Last night Johnny Cash, Cyndi Lauper, Garth Brooks, Jewel, Talking Heads, Pat Benetar, and Alana Miles, to name a few, were live at the Chatterbox Pub in South Minneapolis. Or so one would think if one was severely hearing impaired and blind.
We innocently walked into the Chatterbox thinking we were going to get a few chocolate beers, only to find out we were going to get as many karaoke performances to go with it as we could handle. “Karaoke” is a Japanese word which translates to “drunk person with no shame singing to instrumental elevator music recordings of popular favorites.”
The guy running the show, “Clem”, I’ll call him, was a funny little old guy. He looked like he’s been to a lot of gun shows and flea markets. He was wearing a snapped up flannel cowboy shirt, and I’d be willing to put money on the notion that he’s owned it and worn it since the first time those shirts were in style. You’ve got to have something good to tuck those flannels into, and he certainly did – a faded pair of Wranglers. He had no ass or lower body shape to hold those Wranglers up, so he sported a belt with a silver belt buckle that looked like it was large enough to serve hors douvres on. He was very skinny other than a nice round belly – “beer muscle”, as I like to call it.
I don’t ever judge a book by its cover, but Clem looked like so much fun to judge by his cover, I made him an exception to the rule:
I’m guessing he was in Vietnam for a few years. He probably got it on with a lot of escorts while he was over there, endured a few VDs, capped a lot of Vietnamese ass, got drunk with his buddies a lot, and then came home and married someone named Mabel that he met in a dive bar while Merle Haggard was playing on the jukebox (if he’s from this area, it was probably The Cardinal). Mabel’s hairstyle was big, blurry, abrasive, and full of Aqua Net hairspray. 99% of her wardrobe consisted of polyester with floral patterns on it. She wore gaudy necklaces. She’d leave big, dark lipstick stains on her cigarette butts and on every can of cheap beer and truckstop coffee cup that ever touched her mouth. They had 4 kids and none of them really talked to Clem because he had some issues from the war and all, and if they made one false move, he’d take that belt with the silver platter attached to it off and chap their hides. They all moved far away when they were old enough, never to be heard from again.
I’m guessing Mabel died a few years ago from lung cancer. Clem hit rock bottom at that point and decided to stop drinking and take all the money he was investing in alcohol and buy a karaoke system. He scored a regular Monday night gig at the Chatterbox, and now we return to our regularly scheduled program:
Clem stood no less than 2 feet behind the karaoke participants while they were stumbling their way through their selections (there’s not much room in there with all those karaoke doo dads eating up space). Every time someone started, he’d take a sip of ice water and then quickly assume his Karaoke Enjoyment Position: leaning on the table full of CD wallets behind him and looking at the floor. He’d stand there like a statue until the songs ended – I would kill to find out what’s going through his mind when he does that. A few guesses:
“Aaah, ‘Gunsmoke’. They don’t make shows like that anymore.”
“Please kill me.”
“I wonder when the next Danish American Center all you can eat spaghetti dinner is?”
“I want to sneak a peek at her ass, but everyone would see me because I’m right behind her.”
“I remember that one time I was out fishing, caught a snapping turtle, and ate it.”
“Which is worse – staying home with the tv, or doing this? tv.. this.. tv… this..”
“I guess this is better than being a rodeo clown. Is it? Did I take the wrong path?”
We were about ready to take off, but Clem was fixin’ to sing some Johnny Cash, and I was told it was worth waiting around for, so we did. And sure enough, when little Clem got to that first verse of “Ring of Fire”, he nailed it all the way through to the end of the tune, and was probably thinking of Mabel the whole time.
We left there feeling complete, out to the freezing cold air, end of story. If you’re ever in the neighborhood and have a hankerin’ for some accurate Johnny Cash mimicry, stop by the Chatterbox and put in a request for Clem to do his thang. It seemed like the one thing that made him smile and think that the post-Nam, fatherhood, and Mabel lifestyle that I invented for him isn’t so bad.
