatles, one overbearing and vilified, the other rendered superfluous and now dead, the Captain was increasingly zealous about making his mark, and the vivid mental image of his name boldly printed on a book jacket was the carrot that kept him not only in the race but metaphorically huffing and puffing towards the finish line, a cloud of dust obscuring any possible competitors.
The Captain’s pet project, the one he was counting on to lift his name from the borders of fame to a central location, and the task with which he was fervently occupied as the radio murmured in the background, was a series of science fiction novels featuring the American presidents as protagonists. These tales (to be known collectively as InALIENable Rites), would retain the essential characteristics, ethical and flawed, of each of the chief executives, but create from there a sequence of extraordinary circumstances in which our leaders would do battle against unimagined future evil, making the world safe again for truth, justice, and unprecedented book sales.
The first entry in the hopefully lengthy series, and the book over which the Captain currently labored, took as its central thesis the theory that Richard Nixon, the 37th president of the United States, was actually a visitor from another world whose famous blunders and evil deeds were in fact long-held and carefully designed rituals, the carrying out of which was necessary to achieve manhood on his home planet, Crisis Six.
As envisioned by the Captain, on this particular world, somewhere in space, the Kitchen Debates, the Checkers speech, Watergate and virtually the entire Nixonian litany were individual rites of passage, and hopeful candidates were sent to different worlds to perform them, thereby achieving manhood and official authorization to return.
In this case, Tricky Dick performed his duties so well that the Elders decided he was exerting a much more effective influence than he ever would at home, as his performance also helped test the waters for a possible invasion from above. If that sage body could have known how weak the population actually would have been made by a regiment of Nixons, they wouldn’t have hesitated for a nanosecond. Alas, mind reading and gauging the thoughts of the Earth’s populace was not among their talents. Instead, the Elders had perfected the art of subterfuge, misappropriation of funds and tape recording.
While deep into the Nixon book, tentatively titled “A Plague o’ Your Milhaus’,” the Captain was already plotting his next book, “The Declaration of InterGalactic Dependence,” focusing on a mysterious and not altogether benevolent alien being, manifesting itself not in physical form but instead as a pleasant smelling mist, which finds itself, through a technological malfunction of ludicrously large proportions, trapped in Thomas Jefferson’s living quarters on the second floor of the three story house at the corner of Market and Seventh Streets in Philadelphia in 1776.
Clacking away on the ancient typewriter keys, working on the scene in which the hero of his story tells the press they won’t have him to kick around anymore, confident that he is about to be recalled to Crisis Six for further instructions, The Captain found himself typing the word “Boots.” Unable for several seconds to figure out what the musician had to do with the Nixon/Helen Gahagan Douglas contest, and why he had suddenly entered the story, apparently against both the author’s and history’s will, The Captain realized that the radio was spurting out a story concerning his client, and he leaned over to turn the volume up.
“...whose hit “Read My Mind” first brought him and his band, the Euphonious Echoes, to fame, was tragically killed last night in an auto accident. We’re sorry to have to report this shocking news, but will bring you an update as soon as we learn more details...”
Before he quite knew what he was doing, The Captain jumped up from his desk chair, grabbed the first thing he could, which happened to be the radio in question, and FLUNG it at the wall in front of him. The close proximity of his target not being particularly conducive to dramatic gestures of this, or really any other, kind, the radio made an immediate impact, causing its varied components to scatter widely, most plummeting onto The Captain’s head, causing minor injuries of which he would become aware only much later that day, many landing on the desk, and one particularly recalcitrant circuit falling into the Woodstock itself, causing an already sticky “r” key to forever after require unusual force to make itself known.
Recovering sufficiently from this unexpected but self-inflicted shower of sundry plastic and metallic parts, but still rattled at the news, The Captain ran out of the closet into his bedroom, picked up the phone and started dialing Lips, unaware that he too was part of the story, however inaccurately it had been reported.
“C’mon Lips, wake up and answer the Goddamn phone,” The Captain said out loud. “This is no time to be asleep.”
After letting it ring long enough to convince himself that Lips was not there or not in any condition to answer his call, The Captain slammed the phone down and dialed Sparks. Unfortunately, he was not home either, but instead with Smarts at a midnight marathon screening of “A Hard Day’s Night,” “Help,” “Yellow Submarine” and “Let It Be” (“Spend The Night With The Beatles,” read the somewhat provocative ad in the paper), and as The Captain listened to the annoying and persistent “brrnng” of the phone, Sparks and Smarts were happily singing along to the chorus of “Eleanor Rigby” at the top of their lungs, which, had this not also been true for the rest of the theater occupants, would have been the cause for much complaint.
Half way through his attempt to reach Smarts, it occurred to the Captain that who he really should be contacting was the radio station, not only because it was the source of his current state of acute consternation, but also due to the important consideration that there was sure to be someone there to answer the phone.
“WAHU-FM, where the songs are something to yell about,” said the night operator at the station. “How can I help you?”
“I desperately need some further information on the alleged death of Boots Klondike!,” howled The Captain into her ear.
“I’m sorry,” said the operator. “All the DJs are currently on the air, and there is no one to talk to right now. Would you like to hold or call back later this morning?”
