Love and Death at the sparkle lounge with the Jimmy fizzle band
See that guy crawling on the ground by the front of the
stage? That’s me. Johnny McCaw is my name, but everyone just calls me “Geezer.”
I’m the light guy for the band, which means it’s my job to crawl around dirty
and sticky dance floors to connect cables and run electricity to the equipment.
Well, that is until that one night at the Sparkle Lounge.
It’s enough to keep me from ever getting married, I tell you
what. I still cannot forget that smell; the smell of burning flesh.
I had been with Jimmy Fizzle for about a month. No, that’s
not his real name. I found I needed extra money to supplement my infinitesimal income
as a warehouse stock person. In addition, I am a frustrated musician with even less
opportunities than I have talent. Fortunately, I did acquire some expensive
lighting equipment from my last band. It was the cost of those lights that my soon-to-be-ex
relationship ejected me from our happy home. She said I was obviously not worth
the money I brought in. Well, how do you spell love?
The Jimmy Fizzle Band was your typical wedding group, a
collection of ripened musical used-to-bees weary of playing to no crowds and for
little money. There were eight of us, comprised of six musicians, the sound person,
and me at the controls. They mostly played the wedding circuit, lending their
talents to perform such classics as The
Chicken Dance, and The Electric Slide.
The Sparkle Lounge is much like any wedding dance hall in
this part of the state, just off from the main interstate highway, it displayed
the personality of an adult video store. Still, the place did have its charms,
namely cost and location. It sat right next to the famed Sparkle Motel. I’m
sure you’ve heard of it.
Then we have the happily married couple. I give ‘em six months
tops.
The greasy groom, all of age twenty-two and the bride, a Petunia
in a pink meringue dress looked more a sherbet than a Real Housewife of Orange County.
Nevertheless, Patty and William Dietzle were well on their way to happy land at
the conclusion of their nuptials. Only thing left to do was the drinking and
the dancing. The wedding dance began at seven, but the drinking began as soon
as the bellies hit the bar.
I was getting nervous as show time was nearing, as I was
having a devil of time trying to string enough power cords from the ancient
basement up to the stage. The basement looked more at home in a horror movie;
unfinished rock walls and dark, creepy corners. The stage was just overhead
from the electric service boxes. Here, strands of wire from years of neglect, connected
with fuses and circuit breakers from bygone eras met in a tangle. Don’t even get me started on the spiders….
The band opened the first song and before long, the show was
thumping right along. I sat next to homeboy, the sound person. I operated the
light show and the go-for drinks when the band demanded refreshments. The
interminable first set, complete with father/daughter dance, garter-toss and
bouquet throwing rituals, made me want to wretch. By the end of the first set,
I was ready to hit the open bar…hard!
During this break, the wedding toasts began. Homeboy had to
make a microphone available to the toasters.
He also helped usher those tasked to toast across the four inches from dance
floor to stage. Now, anyone in the business can tell you a live music stage can
be a treacherous place with wires, and electronics strung everywhere. On this night,
the stage was especially hazardous, as we did not have time to tidy the floor
for the band. Most unfortunately, the floor drenched with spilled drinks,
created the perfect storm for mayhem.
It was time for Herbert, the uncle of the groom and head
financer to speak. Homeboy helped the three-hundred-pound hunk of ham to the
stage, and stuffed the microphone stand in front of Herbert Dietzle’s fleshy
face. He cleared his throat in order to
gain attention, and then tapped lightly on the phallic-looking microphone in
front of him. This brought large thumps from the speakers and the slight whine
of feedback. I looked up from my drink and over to Homeboy, who had just winced
in spite of his inebriation.
As Herbert began his rambling speech, I went back to paying
attention to my drink. He said something about the couple, and something about love
is like opening a new bottle of champagne. Blah. Blah. I could hear a distinct
silence as he struggled to open the bottle. As expected, I heard the satisfying
loud pop of the cork. From the crowd rose
an appreciative, AHHHH! But, after a few
moments of cheers and applause someone screamed a most blood-curdling cry. This
is followed by ever more screams. I juddered around to look at the obvious commotion
behind me.
All I could see through the crowd was poor Herbert Dietzle
wriggling like a caught fish on the floor of the stage, covered in foaming
champagne. He was dancing the worm, most violently on the floor. At first, I
thought it was a joke, and then I saw the white smoke rise from his jacket.
I snapped out of my morbid fascination, and jumped into
action. Both Homeboy and I ran to the basement stairs and nearly fell on our
way to the electrical junction box. We both grabbed an old wooden chair to stand
on and reach for the main service switch.
I knew better than to touch the metal box with my hands, as
sparks now danced across the ancient electric panel. Homeboy took off his
sweater and threw it up to me, and I used it to throw the main switch. The
lights everywhere winked out, then just silence, except for the screaming up
above. And that smell.
Poor Herbert Dietzle died that night. Yet, I do wonder which
pictures made it into the wedding photo album.
