“I’m sure that’s true, but Boots is a highly unusual person, and I would like to speak with him now.”
“I will have to have a doctor’s authorization before I can allow that to happen,” said the nurse.
“Then please get one,” said the Captain.
“It’s not that simple,” said the nurse. “Aside from the fact that it is 4, let’s see, 27 a.m. Eastern Standard Time, there is no one else here at the present time, and I am unable to leave my post.”
“What if there was an emergency?,” asked the Captain.
“Then emergency procedures would take effect,” said the nurse.
“And what would that entail,” asked the Captain.
“It would depend on the type of emergency,” said the nurse.
“Let’s say I was threatening your life unless you helped me,” said the Captain.
“That would be emergency plan A-12, ‘Potential Harm to a Medical Employee,” said the nurse, while simultaneously writing down on the pad next to her a reminder to check to see if she was right about that designation, and hadn't mixed up A-12 with A-13, one of which was what she just stated, and the other of which was "Make Sure That Your Trash Receptacle Has a Liner in it," which she actually never paid attention to and now wondered if that as well as whatever other infractions she might be accountable for had anything to do with her sitting at the desk answering calls from lunatics at 4:00 am. “Were that to occur, I would have a police officer at your door in less than five minutes.”
“Could he bring Boots with him?,” asked the Captain.
“This conversation is terminated,” said the nurse, hanging up the phone.
Having been hung up on in a less than respectful manner twice in less than half an hour, the Captain found himself staring at the becalmed receiver in his hand and wondering what was becoming of the world around him. Suddenly, a revelation struck him, causing him to leap up once again.
“If Boots was interviewed on the radio, I’ll bet he has his own phone!,” he yelled to the empty room and the final bits of electronic effluvium which had continued to cling to him as a result of his close encounter with the radio and which were presently drifting downward, having been violently dislodged by his brainstorm.
The Captain dialed the hospital. “Good Samaritan, where the sick become healthy,” answered the same night nurse.
“So I hear,” said the Captain. “Would you please provide me with the telephone number for Boots Klondike’s room?”
“Let me check that for you, sir,” said the night nurse. “Yes, here it is. That number is 537-1038.”
“I’ll be goddamned,” said the Captain. “You and I had a conversation not ten minutes ago during which I asked to speak to Boots, and you told me I couldn’t do it, giving me some hooey about authorizations and procedures. Now, you give me his phone number as nice as can be. What the fuck changed?”
“First of all, your language is reprehensible, and I will terminate this conversation once again if you do not clean it up. Secondly, you did not previously ask me for Mr. Klondike’s phone number.”
“I most certainly did,” said the Captain. “I told you, very politely I might add, that it was urgent that I speak with Boots.”
“You weren’t that polite, and you did not request Mr. Klondike’s telephone number specifically,” said the night nurse.
“But you knew I needed to speak with him, and you knew he had a phone number, so why not simply tell me that and save us both a lot of trouble?,” asked the Captain.
“Our patients’ privacy is sacrosanct,” said the night nurse.
“But you just gave me his number,” said the Captain.
“I am allowed to dispense private room numbers in certain circumstances,” said the night nurse.
“And what might those circumstances be?,” the Captain asked.
“They vary,” said the night nurse.
“What does that mean?” asked the Captain.
“To vary is to change or fluctuate,” said the night nurse.
“I’m familiar with the fucking definition of vary,” said the Captain, his voice rising in decibel level. “What I want to know is how is it determined whether or not you give out phone numbers.”
“As the reasons vary, which I’ve explained already, I’m unable to enumerate all of them, for beyond the ones that I’m aware of there are countless others which can not be predicted or explained before they actually happen.”
“OK,” said the Captain, trying very hard to maintain some semblance of cool. . “Let me be specific: what in this particular case was the reason that you felt you could give Boots’s number to me? I mean, what if I was just some lunatic, looking to get a particular number, and I invented an emergency to convince you to give it to me?”
“Let me take those one at a time,” said the night nurse. “First, you definitely are a lunatic. Second, Mr. Klondike left instructions that we were permitted to give out his number.”
“To anyone?”
“He did not mention any exceptions.”
“But how did he know that some maniac wouldn’t call and harass him, or threaten him?”
“It seems he was willing to take that chance.”
“That doesn’t sound like him at all,” said the Captain, who as the words left his lips knew that the exact opposite was true.
“Be that as it may, those were his specific directions.”
“So, you’re telling me that a patient can actually set policy there,” said the Captain.
