The deflated dreams of Wanda

Synopsis: They’re older and wiser but it won’t make any difference....you see...it’s not easy being an Oral Blonde.

A traumatic event brings five friends back together after a twenty year absence. John "Sparky" Malveen, Doc Barlow, Wally, Rooster and Bug are the original members of the rock group "The Oral Blondes," and they have been given a second chance, but the offer expires in thirty days.It is a journey to outrageous characters, mounting obstacles, and humorous situations, with hopes a past friendship will somehow yield a future together.

I puffed and wheezed as we raced with vigor to the dressing room to find our elusive percussionist. We charged in to see his legs sticking out of a closet in the far corner of the room. He was naked except for his boots and was holding on to a prop from the fifth song of the night, a blow up doll we called Wanda. She always coaxed a huge response from our audiences and now she had somehow coaxed Alistair Pare' into the dressing room closet. She was in his arms in post coital acquiescence. Alistair’s spectacles sat askew on his nose and his porkpie hat looked more like a yarmulke crushed like a pillow between his head and the wall.

"Forget the kiss. I think murder is more appropriate Sparky."

"I think I’m gonna be sick."

Alistair looked up at us and giggled. It was a hideous chortle that had a gurgling sound to it, and the smell of cheap liquor and sweaty plastic was an unmistakable musk.

"Je-sus Alistair! We’re on stage in fifteen minutes man!"

There was a knock on the door. It was Chas. His voice drifted through the door with calm authority, "Twelve minutes guys."

"Je-sus! Twelve minutes. Fuck me!"

I sniffled through my cold, "I wouldn’t say tha in frun of our presen combany, Doc."

Alistair’s laugh suddenly changed to blubbering and his head sagged.

"Alistair we go on in twelve minutes you have to get it together man."

"Don’t tell my wife mate." he sobbed, "You know . . . about the tart." He nodded toward Wanda.

I looked at Wanda and her expressionless open armed invitation and gapping mouth. "Alistair you’re nod married."

He wouldn’t hear of it and continued to blubber. "Crikey, if she finds out I’ve been unfaithful, I’ll never be able to sit about the house with my balls hanging out."

Doc shot his hands up in frustration, "Well there’s always the closet in the dressing room here."

"It’s all righd Alistair." I tossed Wanda across the room where she landed next to a coat rack by the door. "Look the other woban’s gone. Doc helb me get him ub . . . Doc? Come on! Now!"

Doc had rolled up the sleaves on his long white stage jacket and was wrapping a couple of Rooster’s extra stage towels around his hands. "I’m not touching his sweaty bulbous body. Who knows what kind of cooties he has?"

"Hurry ub. I need your helb. He’s a heaby bugger."

Alistair’s head sagged forward. "Crickey mate. My tally-whacker’s out saluting the Queen."

"Unfordunadely we already nodissed thad."

Doc and I struggled to get him out of the closet and on a nearby chair. Alistair slumped in the chair and began to swing his hips from side to side. "Tic-toc. Tic-toc. Look at me mate, I’m a human clock."

"Doc ged his panzs."

"What I want to know, is how did he get out of them and still have his boots on?"

"Just ged his panzs! Alistair you’ll have to gib me your leg."

Doc held up the pants. "Hello boys. I see they’re tear-a-ways." He crumpled them into a ball and tossed them to me. I unrolled them, snapped together a few clasps, and held out an open pant leg for our drummer.

"Alistair, gib me your leg."

"Tic-toc. Tic-toc . . . "

"Alistair! For Christ sake! Your leg. Now!"

He brought his leg up and it thumped to the floor missing the pant leg altogether. There was another knock at the door and Chas’ voice floated through in a muffle. "Ten minutes guys."

"Ok! Ok! We’ll be there!"

"Oh, and Blake Cole just walked in."

"Fantasdic." I mumbled. "Just in tibe to see us in disarray with our drunk drubber."

"What’s a drunk drubber?" Alistair inquired.

The door opened.

"Chas I told you we’ll be there!"

But it was the Mayor. "I brought you some ice cream for your throat."

Doc protested. "You can’t give him that. Sparky you can’t eat that with a cold. Dairy products will cause more phlegm. He can’t eat that take it back."

"I can’t take it back Doc. Are you mad?"

"Doc by throad feels like fordy feed of grabel ass. I hab to do somethink."

"Well not that Sparky. Get another lozenge."

"Fine! I’ll eat it myself," the Mayor admonished. Feeling unappreciated, he sat down with a thump.

Alistair raised his leg slightly but it again fell with a thud. He began to snivel again. "I’m dying mate. I know it."

"You’re juzz drunk. You’re nod dying!"

"Then why is the doctor here?"

"Thad’s Doc Barlow you fool. He’s dressed for stage."

Alistair thought for a second. "Doc Balow? I just can’t handle that guy." He put his hand to the side of his face and whispered, "But don’t tell him that mate."

"Doc hold his leg."

"I’ll hold his fat fuckin’ neck if he doesn’t shut his yap." Doc tightened his towels and then struggled to lift the tree-like appendage.

Arsehole Party was giggling again, "That tickles mate."

"Let me hit him Sparky. Just once."

I started to shove a rolled up pant leg over his boot and up his leg. "Good Alistair now the udder one." Repeatedly he raised his foot and missed the mark clomping his boot down.

"What a sad spectacle." The Mayor said, as he poked Wanda between mouthfuls of ice cream. "Wanda looks a little saggy. She’s probably sprung a leak with lard ass all over her. Looks like he finally found a woman who didn’t turn him down huh?"

Alistair looked at the Mayor with envious eyes as he plowed his wooden spoon into the ice cream. Licking his lips he said, "Hey mate, if I got a spoon could I have a taste of that?"

