Karaoke
by Catheryn J. Brockett


The new boyfriend has a talent.  He sings.  I have never really been a big fan of the whole “men singing” thing.  I think it is very hard for a man to look manly and sing.  Rock stars can pull it off and maybe that’s why they are paid so much.  But musical theatre guys and guys in coffee shops with guitars are generally gay.  No swooning here.  But last night after my urging and a little pretend reluctance from him we ended up in the downtown Burbank Holiday Inn karaoke bar.

I know it sounds glamorous, but it’s not really.  A large low room with standard bad hotel furniture is clubbed up with a faux black rock ceiling covered in glitter.  It gives the place a kind of theme park/miniature golf course feel..  Apparently this helps because the place is mecca on Friday and Saturday nights – a festival of fried appetizers and cheap drinks.

As luck would have it, we run into one of Jack’s friends there.  Then an entire wedding party from his alma mater enters – minus the bride and groom of course who are, I am sure, enjoying the splendor of the Holiday Inn Bridal Suite.  I shudder at the thought of the bad carpet and bedspreads and make a quick silent vow to be filthy, filthy rich.  A thought that repeats itself later when the waitress places an institutional food service water glass with Sutter home in front of me.  Filthy rich, I promise.

There is much “Oh my God!  And what a coincidence– And we can’t believe it’s you Jack” talk  and really what are the odds – a wedding party of actors from FSU end up in the Burbank Holiday Inn on Karaoke Friday– perhaps the Beverly Wilshire was booked up tight.

The mother of the bride is hammered but she is the only person I have to talk to.  Jack has been conversation-kidnapped by a no lipped Sheryl Crowe look-alike who turns out to be a trapeze artist.  Also turns out she directed him in college.  I sense a little more from the way she needs to lean in and touch his leg when she laughs - but I leave it alone and try to figure out what the drunk mother of the bride is saying to me, looking carefully at her mouth for clues.

Then it is time for him to sing.  He does his little swagger thing up to the stage and I try to direct everyone’s attention.  I know what is coming – I have already witnessed it.  “It’s our table, pay attention,” they say – whispering around – hushing each other.  Then Jack attacks a Billy Joel song with his amazing tenor voice.  You can feel the whole room change - conversations are lost, faces turn toward the stage and mouths drop open.  Don’t get me wrong – the drunks from Orange County (and why anyone from OC would commute all the way to Burbank for bad karaoke is way beyond anything I could reason) are still talking loudly in the back – but our little group has definitely become transfixed.  I listen – he is so good, but now I’m more interested in the wedding party’s reaction.  The word “Wow” is exhaled around the circle.  The only girl with a date squeezes his hand and whispers “tragic.”  An odd choice of descriptives I think but since it is whispered with that 1950’s Fabian sigh, the meaning is clear.  Some of the girls glance back at me as if checking for something they might have missed earlier.  I feel like someone’s Mom in my pink cotton long sleeve shirt and say a little thanks that I’m not wearing sneakers with jeans. “Yeah, he’s good,” I say.  It’s a weird feeling somewhere in the balance between pride and embarrassment.  After all – I have nothing to do with it.  No ownership. But now I have this weird need to be seen or noticed, or I don’t know – maybe I’m sort of staking my territory in front of the trapeze artist I say, “Last week a whole row of old ladies were going to throw their bras at him.  I think one of ‘em might have slipped him a room key.”  Then a wicked thought occurs to me.  “Last week a whole row of old ladies where going to throw their bras at him,” I repeat loudly.  Bingo.  Drunk Mom looks interested.  “Somebody should – do it.”

“Yeah – you should do it…”

She looks at me like she thought of it, “Should I throw him my bra??????”

Oh yes.  People throwing bras at my date.  Really, this should not be fun for me.

“Will I get it back?” she asks.

An odd question, but I guess it is some mother of the bride bra and I answer with less sarcasm than would otherwise be necessary.  “Your bra?  Yes, unless it fits me.”

She hesitates and the rest of the girls have drank enough to join in my encouragement.  The song is almost over they warn her.  She giggles mischievously and saunters up to the stage – wiggling her hips along in front of her in a stripper-but-still-Mom-like way.

I watch Jack’s face.  I wait for the moment he realizes this woman is actually going to throw her bra at him in front of a group of old college friends to celebrate his excellent rendition of Innocent Man.  I wonder what he will do.  I hope for a touch of genuine embarrassment and no need to milk it.  The whole thing would go awry if he felt the need to perhaps wear it or dance with it.  But he’s still singing, in that beautiful tenor voice.  Drunk Mom is struggling with the clasp in the back and still swinging her hips pushed out in front of her and pop – the thing comes off and she lassos it around her head once before flinging it dead in the center of his chest.  He catches it and gives the appropriately gratifying look at her.  I stand and applaud with the rest of the girls and as they return to their seats I say something a little diabolical:  “Gee Jack – you handled that pretty well – looks like its happened before” – effectively underscoring them both.  I’m such a bitch.  But Drunk Mom still looks pleased with her accomplishment.  I reach for my food service chardonnay.

This singer thing definitely has its appeal.

We listen to a musical on the way home about a couple going through a divorce.  A real true-love-gone-bad story.  I know he didn’t mean it – but the metaphor is there.

© 2005-08 Catheryn J. Brockett.  All rights reserved.