“Only in certain circumstances,” said the night nurse.
“And what might those circumstances be?” the Captatin asked.
“They vary,” the night nurse and the Captain intoned together.
“Is there actually a rulebook that explains these things?,” asked the Captain. “I write science fiction novels, and think something like that would be invaluable to my research.”
“Your sarcasm is not appreciated,” said the night nurse.
“But is it allowed?,” asked the Captain. “Better check the book.”
“Why, sir, do you insist on being so rude?,” asked the night nurse.
“Just trying to keep my churlish figure. Have a great fucking day,” answered the Captain, hanging up the receiver before she could once again hang up on him.
The Captain then quickly dialed Boots’ number, visualizing the night nurse running to his hospital room, grabbing the phone and yanking the chord from the wall, smugly announcing to an incredulous Boots that his forthcoming conversation had been terminated before it even began.
“Good Samaritan, where the sick are plentiful and the food is suspect,” answered Boots.
“You are alive!,” yelled the Captain into the phone, recognizing his client’s and long-time friend’s voice and manner.
“I told you never to call me here,” said Boots, also recognizing his manager’s voice and realizing he probably should have called him.
“Do you have any idea how hard it has been for me to get hold of you?,” asked the Captain. “For Chrissakes, in the past half hour I’ve been interviewed on the radio and locked in deadly verbal combat with a direct descendant of Nurse Ratched!”
“I’m fine, thank you, how are you?,” said Boots.
“What the hell are you doing in the hospital,” asked the Captain.
“Lips and I had a little car trouble, but not to worry, we’ve kissed and made up,” said Boots. “And if you’ve ever kissed a car before, you know what a sacrifice I’m talking about.”
“Not the Abbey Road argument again,” said the Captain.
“We’re going to keep having it until we get it right,” said Boots.
“Even if it kills you,” said the Captain.
“We’ll make sure we’re not moving the next time it happens, how about that?,” said Boots.
“You know that there are actual reference sources that would settle this stupid fucking thing once and for all,” said the Captain.
“I’ve seen ‘em,” said Boots.
“You’re telling me that you actually have had this thing proven to you, and you still argue about it?,” yelled the Captain.
“Keep your voice down, I’m in a hospital,” said Boots.
“I want you and Lips to stop this nonsense once and for all,” said the Captain, whispering in spite of himself. “There is documentation from people who were there.”
“Reference books aren’t always right,” said Boots. “And people don’t always remember as correctly as they think they do.”
“But it’s history!,” the Captain howled again.
“History is a thing of the past,” said Boots. “And if you don’t keep your voice down, this conversation will be terminated immediately.”
“I actually did better with the nurse,” sighed the Captain.
“She’s a highly trained professional,” said Boots.
“Alright, enough,” said the Captain. “Can you please tell me, in a relatively straightforward manner, and I know from you this is particularly asking a lot, what condition your condition is in?”
“I’m going to help you out,” said Boots, “and not because you asked nicely, although you did. No, you win the award for best relevant use of a classic rock title in a contemporary conversation, and your prize is a complete update on my prognosis.”
“Will it come in the mail, or can I receive it today?,” asked the Captain.
“Ouch,” said Boots. “That hurts.”
“My retorts never used to be able to get through,” said the Captain. “You must really not be feeling well.”
“It’s not you,” said Boots. “I turned too quickly in my attempt to make myself more comfortable, and got this sudden pain in my leg.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” said the Captain. “You hurt your leg?”
“It would appear that way,” said Boots.
”Which one?,” asked the Captain.
“The one that’s hurting me,” said Boots.
“You really don’t want any sympathy from me, do you,” the Captain said.
“Sympathy’s for the devil,” said Boots.
“Sorry, I’ve already won the classic rock title in a conversation award, but play again next week,” said the Captain.
“Touché,” said Boots. “What do you want to know?”
“Exactly what injuries did you sustain as a result of your recent car accident, and how long before you’re better?,” the Captain asked.
“I’m lying here in a medium-sized hospital room,” began Boots, “an IV drip in my right arm, the regular flow of its life-giving sustenance not unlike the beat to Santana’s “Oye Como Va,” (1971, Columbia Records), a plaster cast of some bulk, on which someone without my authorization has already written “Cast Member” on my left leg, which hurts significantly if I even think about moving it, and general aches and pains which seem more bothersome than life-threatening, or at least that is my hope.”
“What does the doctor say?,” asked the Captain.
