The Election Gig -- looking for an agent, editor, publisher
Curt Gowdy State Park, Wyoming, June 3;
“Hey, O’Brien,” a heckler shouts, “you screwed up on River Too Soon. When you going to get it right?”
“When the last clown leaves the stage,” Daniel O’Brien jumps from the Frontier stage. A shadowy sinister thunderstorm is sneaking over the Cheyenne Ridge. He’ll be soaked by the next set. Daniel knows this because he’s always soaked by the next set. “When the fat lady sings,” he shouts at the heckler. “When I get the hell out of bluegrass.”
“Hey, O’Brien,” Banjo hollers. “There’s a guy here to see you.”
A tall, thin bald man stands behind Banjo, suited up like a g-man, sunglasses, distressed-leather briefcase. The air about the guy stinks. A political hack. Daniel knows this because he’s been waiting for someone, anyone, from Barbara Ryan’s political campaign to show up and offer him well-deserved hush money
The hack takes off his sunglasses. He has these bulging frog-eyes. Clears his skinny throat. “George Jankor here, representing the Barbara Ryan Presidential Campaign.”
“What took you so long?”
Jankor grabs Daniel, steers him behind the wooden stage, closer to the cow barn, farther from the nosy band members and their four pathetic fans; away from the stench of the bull dung.
“Make me an offer,” Daniel says.
“Shut up and pay attention. You re-form your old band, The Andies. Play up front for Ryan’s primary campaign. Don’t talk to the press. Don’t mention the past. Don’t mess with me.”
“And what do I get out of this?”
“First of all, your life. Second, a recording studio, airplane flights, best hotels, best service. This so-called life is over…” He waves around the field. “It’s history. You’re in or you’re dead.”
“Dead?”
“Dead. You do as we say or we destroy you.”
“That doesn’t sound too promising.” Daniel starts to walk away.
Jankor grabs him. “You know and I know, Danny Boy, you’re as broke as you are dumb, and you want…no, no, no, you need … a way out of this life. You have two months to get that band back together.” He hands Daniel his card. “Jackson Hole, Wyoming, August 15th. Don’t mess with me. Don’t ever mess with me.”
Jankor puts his sunglasses back on, grinds dead grass into the dusty ground, heads for the black limo parked behind the Porto-potties.
Daniel shouts, “Andrea will never go for it.”
“That’s up to you, Danny O’Brien.” Jankor hurries away. “All five band members and that includes your ex-wife.” He stops, pulls a wad from his pocket, tosses it to Daniel. “Not a word of this to the press.” Bald George Jankor scurries to the waiting limo.
The limo skids off the field.
Daniel counts the wad—fifteen hundred big ones. The odor of ozone wafts toward him even before the sound of thunder rolls across the prairie. The crummy stage, the fiddle stashed against the amp, mandolin in the back of the pickup, useless, struggling bluegrass band, oncoming storm, stench of the dung. Stuffs the wad into his frayed jeans, flips the bird at the crew, and heads toward his blue ‘73 Volvo.
“Hey, O’Brien,” a heckler shouts, “you screwed up on River Too Soon. When you going to get it right?”
“When the last clown leaves the stage,” Daniel O’Brien jumps from the Frontier stage. A shadowy sinister thunderstorm is sneaking over the Cheyenne Ridge. He’ll be soaked by the next set. Daniel knows this because he’s always soaked by the next set. “When the fat lady sings,” he shouts at the heckler. “When I get the hell out of bluegrass.”
“Hey, O’Brien,” Banjo hollers. “There’s a guy here to see you.”
A tall, thin bald man stands behind Banjo, suited up like a g-man, sunglasses, distressed-leather briefcase. The air about the guy stinks. A political hack. Daniel knows this because he’s been waiting for someone, anyone, from Barbara Ryan’s political campaign to show up and offer him well-deserved hush money
The hack takes off his sunglasses. He has these bulging frog-eyes. Clears his skinny throat. “George Jankor here, representing the Barbara Ryan Presidential Campaign.”
“What took you so long?”
Jankor grabs Daniel, steers him behind the wooden stage, closer to the cow barn, farther from the nosy band members and their four pathetic fans; away from the stench of the bull dung.
“Make me an offer,” Daniel says.
“Shut up and pay attention. You re-form your old band, The Andies. Play up front for Ryan’s primary campaign. Don’t talk to the press. Don’t mention the past. Don’t mess with me.”
“And what do I get out of this?”
“First of all, your life. Second, a recording studio, airplane flights, best hotels, best service. This so-called life is over…” He waves around the field. “It’s history. You’re in or you’re dead.”
“Dead?”
“Dead. You do as we say or we destroy you.”
“That doesn’t sound too promising.” Daniel starts to walk away.
Jankor grabs him. “You know and I know, Danny Boy, you’re as broke as you are dumb, and you want…no, no, no, you need … a way out of this life. You have two months to get that band back together.” He hands Daniel his card. “Jackson Hole, Wyoming, August 15th. Don’t mess with me. Don’t ever mess with me.”
Jankor puts his sunglasses back on, grinds dead grass into the dusty ground, heads for the black limo parked behind the Porto-potties.
Daniel shouts, “Andrea will never go for it.”
“That’s up to you, Danny O’Brien.” Jankor hurries away. “All five band members and that includes your ex-wife.” He stops, pulls a wad from his pocket, tosses it to Daniel. “Not a word of this to the press.” Bald George Jankor scurries to the waiting limo.
The limo skids off the field.
Daniel counts the wad—fifteen hundred big ones. The odor of ozone wafts toward him even before the sound of thunder rolls across the prairie. The crummy stage, the fiddle stashed against the amp, mandolin in the back of the pickup, useless, struggling bluegrass band, oncoming storm, stench of the dung. Stuffs the wad into his frayed jeans, flips the bird at the crew, and heads toward his blue ‘73 Volvo.
