In Part II of This Post:
The big night had finally arrived: Party-time at Mike’s. Kathi was there. Copious amounts of booze and weed were there, too. What I didn’t tell Mike and Kathi, however, was that my brother was also present. He was in Mike’s bedroom, awaiting my signal–a few lines from that Foreigner song, “Hot Blooded”–to send him bolting for Mike’s closet, where he’d have ringside seats for the whole down-and-dirty.
Part III—The Final Chapter—The Score as Recounted in 33 1/3 RPM:
Once I’d belted out the lines to that Foreigner song I headed out, waited in my car, which was parked down the block.
I flipped on the radio.
As I listened to WMMR play rock block after rock block of Van Halen, The Stones, you name it, I thought about Mike.
Wondered how he was fairing with his de-virginizing.
Hopefully he was relaxed. Going with the flow. Glidey as KY.
Hopefully, he wasn’t petrified.
Hopefully, he wasn’t on top of Kathi, looking down at her with fearful eyes.
No, hopefully things were going well for my friend, Mike.
Hopefully, every move he was making was suave.
Hopefully, he’d suddenly become empowered with a strange animal 7th sense.
And hopefully, my friend, Kathi, was being gentle with this creature.
Taking him into her home.
Stoking him. Stroking him.
But also whipping the beast when needed, to really put him in his place.
Mostly, however, I wanted Kathi and Mike to share in an experience that would ultimately rank amongst the Top Ten in their Guinness Book of Flings.
Oh, and of course I felt a bit bad about pranking them.
But hey, it’s like DJ Pubes sez:
The radio played Ozzy, the Grateful Dead, the Police.
Finally, I spotted Mike leaving his place to drive Kathi home.
I booked back inside.
“So how did it go?” I said to my brother, who was sitting on the edge of Mike’s war-torn bed.
He shook his head. “It was crazy.”
“Tell me about it,” I said.
This was where things got really interesting. This was where my brother recounted the whole affair in a way that I’d never even considered.
He revealed the whole play-by-play through the songs that had been playing on Mike’s crappy bedside radio alarm clock.
“First,” said my brother, “they started making out to Cheap Trick’s ‘I Want You to Want Me.’”
“Next, clothes started coming off to Blue Oyster Cult’s ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper.’”
“Then Mike groped Kathi to The Clash’s ‘Rock the Casbah.’”
“Then he put the rubber on to Van Halen’s ‘Animal.’”
Sure, I was way into my brother’s whole Sex D.J. approach to recounting the events, but I was ready to cut to the chase.
“What was playing when they did it?”
“Are you sure you wanna know?” said my brother.
“You’re not gonna like it,” he said.
“I don’t care,” I said. “Tell me.”
“James Taylor’s ‘Handy Man.’”
“Are you serious?” I said.
“Jeeeeeeeezus,” I uttered.
To think that Mike’s finest hour had been christened by “Handy Man” was tragic. He should’ve had the foresight to purchase a decent stereo, where he could’ve had control over the musical accompaniment to his de-virginizing.
He should’ve been playing Deep Purple.
Or better yet, Pink Floyd.
That would’ve been just the thing to woo the sleepy-eyed stoner girl that was Kathi.
It had to be J.T.
Good thing they weren’t trying to have kids or anything like that.
Had it been encoded with “Handy Man” DNA, Mike’s sperm would’ve been all messed up.
It would’ve been way too sensitive for this world.
It would’ve been forever lost inside Kathi, left to roam her uterine halls, scribbling love poems all over her pink walls.
* * *
A few weeks passed.
Then came a night when Mike, my brother and I were partying over at Mike’s place.
We were sitting on his bedroom floor, smoking and drinking.
Once again, tunes were provided by Mike’s crappy bedside radio alarm clock.
And wouldn’t you know, no lie, just as we’d sparked up a freshly packed bong, that song came on the radio:
My brother and I lost it.
“What’s so funny?” said Mike.
My brother and I, still laughing hysterically, could only shake our heads.
“C’mon,” said Mike. “What gives?”
Once we’d finally gathered up our words,
We confessed to what had happened.
Of course Mike was pissed.
Of course he was mortified as hell.
But he did admire our initiative.
“I’m gonna get you guys back,” he said. “Don’t know how, but one of these days I will.”
To this day, however, Mike’s never been able to prank us the way we pranked him that night.
That’s okay. I’m sure one day he’ll get his due.
But until then, every time I hear that song, “Handy Man,” I can’t help but get all happy.
My face splits open with a great big greasy banana peel grin.
Sometimes I even sing along with the words, as I recall my best friend’s de-virginizing.
And in those fleeting moments, as much as pop song time will allow, I also wonder what goes through Mike’s head whenever he hears that song.