“Meaningless nonsense,” said Boots.
“Can you be a bit more specific?,” asked the Captain.
“Lots of meaningless nonsense,” said Boots.
“Behave,” said the Captain.
“He and his team of horn-rimmed toadies are due back sometime this morning, along with some nurse who has the unfortunate task of watching over me,” said Boots.
“I have good reason to believe that the nurses there can take care of themselves,” said the Captain.
“I’m prepared, Captain,” said Boots. “I’m turning my intimidation phaser from stun to kill.”
“May the Force be with her,” said the Captain.
“Obi quiet,” said Boots, “and stop mixing your sci fi metaphors.”
“I just don’t want to have a sexual harassment suit on my hands in addition to the medical bills you’re currently racking up,” said the Captain.
“Did you know that a sexual harassment suit against a tailor comes with two pairs of pants?,” asked Boots.
“The longer this conversation goes on, the less sure I am why you’re in the hospital at all,” said the Captain.
“I was dead, remember?,” asked Boots.
“And now...you’re not,” said the Captain, his voice fading a bit in volume but not in intensity.
“That’s right,” said Boots warily, knowing what that tone in his manager’s voice had signified in previous conversations.
“I have an idea,” said the Captain, confirming Boots’ apprehension.
“I was afraid of that,” said Boots.
“You don’t even know what it is yet,” said the Captain. “How can you be afraid of it?”
“Past experience,” said Boots.
“Are you telling me that all the ideas I’ve ever had have been bad ones?,” asked the Captain.
“Only the ones that I can remember,” said Boots.
“You have a very bad memory, then,” said the Captain.
“I’m pretty sure you said the same thing to me on December 11, 1977, at 3:20 p.m.,” said Boots.
“You can delay the inevitable all you want,” said the Captain, “I am going to tell you this idea.”
“I love it when you’re forthright,” said Boots.
“A concert,” said the Captain.
“Okay. I’ll bite. What about a concert?,” asked Boots.
“You and the band are going to give one,” said the Captain.
“You should pay attention when we have these little talks,” said Boots. “I’m recovering from a severe case of deceased-ness.”
“It doesn’t sound so severe to me,” said the Captain. “And besides, that’s the point.”
“The point of what?,” asked Boots.
“A concert,” said the Captain.
“You’re repeating yourself,” said Boots.
“What?,” asked the Captain.
“You’re repeating yourself,” said Boots.
“So are you,” said the Captain, enjoying immensely one of the rare times that he actually felt in control of a conversation with his client.
“I was beginning to feel better but now I feel a distinct relapse coming on,” said Boots. “Tell me what you’re talking about and then hang up the phone.”
“Once you and Lips are completely well, and I use the term loosely, you and the band are going to hold a huge concert to celebrate your return,” said the Captain.
“To exploit my return, you mean,” said Boots, who actually was beginning to think the concert thing was not a bad idea.
“Is it exploitation to want to show the world that one of their favorite artists is still at the height of his powers?,” asked the Captain.
“You’ve been rehearsing, haven’t you,” said Boots.
“I know what we should call it, too,” said the Captain.
“’Robbing The Grave?,’” said Boots.
“No,” said the Captain.
“How about ‘Almost The Late Show?,’” said Boots, getting into the spirit of the proceedings.
“Worse,” said the Captain.
“Immortal And Loving It?,” Boots offered.
“Please shut the fuck up,” said the Captain. “Boots Klondike and the Euphonious Echoes are going to be, for all the world to see, `ReBooted: Alive and Kicking.’ I’m going to start planning right away.”
“It pains me to say it, but you may actually have something there, Captain,” said Boots. “And it also pains me to say this, just as it hurts to do pretty much anything right now, although I’ll deny it if asked, but for the foreseeable future I don’t anticipate doing much kicking.”
As Boots was finishing his sentence, the door to his hospital room began to open and a female voice loudly intoned, “The only kicking that’s going to go on around here is kicking your butt and the rest of you out of here if you’re up and around.”
The Captain, hearing this exchange over the receiver and believing it to be the fearsome Night Nurse (wrongly, it turned out), said a hurried “Bye, Boots, glad you’re alive, talk to you later,” hung up the phone, and for the first time that night took a good look around and began to wonder what the hell had happened to his radio.