“Look, you don’t seem to understand. My name is Tom Driver, I am the manager of Boots Klondike and The Euphonious Echoes, and I need to see whether or not I still have a job!,” yelled The Captain, who in his current frenzied state did not articulate his sentiments as dispassionately or as disinterestedly as he might have in other and more sedate circumstances.
“I see. I’ll try to connect you to Mr. Dunster as soon as he is through talking to the party to which he is currently connected,” said the night operator.
“Tell him it’s truly a matter of life and death,” said the Captain.
“At this hour pretty much everything is,” said the night operator, after which The Captain heard a series of grinding, buzzing and whirring noises, followed by a voice which said, “Well, listeners, it most definitely is Boots Klondike day here at WAHU, because I now have on the phone none other than Mr. Tom Driver, the illustrious manager of the aforementioned musician and his wonderful band, the Euphonious Echoes, in whose story Mr. Driver has played and continues to play a pivotal role, and, I might add, a true gentleman of the music industry, and we are honored...”
“Shut the fuck up and tell me what you know about Boots being dead!,” screamed The Captain, causing Freddie Dunster, who in actuality had never met him, to stop speaking at the same time that he made a mental note to remember to revise his description of said individual in the future. “Tell me what the fuck happened, who the fuck is responsible, when the fuck you found out about it, where the fuck he was, and why the fuck I had to hear it from you!”
“Such language, Mr. Driver” said Dunster, who by this time was staring at his station manager frantically trying to awaken the night engineer, who due to the lateness of the hour had fallen asleep on the console on which the “Delay” button, which got stuck in the best of times, was located. “I don’t appreciate it, our listeners don’t appreciate it, and the FCC certainly doesn’t appreciate it.”
“What do you mean, ‘our listeners,’ “said The Captain, who in his frenzy had not become aware that the current conversation was actually being broadcast.
“You are on the air, Mr. Driver, and have been since you began,” said Dunster, who now desperately was trying to sound calm even though he couldn’t actually remember if he had told Driver that he was on the air, the penalty for which the DJ was not exactly sure of but knew was probably somewhere in the vicinity of allowing a guest to say “fuck.”
“I don’t want to be on the air, Goddamn it, I want to know what happened to Boots!,” screeched The Captain.
“You obviously don’t listen to our station,” said Dunster, whose fear of reprisal from the powers that be was quickly turning to anger focused directly on his present caller. “Because if you did you would be aware of the conversation we broadcast immediately prior to yours.”
“I obviously fucking do,” said The Captain. “Otherwise how would I know you aired a story on Boots’ accident?”
“One more outburst and I’m going to cut you off!,” said Dunster.
“Keep delaying from telling me what I want to know and I will cut you off, and I don’t mean from the radio!,” said The Captain.
“I’ve been trying to do exactly that,” said Dunster, who was now hopeful that a direct threat would have a mitigating effect on the various legal difficulties he imagined he was now facing.
“Cut me off?,” said The Captain.
“No, tell you what you want to know,” said Dunster.
“THEN DO IT!,” yelled The Captain.
“Boots is alive and well and currently living in Good Samaritan Hospital as well as in the hearts of all his fans,” said Dunster.
“He’s not dead,” asked The Captain.
“No, he’s not, and you would know that if you had continued listening to the radio after you heard our report,” said Dunster. “We were talking to him on the air and he sounded just fine.”
“I had some trouble tuning in the station,” said The Captain, at the same time that what looked like a small piece of transistor fell from somewhere on his person to somewhere else on the floor. “But if he’s not dead, why is he in the hospital?”
“Our report was not entirely without merit,” said Dunster. “He did have an accident, he is in the hospital, but he’s not dead.”
“Two out of three isn’t bad,” said The Captain, unable to suppress his usual sarcastic tendencies.
“Our feeling exactly,” said Dunster, as usual missing any sarcasm, implied or direct.
“Let me ask you a question,” said The Captain. “If he’s not dead, and I’m extremely happy to hear that he isn’t, why would you behave in such an irresponsible manner as to announce publicly that he was, without first checking your facts to make sure that what you said was indeed accurate?”
“We had good reason to believe that we knew what we were talking about,” said Dunster.
“How did that new experience, even though it turned out to be a false one, feel?,” asked The Captain.
“As I’ve said, we felt we were doing our duty to our listeners, and now regret passing on inaccurate information,” said Dunster.
“Can I ask you one more question?,” said The Captain. “HOW THE FUCK DID YOU EVER GET ON THE AIR”
“Practice,” said Dunster, hanging up the phone.
Not unhappy to be through with the conversation, and very happy to hear that Boots was still to be counted among the living, The Captain looked up the number for Good Samaritan Hospital in the phone book, and dialed.
“Good Samaritan, where the sick become healthy,” said the night nurse who answered the phone.
“I’d like to speak with a patient named Boots Klondike right away,” said The Captain.
“Sir, it’s 4 in the morning. All our patients our asleep,” said the nurse.
“I happen to know that this particular patient is not asleep, and that he was just being interviewed on the radio,” said the Captain.
“I find that hard to believe, sir. Being interviewed on the radio would be highly unusual, not to mention against hospital regulations,” said the nurse.
Continued on Next Page