"No!" The Mayor said. He seemed disgusted by our drummer's request and cradled his small dish of ice cream to the side and out of sight.

"Mayor, go down stairs and try to ged em to delay the show. Send Skids ub here."
The Mayor, still protecting his dessert, snapped to his feet and abruptly left. Doc and I continued to struggle with our uncooperative band member and his other pant leg. "Fug dis cold!" I grunted.

Wanda’s battle scars had deflated her further. Her head, with gapping mouth, now
drooped to her perky plastic breasts like a distressing yoga position. She began to sag under the chair that had propped her up to witness our meager attempts to dress our drummer. "There’s no way we can use Wanda on stage tonight Sparky. The Mayor’s right she sprung a leak. She’s been through a traumatic enough experience anyway with Mr. Porkpie hat here."

Skids pushed his way into the room. "The Mayor said you . . . " He started to laugh. "This is sweet."

"It’s not funny Skids I need you to helb Doc get him downstairs. I have to get somethink for by throat." I began to clear my voice again with distressing regularity that disintegrated quickly into a coughing fit.

"You can’t leave me here alone, Sparky. I’m not putting pants on him. You ever change a babies diaper? They always piss all over you right before you get it on them. I’m not taking the chance."

"Skids is here to helb Doc."

"What? I’m not touching him."

"Skids, stop laughing. We need your helb."

"You and I couldn’t get his pants on, Sparky. What makes you think Skids and I are going to have anymore success?"

"Well what do you suggest Doc? He can’t go on stage in nothink but his boods." I wheezed. "And take off those damn towels, no wonder you can’t get his pants on." I ground my throat harder. It sounded like I was dragging a steel shovel across cement.

Skids continued to laugh, he was becoming hysterical and had to push his trade mark swoop of hair out of his face. "What happened to Wanda?"

"Nod now."

Doc pointed to Alistair as he continued, "How do we know he can even play in this condition?"

"Because he’s been shid-faced at mozed of our rehearsals, thaz why."

"Just don’t tell my wife mate. I’ll be in the dog-box for a month."

"She’s going to smell the plastic on you," Doc teased as he tossed Rooster’s towels by the door.
Alistair got teary eyed.

"You mean to tell me Wanda and Alistair . . .? " Skids began to howl again.

"Skids we hab to sobber his ass ub. Think of somethink."

"I wonder what the kids will look like?"

"Skids! Please."

Skids reached into his pocket and retracted some change. He fished through the coins and plucked out a penny. He approached Alistair and began to force the coin into his drooling mouth.

"For God sake man, whaddar you drying to do? He’ll choke."

"Relax, I saw this in a medical magazine. The copper will help him sobber up. It acts as an inhibitor. Come on, Alistair. Open up. Here comes the airplane into the hanger."

"This is ludicrous." I growled.

"Sparky’s right you fool it’s supposed to be a quarter." Doc began to search his pockets.
Our drummer began to gag as the penny found its mark imbedded somewhere between is cheek and teeth. He began to make sounds like a cat coughing up a hairball. "CAUGHHHK!"

Skids tried to force another penny between his lips. "It’s for your own good old boy."

"Skids you idiot let me in there," Doc spouted with his quarter raised. He looked like someone anxious to make his three song selections on the jukebox.

"Stob it! Both of you. This is stoobid."

They stopped and turned to me in mid insert. Alistair gaged again, "CAUGHHHK!"

"You both hab no idea whad you’re docking aboud. We hab to get him dressed. That’s the prioridy here. Nod, can we fit change for a fifdy in his fuggin’ mouth." There was another knock at the door. "Grand Cendral Station! Whad is the world insane? JEBUS H. CHRIST! WHAD IS ID?" The words ripped from my vocal cords like rusty razors.

Rooster entered. "Guys, I’ve been waiting for you down stairs. We’re on in . . . " He spied
Alistair, slumped and sobbing in his boots with one pant leg trailing from the knee like a rampart flag in need of wind. "— Mother fucker!" Rooster charged forward and threw a punch at Alistair hitting him in the head and knocking him off the chair to the floor. He landed with a thump. The pant-flag raised. "CAUGHHHK!" There was a faint plink of a coin hitting the floor and rolling away into one of the corners where it wobbled until Lincoln gazed upward, motionless, unblinking.

Doc and I grabbed our guitarist. "Now is not the tibe." I hissed. "We hab to ged him ready to go on."

"He can’t play like that!"

"Yes he can. Rooster! Lizzen to me while I still hab a voice, God dab it! We hab no choice. We canned cancel now. We’ve waded a year to do this. We doan go on, it’s all ober."

"Sparky’s right . . . I think . . . the show must go on."

In a delayed reaction, the punch finally registered and Alistair let out a weak, "Ow." He was still laying prone on the floor like a cow that had just been tipped. "Was that my wife mate?"

Rage seized Rooster again and he tried to kick our drummer from his restrained position.
"Rooster! Stob id man! Dis is nod helbing madders." My voice was like verbal gravel. How was I going to sing? "Doc please think of somethink."

Again Alistair’s slurred voice ascended from the floor boards. "I think I’m bleeding. I can taste copper."

The intro music began to play from beneath our feet.

Doc sounded alarmed, "Holy Louie Be-je-sus! What the hell?"

"Fug, the intro tabe we’re subbose to go on. Skids helb doc with dis ass. We’ll see you down der. Cub on Rooster." I pulled on his arm. "Deal with him laider. We hab to ged on stage." My lungs cried out for oxygen as my vocal engine sputtered and coughed and my nostrils inadvertently began to close again, constricting any passage of air.

"Go!" Doc demanded, regaining his composure. "Get down there! We’ll think of something . . . Skids, where’s the penny?"

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