THEN
On June 1, 1967, the day The Beatles released Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, the miraculous aural seasoning for the already unfolding cultural feast forever to be known as the Summer of Love, Boots Klondike and the band found themselves in the Haight. (For years afterwards Boots found himself trying to describe what he considered to be the delicious irony in the fact that the names of that important historical time, and the place considered to be its physical heart, were actually polar opposites. After a long series of reactions along the lines of “but it’s spelled differently,” “but one’s a concept and one’s a place” and “so what?,” Boots wrote a song called “Don’t Love To Hate But Don’t Hate To Love” which in fact had nothing at all to do with San Francisco or hippies but did manage to get the whole thing out of his system).
Following an extended run of the at-first-exciting-but-then-pretty much-aggravating “life on the road” which had been every musician’s lot since the days of the earliest wandering minstrels of ancient Greece (some of whom, rumor had it, had presaged modern times by insisting on having the seeds taken out of the grapes placed in their backstage dressing rooms), Boots and the band were riding their first real wave of rock-and-roll success, with an original song called “Read My Mind.”
In addition to the small ripple caused three years earlier by A River Named Joe, which had not risen any further from the depths of the country charts (the bullet had been a dud) and had not managed the always difficult leap to the pop pool, their music had dipped its big toe into the treacherous waters of renown several other times (for example, the songs I’m A Two-Pillow, One-Woman Man, and Love Is A Letter, Don’t Forget The Stamp had been featured on the TV show “Dig It!” as “Titles of The Week” but not played on the air) but had yet to produce anything remotely resembling the ”big splash” to which all bands aspired, life jackets be damned.
Just as each of the Echoes, without telling the others, was reluctantly contemplating the exciting world of electronics repair, Read My Mind caught one of the many and swift popular currents then ebbing and flowing throughout the mercurial culture and surfed its way to number 20, then 16, then 14, cresting just outside the Top Ten at number 11.
Why this particular song, and not one of the many others in the evolving Klondike-Fremont canon? While there was no way to actually know, and Boots was not especially anxious to look a gift hit in the mouth, he did have a theory about why Read My Mind was being chosen to spin on so many turntables.
The majority of tunes currently floating on the nation’s airwaves, in keeping with the temper of the times, were odes to the many beneficent ways of the human heart, with the ultimate anthem, The Beatles’ All You Need Is Love, to make its world debut on June 25 as part of the “Our World” television program, the first-ever satellite transmission, beamed to 400 million viewers worldwide.
Read My Mind, on the other hand, was a bitter albeit melodious rocker about the vagaries of communication and love gone awry. Maybe, Boots thought, people could only take so much good will in their music, and his song was one of those that served several purposes, like some of those by the Doors and some others: It helped people to feel better about themselves when they compared their lives against it, and also was there for people who were experiencing similar romantic difficulties to wallow in, like a traditional torch song. Or maybe they just liked the guitar solo.
Calling home from the road the day Read My Mind went gold, Boots discovered another possibility.
“It worked,” Rita said to him as she picked up the phone.
“That’s nice, Peep,” said Boots. “What worked?”
“I prayed for you to have a hit, and now you do,” said Rita.
“Thank you very much for doing that, Sweet Peep, but I’m not sure that God, even if he does really exist, is paying that much attention to me,” said Boots.
“Oh, I didn’t pray to God,” said Rita.
“That’s an interesting statement, honey,” said Boots, suddenly envisioning his child in the hands of a devil-worshipping housekeeper, substituting her books about Fuzzy the Lion for tomes with titles like “Let’s Sacrifice Goats.” “Who did you pray to?”
“Well, I couldn’t decide between Paul or George, so I finally talked to them all,” said Rita.
“You prayed to The Beatles?,” asked Boots, a bit louder than he had intended, almost dropping the phone.
“Yes,” said Rita, picking up on her father’s uneasiness. “Did I do something wrong?”
“Not really, angel,” Boots said, “But you know that even though they’re incredibly talented and special, The Beatles are really only human, don’t you?”
“All I know is you kept saying you wanted a hit, and it didn’t happen, and then I asked The Beatles to help you, and now you’re climbing the charts,” said Rita. “I think it helped you.”
“You always help me, Peep,” said Boots, briefly wondering whether it was really healthy for a nine-year-old girl to be well acquainted with the term “climbing the charts.” “But The Beatles may not have had much to do with it.”
“I say they did,” said Rita. “And you can’t make me think differently.”
“Alright, honey, anything’s possible. I’ve got to go now, but I’ll talk to you later. I love you,” said Boots. Maybe they’re not only more popular than Christ, he thought to himself as he hung up the phone and headed out the door.
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